When Edward first arrived in Japan, he imagined himself as this tiny, isolated dot of a soul lost among millions of other souls. And after eighteen months, that was how he remained, not joining the dots, but carving out a lonely existence for himself between his little box of an apartment and the offices of Tokyo Autos. Japan happened all around him, and he wondered at it, absorbed it, learned from it as he added another perspective to his way of thinking. But he kept apart from it. And he found he liked it that way. When he wrote to Aldous about his propensity towards contented isolation, he received the comment: ‘You are very fortunate to possess the most important quality for being a writer.’
The First Tokyo Motor Show propelled Edward slightly more into the limelight. The show was a great success with over half a million people attending, and he enjoyed his assignment dealing with the few English-speaking customers at the Tokyo Autos stand. He felt proud of his contribution as a bridge of cultural understanding, his edited brochures in both English and Japanese outlining “the outstanding co-operation in licensed technology between Tokyo Autos and Argos Motors as a cornerstone for the future development of the Japanese automobile industry”. Although Tokyo Autos still manufactured many of its passenger vehicles simply by welding car bodies on to the chassis of small trucks, “the company was seriously committed towards producing cars according to international standards and held a long-term belief that it could compete in the global export market”. He reported these views back to Digby in London who replied with the letter he now held as he leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk, in the small office allocated to him by his Japanese hosts. “International Officer” was the sign on his door, ostentatiously describing his position as an English copywriter. The room’s tiny window allowed him a view over the skyline of a central Tokyo that seemed to be growing by the minute.
“I am delighted to hear of the contribution our beloved Argos is making to domestic production in Japan,” Digby wrote. “But I dismiss as totally fanciful the idea that Tokyo Autos might be able to come up with its own car to compete in the export market. Such a thought is madness, but humour your hosts anyway.”
Edward didn’t think the idea was madness at all. The American army of occupation had departed, leaving the Japanese to fall back on their boundless capacity for hard work, their resourcefulness at adapting the inventiveness of others to their own ends. They even had a phrase for it. Wakon-Yoshi. Japanese spirit, Western ability. And what a combination those qualities were proving to be. He just had to look out of the window to see the result. High-rise office and apartment buildings, department stores, nightclubs, pachinko parlours, all springing up like wild mushrooms in the humid streets below while underfoot new subway lines were being hacked out of the scorched earth. He could even walk out of the front door of Tokyo Autos, cross the road and order an American-style pizza and a half-bottle of Chianti at a newly established Italian restaurant. A new Japan was rising out of the ashes and debris. It was already beginning to hold its own in the global shipbuilding and textile industries and the automobile industry would be next. The country was experiencing strong economic growth, the demand for good quality cars was increasing. Only the lack of paved roads dampened enthusiasm and with a new national highway construction plan underway Edward expected even that obstacle to expansion to fade away rapidly. The success of the motor show had shown that consumer confidence was on the up and up. Digby would be proved wrong. He was sure of it.
A knock on the door. Ah, the tea girl, Edward thought, providing her customary round of green-leaf refreshment. He relished the cleansing taste of her brew as he called out for her to enter. But it was not the delightful kimono-clad Mie who appeared, but the grim and very male Kobayashi, the English translator whose formally worded texts Edward spent all his working days revising. He hurriedly whipped his feet off the desk, knocking over a pile of brochures in the process.
Kobayashi smirked at the chaos, his tiny caterpillar of a moustache twitching above his upper lip. The translator bowed, then ceremoniously held out an envelope balanced on open palms. ‘Specific delivery.’
‘Special delivery,’ Edward corrected. He felt he could easily be employed editing Kobayashi’s whole being, not just his translations. The moustache could go for a start. And something needed to be done about the bad breath, the dirty fingernails and the ill-fitting suit. Yet this was an unusual interruption. Edward normally collected his mail from his pigeonhole in the main staff room. And this envelope that Kobayashi proffered was not made from the usual flimsy onion-skin material either, but from thick brown paper stamped all over by some enthusiastic postal worker. Edward plucked it from the man’s outstretched hands and turned it over. It was from his Aunt Cathy in Edinburgh. He thanked the retreating Kobayashi and hurriedly slit open the envelope with the Japanese knife his mother had given him.
