by David Peace
‘“Mr Natsume!”
‘There they sat, one stout, one slender, dressed in black, their knitting and their needles to one side, their Bibles open, poised in prayer over their tea and toast – toast, toast, it was always toast! – their police-ears ever cocked, their detective-heads now turned –
‘“Mr Natsume …”
‘I already had my hand upon the handle of the front door, but I was too late: my landlady had sprung, her hand on the sleeve of my overcoat, and I was caught once again in her missionary grip.
‘“You are going out, Mr Natsume?”
‘I am indeed, Mrs Nott.
‘“For whatever reason, may I ask? You would be most ill advised, for the weather is most inclement today.”
‘I am aware of the weather, Mrs Nott. However, I have a somewhat pressing appointment, I lied. So if you will excuse me.
‘“You are excused,” she said. “But as we pray for the health of our Queen, we will also pray for yours and you, Mr Natsume. Pray you do not catch your death out there.”
‘It was true their Queen seemed to be sinking fast, and I had often wondered if their whole island would not be dragged under with her when down she went –
‘I am most grateful to you, Mrs Nott, I replied, then I opened the door, went down the steps and heard the lock turn behind me.
‘Outside the house, nothing was visible; the fog tinted yellow, tainted green, green and brown in a muddy beige, it did not drift, it did not shift, but was just there, was always there, a muffled, shuttered world. Yes, this world which greeted me had shrunk to just four frozen, silent yards square, smaller even than the room I had just left behind. However, I knew if I turned and walked left, then I would be set on a northerly course. Thus I proceeded, groped my way, four yards by four yards, another four yards visible as the former yards disappeared into the mists of the past. Indeed, I felt myself drifting, drifting in time, drifting through space. But then I came to a crossroads, and I stopped on the kerb. The disembodied head of a horse cut through the grey air before my eyes, the people on the top of the bus it pulled presumed lost in the fog. On a better day, a clearer day, I might have been tempted to jump aboard for it was the one mode of transport I had the confidence and purse to use. Carriages were beyond my means, and the trains I detested, both steam and electric, over-ground and under-ground. Particularly the under-ground: the foulness of the air, the swaying of the carriages, from cave to cave, reducing a man to the life of a mole. But I had set myself adrift in this sea of emptiness to walk, and so walk I did. Across one street and up the next. Four yards by four yards, four yards by four yards …
‘The only measure of time in this void was the muffled tolls of Big Ben, and I counted six as I came upon the river at London Bridge. I crossed over this Styx to the other side, among a horde of shades I could only sense not see, unless a sudden shoulder rubbed or knocked against my own.
‘Hard on the other side, I stood before Wren’s Monument to the Great Fire. I felt a fresh chill here, two lines by Pope upon my lips: Where London’s column, pointing at the skies, like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies. And I too lifted my eyes to look for the gilded urn that tops its fluted column. Of course, its golden head was lost, yet still it casts a shadow across my soul. Quickly, I veered off to the right. Suddenly, a white object flapped fleetingly past my eyes. I strained to see the remains of a gull swallowed up by the dark.
‘Yes, the grey world had now turned black on all four sides, blacker than lacquer. Yet still I pressed on, on and on, along the bottom of this pit. My coat damp and heavy, my whole body washed in liquefied peat. The black-stained air started to assail my eyes, my nose and my mouth. I felt my breathing suffocated. I felt I was choking on arrowroot gruel. And, truly, I felt I could not go on. Not another step on. But at just that moment, a yellow light the size of a pea pulsed through the gloom and, heedless of the rocks, I forced my body towards this lighthouse …
‘It was a public house, its gaslights burning. All brass and glass, all laughter and song. A veritable pantomime! I breathed a sigh of relief. I stepped out of the fog, stepped into the room. And the laughter stopped, and the songs ceased. And the barman said, “We don’t serve Chinamen in ’ere.”
