by David Lodge
“Unfortunately her interest in me was purely professional. Was Professor Zapp at Vienna?”
“He was expected, but did not arrive, for some reason. I met a friend of his called Sy Gootblatt.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
Fulvia smiles. “If you did not sleep with Miss Pabst, I did not sleep with Mr. Gootblatt.”
“But I really didn’t sleep with her!” Ernesto protests. “She’s not that kind of girl.”
“Are there still girls who are not that kind of girl? All right, I believe you. So who did you sleep with?”
Ernesto shrugs. “Just a couple of whores.”
“How banal, Ernesto.”
“Two at the same time,” he says defensively. “So how was Mr. Gootblatt?”
“Mr. Gootblatt looked promising, but proved to lack both imagination and stamina. Unfortunately it turned out that we were both going on from Vienna to Lausanne, so we had to keep up pretences for another week. I did not invite him to visit us.”
Ernesto nods as if this is all he wanted to know.
When they are indoors, and have showered and changed their clothes, they exchange gifts. Ernesto has bought Fulvia earrings and a brooch decorated with uncultured pearls, and Fulvia has bought Ernesto a silver-mounted riding crop. He mixes a dry martini for both of them, and they sit facing each other in the off-white drawing-room, Ernesto sorting through the mail which has accumulated in their absence, and Fulvia with a stack of neatly folded newspapers and magazines at her side. “It is a relief to ignore the news while one is away,” she observes, “but there is such a lot of catching up to do when one returns home.” She peels the top paper from the pile and scans the headlines. Her mouth falls open and her eyes stare. “Ernesto,” she says in a quiet but steely tone.
“Yes, my love,” he replies absently, ripping open envelopes with a paper knife.
“Did you by any chance tell any of our political friends about Morris Zapp? I mean about his being married to DÉSIRÉE Byrd, the novelist?”
Ernesto, startled by his wife’s tone of voice, looks up. “I might have mentioned it to Carlo, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
“Carlo is a young fool,” says Fulvia, leaping to her feet and flinging the newspaper into Ernesto’s lap. “He will get us all thrown into jail if you don’t act at once. Morris Zapp has been kidnapped!”
…
They burst into Morris’s bedroom in the middle of the night, waking him up. The blankets are ripped from the bed and he is jerked to his feet. Hands adjust and tighten his blindfold. Somebody roughly forces his feet into his Adidas. “Where are we going?” he quavers. “Shut up,” says Carlo. “Has DÉSIRÉE paid up?” “Quiet.” Carlo sounds angry. Morris is shaking. He knows that this is it: either deliverance or death. Someone is rolling his sleeve up and dabbing at his forearm with a wet swab. “Don’t move, or you’ll get hurt.” Surely they don’t bother to give people an anaesthetic before bumping them off? It must be deliverance. Unless of course it’s a lethal injection. He feels the prick of a needle. “Are you—” he begins, but before he can finish the sentence everything goes black.
…
The next sensation he becomes aware of is of a sharp rock digging into his right buttock, and cool air round his knees. Then the sound of birdsong. His hands are free. He pulls off his blindfold and blinks in a light that seems dazzling, but which, as his eyes accommodate, he perceives to be a delicate pink dawn sky, latticed with pine branches. He is lying on rough ground at the foot of a tall, straight tree. He sits up, and puts a hand to his throbbing head. His pale legs, protruding from the red silk running shorts, seem a long way off, and hardly to belong to him, but they bend at the knee when he wills them to, and, turning to lean against the tree for support, he struggles to his feet. He draws deep, intoxicating breaths of the pure, pine-scented air into his lungs. Free! Alive! God bless DÉSIRÉE! His eyes begin to focus properly. He is in a forest, on a hillside. Through the trees he can see a grey strip of road. He stumbles down the hill towards it, grasping at tree trunks for support, falling once and grazing his leg.
The road is narrow and badly paved. It does not look as if much traffic passes on it. Morris hobbles across to the other side and stands on the grass verge, looking over a low wall into a deep valley between mountains. He can see the road ribboning beneath him for miles in long parallel loops. There is not a sign of human habitation.
