An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  That was his cue. Access the anger. The resentment. ‘So you can just sail out of my life without a word of farewell?’

  ‘You hit me.’

  Edward glanced at Aldous whose head had turned at the remark. ‘There are no secrets, young man,’ he said. ‘I’ve always said men were beasts.’

  ‘I hardly touched you.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Eddie. You punched me.’

  ‘I didn’t punch you. It was a slap.’

  ‘I don’t stand for that. I saw enough of it with my father and mother. I won’t let it happen to me. I just won’t.’

  ‘You hurt me too.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t ask you to get involved with me. I told you right from the start. Our relationship was to be on my terms. If you didn’t like it that way, you could have baled ship anytime you wanted. You could never say I misled you. I was very clear. You just didn’t want to listen, that’s all.’

  He felt hot. His body had been grounded less than an hour and here he was dredging up the past as if Japan had never happened. He unbuttoned his coat, wound down a gap in the window, wiped a sleeve across the misted glass. London dreary in the early afternoon drizzle. Dreich. His father’s word. The comforting hiss of the tyres licking up the wet roads. The bowler hat and brolly brigades marching along the pavements. Macy, shrill and brittle beside him, Aldous at the helm, leaning back, mouthing words.

  ‘Now, now, children. Let’s have a little truce.’

  ‘Can we, Eddie?’ she said, touching his arm.

  ‘When did you two become such great friends?’ Edward grumbled. ‘You used to be at each other’s throats.’

  She leaned forward in her seat, scratched her fingers through Aldous’ hair. ‘Oh, we made up long ago.’

  And Edward felt the cut of jealousy in his stomach as Aldous wriggled his neck under her touch. ‘America not to your liking then?’ he said.

  ‘I fell out with Mother. Again.’

  ‘So it was a case of run back to Daddy.’

  ‘He won’t have me either.’

  ‘How are you surviving?’

  ‘Turns out there’s huge interest in abstract expression now. Since Jackson got himself killed in that damn car crash. My paintings are selling like hot cakes, as you Brits would say. Got myself a nice little apartment-cum-studio in Kensington.’

  ‘How long have you been back?’

  ‘Must be nearly two years. I got in touch with Aldous to find out where you were. But you’d packed up and gone to Japan.’

  ‘I needed to get away from you.’

  ‘I thought I was the one to leave you.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  She sighed and dropped back into her seat. Crossed her legs so that her coat fell away to reveal black-stockinged shins and a glimpse of cream-silk petticoat beneath the hem of her dress. ‘I’ve read the manuscript,’ she said, adjusting her coat. ‘It’s pretty good.’

  ‘Christ, Aldous. You betrayed me.’

  ‘And why not? It’s an excellent piece of work. I have booked lunch at the Savoy to celebrate its imminent publication.’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes, my dear boy. Now. A civilised way to spend an afternoon, don’t you think? As the rest of the world grinds away at its daily toil.’

  Edward was still flying. Macy chatting away to him, reassuring him with her fingertips on the back of his hand, with her body-nearness, her body-warmness, as Aldous eased their vehicle out of the Strand traffic into that discrete lane boasting the Savoy in all its art deco, glassy-glossy, illuminated splendour. He was still flying as the car doors were snapped open and he stepped lightly on to the wet courtyard, coat-tightened and scarf-wrapped, Macy joining him, arm-linking and laughing at something Aldous had said, the two of them on either side of him now, balancing him, book-ending him, somehow making him feel whole and happy on this dreary afternoon, as they swept him into the reception area, where they stopped him dead in his tracks on the black-and-white tiles. For in all his heady joyfulness, Edward was the last of their little group to notice the veteran Right Honourable Member of Parliament for Woodford standing alone on the chessboard floor. A despondent king deserted by his subjects.

