Chapter Fifty-Nine: J’ai Perdu Mon Eurydice

PRAKONG STOOD BEFORE a mirror and combed his hair. “We’re obviously not going to find her at the Glover House but we might pick up some clues. Remember, Appleton talked of your being ‘worthy’. That sounds like he expects you to solve some sort of puzzle. I don’t think our finding those ticket receipts was an accident.”

Their adjoining rooms on the fifth floor of the Utamaro Kitagawa Hotel faced the mountains with the sea on their right. It was raining hard and under the thick, grey clouds the city itself looked grey. The national park lay buried under a sea-mist. Nevertheless, it was so warm they had the air conditioning turned up.

They had washed, shaved and breakfasted, now they were getting dressed ready to go out. It was too hot for a coat, however rainy outside, so they each had a golfing umbrella. This was their second day and it had rained just as steadily on their first. Edward sat on his bed and listened to his MP3 player. Prakong went to lean on the window sill.

Edward removed one of his headphones. “Briefly, yes. I’ll need to have another look at it. I’ve been concentrating on the libretto.”

Edward took Prakong’s suitcase down from the rack next to the door. He reached inside and removed a copy of an academic paper called, Italian Influence in the ‘Naples of Japan’, 1859-1941. He handed it over.

“I think we need to review these places,” Prakong said. “Starting with the Glover house.”

“So-called, right. It has nothing to do with the historical Butterfly – if there ever was one.”

“The opera was based on a play which was based on a short story which was probably based on a French novel – Madame Chrysanthème - which most authorities think ‘may have’ been based on a real event. But others discount the ‘real event’, even if it occurred. According to them, the characters are just ciphers intended to ‘feminise’ the ‘Orient’ – to present it as passive, vulnerable, meek - and part of a general, muddle-headed attempt by Europeans to endorse and critique colonialism simultaneously.”

“Well, it’s certainly a critique. But surely, if the short story was based on a real event, that can’t just be discounted?”

Prakong laughed. “Put it this way. You’ve probably heard of Miss Saigon. But Miss Saigon’s just a twentieth-century Madama Butterfly. If we identify an actual historical person who inspired the short story, which inspired the play, which inspired the opera, and on that basis we concede that there ‘really was’ a Cio-Cio San then, by the same argument, we have to say that there ‘really was’ a Miss Saigon, but that Miss Saigon lived in nineteenth century Japan and that she’s also the ‘real’ Madame Butterfly. Do you see? Because with Miss Saigon, we’re just adding another link to the chain. Was there a ‘real’ Madame Butterfly? It’s a matter of opinion.”

“No disrespect to your powers of deduction, but I’m lost. Either way, the Glover House has nothing to do with her?”

“No. But of course, we don’t know what Appleton thinks and, of course, it’s still got a kind of association-by-tourism.”

“Number fourteen Minamiyamate. The so-called ‘Alt’ house, after the British merchant, William Alt, who lived there in the eighteen-sixties. Afterwards, it became the US Consulate. It’s inside the Glover Garden.”

“Quite convenient. Was Alt the ‘real’ Pinkerton? Feel free to ignore any philosophical qualms you may have in responding to this question.”

“Thank you. No. Its significance lies in the fact that it was that US Consulate.”

“From there we go on to Number twelve Higashiyamate, in the grounds of Kwassui Women's College. An American couple called the Corrells lived there in the eighteen-nineties and according to one American scholar – Arthur Groos – it was Jennie Correll who told her brother - our short-story writer, John Luther Long - what she believed was the true story of a Nagasaki prostitute and an American naval officer. According to some sources, she supposed Glover to be the grown son of their union, which of course, can’t be right. Glover was born in Scotland.”

“Well, Jennie Correll was a missionary’s wife. Maybe she found it difficult to tell the difference. And like I said, it may be pointless looking for a ‘real’ Madame Butterfly.”

“I thought you said the short story was based on a story called, Madame Chrysanthème? Now you’re saying it’s based on a story by a missionary’s wife.”

“It could be both. Interestingly, though, the fictional Madame Chrysanthème was a thoroughgoing mercenary, only interested in money.”

“My head’s starting to spin. The upshot is we’ve got quite a lot to look at.”

“Not really. Only three things. It’s the information that’s ‘quite a lot’.”

“Yes, I can see that. What I don’t understand, is what any of this ... detail has to do with Noonie.”

