CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Hakone, Japan • 2003

The corridors were silent. Except for the sound of his too small, blue, terry towelling slippers flapping against the soles of his feet. Too early even for the maids and their cleaning trolleys, the porters with their newspapers and shoeshines. He liked it that way. All the guests wrapped up secure in their temperature-regulated rooms. Generators humming, reception clerk barely awake at his desk, night porter making sandwiches in the kitchen. Everyone asleep, safe and sound. Like those nap sessions at school. ‘Fold your arms, children. Heads down. Close your eyes. Fifteen minutes.’ Drift into sleep. Protected by the teacher’s watchful eye and diligent timekeeping. To this day, when he took naps, they would last one quarter of an hour. Not a minute more or less.

He had his towel and his toilet bag, his body cloaked in a complimentary yukata, his naked skin protected from public gaze only by this thin swathe of cotton. He was ready to wash and bathe. To soak. It was one of the things he had missed most about Japan. This ritual bathing. If only he could find the onsen. All these long corridors running from the main building to the annexes. He was completely lost again. That familiar sense of panic beginning to crawl over his skin. A sudden memory of his mother in the kitchen, counting matchsticks, checking totals, testing herself. He came to a crossroads in his wanderings, fumbled for his glasses in a nonexistent pocket, before he realised they hung on a cord around his neck. He moved up close to peer at the signs on the wall. An arrow left to “The Library”. An arrow right to “Onsen/Hot Baths – The Chrysanthemum Pool”. Ah yes, the library. He swivelled on his cane. Onwards and upwards, Aldous. Onwards and upwards.

He pulled down the brass doorknob with the handle of his stick. At first, there was no release, but the click reluctantly came and he pushed open the heavy wooden door with his shoulder. He was greeted by total darkness and the oily-thick smell of furniture polish. He ran his hand up and down the wall until his palm found the nipple of a switch. Several lights came on at once. Not from some central fixture in the ceiling but from reading lamps at various tables scattered around the room.

There they were. All lined up on the shelves. First editions, specially bound in green leather, in both English and Japanese, with corresponding paperbacks laid out on the shelf underneath. Set out in chronological order, starting with The Waterwheel, of course. He was used to seeing collections of his work in bookstores, libraries, airports, even on the shelves in friends’ houses. Sometimes, he even sought them out, checking which titles, if any, were still popular in the current literary climate. But he had never seen such a comprehensive display as this. Not even in his own library. It was so meticulous. So respectful. So flattering. He was quite overwhelmed. To be confronted with his oeuvre laid out in such a manner.

He picked a leather-bound copy of The Waterwheel off the shelf, opened it to the title page. There was an inscription in his own hand. “To Ishikawa-san and all the staff. September 1959.” He had completely forgotten he had sent the hotel a copy, surprised to discover his arrogant young author-self had possessed such a thoughtfulness back then. The book he held was probably quite valuable now. First edition. In English. Signed by the author. He noted the date. It was just before the translation by Kobayashi, the passing of the manuscript to his brother at the Tokyo publishing house that led to the book’s success in Japan.

Kobayashi. He hadn’t thought of the man for years, not set sight on him since the days of Tokyo Autos. He remembered his tiny, wriggling moustache, the one ill-fitting suit, the bad breath, his fawning nature. He recalled all the negatives, yet had never given the man any credit for the fact his whole literary career had rested on the translator’s fortuitous intervention. Without Kobayashi, The Waterwheel would have probably died a slow death. When he thought of the many contributors to his literary career, he would of course always single out Aldous. But Kobayashi? Never. And then there was the man’s gift of the himitsu-bako – the secret puzzle box. He still had it, always travelled with it, had brought it with him now in his suitcase. A present from Hakone. From just a few miles from where he stood. He had to lean back against an armchair, so weighed down did he feel by this sudden remorse. He had written so passionately in The Waterwheel about his sense of injustice over the treatment of the Japanese, yet had completely ignored his own unsung hero. He doubted he had ever sent him a signed copy of the book. He certainly had never acknowledged his contribution publicly. The man had made this one significant gesture then just disappeared from view without receiving a single word of gratitude. He couldn’t even remember if there had been a one-off payment for the commission or if Kobayashi had at least collected translation royalties over the years. Could he possibly still be alive? He would be in his eighties now. Perhaps he could get Enid to track him down. He would visit him. Shake his hand. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, dear friend…’ Christ, he didn’t even know the man’s first name.

What was he thinking of? It was all too late. Too late. He had made his imprint on this world and there was no going back. As Aldous would say: ‘Life’s beginning will mould you, its ending will judge you. You can do what the hell you like in between.’ There must have been many Kobayashis in his life, just as there had been many Macys and Sumikos. He stood off from the chair, wiped the sleeve of his robe across his forehead. What he really needed was a glass of water. He ran a finger along his other titles on the shelf. It was like flicking through a psychiatrist’s file. Which part of himself would he like to prise open? He hadn’t really read any of his books again since their publication. He could respond to questions about them. He had his answers down pat. But read them again? He didn’t think he could bear that.

