An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful

by J David Simons

  ‘I’m not asking you to, dear boy. That’s what I like about the book. The uncompromising way it humanises the Japs.’

  ‘I just want to remind the Americans we drop bombs on people. Not on abstract targets.’

  ‘Unfortunately the Yanks will not be reminded as I doubt they will be reading it. But from where does this sense of fair play emerge? This great sense of outrage against our American cousins? Methinks you spent too much time consorting with the natives.’

  Edward shrugged. ‘I’ve just never understood how you could wipe out so many people just like that. Even listening to the news about it on the radio at the time, I felt that way. You’d think they’d have some kind of conscience about it all.’

  ‘It’s still too raw.’

  ‘It’s been thirteen bloody years.’

  ‘It could be fifty years ago and they’d still be in denial. You’ve got to understand the Yanks, dear boy. They’re all about glitz and glamour. They’re not interested in introspection. While what I am interested in is their export market.’

  ‘Is that important?’

  ‘Oh yes, very important. It’s not enough to sell well nationally these days. The international market is just as vital. And America is the big one. Roland has done remarkably well across the pond.’

  Roland. Roland Earnshaw. Not only Aldous’ latest lover but also his sole client. Roland and his wartime yarn The Adventures of Private X had sold close to one million copies on both sides of the Atlantic, mainly on the basis of one quite sexually graphic scene that had managed to escape the censor’s attention. Aldous’ commission from these sales had paid for the refurbishment in Regency style of The Londinium offices in which they now sat. Red and cream striped wallpaper matching the upholstery on the chairs, brass wall-lights, sconces, heavy furniture, all topped off with a chandelier at the centre. The room looked like an upmarket brothel.

  ‘Well, Macy liked the book. And she’s American.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call Macy your typical reader, dear boy. First of all, she’s been your lover these past few months. And secondly, she’s bound to like anything that would annoy her father. After all, Jack Collingwood was a prosecutor in Japan during the Occupation.’

  ‘Like I said before. I’m not going to soften my stance. Anyway, the bombings are only a small part of it. There’s a love story as well.’

  ‘Then I think we might have to adopt a different approach.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Well, if the Yanks won’t like it, then perhaps the Japs will. And there are what? A hundred million of them? Not quite as big a market as the States but that’s still a lot of potential eyeballs on pages. We could have it translated into Japanese. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘Not a bad idea? It’s a bloody brilliant idea. You couldn’t handle the translation, could you?’

  ‘Afraid not. My Japanese is nowhere near good enough.’

  ‘Well, do you know someone who could?’

  Edward thought back to his time in Japan. It had only been months but it seemed like a lifetime ago. A lifetime ago with another person altogether in the starring role. ‘Actually, I just might. There was someone at Tokyo Autos when I was there. Kobayashi his name was. Not particularly good at Japanese to English. But he was pretty good the other way around.’

  ‘Can you get in touch with him?’

  ‘I suppose so. These chaps stay in their jobs for life over there.’

  ‘Excellent. Do what you can to bring him on board. I’m sure I can arrange a small fee. But do it quickly.’ Aldous rose from his chair, walked over to the window. Outside the rain was sheeting down, rattling off the panes. ‘And how is dear Macy?’ he asked, lighting a Balkan Sobranie, the black-papered, gold-tipped cigarettes being his latest affectation. ‘I’ve hardly seen her since you’ve returned.’

  ‘Well, don’t blame me. I haven’t seen much of her either. She’s been too involved with her damn exhibition.’

  ‘Ah yes, the exhibition. That would distract her.’ Aldous turned from the window, blew a lungful of smoke high into the chandelier. The smell thick and sweet like liquorice, reminding Edward of his father’s pipe tobacco. ‘But everything is all right between you?’

  ‘You never know with Macy.’

  ‘That is very true. But her sojourn in America changed her, don’t you think?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed. Being with her is still as much of an emotional rollercoaster as ever.’

