An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  The driver took his place, adjusted the electronic screen displaying a map, then began to fuss annoyingly with the buttons on the radio. Channels tripped by on loops of sound and blurry green numbers. A classical music station.

  ‘OK?’ the man asked, turning round slowly. His fat neck strained at the tight, bright-white collar. ‘OK?’

  Edward nodded and sat back happily in his seat. The boundaries had been set. No tortured conversations in primitive English or Japanese. Just pure Mozart.

  The taxi began its winding climb down the tree-lined hillside, swinging and swerving through a tunnel of dappled light. The area was famous for its hot springs and every so often the hedges of leaf and timber would clear to allow a glimpse of a driveway dipping down to a spa resort. He recalled a trip with Sumiko to one of these onsens. Twenty-four hours of sleeping, soaking and making love until his body had dissolved into a hot, rubbery mass.

  After about twenty minutes, the road eased out, straightened, broke away from the wooded slopes towards Odawara. What he remembered as a simple, tiled-roof town noted for its plum trees and medieval castle had now become engulfed by urban blight. Japan poured more concrete than any other nation on earth, and here it showed. Concrete river beds, road bridges, rail bridges, hillside buttresses constructed against potential landslides, all waited patiently on the plain, knowing the time would come soon enough to spread their tentacles of cement upwards into the hills.

  ‘Odawara no eki,’ the driver announced, leaning his head back but keeping his eyes on the road.

  ‘Ah yes. The station.’

  Edward felt the extra buzz as he stood on the elevated platform, set above the comings and goings of the ordinary trains below. Everything up here was more streamlined – the uniforms, the benches, the signs, the kiosks – as if their designs and architectural lines had been pressure-moulded by the passing trains. For the Tokaido bullet train stopped here. The Shink. The tracks began to hum. A fluttering in his stomach. Good to know that there were still experiences left in life to excite him. The announcements became more frequent, more frantic. The train was high speed, and so the waiting passengers must be too. Ready to board in seconds. Arched down for a sprint rather than stood up for a middle-distance race. Children were assembled. Luggage stacked with handles sprung upright. Time was at a premium here. Targets had to be met, standards had to be maintained. He tapped his cane around his designated area as the seconds flicked down to arrival. He was prepared. Feeling sprightly. Not the usual aching in his bones. And there was that song again. The Japanese national anthem. Or was it the theme song for the Tokyo Olympics? Dah, dah, da, da, da. A glance down the tracks. It was coming. A rush of displaced air. The metallic-silver wingless Concorde, this beautiful, aerodynamically perfect beast, swooshed into the station. Breathtaking. It slid to a halt in front of him. A carriage door appeared exactly opposite. Number Eight. Corresponding to the number on his ticket. Whoosh. The automatic release of compressed air to open the door. Excellent. Such exactitude in an increasingly chaotic world.

  The train took off again before he had time to find his seat. He swayed in the aisle, struggling for balance, searching the overhead sills for his seat number. There it was. A window seat. A middle-aged salary man stinking of hair cream stood up to let him in. Off with the coat. His fellow passenger kind enough to place it on the rack. At last, he could settle. He was looking forward to reacquainting himself with the landscape between Odawara and Tokyo. So much must have changed. Tokyo and its environs back then had been only ten years in recovery since the fire-bombing.

  He took out his notebook, ready to record his impressions. But everything flashed by too quickly. He tried to focus on buildings, clusters of trees, fences and fields, follow a car along a country road. But it was hopeless. Just a blur, his eyes sore from the trying. Then a tunnel. Thud. Sudden darkness before the interior lights came on. Pressure forcing the inside wall of the train to squeeze against his shoulder and forearm. His ears clogging.

  He practically skipped along the platform at Tokyo station, with hardly a lean on his cane. While his actual body was earthed solid on the concourse, somehow his molecular structure was still vibrating at a rate of one hundred and fifty miles an hour or at whatever speed these trains were capable of. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a schoolboy. A June sports day, sprinting free on a hundred-yard dash, blood flowing easily, limbs moving smoothly, lungs clean and fresh, shorts flapping. Parents watching from deckchairs on the sidelines.

