Garden of Evening Mists Page 3

  “Someone is coming to see me this morning,” I say. “From Tokyo. He’s going to look at Aritomo’s woodblock prints.”

  “You’re selling them? Are you short of money?”

  His concern touches me, cools my anger. In addition to being a garden designer, Aritomo was also a woodblock artist. After I admitted, in an unguarded moment during an interview, that he had left me a collection of his woodblock prints, connoisseurs in Japan tried to convince me to part with them, or to put them on exhibition. I have always refused, much to their resentment; many of them have made it clear that they do not see me as their rightful owner.

  “Professor Yoshikawa Tatsuji contacted me a year ago,” I say. “He wanted to do a book on Aritomo’s prints. I declined to speak to him.”

  Frederik’s eyebrows spring up. “But he’s coming here today?”

  “I’ve recently made inquiries about him. He’s a historian. A respected one. He’s written articles and books about his country’s actions in the war.”

  “Denying that certain things ever took place, I’m sure.”

  “He has a reputation for being objective.”

  “Why would a historian be interested in Aritomo’s art?”

  “Yoshikawa’s also an authority on Japanese woodblock prints.”

  “Have you read any of his books?” Frederik asks.

  “They’re all in Japanese.”

  “You speak it, don’t you?”

  “I used to, just enough to get by. Speaking it is one thing, but reading it . . . that’s something else.”

  “In all these years,” Frederik says, “all these years, you’ve never told me what the Japs did to you.” His voice is mild, but I catch the seam of hurt buried in it.

  “What they did to me, they did to thousands of others.”

  I trace the lines of the leaf on the tea packaging with my finger. “Aritomo once recited a poem to me, about a stream that had dried up.” I think for a moment, then say, “Though the water has stopped flowing, we still hear the whisper of its name.”

  “It’s still hard for you, isn’t it?” Frederik says. “Even so long after his death.”

  It never fails to disconcert me whenever I hear someone mention Aritomo’s “death,” even after all this time. “There are days when I think he’s still out there, wandering in the mountains, like one of the Eight Immortals of Taoist legend, a sage making his way home,” I say. “But what amazes me is the fact that there are still people who keep coming here, just because they have heard the stories.”

  “You know, he lived here for—what, thirteen years? Fourteen? He walked the jungle trails almost every day. He knew them better than some of the forestry guides. How could he have gotten lost?”

  “Even monkeys fall from trees.” I try to recall where I have heard this, but it eludes me. It will come back to me, I think, trying to reassure myself. “Perhaps Aritomo wasn’t as familiar with the jungle as he thought he was.” From within the house I hear the bell ringing as someone pulls the rope at the gate. “That should be Yoshikawa.”

  Frederik presses his hands on the table and gets up with an old man’s grunt. I remain seated, watching the marks his palms have left on the table fade away.

  “I’d like you to be here, Frederik, when I speak to him.”

  “I have to rush. Full day ahead of me.”

  Slowly I unfold my body until I am eye to eye with him. “Please, Frederik.”

  He looks at me. After a moment he nods.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The historian has arrived precisely at the appointed time, and I wonder if he has heard of how I dealt with advocates who appeared late in my court. Ah Cheong shows him to the verandah a few minutes later.

  “Professor Yoshikawa,” I greet him in English.

  “Please call me Tatsuji,” he says, giving me a deep bow, which I do not return.

  I nod toward Frederik. “Mr. Pretorius is a friend of mine.”

  “Ah! From Majuba Tea Estate,” Tatsuji says, glancing at me before bowing to Frederik.

  I indicate that Tatsuji should take the customary seat for an honored guest, giving him the best view of the garden. He is in his mid-sixties, dressed in a light gray linen suit, a white cotton shirt and a pale blue tie. Old enough to have fought in the war, I think, an almost subconscious assessment I apply to every Japanese man I have met. His eyes roam the low ceiling and the walls and the wooden posts before looking to the garden. “Yugiri,” he murmurs.

  Ah Cheong appears with a tray of tea and a small brass bell. I pour the tea into our cups. Tatsuji looks away when I catch him staring at my hands. “Your reputation for refusing to talk to anyone in our circles is well-known, Judge Teoh,” he says when I place a teacup before him. “To be honest, I was not surprised when you refused to see me, but I was taken aback when you changed your mind.”

  “I have since discovered your impressive reputation.”

  “‘Notorious’ would be a better description,” Tatsuji replies, looking pleased nonetheless.

  “Professor Yoshikawa has the habit of airing unpopular subjects in public,” I explain to Frederik.