By the window with its closed velvet drapes, he spotted a desk with a pen, a bottle of mineral water, an opener, and a glass. The sign of a good hotel, anticipating his every need. He picked up as many of the first editions as he could manage and carried them over to the desk, repeating the trip until he had cleared the shelf of its hardbacks. Breathless, he sat down, rewarded himself with two full glasses of water. Then from the stacks he had constructed, he drew down the first book. It was another copy of The Waterwheel – Japanese edition. On the title page, he wrote. “To my dear friend Kobayashi-san. With much gratitude for your outstanding contribution. Edward Strathairn. March 1960.” The next novel off the pile was The Fall of Dominic Pike. His London novel as the critics used to call it. London Life as the Japanese felt obliged to title it. A bit of social realism to follow up The Waterwheel. Just to confirm his credentials as a Sixties radical. Made into a rather successful film with a couple of those up-and-coming working class actors of the era. He would dedicate this one to Enid. For her long-suffering service. He then plundered his literary booty for another copy of The Waterwheel. English edition. He opened the book, held his pen in a few moments consideration over the blank title page and then wrote: “To Sumiko. For the happiest time. Love, Eddie. July 1957 – March 1958.”

The onsen was empty. But the pool still steamed away, ready to welcome its bathers into its hot mineral embrace whatever the hour. He couldn’t remember how the room had looked during his first stay, he wasn’t even sure if the location was the same. Certainly there would not have been these large, beige, Italian-marble tiles and the fancy art-deco sconces. In the washing area, the mirrors and taps were set low in the wall, only a foot or so from the floor. He was going to have to ease himself down on to one of those tiny plastic stools to clean himself before entering the pool. How he would raise himself up again, God only knew.

He hung up his yukata, placed his toiletries conveniently on a shelf, lowered himself slowly on his cane as far as he could, before having to drop his buttocks the last few inches on to the stool. The stool-legs rocked ever so slightly and for an instant he thought he would topple. But the seat steadied under his weight. He crouched over and managed to reel in a small plastic basin with the crook of his cane, filled it up with hot water from one of the taps by his shins, and poured it over himself. Sheer bliss. He repeated the process twice more until he was fully soaked. Apart from his own toiletries, the shelf above his set of taps was littered with bottles of soaps, shampoos, lotions and other unguents. He lathered himself up. What was it that Sumiko used to tell him? ‘However much time you spend washing your body at home, multiply by four. Then you can enter the common pool.’ He poured the scalding water over himself again. He could almost feel it scour away the flaky layers of his skin. He wiped away the mist from the mirror glass. The little sprouts of his remaining hair were plastered against his scalp. His face and sagging breasts blotched red and pink. A comical sight. He laughed and soaped himself up again. He could only guess at some of the contents of the bottles. Shampoo? Soap? Conditioner? It was all the same to him as long as they produced a fresh-smelling lather. He threw a basin of cold water over himself this time. Just for the hell of it. That was what the Finns did, didn’t they? Slapped himself hard. Then hot and cold again. He looked in the mirror. He was smiling and baby-clean. ‘Look at me now, Sumiko. No longer the filthy gaijin. I am ready for the common pool.’ He raised himself up on his cane, reached about halfway in a crouch, knees bent, buttocks sticking out awkwardly, when the cane-tip slid on the soap-and-water slicked floor. He fell sideways over the stool, his left side slamming hard on to the Italian marble.

He opened his eyes. How long had he lain there? Seconds, minutes, hours? Pain along his side. Had he hit his head? His vision seemed clear. Or as clear as it usually was without his glasses. ‘You may take my body, dear Lord, but please keep my brain intact.’ He felt his skull. No bleeding. Just a slight tenderness above his left temple. He searched for his cane but it had skidded off somewhere leaving him to flounder like a beached whale in puddles of his own soaked-down filth. There was some piped music. He hadn’t noticed that before. An annoying electronic twanging meant to represent the sound of a Japanese kota. Pling, pling, pling, plong, pling. He kicked out uselessly with his legs. The best he could hope for was to slide along the tiles to the low wall around the edge of the pool. Perhaps then he could raise himself up. But his left side on which he lay was too painful for such an exercise. He would have to turn over on to his other side. That would mean first on to his back. He tried to roll over but he just couldn’t do it. There was no purchase on the wet floor. He could only stay where he was with this soapy drain by his cheek and the damn pling, plong, plink of the music. It was all so hopeless.

‘Sir Edward. What has happened?’

He turned his head as much as he could, strained to look upwards, imagining himself as that beached whale opening one fearful, watery-white eye to witness the harpoon-raised arm. Instead, he saw the hotel manager also swathed in a hotel yukata standing over him, over this white, naked, flabby, pathetic creature stranded on an onsen floor, surrounded by loofahs and lotions and back-scrubbers and overturned stools and basins.