  ‘But that’s what you need. She keeps you on edge. Stops you slipping into complacency. Into ennui.’

  ‘Unlike you. Who has slipped into a life of domestic bliss with Roland.’

  Aldous smiled. ‘That is a different scenario altogether. After all, I am an older man. My needs have changed. Domestic bliss, as you call it, suits my middle-aged temperament. And my reduced libido. While you, my dear Edward, require a woman who can keep you on the back foot. On the front foot, I fear you could be quite cruel.’

  Edward was never sure about these remarks from Aldous. Either they were meant to be terribly profound or otherwise just throwaway bits of nonsense.

  Macy’s studio was a vast concrete space, once the top floor of a textile factory hosting several rows of looms beneath the vaulted glass-panelled ceiling. What used to be the workplace for a whole colony of weavers and seamstresses struggling to feed hungry mouths in post-war Britain was now home to a solitary artist. Macy loved the natural light of the place, even on a grey day such as this one. With just one paraffin heater sputtering in its hopeless attempt to keep the room warm, a kettle constantly simmering on top of its metal casing.

  ‘Do you think I’m cruel?’ Edward asked her.

  She stood at the centre of a large canvas stretched out on the concrete floor, her face, hair, overalls and boots splattered with different coloured paints. He reckoned her body and clothes could be as much of a representation of her abstract expressionism as her paintings. She was breathing heavily from her exertions, misting the cold air.

  ‘Yes, I think you are.’ She drew herself up, folded her arms, scowled at him. Surrounded by her work, this moat of paint standing as a barrier against him, she was untouchable.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you have just interrupted my work mid-flow. By walking into my studio asking stupid questions.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just like my father.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Not giving a shit about my work.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Macy. Stop whining about your father.’

  ‘There you go,’ she said, raising her arms wide, appealing to some invisible audience. ‘As God is my witness. Just as I said. Cruel. A goddamn cruel bastard.’

  How did she do that? How could she take just one moment of insensitivity on his part and turn it into a major issue? So that he stood there shaking, trying to control the shameful venom that had risen up inside of him. Instead of trying to find sympathy for her. He knew the exhibition was important to her. It was her first in two years, the first since Pollock had died. And now she felt herself to be among the anointed, one of the heirs to the great man. One of the carriers of the dripping trowels, sticks and knives of existentialist American art.

  The kettle steamed and bubbled on its hotplate, distracting both of them, allowing him time to swallow down his own heated-up temper.

  ‘I realise you’re anxious about the exhibition,’ he said.

  ‘What would you know?’

  ‘It’s the same for me. Putting my book out there. Making myself vulnerable. A target for criticism.’

  Her expression softened. She exited her painting with a giant stride. ‘Maybe you’re right. I just feel so exposed.’

  He followed her to the sink where she was wiping her brushes, put his arms around her, kissed her neck.

  ‘Leave me,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood for you.’

  But he persisted, moving his hand to cup o
ne breast through the spattered workcloth. She leaned back, opened up her neck to his kisses.

  ‘Stop it.’ But he saw the flush in her neck, felt her rump pushing back into him as he slipped his hand under the bib of her overalls. And he knew she would respond to his touch. That they would use sex to ease out the tension between them. She had bent her torso down level with the sink, using her arms to push herself back at him, and he thought this is how he would enter her. If he could figure out the clasps and studs of her workclothes. But suddenly, she turned on him, her face hot, pushing him back, taking control, forcing him to step backwards. Pace by pace until he tripped on the edge of her canvas, fell over on to the still-wet paint. He waited for her screams and accusations. But instead she was on top of him, tearing off her clothes, his clothes, as they squirmed and writhed on the gooey, gluey surface, his body slithering, skin slipping, the two of them gulping for breath. Creating swirls and smears from the rub of her breasts, the twists of his buttocks, her legs flaying, his fingers squeezing at the thick globs on the canvas. She pinned him down by his shoulders, drew her face in close, cheeks and forehead oily with green paint. Warpaint.