  “Every time there is a movement to change our history textbooks, to remove any reference to the crimes committed by our troops, every time a government minister visits the Yasukuni Shrine,” Tatsuji says, “I write letters to the newspapers objecting to it.”

  “Your own people . . . ,” Frederik says, “how have they reacted to that?”

  For a few moments Tatsuji does not speak. “I have been assaulted four times in the last ten years,” he replies at last. “I have received death threats. But still I go on radio shows and television programs. I tell everyone that we cannot deny our past. We have to make amends. We have to.”

  I bring us back to the reason for our meeting. “Nakamura Aritomo has been unfashionable for so long. Even when he was still alive,” I say. “Why would you want to write about him now?”

  “When I was younger, I had a friend,” Tatsuji says. “He owned a few pieces of Aritomo-sensei’s ukiyo-e. He always enjoyed telling people that they were made by the emperor’s gardener.” The historian kisses the rim of his cup and makes an appreciative noise. “Excellent tea.”

  “From Majuba estate,” I tell him.

  “I must remember to buy some,” Tatsuji tells Frederik.

  “Ooky what? The stuff Aritomo made?” Frederik says.

  “Woodblock prints,” Tatsuji replies.

  “Did you bring them?” I interrupt him. “Those prints your friend owned?”

  “They were destroyed in an air raid, along with his house.” He waits, and when I do not say anything he continues. “Because of my friend, I became interested in Nakamura Aritomo. There is nothing authoritative written on his artworks, or his life after he left Japan; I decided to write something.”

  “Yun Ling doesn’t just give anyone permission to use Aritomo’s artworks, you know,” Frederik says.

  “I’m aware that Aritomo-sensei left everything he owned to you, Judge Teoh,” Tatsuji says.

  “You sent this to me.” I place the wooden stick on the table.

  “You know what it is?” he asks.

  “It’s the handle of a tattooing needle,” I reply, “used before tattooists switched to electric needles.”

  “Aritomo-sensei produced a completely different type of artwork, one he never disclosed to the public.” Tatsuji reaches across the table and picks up the handle. His fingers are slender and his nails, I notice, manicured. “He was a horimono artist.”

  “A what?” Frederik says, his cup halted halfway to his lips. His hand has a slight tremor. When was it that I began noticing these little signs of age in people around me?

  “Aritomo-sensei was more than the emperor’s gardener.” Tatsuji shapes the knot of his tie with his thumb. “He was also a horoshi, a tattoo artist.”

  I straighten my back.

  “There has always been a close link between the woodblock artist and the horimono mast
er,” Tatsuji continues. “They dip their buckets into the same well for inspiration.”

  “And what well is that?” I ask.

  “A book,” he says. “A novel from China, translated into Japanese in the eighteenth century. Suikoden. It became wildly popular when it was published.”

  “Like one of those fads that regularly drives your schoolgirls into a frenzy,” Frederik remarks.

  “It was much more than that,” Tatsuji says, raising a forefinger at Frederik before turning to me. “I prefer that we speak in private, Judge Teoh. If we can arrange to meet another time . . .”

  Frederik moves to get up, but I shake my head at him. “What makes you so certain that Aritomo was a tattoo artist, Tatsuji?” I say.

  The historian glances at Frederik, then looks at me. “A man I once knew had a tattoo on his body.” He stops for a few seconds, gazing at emptiness. “He told me it had been done by Aritomo-sensei.”

  “And you believed him.”

  Tatsuji stares into my eyes and I am struck by the pain in them. “He was my friend.”

  “The same friend who had the collection of Aritomo’s woodblock prints?” I ask. Tatsuji nods. “Then you should have brought him here with you today.”

  “He passed away . . . some years ago.”

  For an instant I see Aritomo’s reflection on the surface of the table. I have to restrain from turning around to see if he is standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. I blink once, and he is gone. “I agreed to see you on the matter of Aritomo’s woodblock prints,” I remind Tatsuji. “Are you still interested in them?”

  “You will let me use his ukiyo-e?”

  “We’ll discuss which of his prints will go into your book once you’ve finished examining them. But there will be no mention of tattoos supposedly created by him.” I hold up my hand as Tatsuji is about to interrupt. “If you breach any of my terms—any of them—I will make sure all copies of your book are pulped.”

  “The Japanese people have a right to appreciate Aritomo-sensei’s works.”

  I point to my chest. “I will decide what the Japanese people have a right to.” I get to my feet, wincing at my rusting joints. The historian stands up to assist me, but I brush his hand away. “I’ll get all the prints together. We’ll meet again in a few days’ time for you to look through them.”

  “How many pieces are there?”

  “I have no idea. Twenty or thirty perhaps.”