‘The stupid thing was, I was surprised! Oh, stupid me! True, I had not been long in London and, for the most part, I had not been abused or insulted before. But, on a couple of occasions, I had found myself the subject of conversation and speculation: a woman remarking “least-poor Chinese” as she passed me in the street, a couple in a park arguing whether I was “a Chinaman or a Jap”. So I did not deceive myself; I knew the majority of people simply took no notice of me, did not even see me, their thoughts consumed with making money, with no time to stop and jeer at the likes of a little yellow dog like me. Yet that night, in the bright lights of that public house, I had exposed myself, naked and in plain sight. In the English gaze, to the English hate: “Are you deaf, are you dumb,” barked the barman. “Get out of ’ere, you dirty little Chink …”
‘I turned to leave, to push the door, and as I turned, as I left, the laughter returned, the songs resumed, aroused and louder than before, the dirty little yellow stain removed, all now restored and as it was, as it was before.
‘Back outside in the crushing gloom, on the broken paving, I had never felt so alone, so very far from home. Oh, how I dearly, dearly wished to be somehow, somehow lifted up off this street, carried on the wind and dropped safely, softly back in Japan. But one will never find a sen-nin even in the Workshop of the World, no matter how hard one wishes. And so I started to walk again, but to walk without a care, hoping only for an early death under the hooves of a runaway horse. Yet the only sounds were the soles of shoes, out of the silence, in the darkness, to the right, approaching then gone again, in the darkness, in the silence, the soles of shoes, to the left now, approaching from behind, approaching, still approaching, closer and closer still –
‘A hand on my shoulder, a voice at my side: “I’m sorry.”
‘I jumped in fright and stopped, I turned in fear and saw: a tall man – they were all so tall, I know – yet made taller by his hat, dressed all in black, with a long face and a serious brow, older and more senior than myself, I guessed, standing there in that street, on the border between night and fog, but with a kindness in his eyes, a kindness on his lips: “I am a stranger here myself, though I’ve lived here many years. But I was not English-born and so know well how cruel this place, how spiteful these people can sometimes sadly be. Would this world be otherwise, but here we are …”
‘Yes, I said. Here we are.
‘The man smiled, the man said, “Well then, would you allow one stranger to show a little hospitality to another?”
‘Truly, these were the kindest words I had heard since I had first set foot on English soil. I smiled, I said, That would be very kind of you, thank you.
‘The man put out his hand. “Then let us not be strangers any more. My name is Nemo. It’s Latin, you know.”
‘For “no man”, I said.
‘“Forgive me,” he said, and I did, I did. This land seemed overrun with amateur schoolmasters and mistresses, ever ready to assume the ignorance of the Little Yellow Chap. But apart from my brief and ill-fated visit to Cambridge upon my arrival, and my weekly lessons with Professor Craig, my immediate impression was that here was a rare Man of Culture. I smiled again. I shook his hand and said, A pleasure to meet you, sir. My name is Natsume.
‘Nemo gave a little bow: “How do you do, Natsume-san. It is a pleasure to meet you, too. But may I ask what brings you from the land of the cherry blossoms to these dark, satanic isles?”
‘I replied I had been sent by our Ministry of Education, in order to research and study English Literature. But reluctant to discuss my own situation further, I asked if he knew Japan.
‘“Sadly, only from books and pictures,” he said. “The words of the Goncourt brothers first opened my eyes, and then when I saw for myself the
prints of Hiroshige and Kunisada, I was enchanted. However, you are the first son of Japan I have had the opportunity and honour to meet.”
‘My first impression of a Man of Culture was thus confirmed, and while I hate to be questioned myself, loathing as I do this detective age in which we live, I could not contain my curiosity, and I said, Forgive my impertinence, but may I ask your profession, sir?
‘“I am a painter. But not a decorator.”
‘Of which school?
‘“Ah-ha! Which school indeed? Well, if Monsieur Baudelaire declared Guys to be the Painter of Modern Life, then I declare myself the Painter of Modern Death!”
‘Of Modern Death?
‘He laughed. “Whatever does he mean, you wonder, and with good reason. Well, and please in no way feel obliged, but you would be most welcome to visit my humble studio, for I would rather show than tell. A good sketch is worth a long speech, as a little corporal once said.”