They had gone quickly, one after the other, like a pair of dominoes flicked over by the fingernail of God or whoever else was responsible for masterminding these events. First his father, then his mother three days later. “A blessing in disguise” his aunt wrote in a small, tight script that immediately conjured up her mean lips, bitten hard into concentration over her composition. “I do not know how she would have coped without him to look after her. After your father died, I was just about to telegram you to come back but then when your mother passed away so soon after I felt it was pointless. A letter is so much more comforting than a telegram anyway, I think. And there was nothing really you could have done, so far away from home.” It was strange to find Aunt Cathy in such a consoling mood towards him. She had been far from compassionate when he had taken up the educational legacy provided by her late husband, his Uncle Rob. “You can be reassured that both your parents passed away quickly and with little pain.” His father had died of a sudden heart attack, while his mother “had just given up on life. Her memory had deteriorated so much recently that I am not even sure if she knew who your father was. I took care of all the necessary funeral arrangements. That solicitor chap, Wilson Guthrie, who was also your Uncle Rob’s lawyer, is the executor and will administer the estate. No doubt he will get in touch with you in due course about the sale of the house and its contents. I have given him your address. I’m so sorry. I have enclosed a few keepsakes for you in the meantime. There are some valuables – watches, jewellery and the like – but I did not want to entrust these items to the international post. Love…” Included in the bulky envelope were two handkerchiefs, one embroidered with his father’s initials, the other with his mother’s. A photograph of his parents on their wedding day. Another with him sitting between them on a spread-out picnic blanket.
He stared out of the window. Dark clouds were pushing in quickly from the east. It was the rainy season. The Japanese had officially decreed it thus and it was so. Just as there were days that marked the beginning and end of summer, irrespective of whether the sun was actually shining or not. He could see the delineation of the weather front quite clearly, bright sunshine on one side, a sheet of rain on the other. Workmen who had been padding across girders on a building site in front of his office began scurrying down from their positions, skipping across planked walkways, sliding down ladders, hardly touching the sides as they went. He didn’t really know what to do with himself. Except to sit there on the corner of his desk, the edge biting quite uncomfortably into his left buttock. His parents had died. One after another. On the other side of the world, so remote from where he was now, that he felt as if the fact of their deaths must surely be within the domain of another person and not his own.
The day grew blacker and he observed the first streaks of rain cut across the windowpane. It would be both wet and warm outside. An interesting combination so unlike the damp coldness of the British weather. Such an odd thing for his aunt to do, sending these two handkerchiefs. He picked up his father’s. Plain white linen, except for the blue-stitched initials in one corner. He imagined his mother doing the stitching, nimbly working her fingers and the needle, then a quick cut of the thread with her teeth. ‘Done’ she would have said. He put the material to his nose. Freshly laundered. Nothing of his father. No pipe tobacco. No hair oil. No shaving lotion. No starched shirt. No hidden sweets in the pocket. No towel rub-down at the swimming pool. No waiting by the window for the hand upon the gate. No footstep on the stairway. No Scottish burr overheard from the bedroom darkness. He put the handkerchief aside and picked up his mother’s. Cream silk with a pale green border. He brought it to his nose and smelt it also. His mother’s perfume. And then he felt the tears on his cheek, hot like the monsoon raindrops on the other side of the pane. They came quickly in a sudden burst, then they were gone. He wiped his face with his mother’s handkerchief, sat down behind his desk.