Morris begins to limp slowly downhill. After a few minutes, he stops. Behind the birdsong, from far, far below, there comes a sweet mechanical sound, the faint burr of a distant vehicle. He looks over the edge of the road again, and sees a small dot climbing up the winding road towards him, moving rapidly along the straights and slowing to take the hairpin bends, occasionally disappearing behind a clump of trees, and shooting into visibility again, a faint squeal of tyres now accompanying the growl of the engine. It is a powerful GT coupé, driven with skill and verve. When it reaches the stretch of road directly beneath him, Morris identifies it as a bronze Maserati.
As the car comes round the final bend, Morris steps into the road and waves it down. The Maserati sprints towards him, then stops abruptly, spraying gravel from its tyres. A deeply tinted window sinks into the door on the driver’s side, and the head of Fulvia Morgana, her tawny hair held in a silk scarf, appears in the aperture. Her eyebrows are arched in astonishment above her Roman nose.
“Why, Morris!” she says. “What are you doing here? People have been looking all over for you.”
…
In Japanese language no articles. No “a,” no “the.” In Japanese inn (ryokan) where Persse takes room (because cheaper than Western-style hotel) not many articles either. No chair, no bed. Just matting, one cushion and small low table. At night maid lays out bedding on floor. Walls and doors are made of paper pasted on wood. No lock on sliding door. Maid brings meals to room, kneels to serve Persse seated on cushion before table. Noise of slurping audible through paper walls on all sides. In Japan polite to make noise when eating—signifies enjoyment. Communal bathroom where naked men soap and rinse themselves squatting on dwarf milking stools before climbing into large common bathtub to soak, floating languidly in steaming water, backs of heads resting on tiled rim of bath. Toilets like bidets hooded at one end and raised on plinth with footrests at each side: easy to pee in but other job trickier.
Persse wanders round Tokyo in a daze, not quite sure whether he is suffering more from culture shock or jet lag. He flew by night from Honolulu to Tokyo, crossed the international date line and lost a whole day of his life. One minute it was 11:15 p.m. on Tuesday, the next it was 11:16 p.m. on Wednesday. When he arrived in Tokyo it was still night. The night seemed to go on for ever. It is hot in Tokyo, hotter than Honolulu and without the mitigation of the trade winds. As soon as Persse goes out into the street he breaks out in sweat and feels it trickling down his torso from under his arms. The Japanese, however, seem unperturbed and unperspiring, waiting patiently at the intersections for the traffic lights to change, or pressed uncomplainingly together in the subway train.
Persse travels back and forth across Tokyo on his quest. He enquires from the British Council and the United States Information Service and the Japanese Cultural Ministry about conferences being held in Tokyo at this time, and though there are several, on subjects as various as cybernetics, fish farming, Zen Buddhism, and economic forecasting, none of them seems likely to be of interest to Angelica. He has great hopes of a congress of science-fiction writers in Yokohama, but on investigation its membership turns out to be exclusively Asian and male.
To make up for this last disappointment, Persse treats himself to a steak dinner in a restaurant in the centre of Tokyo—a luxury he can ill afford, but he feels less dejected after consuming it with a few bottles of beer. Later he wanders through the streets off the Ginza, lined with small bars, whose pavements are crowded with harmlessly drunk Japanese businessmen evidently celebrating the fact that it is Friday. The night is close and humid, and suddenly
it begins to rain. Persse dodges into the first bar he comes to, an establishment calling itself simply “Pub,” and descends the stairs towards the sound of pop music of nineteen-sixties vintage, Simon and Garfunkel. Oriental faces turn and smile genially at him as he comes into a small L-shaped bar. He is the only Westerner present. A hostess shows him to a seat, takes his order for beer and puts a bowl of salted nuts in front of him. In the middle of the room two Japanese men in business suits are singing “Mrs. Robinson” in English into a microphone, a phenomenon which puzzles Persse for several reasons one of which he cannot instantly identify. The two men conclude their performance, receive friendly applause from the customers, and sit down among them. The chief puzzle, Persse realizes, is that they managed to produce a very creditable imitation of Simon and Garfunkel’s guitar-playing without the advantage of possessing any visible instruments.