“That’s why I’ve spent so long trying to impress on you the idea that the ‘real’ Madame Butterfly may be buried at the bottom of a deep well. That’s probably also true of the ‘real’ everyone. I think much more so in Noonie’s case, as far as I’ve been able to discover. An orphan brought up to marry a rich foreigner, born Thai but brought up by freethinking Englishwomen, fulfils her nominal destiny in marrying Charles Swinter but falls in love with you - ”

“Maybe what we’re dealing with out there is some sort of quest for the ‘real’ Noonie. Madame Butterfly would be a symbol of that quest, a kind of ‘presence in absence’ as a trendy philosopher might put it.”

“He has to fit into this somewhere. What I’m trying to say is, maybe it’s not a puzzle with a straightforward solution. Maybe it’s a puzzle about a puzzle. If I’m correct, she no more has the answers than we do.”

“If you’re correct, maybe there aren’t any answers. Do you really believe all this? It strikes me as tortuously complicated.”

“Of course I don’t ‘believe’ it. Like I keep saying, I entertain hypotheses not creeds. Some of them – like this one – are fairly outlandish. But that’s a difference between a good Private Detective and a poor one. A good one has more hypotheses. Anyway, if you’re ready now, we’d better get going.”

It stopped raining almost as soon as they left the hotel, and the sun came out. It took half an hour to reach the Glover house by taxi. Prakong spoke a little Japanese – ‘enough to get by’ – and he translated the driver’s derisory remarks about the traffic into English.

They arrived at noon, just as a new contingent of tourists was being admitted. The house was low and Italianate with a long porch and built on a slight slope. It commanded a good view of the harbour. On the far shore, a single high-rise block nestled among what looked like a complex of car-parks. Edward and Prakong found themselves the only ones without cameras in a group of nine. The others were all from the USA. The tour-guide was an elderly Kyoto woman with glasses. She spoke clear English with a slight American accent.

As they ambled round the premises, Edward tried to look for significances rather than follow what the guide was saying. He hardly noticed the décor and the period pieces she kept pointing out. The house was well-ventilated and fragrant with the scent of the flower border outside. A honeybee followed them from room to room.

After the tour was over, they went to the Alt house, a more English than Italian looking structure with ivy-draped colonnades and a light Victorian interior. Finally, they sat down at one of the cast-iron tables in front of the house and ate their sandwiches.

Edward hadn’t found any clues. That didn’t change three hours later, after they visited Twelve Higashiyamate – a well preserved, white wooden building with a built-in veranda and balcony, to which they were admitted by the secretary of the Women's College, a cheery old woman in pumps. As far as he could tell, it was simply another in a series of visits without issue.

Half an hour later they sat on a bench by one of the main roads out of the city. The traffic rushed past in packs. They faced a row of office-blocks.

“Flashes of insight don’t come to order. When we do have one – which we will – we’ll think back to what we’ve seen today and interpret it in a new light.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help feeling I’m not really getting much out of this.”

“We need to split up. We’ve got two pairs of eyes. We’re wasting them, going round together. What I need to do is go through the town systematically, neighbourhood by neighbourhood, showing her picture and asking questions. Since you can’t speak any Japanese you’re not going to be of much use. Sorry to be blunt, but I know what I’m doing.”

“I want you to go down on to the beach. Hire an interpreter if you think it’ll help. You can do the same as me. Otherwise, just look out for her.”

“She was born on an island. She’s probably got a strong affinity for the sea. After so long in the middle of the countryside looking after Charles, she’s probably going to want to renew her acquaintance. I might even find her before you do.”

Prakong stayed in the city, Edward went to the beach. They arrived back at the hotel at six and washed and changed into formal wear for dinner. Most of the diners were locals, eating with chopsticks. Edward ate his Sea Bass with a knife and fork and felt awkward.

“I’m sorry if I came across as unnecessarily brusque this afternoon,” Prakong said.

“Forget it. After you’d spoken to me, I realised how thoughtless I’ve been.”

“I’m an amateur. I don’t know anything about detective work. I suddenly wondered how I’d feel if I was in the laboratory and someone with no expertise kept peering over my shoulder, making comments. Having a personal interest in the matter doesn’t entitle you to do that.”

“Okay, enough contrition. We’ll stick to our respective patches from now on. How did you get on at the beach?”

“Four thousand one hundred and seventy five kilometres, to be exact. At least, that’s the coastline. I’m not sure how much of it’s beach.”

“Nagasaki Prefecture alone, yes. Mind you, I’m not sure if that includes all the islands.”

“To be entirely hopeless, your chances of success would have to be nil. As it is, they’re just negligible.”