  It was Churchill. Winston Churchill. Soldier, statesman, writer, painter. Knight of the realm and Nobel laureate. A confidant to kings and queens, premiers and presidents. Not ten feet away from Edward stood the greatest Englishman alive, blue eyes peering out world-weary from under his hat brim. The complexion was pale but pink-stained in the cheeks, no doubt fired up from a good Savoy Grill lunch of raw oysters, petite marmite, roast beef and vegetables, a fine glass of red. The mouth no longer defiant and wittily cruel but curled down at each corner by… what? Regret? Sadness? Disappointment? The depression he used to call the Black Dog? Or just by the gravity of old age? He would be well in his eighties by now. One hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose with a dead cigar stub wedged between these two famous fingers.

  Aldous and Macy let go their grip. Edward felt like standing to attention, saluting. Or bowing. Before what the Japanese would call a Living National Treasure. Before this embodiment of so much human achievement. No doubt there would be an abandoned table of illustrious guests back in the Grill and there would be darling Clemmie waiting for him at Chartwell, but for these few moments the great man stood alone, fingering impatiently at coins in his pocket, ignored by the staff in their awe or politeness. His fickle public had receded, his military comrades were long dead, kings and presidents buried in all their pomp, while he too was left to ponder his increasing senility, the decaying organs and diminishing faculties, the journey he would eventually have to make unaccompanied. Take away the Homburg and the cigar, replace it with a flatcap and cigarette, and this was just an old man facing his own mortality.

  A uniformed commissionaire arrived, saluted and informed the former Prime Minister his car had arrived. A nod of acknowledgement, fingers pressing coins into a palm that would have happily waved away the tip, the touch of greatness better than any reward, and then he was gone, leaving behind the cold draft of his presence.

  Macy was the first to speak. ‘What is it with you and me, Eddie? First it was the dead king. And now it’s Sir Winston bloody Churchill.’

  The sighting of Churchill had affected them all. It blessed their little lunch, invigorated them, made them drink too much champagne, laugh too loud, suck back too many oysters at Aldous’ expense. Edward felt as if a magic dust had been sprinkled over them, that the weight of history had rubbed off on them, catching them in its vortex, fleetingly for this afternoon. He was still contained in his fuselage of space and time, the rest of the world pushed out, irrelevant. It was just the three of them in their afternoon hideaway, eating, drinking, laughing. And so he continued in his tubular shell, driven back to Kensington in a taxi, Aldous too drunk to drive, through a clear night of stars unveiled just for them. Edward’s body suddenly weary, limbs desperately heavy, hard even to make the few steps to the flat. Sleep was all he wanted. To drift away. His mind surrendering to the demands of his drunk, jet-lagged body. No resistance. He could feel the cool of the sheets. At last, a pillow. Such a welcoming softness. His body still travelling. Over blue snow and frozen tundra. The quiet engine hum sustaining him. Ice flows splitting and cracking, giant continents ponderously knocking against each other. A Norwegian flag. Spitfires flying over the Savoy. Churchill waving a two-fingered victory salute. He awoke in the middle of the night. He was still in his clothes. As was Macy who slept in his loose grasp, the straps of her dress slipped off to her forearms, her buttocks shoved tight into his groin. As was Aldous, behind him, snoring softly. He eased himself out of their wedge, went over to the window, open to the cold night and the rain. He could see Kensington Palace, the Gardens, the Royal Albert Hall, lit up in the slick of the night. He was back. Sumiko and Japan seemed very far away.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Hakone, Japan • 2003

  Sumiko had a car. A rather large, sleek, meta
llic-silver, executive-type of vehicle. Japanese, of course. Edward recognised the marque. If only he had put his inheritance into that company all those years ago, he would be sitting pretty by now. Actually, he was sitting pretty, embraced by all this luxurious, top-of-the-range, grey-suede upholstery as Sumiko effortlessly swung her monster of a machine down the steep roads from the museum.

  ‘Do you remember when you took me there?’ she asked as they passed yet another spa resort.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, tapping the floor between his legs with his walking stick at the sudden flush of memory. ‘Bathing in hot springs is such a sensual experience,’ he added, trying to make the sentence sound matter-of-fact. But he knew he was testing her, reminding her of their intimacy, probing to see whether even with Jerome Fisk’s ring still on her finger, he could provoke her into a nostalgia for their sexual history.