  ‘Do you get it?’ she said, lips to his ear.

  He understood. That this was her intention. That this was a natural extension of her work. The subconscious working at a raw sexual level. Together creating. Letting the art come through. He eased off the pace of his lovemaking, his initial thrust gone, the frenzy somehow absorbed into the pores of the canvas. He felt a tenderness overtake him, the touch of his lips and fingertips became slower, gentler. She moaned and moved lazily in his embrace. He found compassion in his heart for her, for her anxiety, for her feelings of worthlessness. This lovemaking was no longer about him, but his feeling for her. He became lost in her. Mind-less, body-less, ego-less.

  Later he sat with her by the heater in the dying light, wrapped in blankets, paint caked hard on his skin, smoking one of her cigarettes, drinking coffee, admiring their joint effort, joking about what it should be called.

  ‘Body Rhythms,’ he suggested.

  She laughed. ‘Body Rhythms Number One.’

  ‘First of a series?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘That gives me hope.’

  ‘Don’t get too complacent.’

  ‘You should exhibit it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. It’s not half bad.’

  ‘Aldous would like it. He should be able to afford a Collingwood original these days.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll offer it to him. As long as you promise not to tell him how it was made.’

  ‘I want a credit though.’

  ‘Not this time.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘I think you have to be the person on top to get the credit.’

  It was his turn to laugh. He felt close to her. They had reached a point of balance, poised for a moment in perfect equanimity on their usual tightrope of emotion. He leaned over, touched her bare thigh. She grasped his hand, held it there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For always attacking you. I just want you to know it is the only way I have of defending myself.’

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Against me falling in love with you. And then you finding out what I’m really like.’

  ‘But I know what you’re really like.’

  ‘And you’re still here?’

  ‘Yes. I’m still here.’

  She reached over, stole his cigarette from between his fingers, sucked in deep, her eyes staring unblinkingly at him from behind her shield of smoke. ‘Well, marry me then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, Eddie. Let’s do it. Let’s get married.’

  ‘I never thought you could be so spontaneous,’ Aldous said.

  ‘It feels right.’ Edward scrutinised his friend’s face, trying to discern some sense of approval among the usual creases and frowns of exasperation.

  ‘You are aware what you’re letting yourself in for?’

  ‘Marriage will settle her down.’

  Aldous laughed at that remark. ‘You don’t want Macy to settle down. You love those fabulous highs she gives you.’

  ‘Perhaps marriage will keep us on a permanent high.’

  ‘For the first two years maybe. Until the good sex runs out.’

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then you should prepare yourself for the lows, my dear boy. Prepare to plumb the depths.’

  He married Macy in a registry office in Marylebone. Jack Collingwood had not been invited or had turned down the invitation – Edward was still unclear which. Aldous was the only guest. They had to haul someone else in off the street to be the other witness. Dominic Pike was his name, retired teacher was the occupation scrawled in the register. Although Aldous said he was just a homeless bum who happened to be sitting on the steps of the building at the time. Dominic’s breath stunk of ale and there was concern whether he was sober enough to act in a legal capacity. The registrar didn’t seem to mind. Aldous found the whole event thoroughly amusing and even invited Dominic to the celebratory lunch at the Savoy.

  ‘If we can’t have Sir Winston,’ Aldous announced as Dominic swayed and saluted at the mention of the name. ‘Then we can have Dominic.’

  ‘Corporal Pike is grateful. But must unfortunately decline due to the lack of proper attire.’