“It may surprise you to know I’m usually far more subtle when I’m disenchanting my clients. However much you may protest to the contrary, I’m personally involved in all of this. For me, it’s no ordinary case and I can’t afford to have you become disillusioned. It’s therefore imperative that I divest you of all illusions at the outset.”

“It’s not going to happen overnight. I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Someone hires the great Prakong Yanphaisarn. Unfortunately, their expectations of the great Prakong Yanphaisarn are completely unrealistic. Within a very short time, they’re getting frustrated with the great Prakong Yanphaisarn. Before you know it, the great Prakong Yanphaisarn is out on his sorry ear. Obviously, the great Prakong Yanphaisarn gets to keep all the money he’s been paid up to that point. But he’s not in it for the money, not really. So he ends up very frustrated.”

“I’d like you to stay – for the time being. You’re good company. Just so long as you don’t try too hard to help. We’ll talk every evening, I’ll update you, you can ask any questions you like. I am your employee, after all.”

“We could find her tomorrow, of course. It can happen that way. I remember about ten years ago, I was commissioned by a rich businessman to look for his kidnapped daughter. We had a hunch she might be in Udon Thani, in Northern Thailand - for reasons I needn’t go into. Anyway, no sooner had I stepped off the bus than there she was – right in front of me. A one in a million chance. Needless to say, I grabbed her with both hands. So it could happen. You could find Noonie out on the beach tomorrow early. But I think I probably used up all my luck in Udon Thani.”

“On the other hand, if you don’t buy a ticket, you can’t win the lottery.”

For twelve days, Edward wandered the Nagasaki coastline alone. He kept to the beaten track. There was no point in trying to cover the entire distance, even if that were possible.

The wind was constantly landwards and left a salt taste in his mouth. Lunch was a bowl of ramen noodles from one of the seafront stalls. His shoes filled with sand and he nearly twisted his ankle trying to negotiate a rock pool. When he got back to the hotel, he could still hear the roar of the East China Sea mingled with the arias from Madama Butterfly. At night he dreamt of divas killing themselves to the sound of brass and drumrolls.

All he had to do was think and keep his eyes peeled. Looking out to sea, with its fluctuating moods and rhythms, he was filled with a vague sense of unreality. He couldn’t forget Prakong’s declaration that a good private detective was simply one with more hypotheses. He tried not to let his imagination run away with him but he couldn’t avoid speculation, most of it unpleasant. He sat on the beach and ran his fingers though his hair and eyed all the newcomers to see if they looked Thai. He wondered what people thought of him. Probably nothing good.

His misery was kindled by a growing suspicion of Prakong’s real motives and a resentment of his own uselessness. He couldn’t help feeling Prakong knew where Noonie was. Not only that, but he wanted Edward out of the way so he could try his hand at wooing her. The feeling was refuelled at dinner, when Prakong seemed to have nothing to report. He couldn’t shake the feeling off - and yet, at bottom, he knew it was ridiculous. Increasingly, as his pessimism grew, Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice supplanted Madama Butterfly as his listening of choice.

After two weeks, he was almost glad to be departing. He knew he was leaving Noonie behind, but he already had plans to return on a more permanent footing. Prakong saw him to the airport and seemed relieved to see the back of him.

Five months passed. Summer turned to Autumn turned to Winter. The one constant in Edward’s life was the old women whose patronage nothing could discourage. He spent significant amounts of time visiting them either just socially or when they were too poorly to make it to The Golden Wave. Apart from his weekly calls to Lek to practise his Thai, and his monthly reports from Prakong, they became his sole source of human contact.

Gradually, by a mixture of persistence and persuasion, the old women weaned from him all the details of his relationship with Noonie – from their first meeting at the British International school to their breakup outside his house, including all the complexities that provoked it. Doing so, they helped keep the story fresh for him.

Then one day, just as he was getting ready for bed, he had a brainwave. He would open a branch of The Golden Wave in Nagasaki. Done on a big enough scale and with the right sort of publicity, it might just reach her ears. And with it, him. Waiting on Prakong Yanphaisarn wasn’t his only option.

The next day, he consulted Friars, an international property consultancy in Knightsbridge, and together they began to plan strategies and scrutinize possible sites. Two days later, the senior partner helped him draw up a shortlist and they tabled a trip to Japan to inspect each candidate first hand. Architects and builders were immediately put on standby. Time was of the essence.

At the beginning of December, he sat next to Rose as she lay upstairs in bed in her little terraced house with a cold. Her head was supported by two pillows, and her feet stuck out from the end of the sheets. The room was small – just big enough for her single bed, a bedside table and a couple of chairs. A window looked onto the newsagent’s across the road.