  ‘It would be good for my arthritis,’ she said. ‘I have so much trouble with my left hand. Look at these fingers.’ She lifted the offending appendage off the steering wheel. ‘It is like a… like a claw. What am I to do with something like this?’

  ‘Perhaps we could visit one again.’

  ‘Please stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Making plans for us.’ She drove faster, her stare fixed straight ahead, the tyres screeching slightly on the bends. And then he saw she was crying.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he truly was. He had got carried away.

  ‘You can’t do this, Eddie. You can’t just walk back into my life and pretend everything is fine.’

  She swung the car into the hotel forecourt, and immediately there was the familiar beetling of the bellboys around the vehicle, busy hands opening doors, searching for luggage. He waved them away, took her hand. ‘Would you like to come inside? Stay for dinner?’

  She sniffed, nodded her head.

  ‘Good. That’s settled.’ He dragged his legs out of the seat, hobbled to his feet on his cane. The car was whisked off, leaving this empty space between them in the forecourt. He waited as she tied a silk scarf around her head.

  ‘Do you know what would be nice?’ she said, her eyes puffy from the tears but smiling now. ‘If we could take a walk in the garden. Could you manage that?’

  ‘The azaleas are very beautiful,’ Edward remarked, as they wandered slowly along the pathways. ‘I remember you were fond of them.’

  She knelt down, the hem of her plaid skirt grazing the ground, placed her palm under one of the drooping heads, pulled in closer to the scent. He observed the still-graceful curve of her neck and seemed to recall watching her perform the same action those many years ago. Had he been truly happier then? Or was it all just an illusion? If he could go back to the past and place himself exactly on this path with Sumiko, would he have been the young writer full of ideals and passion and ambition he recalled with a wistful melancholy or would he be just the same sad and disillusioned human being he was now? He held out his hand and awkwardly helped her to her feet. They walked the rest of the way to the waterwheel in silence.

  She let out just the slightest squeal when she saw it. ‘Oh, Eddie-chan. It’s still here!’

  ‘Yes, it is. Although it’s actually a rebuilt version of the old one. Look at how fresh the wood is. You can almost smell it from here. The substance has gone but the form still remains.’

  ‘We Japanese are very good at doing that.’

  He sat down on the low wall and she came to sit beside him. He closed his eyes, breathed in slowly, trying to grasp some kind of internal feeling for her presence. The chill of the air chafing his cheeks, he could feel that, and the sound of the breeze sifting through the trees, lifting the leaf-laden branches, creating that wonderful rush-reedy sound.

  ‘Eddie-chan. Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Forgive me. What were you saying?’

  ‘This place brings back so many memories.’

  ‘For me too. I was happy here.’

  ‘Then why did you leave?’

  ‘I had to.’ These words seemed so weak now. But it was what he had always believed. A crossroads in his life. Stay in Japan with Sumiko or return to England to be a writer. That was his choice and if he hadn’t taken it then, he would never have had another chance. Only Aldous had sown any seeds of doubt on that decision. ‘If you were meant to be a writer,’ his friend had told him many years later. ‘You would have become a writer whether you had stayed in Japan or not. Destiny will always work itself out. Even if mere mortals like yourself want to fuck it up. Destiny will always win.’

  Sumiko stood up, straightened her skirt. ‘I understood you had to go,’ she said. ‘I just don’t know why you didn’t take me with you.’

  ‘Ah, Enid. Forgive me for having abandoned you. Please let me introduce you to an old friend from this hotel. Sumiko, this is Enid. The woman I cannot live without.’ He saw that Sumiko looked confused. ‘My personal assistant,’ he added. The two women nodded to each other. Sumiko with a certain politeness. Enid, he noticed, with just a shiver of disdain.

  ‘I have had more than enough to occupy myself,’ Enid said. ‘And when I had a few free moments, Mr Takahashi was kind enough to arrange for a guide to take me down to Hakone. The marquetry is quite exquisite. I bought some lovely souvenirs.’

  ‘Hakone is blessed with so many different kinds of trees,’ Sumiko said. ‘Did you buy one of the puzzle boxes?’