Tokyo Autos supplied Edward with an office and secretarial support, commissioned work and organised his apartment, but in actuality he was an employee of Argos Motors. Argos paid his salary, his rent, his transportation and his bonus. It was to Argos he owed his allegiance. He expected nothing from the Japanese firm, yet when news of his parents’ death spread throughout the company, he became the recipient of a tsunami of sympathy and kindness from his co-workers. It was the miserable Kobayashi who had been the conduit. The translator had returned to the office later that afternoon with the rain hammering against the window to enquire politely whether the package of special delivery had contained any important news. When he had told Kobayashi what had happened, the black-bordered cards of condolence began to arrive almost immediately. They were followed by small gifts. Boxes of chocolates. A selection of soaps. A set of hand-towels. Bundles of incense. All accompanied by the corresponding business cards of the senders. People he didn’t even know. Two days later he was led by a solemn Kobayashi to the office of Mr Tanaka, the company’s general manager.
‘We just wondered whether you wish to return to London in consideration of your recent tragic loss,’ Kobayashi told Edward in a translation of his superior’s words. It was an unnecessary role for Kobayashi to play, given that Edward understood very well every word Tanaka had said. But he also understood that the proper procedures had to be acted out. That the foreigner could not be seen to speak better Japanese than his boss could speak English. Tanaka sat behind his desk, pulling at his brilliant-white shirt-cuffs as he waited for his reply.
‘That will not be necessary,’ Edward responded, with a short bow towards the general manager.
Tanaka nodded then asked in Japanese. ‘Perhaps a few days’ compassionate leave?’ Again Kobayashi translated.
The deaths of his parents still seemed far off in another time zone and all Edward wanted to do was keep on working, keep up a rhythm, keep up his emotional guard. But Tanaka’s question presented an interesting cultural dilemma to which he did not know the correct answer. Was it more important to continue working, thereby exhibiting the proper stoicism and loyalty to the company, or was it better to take time off in order to show the proper mourning and respect towards his deceased parents? Edward chose the former.
Tanaka sucked in his breath, quickly conferred with Kobayashi.
‘In that case,’ the translator said, ‘we wonder if you would like to join us tomorrow on the company’s summer coach trip to Hakone? The colourful hydrangeas will surely lift your spirits.’
‘I am sorry about parents, sensei,’ Mie the tea girl told Edward in a practice of her English as their motor-coach, the leading one in a convoy of three, moved away from the coastline. Mie was also one of his students in an English conversation class he taught one night a week for some of the staff under a private arrangement with the company. She was a bright young woman, far more adept at picking up the language than her male classmates, but unlikely ever to rise above the level of tea girl. One hand half-covered her mouth as she spoke, the fingers of the other fluttered over the fan in her lap. Edward had always imagined the Japanese fan to be some kind of fashion accessory until he experienced the first few days of summer in this country. The humidity was unbearable. Even now, at nine in the morning, he could feel his shirt cling to the seat fabric as he turned to speak to her. Mie with her round face and very flat features, almost no contours at all, no shadows, no secrets. Just this wide openness waiting for his reply.
‘Thank you,’ he said, not knowing what else to say in these circumstances. ‘It is very sad,’ he added.
‘Yes. Very sad.’ Then her face brightened as the coach cranked down noisily into a lower gear and began to climb the steep road up the hillside. ‘Soon we can see Fuji-san,’ she said, then dipped her gaze. ‘But Fuji-san never lets herself be shown to tourist. Only person who stays in Japan long time will see Fuji-san with no clouds. Perfectly.’
‘Then I am sure Fuji-san will show herself to me,’ he replied. ‘Perfectly.’
She smiled at his remark and he had an instinct to touch her then, just briefly, on the back of her hand. To connect physically to the comfort of another human being. It had been so long. But he turned his attention back to the window where the scene was set for a cat-and-mouse journey as he strained to catch a glimpse of the famous mountain through every break in the treeline. So many different kinds of trees. Maple, elm, cherry, dogwood, magnolia, others he couldn’t name. The steamy, earthy smell of the leafy forest floor caught in the draft through the open coach windows. He greedily sucked in the pine tang as the bus continued its crawl above and away from the suburbs of Tokyo and Yokohama. Up into the undulating greenery that appeared to shrink back from the encroaching urban sprawl below. So unlike the wild, craggy and domineering landscape of Scotland.