The hostess brings Persse his drink in a litre-sized bottle, and a large album full of pop song lyrics in various languages, all numbered. She motions him to choose one, and he points at random at number 77, “Hey Jude!” and returns the album to her, sitting back in the expectation of having his request performed by the two cabaret artists. But the hostess smiles, shakes her head, and gives the book back to him. She calls something to the barman and motions Persse to stand up, chattering to him in Japanese. “Sorry, I don’t understand,” says Persse. “Can’t they sing, ‘Hey Jude’? I don’t mind—‘A Hard Day’s Night’ will do.” He points to song number 78. She calls out something to the barman again, he returns the book, she pushes it back into his hands. “Sorry, I don’t understand,” he says, embarrassed. The hostess gestures to him to sit down, to relax, not to worry, and she goes across to a group of men at a table in the opposite corner of the room. She returns with a youngish man dressed in a neat sports shirt with an Arnold Palmer monogram on the chest, and holding a small glass of liquor. He bows and smiles toothily.
“Are you American? British?” he says.
“Irish.”
“Irish? That is very interesting. May I interpret for you? Which song do you wish to sing?”
“I don’t wish to sing at all!” Persse protests. “I just came in here for a quiet drink.”
The Japanese beams toothily and sits down beside him. “But this is karaoke bar,” he says. “Everybody sings in karaoke bar.”
Hesitantly, Persse repeats the word. “Karaoke—what does that mean?”
“Literally karaoke means ‘empty orchestra.’ You see, the barman provides the orchestra,” he gestures towards the bar, at the back of which Persse now sees that there is a long shelf of music cassettes and a cassette deck, “And you provide the voice”—he gestures to the microphone.
“Oh, I see!” says Persse laughing and slapping his thigh. The Japanese laughs too, and calls something across to his friends, who also laugh. “So which song, please?” he says, turning back to Persse.
“Oh, I’ll have to have a lot of beers before you get me up to that mike,” he says.
“I sing with you,” says the man, who has evidently had quite a few drinks himself this evening. “I also like Beatle songs. What is your name, please?”
“Persse McGarrigle. And what is yours?”
“I am Akira Sakazaki.” He takes card from his breast pocket and gives it to Persse. It is printed in Japanese on one side and in English on the other. Underneath his name there are two addresses, one that of a university English Department.
“Now I understand why you speak English so well,” Persse says. “I’m a university teacher myself.”
“Yes?” Akira Sakazaki’s smile seems to fill his entire face with teeth. “Where do you teach?”
“Limerick. I’m afraid I haven’t got a card to give you.”
“Please write,” says Akira, taking a ball pen from his pocket and putting a paper napkin in front of Persse. “Your name is very difficult for Japanese.” When Persse obliges, Akira takes the paper napkin to the microphone and says into it, “Ladies and gentlemen, Professor Persse McGarrigle of University College, Limerick, Ireland, will now sing, ‘Hey Jude.’”
“No he won’t,” says Persse, signalling to the barman for another beer.
Akira evidently translates his announcement into Japanese, for there is a volley of applause from the other customers, and smiles of encouragement in Persse’s direction. He begins to weaken. “Have you any Dylan songs in that book?” he asks.
They have some of the most popular ones, “Tambourine Man” and “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Lay, Lady, Lay.” Persse doesn’t really need the album with the lyrics, since he knows these songs off by heart, and frequently sings them in the bath, but undoubtedly his performance is enhanced by having the original backing tracks as accompaniment. He sings “Tambourine Man,” nervously at first, but gradually warming to the task, and putting on a plausible imitation of Dylan’s nasal whine. The applause is rapturous. He sings “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “Lay, Lady, Lay” as encores. At Akira’s earnest request, he sings “Hey Jude” in duet with him. They yield the floor at last to a young girl who sings, shyly, but with perfect timing, Diana Ross’s version of “Baby Love.”
Akira introduces Persse to his circle of friends, explaining that they are all translators, who meet once a month in this bar, “to let the hair down and put the knees up.” The Japanese beams proudly as he displays these idioms to Persse. All the translators give him their cards except one who is asleep or drunk in the corner. Most of them are technical and commercial translators, but, learning that Persse is a teacher of English literature, they politely make literary conversation. The man sitting on Persse’s left, who translates maintenance manuals for Honda motorcycles, volunteers the information that he recently saw a play by Shakespeare performed by a Japanese company, entitled, “The Strange Affair of the Flesh and the Bosom.”