‘I was intrigued, could not resist, and said, I would be honoured, and delighted, thank you. As Turgenev wrote, the drawing shows at a glance what may take ten pages of prose to write.
“‘Splendid,” said Nemo. “The rooms are nothing much but, for all her faults, my landlady can prepare an adequate if simple supper. That is, if you have the time and would care to join me now?”
‘I nodded. I would be delighted, I said. Thank you.
‘“I am to the north of here, but the hour is not yet too late and, if we take the Underground, we shall be there in no time.”
‘As I have mentioned, I particularly disliked the Underground, and so I felt the first stirrings of regret now grow within me. But I could hardly now decline an invitation I had only just accepted. So, with a nod and the best smile I could muster, off we set.
‘The journey involved a brisk clip to the station – was it called St Mary’s? I cannot now recall – the usual descent in a cage, then two trains through the caves, before our final, thankful ascent. Neither of us spoke in the carriages, less out of custom on my part, more from anxiety: I knew I would have no notion of how to later return to my own lodgings if I did not now concentrate with all my might upon our route.
‘Back up on the street, the city and the night were still fog and gloom, with only the odd droplet of dull light here and there, and it seemed we still had some streets to go, invisible streets that reeked of cabbage and urine. My regret was now in full bloom and I could not help but ask my guide where on earth we were.
‘With an embarrassed laugh, an apologetic smile, Nemo said, “Or where on earth is he leading me, you mean? Well, in truth, the fog favours us, for we are far from the districts of gentility or the artistic society of Chelsea, lost in the no-man’s-land between Cumberland Market and Regent Street. An insalubrious place, I grant you, yet not without its charms, its peculiarities and its infinite possibilities …”
‘Infinite possibilities, I asked.
‘Nemo grabbed the sleeve of my coat, stopped us both in our tracks, held me in his grip and gaze: “Its subjects, Mr Natsume! They may not reveal themselves tonight, but this place fair teems with subjects.”
‘I nodded and said, I see.
‘“You will,” said Nemo. “If not yet, then I hope you will. For we are almost here, almost home …”
‘We turned a corner, took another few strides, then went down a cobbled passage to a tall and narrow house at the end of the row. Nemo went up its three stone steps, ignored the demon-faced knocker, opened the front door, held it ajar for me and said, “Welcome.”
‘I stepped inside a long and gloomy hallway. It was damp and cold and smelt of sweet and rotting fruit. Nemo closed the door, laughed and said, “You know, when I was first shown the place, I said to myself, I said, This is the house I shall be murdered in …”
‘Nemo turned up the lamp. There was a heavy mirror upon the wall, dried flowers in a vase on the chipped sideboard. He smiled and said, “But I’ve actually grown to be quite fond of the place. Particularly the rent. However, it’s rather cold, I know. I’m sorry. And so please do keep your coat on until we get up to my rooms …”
‘Suddenly, a hidden voice called out: “Mr Sweeney?”
‘A dim light appeared from under the steep stairs at the end of the long hall. An old maid wearing black clothes emerged from the jaundiced shaft and came towards us: “Is that you, Mr Sweeney?”
‘Nemo sighed, then said, “I’ve told you, it’s not Sweeney. Sweeney doesn’t live here any more. It’s only me now, Mrs Bunting.”
‘“But I heard him, heard him walking backwards down the stairs.”
‘“But he’s gone, long gone and never coming back.”
‘“Gone? Gone, you say? Well then, what shall I do for the rent? What ever shall I do? He had his faults, I know, his ways. But he was a good boy, he was. Like clockwork. He never missed.”
‘The old woman was stood before us now. In her black clothes, with her black hair, her sunken eyes and upturned nose, sharp cheeks and pointed chin, she looked me up and down, then said, “And who have we here then? Not come about the drains, have you?”
‘Nemo sighed again, apologised to me and said to the woman, “This is Mr Natsume. He’s come from Japan on government business. Here to research and to study all things literary. Now if you would be so kind …”
‘The old lady squeezed my hand, looked into my face and said, “Why, you are a handsome Jap, I must say, oh I do say. You know, I’m not from here myself. Not really. She was French, my mother.”