He thought of the photograph his Aunt Cathy had sent him, the picnic with his parents somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. He had absolutely no recollection of the holiday at all. Now that his parents were dead, even their corroboration of the event had disappeared. Only the photograph remained as the solitary evidence he had ever been present. Without the photograph, there was no memory, no past, no childhood. He wondered what happened in the eras before photography. Did people lose their past to the erosion of time or did they concentrate more clearly on remembering the present? This picnic he knew must have taken place in the Highlands due to the intrusion of a long-haired cow into the corner of the photograph. Quite comical really. He must have been about eight years old, the three of them sitting together on a blanket, so ignorant of their bovine observer. Being a family. The Strathairns. Staring at the lens of some unknown photographer. A family friend or relative? An obliging stranger. His father leaning away slightly from the group, supporting himself on his good arm. He wore a suit while his son sat beside him in his school uniform even though they were on holiday. Only his mother seemed relaxed and casual in cardigan, blouse and skirt. He wondered what the colours of these garments were. His uniform would be dark blue, he knew that, of course. But what was the colour of his mother’s blouse? Or her cardigan? Or her eyes? For God’s sake, what was the colour of his mother’s eyes? And suddenly through a clearing in the hillside woods there was Mount Fuji. Free of cloud cover. Totally naked. That sacred, snow-capped volcano. Too symmetrical to be carved out by the randomness of nature but rather by a benevolent God with an eye for geometry. He felt blessed by the sight of it. As did the rest of the coach party who gasped collectively at this glimpse of their mountain god. A tap on his shoulder. Mie. Indicating Kobayashi, who had leaned over from his seat on the other side of the aisle.
‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi said, smiling at Mie as he spoke. She drew away as politely as she could from the stale breath of the translator.
‘I am sorry but I don’t understand,’ Edward said.
‘Many woods make Hakone craftwork,’ Kobayashi repeated. ‘Yoseki-zaiku zougan.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘I will show you later,’ he said. ‘I will show you yoseki-zaiku zougan.’
Along with his co-workers, Edward visited Owakudani for a scenic view of Mount Fuji, now covered by cloud. He trudged through a volcanic valley where the grey mud still bubbled and sucked in rock pools. He bought black-shell eggs boiled by crafty locals in the water leaked out from crater cracks. Their whole party hired a boat to sail out on to Lake Ashi, visited the Hakone Shrine, wandered among the ruins of the toll-road checkpoint, then walked the avenue of ancient cedars into Hakone itself. There on the shores of the lake, Edward came across the craft Kobayashi had been talking about. Yoseki-zaiku zougan. Marquetry. Hakone it seemed was famous for it. Intricate wooden inlays fashioned from the many timbers Edward had witnessed on the surrounding hillsides to produce boxes, trays, small chests and picture mosaics. Even wooden eggs, in sets of twelve, ever decreasing in size so one fitted inside the other like Russian dolls. Although Mie insisted it was the Japanese who gave the idea to the Russians rather than the other way around. It was the must-have souvenir of the region and Edward bought a set to take home.
After supper at a lakeside restaurant, the Tokyo Autos coach party was in a buoyant mood for the return journey. Amid this collective corporate spirit and bonhomie Edward realised he was quite enjoying himself. As was Mr Tanaka who during the meal had managed to drink copious amounts of sake poured with great diligence by Mie. The red-faced general manager now stood at the front of the bus directing a sing-song.
‘I have something for you,’ Kobayashi said, moving in to sit beside Edward in place of Mie who had been commandeered into singing a solo by her boss. The translator was also flushed from drink, his eyes bloodshot, his little moustache glistening with sweat. ‘A gift from Hakone.’ Kobayashi handed him an elaborately wrapped square package.
‘May I open it?’ Edward asked.
‘Of course, of course. Please. Go ahead, as Americans say.’
Edward restrained his instinct to tear off the wrapping paper as quickly as he could, instead peeling off the layers carefully to reveal one of Hakone’s famous marquetry boxes with a wooden mosaic picture of Mount Fuji on the lid.