  He scanned the crowd beyond the barrier. Was that Fisk coming towards him? His hair white now, but still plenty of it. Colour in his cheeks. Looking solid but youthful in a beige sports jacket, grey flannels and grey polo. Like a retired senator with golf as a hobby striding down the fairway. How should he greet this man after all these years? A handshake? A hug? His hand grasped his cane more tightly. Fisk in front of him now, taking the initiative, clutching him tightly by both shoulders as if to show off his vigour. The man’s hair was thinner than he had first thought, scalp red and flaky under the white waves. Skin shining, teeth too white to be real. Fisk was a year or two older. But Japan had treated him well. Must be all that raw fish and tofu. Edward used to think it was something in the genes that made them the longest living race on the planet. But it had to be the diet. Definitely the diet. He had never been so lean, his bowels had never worked better, than when he used to live here.

  ‘Eddie. Are you well?’

  ‘What do you mean? Do I look ill or something?’

  ‘No, no, no. I just mean…’ Fisk stood back. ‘How are you, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Not too bad. Considering I have endured both a long-haul flight and a bullet train in the last couple of days.’

  Fisk laughed. ‘And the cane? You always said you wanted a cane. “When I am old enough for it to be an appendage and not an affectation. Like our illustrious leaders Winston and Franklin D.”’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Sure did. So what is it then?’

  ‘What is what?’

  ‘An appendage or an affectation?’

  ‘It’s my hip. I should have had an operation years ago.’

  ‘You gotta attend to these things, Eddie. Or you’ll end up hobbling around like an old man.’

  ‘I am an old man.’

  ‘It’s all in the mind. I’m older than you are. And look at me.’

  He didn’t want to look at Fisk. At his precision-pressed flannels and casual deck shoes. At the cashmere collar, flashy wristwatch and expensive dentistry. He just wanted to turn around and head back to the hotel faster than a speeding bullet train. But instead he found himself asking in an enthusiastic tone:

  ‘Now what about this ceremony you’ve roped me into?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that on the way. First, we need to get you up to the next level and out of here. Tokyo is waiting.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  London • 1952

  Edward sat on a bench in Russell Square. He had been writing poetry, pathetic recollections about his first meeting with Macy, but broke off now to read his newspaper. He had been aware for some time of the gentleman who had sat down beside him. Especially since most of the other benches in the square were vacant. He was a well-dressed man of around forty wearing one of these overcoats with a velvet collar, slung about his shoulders like a cape. His hair was slicked back from a widow’s peak, pale skin stretched over long cheekbones, displaying the occasional tendril where a deep groove made shaving difficult.

  ‘This country needs a penis substitute,’ the stranger said. ‘Now there is a young queen on the throne.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  The man tapped a finger against the headline of Edward’s paper. Government Confirms Atomic Deterrent. The article featured Churchill’s announcement that Britain now possessed the capability to produce an atomic bomb. ‘This bomb. A penis substitute, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, yes. The bomb.’

  ‘I see I have embarrasse
d you,’ the man said, more in observation than in repentance.

  ‘No, sir. I understand what you mean.’

  ‘Good. The King rotting, not yet a fortnight in the ground. And here we are cheerfully boasting of a giant prick for a nuclear deterrent.’

  ‘Churchill blames the last government. He said they started the project. And it was too far gone to stop.’

  ‘I can’t believe the old warmonger found it a hard decision to make. I bet the Americans will be pleased.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Oh. Just that they will have a nuclear ally in the fight for world peace. Now what is your opinion of this… this deterrent?’

  Edward eyed up his questioner. ‘Well, if these bombs are truly meant to be just deterrents, then why waste all this money building them? We could just pretend to have them. Mock-ups of atomic bombs. Everywhere.’

  ‘Yes, yes. What an excellent idea. Cardboard cut-outs on the beaches and along the cliff-tops. All fenced in. “Danger. Keep out. Nuclear Deterrent.” No one would know the difference. I like that.’