‘“Mrs Bunting, please,” said Nemo. “It’s getting late, we have not yet eaten, and so would you please bring us up a little supper.”
‘“I’ll do my best,” she said. “With what we have …”
‘Nemo took her hand from mine, steered me past her, down the hallway, then up two flights of stairs to a landing with three doors. He opened the door to the left, glanced inside and said, “Well, at least the woman kept the fire in. After you, Mr Natsume …”
‘The abundance of brightly burning coal was a most welcome sight indeed, and the room itself was also a pleasant surprise, with its warm red carpet and white silk curtains. There were two comfortable chairs before the fire, occasional tables here and there, well-stocked bookshelves and a rocking chair by the window. Nemo took my coat and offered me a chair. He changed into a maroon and elegantly embroidered satin dressing gown and then joined me by the fire. He put his hands together, stared into the flames a while, then turned to me and smiled and said, “Well, here we are.”
‘Yes, here we are, I said, but wondered why, why he had invited me, why I had accepted, why I’d come, come not only here, here to this room, this house, but come to this city, this country, leaving my daughter and my wife on the other side of the earth, my pregnant wife, my wife who never answered my letters, if she even received my letters, even read my letters, if she lived, they even lived, not burnt in a fire, not crushed by an earthquake, drowned in a flood, hit by a train, murdered by a fiend or killed by disease, a black-bordered letter in a black-bordered envelope sailing over the seas as I sat here in this house, in this room, before this fire, wondering why, why was I here, why had I accepted, why had he invited me, why, oh why –
‘Suddenly, Nemo clapped his hands together, sat forward in his seat and said, “I do apologise. My mind is sometimes prone to wander, and you must feel me to be a terrible host. But once we have warmed up and had some supper, I’ll show you my studio. If you would still care to see it, and the hour is not too late. It’s the attic room, just up the steps, but rather cold, I’m afraid. Now where is that woman …”
‘He got to his feet but, just as he did, there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a brief knock upon the door.
‘The old woman entered the room with a tray. There were two plates of sandwiches of cold beef – whatever else – a large piece of cheese, some slices of apple and a decanter of red wine and two glasses. She bent forward to set down the tray on one of the tables between our chairs. Then
stopped, stopped still. Bent forward over the tray, its handles in her fingers, she crooked her neck, her ear towards the door, and whispered, “Did you hear, hear that?”
‘In fact, I thought I had heard something, some sound from down below. But Nemo said, “You’re hearing things again, Mrs Bunting.”
‘The woman muttered something I could not catch, released the handles of the tray, stood straight again, but then twitched, twitched and looked again towards the door: “There! There it was again!”
‘“Mrs Bunting, please! It’s just the wind under the door.”
‘She looked at Nemo and snorted: “The wind? The wind, my arse. Does the wind turn the key in the door? Does the wind walk backwards up the stairs? Drop its bag upon the floor, run the water in the sink? Stain my towels, stain them red? Messing up my beds, drooling on my pillows. Mafficking in its dreams, screaming in its sleep. That’s the wind, is it? The wind, you say? Oh, don’t make a stuffed bird laugh!”
‘At that very moment, and with a theatrical cue, there was indeed a noise – a brief banging sound, but from the house or the street, I could not tell – and the three of us did now turn our heads towards the door.
‘“Well, we all heard that, Mrs Bunting,” said Nemo. “And so you win, you take the egg. But before I trouble the local constable or priest, perhaps you would care to check upon your kitchen? From experience, I fear our many mice may be making merry in the pantry. Meanwhile, Mr Natsume and I will partake of your delicious supper …”
‘Suddenly, the old woman turned her wide eyes from the door to me and said, “You’re not from here, so you best beware. They don’t take to strangers, not round here. They never have, they never will. They ask, What happened to the Romans? I’ll tell you what happened to the Romans: the English walked through their villas with their butchers’ knives and murdered them. Slaughtered them in their sleep, they did. The whole bloody lot of them. Slit their throats from ear to ear and dumped them in the river, yeah. Oh, they never stopped smiling then!”