‘Himitsu-bako,’ Kobayashi said, looking very pleased with himself.
Edward made the translation in his head. Secret box. ‘Why secret?’
‘It is like safe. You need to move panels in special order to open. This is seven-move box. Seven moves to open. It is a puzzle box. In old times, people pass along road through Hakone to Edo will buy puzzle box to keep them busy in journey. I do the same for you.’ Kobayashi took the box, slid open a secret panel, and handed it back. ‘Only six more,’ he said. ‘I have instruction paper if you need.’
Edward pressed his hand over the shiny smooth surfaces, trying to find the slots that slipped open like pins in a lock. This was going to be a long process but he wanted to show Kobayashi he was genuinely appreciative of the gift. The gesture had quite moved him. He had always assumed Kobayashi resented him for having to see his hard-worked translations constantly revised, the daily editing that must have sent a message back to the translator saying – what you do is not good enough. Yet here was a completely spontaneous gift. And an expensive one too. He searched for Kobayashi’s hand and shook it. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Arigato. Thank you.’
‘Not to mention it.’ Kobayashi stood up. ‘Please excuse me. I feel a little unwell.’
Edward sat back in his seat, closed his eyes, let the dappled light flash across his face as the coach moved in and out of the evening sunlight on its tortuous ride down the hillside. He heard Kobayashi retch into a paper bag on the other side of the aisle, Mie’s thin voice piping out some Japanese folk song from the front of the bus, he smelled the viscous stench of petrol fumes from underneath the floor boards. He opened his eyes. The coach had just rounded a corner swinging his window round into a direct confrontational view with the building wedged magnificently into the rock face. The sensation of familiarity was immediately apparent even though he had never been down this road in his life before. It was as if the hotel had always been there waiting for him. Just as he had imagined. The curved grey roofs flowed naturally down the contours of the hillside, like an architectural waterfall, moving effortlessly from level to level. Red balconies traversed the facade along each floor, moths flitted around lamps already lit to welcome the dusk. White-gloved bellboys stood at attention on either side of the main entrance while one storey above, guests in evening wear lingered on the terrace in the shade of an enormous white pine. Edward had seen this building before. He knew it was impossible but he was convinced he had. In a Japanese story book. In a dream. In a previous life. The feeling of déjà vu was very strong. Mie had returned to sit beside him and answered his question before he had time to ask it.
‘It is the first hotel Japanese build for foreign guest,’ she said. ‘You must stay there some time. I believe it is very comfortable inside. Both Japanese and foreign style. Very high class. Very beautiful.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘It is very beautiful.’
Once he had received confirmation from the lawyer Wilson Guthrie that his parents’ estate had been wound up, Edward telegrammed his notice of termination to Digby at Argos Motors in London. The next day, at the office of Tokyo Autos, and with Kobayashi in attendance, Edward executed a series of low bows before general manager Tanaka.
‘I regret to inform you, Tanaka-san,’ he said directly in Japanese, ‘but I have decided to leave the company.’
‘I see,’ Tanaka responded in English, with a smug nod to Kobayashi. ‘You are returning to London?’
‘Actually, I’m not. I’ve decided to stay on here in Japan.’
‘I would like to try writing. Writing a novel.’
Kobayashi, who stood stooped in front of his boss, slowly raised his head, stretched his lips across his teeth in such a curious way Edward wasn’t sure if the translator was snarling or smiling at him. But the gesture had unnerved him. Edward knew his idea of a literary career was both a vain and a fatuous one and he felt Kobayashi could see right through to that. After all, his decision was not based on much – just two short stories published in The Londinium. For this he was grateful to Aldous, who unwittingly had also been responsible for this sudden career change in one other small way. It had derived from a sentence in a letter his friend had sent him not long after his parents had died. Perhaps it was a throwaway line, perhaps it was truly meant to inspire. The line read: “All creativity comes from loss.”
‘I did not know you were a writer, Mr Strathairn,’ Tanaka said.