  The stranger slipped his hand into a coat pocket and brought out a brown paper bag. Rough crusts of bread were cast aggressively across the ground. The response from the pigeons in the square was immediate. Edward turned over from the offending page, leaving his companion to feed the pecking horde at his feet. He noticed the announcement for a new picture starring Gene Kelly. Not Macy’s An American in Paris, but Singin’ in the Rain. A gloved hand appeared across the newsprint.

  ‘Aldous.’

  Edward shook the offered limb, surprised to feel such a limp grip from such a bold gesture.

  Aldous snatched the open notebook off the bench. ‘So what do we have here, young man with no name?’

  ‘Please, sir… that is private.’

  But Aldous continued to scan the page. ‘Writing is not a private matter. We all have some kind of audience in our heads.’ He read on, muttering to himself as he went. ‘So you want to be a novelist then?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be poetry.’ He tried to grab back his notebook but Aldous held it out of reach.

  ‘Too much narrative for poetry. Too much like Homer, Virgil and Milton. If you want to tell a damn story, then bloody well write one. Now what is your name and I shall return your property.’

  ‘Edward. Edward Strathairn.’

  ‘Well, Edward Strathairn. There is nothing wrong in dabbling with verse. It is a good way to limber up for novel writing. It gets you in the mood.’ Aldous smiled as he handed over the notebook. His teeth were yellowish, like old piano keys. ‘Forgive me. You may now have your revenge.’

  ‘And how would I do that?’

  ‘By leaving me.’

  The challenge made Edward stay. He pretended to read the newspaper while Aldous tipped out the rest of the crumbs.

  ‘Are you a writer?’ Edward asked when the silence between them had become awkward.

  ‘No, I am a reader.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t be disappointed. I only mean that I am an editor. Of the illustrious literary magazine known as The Londinium. Circulation one thousand, six hundred and forty-three by last reckoning. My meagre offices are across the square.’ He waved a hand in the general direction, his thin wrist poking out like a chicken bone between cuff and glove.

  ‘But you write as well?’

  ‘Alas, I am not a masochist, but a sadist. I prefer to slash and burn the work of others. It is more fun. Much more fun. Now what about you?’

  ‘I’m over there,’ Edward said, with a nod towards his college on the other side of the square. ‘Studying Japanese.’

  ‘So you will join the diplomatic corps then?’ Aldous asked, rather disappointingly.

  ‘I was thinking of international trade.’

  ‘Pity. Literary translation might be more satisfying. I hear there is a lot of good writing coming out of Japan these days. Kawabata. Mishima. All needing good translators. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties. Lesser writers require attention.’

  Aldous rose, gave a casual salute, then walked off in the direction of his office. His coat and suit hung loose off his thin frame as he skipped along the pathway, hardly seeming to touch the surface with the soles of his feet. Dancing. Not like Gene Kelly. But like Fred Astaire.

  The gallery was in Albemarle Street. Mayfair posh. Large bay window set in an expensive wooden frontage displaying a solitary canvas on an easel. The painting was an abstract. Strong blues, blacks and reds colouring different geometrical shapes. An unsettling yellow eye in the centre. Miro? Edward could see visitors mingling inside. A bell announced his arrival but thankfully no one looked round. The sweat started to creep across his brow and he cursed his haste for not waiting until he had cooled down from his walk. Thick carpet. Waiters with trays. This had to be a private view, not a public exhibition. He was about to leave when he saw Macy pushing towards him.

  ‘You came,’ she said, pointing an empty wine glass at him. Her face was flushed, her skin tinged red where her neck and collarbone broke free from the loose strangle of her baggy sweater. Her jeans and canvas shoes were speckled with paint. Very casual compared to the formal attire of the other guests.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was a private party.’

  ‘Don’t be so… so… I don’t know… so British. You’re more than welcome.’