“I don’t think I know that one,” says Persse politely.
“He means, The Merchant of Venice,” Akira explains.
“Is that what it’s called in Japan?” says Persse with delight.
“Some of the older translations of Shakespeare in our country were rather free,” says Akira apologetically.
“Do you know any other good ones?”
“Good ones?” Akira looks puzzled.
“Funny ones.”
“Oh!” Akira beams. It seems not to have occurred to him before that “The Strange Affair of the Flesh and the Bosom” is amusing. He ponders. “There is, ‘Lust and Dream of the Transitory World,’” he says. “That is—”
“No, don’t tell me—let me guess,” says Persse. “Anthony and Cleopatra?”
“Romeo and Juliet,” says Akira. “And ‘Swords of Freedom’…”
“Julius Caesar?”
“Correct.”
“You know,” says Persse, “there’s the makings of a good parlour game here. You could make up your own… like, ‘The Mystery of the Missing Handkerchief’ for Othello, or ‘A Sad Case of Early Retirement’ for Lear.” He calls for another round of drinks.
“When I translate English books,” says Akira, “I always try to get as close as possible to the original titles. But sometimes it is difficult, especially when there is a pun. For example, Ronald Frobisher’s Any Road—”
“Ronald Frobisher—have you translated him?”
“I am presently translating his novel, Could Try Harder. Do you know it?”
“Know it? I know him.”
“Really? You know Mr. Frobisher? But that is wonderful! You must tell me all about him. What kind of man is he?”
“Well,” says Persse. “He’s very nice. But rather irascible.”
“Irascible? That is a new word to me.”
“It means, easily angered.”
“Oh yes, of course, he was Angry Young Man.” Akira nods delightedly, and calls the attention of his friends to the fact that Persse is acquainted with the distinguished British novelist whose work he is translating. Persse recounts how Frobisher set the London liter
ati adrift on the Thames, a story received with great pleasure by all, though they seem a little disappointed that the ship did not actually float out to sea and sink.
“You must know a lot of English writers,” says Akira.
“No, Ronald Frobisher is the only one,” says Persse. “Do you translate many?”
“No, only Mr. Frobisher,” says Akira.
“Well,” says Persse. “It’s a small world. Do you have that saying in Japan?”
“Narrow world,” says Akira. “We say, ‘It’s a narrow world.’”
At this point, the man who was asleep in the corner wakes up, and is introduced to Persse as Professor Motokazu Umeda, a colleague of Akira’s. “He is translator of Sir Philip Sidney,” says Akira. “He will know more of the old Shakespeare titles.”
Professor Umeda yawns, rubs his eyes, accepts a whisky, and, when Persse’s interest has been explained to him, comes up with “The Mirror of Sincerity” (Pericles), “The Oar Well-Accustomed to the Water” (All’s Well That Ends Well) and “The Flower in the Mirror and the Moon on the Water” (The Comedy of Errors).
“Oh, that one beats them all!” exclaims Persse. “That’s really beautiful.”
“It is a set phrase,” Akira explains. “It means, that which can be seen but cannot be grasped.”
“Ah,” says Persse with a pang, suddenly reminded of Angelica. That which can be seen but which cannot be grasped. His euphoria begins rapidly to ebb away.
“Excuse me,” says Professor Motokazu Umeda, offering Persse his card, printed in Japanese on one side and English on the other. Persse stares at the name, which now rings a distant, or not so distant, bell.
“Were you by any chance at a conference in Honolulu recently?” he asks.
…
“Morris called me as soon as he got back to the villa,” says DÉSIRÉE. “At first he was hysterical with gratitude, it was like being licked all over your face by your dog when you get back home from a trip, I could almost hear his tail wagging on the other end of the line. Then when it sank in that I hadn’t paid over any money, he turned very nasty, more like the Morris I remembered, accused me of being mean and callous and putting his life in jeopardy.”