‘I’m not really sure if I am. It’s just that I’d like to give it a proper try.’
Edward then bowed his head towards the general manager – a simple gesture in this minefield of gestures that he hoped conveyed his humility for even entertaining such a lofty notion.
Tanaka nodded thoughtfully. ‘We Japanese have great appreciation for our artists,’ he said eventually. ‘Only last year, we created these…’ He fired off some Japanese at Kobayashi.
‘Bearers of Important Intangible Cultural Properties,’ the translator said.
‘Do you know of them, Mr Strathairn?’ Tanaka asked. ‘These… how did you say…? These bearers of…?’ A wave of the hand left lingering in the air for a reply.
‘With respect to Kobayashi-san,’ Edward said, ‘but I believe Living National Treasures is a simpler translation of the Japanese phrase.’ He had read about these appointments in the Japanese press. They were some kind of reaction to the Occupation, the fear of losing the traditional crafts amid the deluge of American culture swamping the country. A public trust fund set up by the Japanese government to protect the country’s great artists and master craftsmen, designating them as living national treasures, providing them with grants to support their work, to help them train apprentices to carry on their skills. Edward thought of them like knighthoods with stipends attached. Awards had already been made to a potter, a bamboo weaver and a swordmaker.
‘Do you know what it takes to be a true master, to be one of these Living National Treasures, Mr Strathairn?’
‘I’m sorry but I do not.’
‘It requires two things,’ the general manager said, holding up one finger, then another. A gold ring flashed on the second raised digit. ‘Just two. A lifetime committed to hard work. And an open heart directly to your art. Do you possess those qualities, Mr Strathairn?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose this is what I am trying to discover.’
Tanaka grunted then spoke rapidly in Japanese.
‘Tanaka-san wishes you luck in your journey of discovery,’ Kobayashi translated. ‘You are fortunate to have both the time and money to find the answer to these questions.’
He took up residency at the hotel that had so fascinated him on his trip to Hakone, the hotel that had been specially built to welcome the first foreigners to Japan, the hotel that on first glance had felt so familiar, as if it were his destiny calling out to him. He rented out on an indefinite basis the Fuji Suite, which consisted of an enormous bedroom with an equally large adjoining bathroom situated at the rear of the main building. The beauty of his accommodation was in its outlook – from a stout mahogany desk by the window he had a view of the hotel gardens and the wooded hillsides beyond.
His father would have liked the hotel. He would have sat quietly in one of the ample armchairs in the lobby, smoking his pipe among the potted palms, as he admired the craftsmanship in the wooden parquet flooring, the intricate designs carved into the teak reception desk or the cloisonné bowls on the window ledges. For his mother, it would be a different experience. With an eager staff to take care of the cooking and cleaning, she would be restless, nervously scratching for work to busy her idle hands. Perhaps she would find solace, even a blossoming talent, in some handicraft like needlework or a flair for horticulture, helping the gardeners with the seedlings in the greenhouse nurseries. Edward sensed the spirits of his dead parents lurking in the corridors, nestling high up in the eaves of the dining room, brushing past him as he sat in the tea lounge, watching him as he sipped an evening cocktail by the giant white pine on the terrace, protecting him, guiding him on his path, not just with the blessing of their inheritance, but with a gentle hand on his shoulder, a whispered word of encouragement in his ear. ‘We are with you,’ the voices would say. ‘We are watching.’
During his first few days of residence, Edward kept his daily strolls to the immediate pathways of the grounds but as he began to explore the full extent of his new home, he followed a track that took him beyond the tennis courts, under an awning of trees that almost concealed his route with the thick bend of their branches, then through veils of cobwebs defending his approach. At the end of this secret tunnel, he emerged into a clearing that hosted a secluded pond. And in the far corner of this delightful spot, attached by a shaft to a thatched hut at the edge of the pool, turned a giant waterwheel.