“I understand you’re intending to move the restaurant to Nagasaki,” she said, when they’d finished talking about the weather.

“It’s not a move, it’s a new branch. I’ve got to keep a toehold in Britain. If Noonie decides to come looking for me, she’s hardly likely to start in Japan.”

“Why not? They’re only going to take it off me when I have to go into care.”

“I’ll let you know. Talking of money, I bumped into this chemist on the Internet recently. Not a pharmacist, a real chemist - ”

“A bit. Except Primo Levi wasn’t developing a new treatment for woodworm. Anyway, I’m working on something else, but we’ve a lot of problems in common and I already have a lot of the answers. We’ll probably patent it, assuming we can unravel the remaining few knots quickly enough. That should rake in a few million.”

“I’m not poor, even now. Which is ironic, really, given that all I need in life is an armchair, a few books - ”

“And Noonie. I don’t believe she’s really left you, Edward. I know she’ll be back.”

He laughed. “Nice distinction. I’ve reached the point where I’m keeping hope alive by an effort of will. There’s nothing sane about it any more. And quite often, I have to stop and think before I can even see that.”

“Have you thought of whereabouts in Nagasaki you’re going to base yourself? I mean, where the restaurant’s going to be?”

She took one arm from beneath the blankets and crossed her chest. “And hope to die.”

“I’m going to charter a jet and fly all forty-three of you to Nagasaki for a week. Five-star accommodation and you’ll all eat at The Nagasaki Golden Wave, as it’ll be called. On its opening night. All expenses paid. And we’re getting the press in. It should create quite a stir. Forty-three English women eating Thai in Japan.”

“Everyone’s going to ask, ‘Why English women, when it’s a Thai restaurant?’ And you’re going to be keeping the locals out. It’ll look like a snub.”

“Not when they hear my romantic story. ‘Restaurant owner comes looking for missing sweetheart, brings supporters.’ I want my picture and Noonie’s in all the papers, plus my plea for her return. If that happens, there’s a chance she might see it. Afterwards, if the restaurant bombs, so be it.”

“A word of advice, Edward. Opening a new restaurant will be good for you but only if you’re bothered about it. Don’t let it ‘bomb’. He who stops caring stops living. You don’t want to turn into a Miss Havisham, all alone in a room, remembering a lost love, unable to move on.”

“Why not just place a full-page Wanted notice in the Japanese press? You’ve got the money.”

“The thought had occurred to me. But something too direct might scare her off. By contrast, Edward Grant surrounded by nice little old ladies, all of us desperate to find her: that might look rather touching. No matter how bitter she’s feeling about me, she’d have to melt a little, don’t you think?”

“I know I would. But you need to do something about that hair if you want her to recognise you.”

“I mean colour-wise. You’ve been getting steadily greyer since we first met.”

“Why don’t you want me to tell anyone? Everyone will have to make arrangements, you know. We can’t just drop everything.”

She pulled a pink mobile phone from under her pillow. “This is so, so wonderful.”

An hour later, he was home. The wind bit and although the forecast predicted rain, the temperature was severe enough to suggest snow. He fumbled with his key-ring and undid the lock.

There was a letter on the mat with a Japanese stamp. He picked it up and took it into the kitchen. It was dated ten days ago.

Please accept this letter as notice of my intention to leave your employment with immediate effect. I have reached the reluctant conclusion that the investigation is unlikely to progress in the foreseeable future. All leads have dried up.

The one thing I can say with confidence is that she is not in Nagasaki, with or without Appleton. She could, of course, be elsewhere in Japan; but she could be anywhere at all. Either way, I no longer have anything to go on. In conscience, given the breadth of the impasse, I cannot continue to take your money.

Making allowances for the time it should take this letter to reach you, I will contact you by phone soon so we can discuss the matter and you can ask any questions.

He filled the kettle and put it on the cooker for a pot of tea. He didn’t know whether to feel despair or its opposite. His mind raced, hundreds of thoughts suddenly clamouring for his attention.

He hadn’t entirely shaken the suspicion that Prakong was intent on finding Noonie for his own purposes. The letter might be a clever piece of subterfuge.

But he didn’t need Prakong Yanphaisarn. The high-profile opening of The Nagasaki Golden Wave was a plan in its own right.

Of course, if Prakong was correct – if he could be trusted - she wasn’t in Nagasaki. But she was somewhere in Japan. Appleton’s ticket-receipts proved that.

What that meant was a modification to the opening of The Nagasaki Golden Wave. Instead of being spectacular enough to astonish Nagasaki, it now had to be spectacular enough to astonish the whole of Japan.