Edward had arranged a wake-up call with the front desk but it had proved unnecessary. He awoke well before the dawn, remarkably clear-headed for only four hours sleep. As his life became shorter, he slept less and less, until he wondered if there would come a time when he would not require any sleep at all. The achievement of a perpetual state of awakeness, of constant awareness, before the reward of permanent sleep.
A quick shower before sitting down in his robe at the writing desk. He ran his fingers over the mahogany, letting his palms be lightly scored by the corners and edges. The rectangular, olive-leather inlay had been replaced and the space for the inkwell was now sealed off with a circle of wood that just failed to match the original. But he was sure it was the same desk. He turned on the reading lamp, opened up the notebook he had bought for the trip, began to write. No longer fiction, for what stories had he left to tell? But poetry. Just like he used to write in the early London days. Except then he wrote about youth, about love, about hope. Now he wrote about nature. About death and birth. Poetry had become his literary garden of retirement where he pottered about in his withered skin, pruning that branch, choosing to pick that flower, hacking out that stubborn weed. Writing haiku.
He paused from his scribblings to watch the day break over the hillside, the sunlight rising to glint on the grey tiles of the hotel’s outbuildings, to melt on the dewy branches of the poplar trees. Lights flickered on in the kitchens, steam churned out of the fired-up boilers, giant extractor fans started to whirr. The crisp, oily smell of grilling fish, the baby-milk aroma of boiling rice. Bird tracks on the frosted grass. The cold ring of a temple bell. The waterwheel off in the distance. Life beginning anew. Rebirth. Renaissance. Reincarnation. Such a sense of it, deep in his belly.
Lark tracks scratch the frost
Marching fast away from me
Winter’s death tolling.
He ordered a light, Japanese-style breakfast to be delivered to his room. A waiter brought a lacquer tray laden with an array of dishes. Miso soup, sweet omelette, pickles, barley porridge, broiled fish and a pot of green tea. Each in its distinctive, ceramic bowl. He marvelled at the delicious combination of tastes and textures delighting his tongue and palate, each one sparking off a flash of memory, too fast for him to harness in conscious thought before the next one appeared and then also died. And then the next one. Pickled radish. What did that sour yellowed root remind him of? Sugared egg. So quick. Impossible to grasp, these disappearing images from his Japanese past. But the sensation pleasant nevertheless. Until the telephone interrupted this grand fireworks display of fleeting recollections.
‘Are you angry with me?’ Enid asked.
‘Why would that be?’
‘I thought you might have joined me for breakfast.’
‘I took it in my room. I was writing.’
‘Well, then, a taxi has been ordered for ten. The Shinkansen tickets are at reception.’
‘Oh God. Jerome Fisk and his damned award ceremony. I’d almost forgotten. What about back home?’
‘And other stuff?’
‘Yes, there’s other stuff. The usual requests for your attendance at events I will politely decline. It is the Poet Laureate’s birthday though. Would you like me to send something?’
‘What do I usually do?’
‘Depends on who’s in situ. This one’s new.’
‘Well, send him a bottle of malt then. He writes better when he’s pissed. Anything else?’
‘All quiet on the western front. It’s past midnight in the UK. Enjoy your trip to Tokyo.’
By the time he had dressed and was walking along the corridors towards reception, his mood was still upbeat. It was the breakfast that had done it. Enid would have disapproved of the grilled fish. And his bowels were sure to pay for it later. But it was just like eating kippers really. He began humming some vague melody as he walked. A slow, ponderous fugue. He tapped his cane to the beat. As he caught sight of Takahashi in the lobby, he believed the tune was the Japanese national anthem.
‘I trust you slept well, Sir Edward,’ Takahashi said, breaking off from talking with a staff member to greet him.
‘I did indeed.’
Takahashi straightened. Not a strand of his thick, dyed-black hair out of place. ‘And did you enjoy your breakfast?’
‘A good Scotsman likes to start the day with his kippers.’
‘I am afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Nothing to be afraid of, Takahashi-san. Just my exuberant spirits.’
‘I see.’ A little cough into a clenched fist, then the manager said: ‘I did not recall seeing you in the bar last night.’
‘I was feeling slightly unwell. I went to bed early.’
‘Perhaps it was jet lag?’
‘No doubt.’
‘And will you require dinner this evening? On your return from Tokyo?’
‘I imagine I will dine in Tokyo.’
‘I see.’
The hotel manager lingered.
‘There is something else, Takahashi-san?’
‘Perhaps you remember our desire to have a little chat?’
‘Our desire?’
‘About the old days.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow. I am sure I can manage some time tomorrow.’ Edward looked around the lobby. The door to the telephone booth was open and he could see inside to the glass-encased poster advertising the Hakone Open Air Museum and its exuberant paintings. ‘Now where is that damn taxi?’
‘It has just this second arrived in the driveway.’
Edward pushed through the revolving doors into the crisp morning air. His dry cheeks felt the chill. He put on his hat. A lone birdcall echoed hollow in the valley with such a sadness it actually pained him. That ache in the centre of his chest. He touched the spot, kept his hand there until the tightness had passed. The taxi driver – a small, chubby man wearing a dark suit and white gloves – quickly stubbed out a cigarette, opened the passenger door. Sheets of white cotton covered the seats. The interior air freshened with aerosol lavender.
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.’