He sat down on a low stone wall, closed his eyes, tilted his face to the sunlight. He could hear the wheel creak around in its cycle, scooping the water into the troughs on the one side just as it released its liquid load on the other. Not the pumping heart of passionate existence, but the continuous ebb and flow of the natural circle of life. Birth and death and birth and death and birth. The recycling of energy. This constant stream. This yin and yang of grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing, grasping and releasing. He opened his eyes, let himself be hypnotised by the movement of the wheel. It was a fine piece of carpentry, all mortises, spokes, struts and hoppers, with just the minimum of metal gearing. He wondered if the device performed any actual function, whether within the hut a millstone still might grind away at rice husks. But there were no barrows or sacks or anything else lying around to suggest the building was a working mill. He leaned forward, ran his fingers across the slime of the pond. Away from the churn of the wheel, he noticed schools of carp just under the surface. It was so peaceful here. He would ask the hotel manager if he could bring out a chair. For this was his spot. This was – weather permitting – where he would write.
The manager not only arranged for a chair but also a small wooden desk for his typewriter and an umbrella for shade. Tanakasan was right. The Japanese did appreciate their artists. And even though he was a foreign artist, Edward realised he had been ascribed a certain status within this hotel. He was the writer-in-residence. The foreign penman supposedly successful enough to rent a suite indefinitely. To be pointed out to guests as he sat reading in the lobby or eating alone at his table in the dining room.
It was with such comforting thoughts he readied himself for a late evening glass of malt that he had arranged with the obliging manager down in the hotel bar. A thank-you drink for the provision of the desk and umbrella out by the waterwheel. A young American, Jerome Fisk, would be joining them. Fisk had arrived in Japan after the war, stayed on after the Occupation had ended, inveigled himself into a university position and was now holed-up at the hotel for a few weeks finishing a research paper. A brash New Yorker with strong patriotic views, but a sharp conversationalist nevertheless. Edward was looking forward to the evening. He put aside his pen, closed his notebook, washed the ink stains from his hands and slipped back into his shoes. He hummed to himself despite the frustrations of another unproductive day.
He opened the bedroom door just in time to glimpse one of the hotel chambermaids scuttling down the corridor. An American naval officer, no doubt on R&R out of the nearby base at Yokosuka, was following her with long strides. He was a close-cropped blond man, tanned, his big, shiny-pink lips grinning sloppily over his big teeth as he chased after the girl. Without thinking, Edward stuck out his foot as the officer passed. The American stumbled but did not fall completely to the ground. Instead with hands spread-out in front, he stalled into a crouching position, like an on-your-marks sprinter, hanging there for a few seconds. And then he was on his feet, swivelling round quickly for such a heavy man, pushing his hands hard into Edward’s chest. It was a solid blow and Edward was knocked back a few steps into his room, just managing to claw the top of the dresser for balance. His breath full squeezed out of him so he had to suck in quick and loud for air. The American was also breathing heavily, scrutinising him in this sudden male stand-off.
‘What the fuck happened there?’ the American snarled.
Edward stared back at the officer. The man was bigger and stronger and no doubt combat-fit into the bargain. A full-on fight would be pointless.
‘They’re pretty fast on their feet,’ he said.
‘Wha’?’ The big American looked at him puzzled. ‘Wha’ dya say there?’
‘Fast on their feet. These chambermaids. Dashing around here and there. Hard to catch one when you need one.’
‘Yeah,’ the officer said, his attention now on the lapels of his own uniform, which he started to brush into some kind of imaginary straightness. ‘Yeah. Just like you say. Hard to catch.’ Then he just grunted, turned round and left in the direction from which he had appeared.
Edward watched him go, feeling the fear that had rushed through him begin to subside, leaving him giddy with relief. He clutched his neck, felt the pulse there, waited for his breathing to return to normal.
‘I just saw one of your guests chasing a chambermaid down a corridor,’ Edward told Ishikawa-san, the hotel manager, down in the bar. Ishikawa-san was a remarkably small man who wore enormous, thick-lensed glasses. It was like talking to a shop window. ‘He was an American officer.’