  Aldous thanked him anyway, slipped him ten shillings. Macy blew a kiss as Dominic stumbled away. She had worn black for the occasion. Black polo, short black skirt, black stockings, black shoes. The only items she wore reflecting any joy was Edward’s wedding gift – his mother’s silver evening-watch. After the Savoy lunch, Edward returned with Macy to the three-storey house with small walled garden they had purchased in Chelsea, with views of the Thames, the riverboats in their moorings. Funded from the success of her exhibition, the remains of his inheritance and the potential sales of his book. For although initial interest in The Waterwheel in Britain was poor, Aldous had been spot-on about Japan.

  Kobayashi at Tokyo Autos had proved a worthy translator, delighted by the commission, finished it in three months, jokingly calling it Kobayashi’s Revenge as a response to all the edits of his English translations he once had to endure. And then without being asked, Kobayashi had passed on the Japanese manuscript to his brother, who was a commissioning editor at a major Tokyo publishing house. The brother loved it, stumped up a decent advance. And the novel was proving a success, inspiring renewed interest for the book back in Britain.

  ‘Entry has been through the back door,’ Aldous was fond of telling Edward. ‘But we got there in the end. Your fame and my fortune are secured. Thanks to Japan. And to Kobayashi’s Revenge.’

  Macy went upstairs to get changed from her black bridal wear. Edward poured himself another glass of champagne, wandered out into the garden. Bloated from the lunch and feeling quite drunk, he eased himself down into a deckchair, almost spilling his drink in the process. He heard an upper window slide open, saw Macy’s head appear as a bit of a blur. She dangled something in her hand. It took him a few seconds to realise it was her brassiere.

  ‘Hey, husband,’ she called out. ‘Come up here and do your duty.’

  Instinctively, he looked around to see who might be listening. High walls thankfully blocked out the other gardens.

  ‘Give me five minutes,’ he called back. It had taken such an effort to ensconce himself within the swinging canvas, he wasn’t ready to drag himself upwards again, even with sex as the lure. He heard the window slam shut.

  It was that beautiful time of the late afternoon, just before dusk, as the sun threw out its last shadows and Nature hummed with its pre-darkness activity. Some kind of bird was twittering away in a tree above him. He actually had a tree in this garden of his – not just one, but several – a remarkable achievement, he thought, for a boy raised in a Glasgow tenement. Although he had no idea what kind of trees they were. And there were
plants and flowers he would also have to learn the names of. And ivy trailing up his walls. He raised his glass to his new home.

  ‘To Kobayashi’s Revenge,’ he whispered. Then he shivered. Not from that sudden dip in temperature as the sun disappeared behind his trees. But from the thought of his novel circulating throughout Japan. And wondering again if Sumiko had ever read it, curled up in her bed as the snow fell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hakone, Japan • 2003

  He awoke to the sound of a woodpecker. Such wonderful, hollow, industrious drumming, filling his mind with the mossy freshness of the forest. He was still fully clothed. Curled up behind him, her head resting between his shoulderblades, Sumiko breathing sleep. He held his own breath so he could feel her life-presence heaving into him, warm and rhythmic. Slowly, he turned with a groan towards her. And still she slept. She was wearing the hotel’s yukata, belted close around her. Her features soft in the half-light, still retaining a girlishness and a prettiness, remarkable how little she had changed. He experienced that same overwhelming sense of gratitude he had felt at the chaya. Having the chance to lie with her again, to observe her sleeping, dreaming, his whole being alive to her closeness. He stroked her cheek, the skin powdered, soft. She blinked awake.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Early.’

  She muttered into the pillow, then screwed up her eyes at him through the fringe of her hair. ‘How early?’

  ‘Five o’clock maybe.’

  She mumbled something in Japanese, then turned round and away from him. He draped a hand around her stomach, feeling the bones of her hips against him, the folds of belly-flesh under her robe. How long had it been since he had felt a woman close like this? Years. He breathed in deep, tried to capture the sense of the moment in whatever reserves of memory still remained to him. He let two of his fingers slip inside her robe, stroke the bare skin, remarkably smooth compared to his own desiccated flesh. His hands were trembling.

  ‘What are you doing?’