  ‘Actually, I preferred the mosaic bowls and dishes. Now, Sir Edward, I need to talk to you about a more important matter.’

  ‘I’m afraid it will have to wait. I have promised to escort Sumiko to dinner.’

  ‘It really is most pressing.’

  ‘Later, Enid. Now if you will forgive me again, I’m sure my chatter with Sumiko about old times will bore you.’

  ‘It is quite all right. I am happy to dine quietly in my room.’

  The evening sparkled. His conversation sparkled. Sumiko sparkled. And when Takahashi joined them for coffee, Edward was so proud of her, this former chambermaid, holding her own so eloquently in English with the manager of this grand hotel. He sucked shamelessly on his cigar, savoured his peaty malt, absorbed the warmth of it all. He could almost say he was content. It was a state of being he had never really wanted to achieve until about two minutes before he was ready to die. After all, what kind of life was there to live in a state of contentment? A boring one was all he could imagine. Life was all about the struggle for fulfilment, the desire to fill the void. ‘All creativity comes from loss.’ But once the void was filled, what else was there? Yet, in this moment, he felt very close to that state of being.

  ‘It has been a great pleasure to converse with you, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, rising from his chair and bowing. ‘It has reminded me so much of the old times. The once great days of this hotel.’

  ‘The dining room looks quite full to me. It seems you are still doing very well.’

  ‘Ah yes. But there is so much competition these days. And it is hard to attract the…’ Takahashi coughed lightly into his closed fist. ‘The same exceptional quality of clientele as we used to.’

  ‘Takahashi-san. I am sure you understand I would like a few quiet words with Sumiko before she leaves.’

  ‘Of course. How unthoughtful of me. Yes, I must go. There are matters to which I must attend. Sir Edward. Sumiko-chan. Please enjoy the rest of the evening.’

  ‘He is a very kind man,’ Sumiko said, once the manager had left. ‘But such a busybody, don’t you think? Busybody. That is the right word, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is the right word.’ He drew on his cigar and observed her through a cloud of his own making. ‘Tell me. Are you happy now?’

  ‘You mean, now at this moment? Or now in my life?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Yes, I am happy to see you again. And in my life? Well, I live with my two dogs in the mountains, Jerome is very generous, and I was the lover of a famous writer who named a prostitute after me. That i
s not bad for a poor Japanese chambermaid.’

  ‘Not bad at all.’

  She picked up her napkin off her lap, folded it neatly. ‘Eddie. It is getting late. I must go.’

  He rose with her, escorted her into the foyer.

  ‘I have taken the same room,’ he told her.

  ‘The Fuji Suite?’

  ‘Yes, the Fuji Suite. Would you like to see it?’

  He gave her the key and she went on ahead of him, almost running down the corridor in her excitement. Hobbling after her, he felt as if he was following in his own ghostly footsteps, their ghostly footsteps. By the time he had caught up with her, she had already pulled back the curtains. She opened and closed the door of the walk-in cupboard.

  ‘See,’ she said. ‘The light goes on automatically when you open the door. Just as always.’

  He felt so happy watching her, but also so immensely weary. He sat down on the side of the bed, slipped off his shoes and jacket, loosened his tie. She had gone into the bathroom and he could hear her turn on the taps just to delight in the clunk and gasp of the old pipework. He felt as if his world was closing in on him and all that was left for him was this room, a tiny speck of warm light in a universe of cold darkness. With difficulty, he managed to bring his legs over on to the bed, laid his head down on to the coldness of the quilt. He felt Sumiko’s presence.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I am fine. Just tired. So tired.’ He raised his head slightly from the pillow. ‘Please lie with me. Lie with me and hold me. Just for a few minutes. Hold me, Sumiko. Please.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  London • 1958

  ‘The Americans, my dear Edward, will hate it,’ Aldous said, leaning back in his office chair. On the desk between them lay the final proofs for The Waterwheel, edited heavily in red. ‘Absolutely hate it. Bugger them for their insecurities.’

  ‘Well, I’m not changing any of it. Not a damn word.’