The hotel manager typically shrugged off the criticism of any of his clientele but Fisk rose to the defence.
‘Just a case of high jinks, pal. That’s what it sounds like to me. High jinks. You know what these guys are like.’
‘High jinks, Fisk? If a Japanese man did that in New York he’d be arrested for assault.’
‘These men get cooped up in the base for weeks on end. I’m sure he was just letting off some harmless steam. Sure he was, pal.’
‘That’s not an excuse to terrorise a poor chambermaid.’
‘Like I said. Letting off steam.’
‘It reeks of American colonialism to me.’
‘Perhaps you should write about it, Eddie,’ Fisk countered. ‘If it causes you so much concern. Man’s injustice to woman, something like that, eh? How the Americans screwed the Japanese. No offence meant, Mr Ishikawa.’
And he did write about it. The next day, with the gentle creak of the waterwheel providing the backbeat to his work, he suddenly found creative ideas come easily to him. Little mushrooms of fresh thought popping up here and there. It was such an exhilarating feeling, it made him breathless. For the first time he was experiencing a kind of creative flow, what Tanaka at Tokyo Autos must have meant by an open heart direct to his art. He had found his big theme and the context in which to place it. Rough parts of the narrative began to unfold, as well as sketches for one or two of the characters to drive it. He abandoned his typewriter to write longhand. He was sweating from the frenzy of it all, desperate to get everything on to paper while he could. For as much as he might have wanted to will it, he knew this cloudburst of creativity couldn’t last. After several hours of concentrated work, he had written almost four thousand words. He had counted every precious one of them. He read the manuscript through again. And as he did so, he became aware of an unusual understanding about what he had written. He sensed that the whole process contained in the last few hours was not one of creation, but of uncovering. As if the work of fiction he was about to embark on already existed somewhere fully completed and in its perfect form. His task was therefore not to make something new, but to somehow scrape away the dust and the sands of his conscious mind in order to discover the inscriptions of his novel that lay underneath.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
He looked up from his papers to see a young kimono-clad woman standing before him, holding a black lacquer tray.
‘I didn’t order anything.’
‘I thought perhaps you will like some green tea and biscuits,’ she said, the ease of her English surprising him. Most of the staff could manage their greetings and their thank-yous and that was about it. ‘It is quite hot and you work a long time.’ She took a step forward, looked round about where he sat. He quickly gathered his manuscript from the table and she put down her tray. She then gracefully crouched down beside him, poured out the tea into a tiny cup. He could see the curve of her neck as she bowed over her task, a few tendrils of hair loose from their clasp running back into the collar of her robe. A small mole graced the space just above her upper lip. Light pads of make-up on her cheek, her flowery scent, just the tiniest dots of perspiration on the side of her nose. There was an obvious grace to her, but also a toughness. He had detected that in the slight insistence in her voice, the way she had confidently moved into his space. She finished pouring, turned to him and smiled. ‘Biscuit?’ she asked.
‘Just the tea will be fine,’ he said. ‘Thank you. It is very thoughtful of you.’ As he sipped at his cup he realised the aroma from the tea was not that dissimilar to her own scent. He was about to remark on this when she said:
‘I must thank you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Last evening you stopped American soldier for me.’
‘Ah, so that was you.’
‘Yes, that was me.’ She stood up from her crouch and bowed elegantly before him. ‘My name is Sumiko.’
He returned the bow from his seating position. ‘And I am Edward Strathairn. Pleased to meet you.’
‘I know who you are,’ she said, smiling. ‘You are famous writer.’
He laughed and wagged a finger at her. ‘No, no, no. I am not a famous writer at all. Just a beginning writer.’
She looked puzzled. ‘But you live in Fuji Suite like home?’
‘That’s not because I am a famous writer.’
‘Oh,’ she said. Another smile, then she bowed quickly. ‘Now I must go. Or manager will look for me. I will return later for the tray.’
‘Before you go. Tell me, where did you learn to speak English so well?’
‘From the Americans,’ she said, blushing. ‘From the Americans.’