  She grabbed his hand. Cool fingers curled around his own damp flesh. He followed her through the clusters of guests hovering, drinking, clinking and chattering around the large canvasses. Such bright colours. Disconnected. Floating. Just as he was in Macy’s grasp. They arrived at a triptych of paintings at the far corner of the room.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  He detected a vulnerability in her voice that made him want to say something complimentary. Something positive and intelligent about these thick sworls of colour on canvas, these intricate webs of random design. Layer upon layer. Structureless. Aggressive. Drips and splashes. The texture showing him what had been thrown fast, what had been thrown slow. Reminding him of what? Of nothing. Of drips and splashes. He sought assistance from the index card pinned to one side. “Fugue. Nos 1, 2 and 3. M. Collingwood. 1951.” No help. Yet this was Macy staring back at him from the canvas. Her mood. Her spirit. Aching from her heart, acting from her uncluttered mind. He suddenly felt himself touched by the honesty, the intimacy, the openness, by this glimpse inside of her.

  ‘Well?’ she prodded.

  The emotion scraped at his belly, quickly working itself up his throat, swelling into his eyes.

  ‘I love them,’ he said, knowing he could just as easily have said, ‘I love you.’

  He steeled himself for some scathing response to what she surely must regard as a banal comment. She screwed up her eyes, scrutinised him as if she too were searching for what lay inside of him.

  ‘You know, Eddie. I’m really glad you turned up. I really am. Now, come meet my father.’

  Ensconced within his coterie, Mr Collingwood stood tall and shiny. Shiny grey-black hair, shiny smooth cheeks, shiny grey double-breasted suit. A good-looking man in that cool, confident, easy, American way. Perfect poster material for Uncle Sam’s embassy overseas.

  ‘So you are a friend of my daughter’s,’ Collingwood said, gimlet-eyed, assessing Edward over the crystal rim of a whisky glass. Then a strong handshake.

  Edward tried to return the man’s grasp. ‘We only just met. At the lying in state.’

  ‘Good. Macy needs to meet new people here. She tells me you are studying the Japanese language.’

  ‘Japanese history and culture as well.’

  ‘I had a stint there during the Occupation. A fine people. Extremely kind. Extremely diligent. My wife hated it there.’ Collingwood sent a quick, professional smile towards his daughter. ‘So what do you think about her… her stuff?’

  ‘You mean her art?’

  ‘Yes, her art. If that’s what you can call it.’

>   ‘I love it.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, it keeps her busy I guess,’ he said, before turning back to his circle.

  With the man’s grip still fresh on his flesh, Edward felt Macy take his other arm, easy as you like, leading him away as if they were newly-weds making the round of their reception guests.

  ‘Don’t mind Daddy.’

  ‘I thought he was all right.’

  ‘Liar. He can be a bit sharp. But he doesn’t really mean it.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘Look, it’s nice of you to stand up for me,’ she said. ‘But you don’t need to stay for all of…’ She waved a hand around the gallery. ‘For all of this. Why don’t you go off and have a drink somewhere? I’ll meet you outside. Say in about an hour.’

  He found a pub nearby, a pint of bitter, a discarded newspaper and a table by the window. He tried to calm himself down, anchor this floating feeling inside of him, swirling and sworling away like those colours on the canvas. He felt alive to these new sensations, not just within himself but all around him. New queen, new art, new friend. Dare he think it? New girlfriend. What he read in the paper confirmed his mood. National identity cards to be abolished, the coronation scheduled for next year. People were now liberated from government supervision, temporarily orphaned from monarchy. An unfettered population capable of great things. London seemed such a delightful, welcoming place now. Through the misty panes, he could see arm-in-arm walks along the embankment, visits to the cinema, picnics in the park. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. Singing in the rain.

  The fog was coming in thick as he stepped outside the pub. He felt a tug at his sleeve, sensed a shadow slip out of the murkiness.

  ‘Tuppence for a cup of tea. For an old soldier.’

  The beggar was dressed in an army greatcoat, one of the sleeves hanging loose where an arm had been. Thin wisps of hair spread across his scalp like winter weeds, eyes jaundiced, imploring him with such a sadness that Edward felt obliged to search his pockets for some change. He gave the beggar what he had asked, received a salute in return. He didn’t know why, but the gesture moved him terribly, and he thrust some more coins into the man’s open palm.