  “You have never looked at them?”

  “Only a few.”

  “I am staying at the Smokehouse Hotel.” The historian writes down the telephone number on a piece of paper and gives it to me. “May I see the garden?”

  “It hasn’t been properly looked after.” I ring the brass bell on the tray. “My housekeeper will show you out.”

  The day is turning out to be cloudless, with a strong, clear light pouring into the garden. The leaves of the maple tree by the side of the house have begun to turn, soon to become heavy with red. For some inexplicable reason this maple has always defied the lack of changing seasons in the highlands. I lean against a wooden post, my knuckles kneading the pain in my hip. It will take me a while to get used to sitting in the Japanese style again. From the corner of my eye I catch Frederik watching me.

  “I don’t trust that man, whatever his reputation,” he says. “You should let other experts look at the prints as well.”

  “I don’t have much time here.”

  “But I’d hoped you’d stay for a while,” he says. “There’s our new tearoom I want to show you. The views are magnificent. You can’t leave again so soon.” He looks at me and a slow realization slackens his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Something in my brain, something that shouldn’t be there.” I pull my cardigan tighter over my body. I sense him waiting for me to explain. “I’ve been having problems with names. There were occasions when I couldn’t think of the words I wanted to use.”

  His hand brushes the air. “I have those moments too. That’s just age catching up with us.”

  “This is different,” I say. He looks at me, and I wonder if I should have kept quiet about it. “Sitting in court one afternoon, all of a sudden I couldn’t make head or tail of what I had written.”

  “The doctors, what did they say?”

  “The neurosurgeons ran their tests. They told me what I had suspected. I’m losing my ability to read and write, to understand language, any language. In a year—perhaps more, probably less—I won’t be able to express my thoughts. I’ll be spouting gibberish. And what people say, and the words I see—on the page, on street signs, everywhere—will be unintelligible to me.” For a few seconds I am silent. “My mental competence will deteriorate. Dementia will shortly follow, unhinging my mind.”

  Frederik stares at me. “Doctors can cure anything these days.”

  “I don’t want to discuss this, Frederik. And keep this to yourself.” My palm stops him, my palm with its two stubs. A moment later I close my three fingers and draw them back, holding them tight in a bud. I feel as though they have captured something intangible from the air. “The time will come when I lose all my faculties . . . perhaps even my memories,” I say, keeping my voice calm with an effort.

  “Write it down,” he says. “Write it all down, the memories that are most important to you. It shouldn’t be difficult—it’ll be like writing one of your judgments.”

  I glance sidelong at him. “What do you know about my judgments?”

  He gives me an embarrassed smile. “My lawyers have instructions to send a copy to me, every time the Law Reports publish them. You write well—your judgments are clear and engaging. I can still remember the case about the cabinet minister who used black magic to murder his mistress. You really should compile them into a book.” The lines on his forehead deepen. “You once quoted an English judge. Didn’t he say that words are the tools of a lawyer’s trade?”

  “Soon I won’t be able to use those tools anymore.”

  “I’ll read them to you,” he says. “Whenever you want to hear your own words again, I’ll read them aloud to you.”

  “Don’t you understand what I’ve been trying to tell you? By then I won’t be able to know what anyone says to me!” He doesn’t flinch from my anger, but the sorrow in his eyes is unbearable to look at. “You’d better go,” I say, pushing myself away from the post. My movements feel slow, heavy. “I’ve already made you late.”

  He glances at his watch. “It’s not important. Just some journalists I have to show around the estate, charm them into writing something complimentary.”

  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  A smile skims across his face, capsizing an instant later. He wants to say something more, but I shake my head. He takes the three low steps down from the verandah, then slowly turns around to face me. All of sudden he looks like an old, old man. “What are you going to do?”

  “I am going for a walk.”

  Ah Cheong hands a walking stick to me at the front door of the house. I shake my head, then take it from him. The stick has a comfortable heft. I look at it for a moment and then return it to him. Three or four steps later I stop and glance back over my shoulder. He is still standing there in the doorway, looking at me. I feel his eyes pinned on me all the way until I reach the opposite side of the pond. When I look back across the water, he has gone back inside the house.

  The air is clean, as if it has never been breathed by any living thing. After the clammy heat of Kuala Lumpur, the change is welcome. It is almost noon, but the sun has slunk behind the clouds.

  Lotus pads tile the surface of the pond. There are too many of them; I had not noticed it the previous evening when I arrived. The hedges on the opposite side of the pond had originally been shaped to resemble the waves of an ocean surging to the shore, but they have not been properly clipped and their lines are blurred. The pavilion’s roof beams are sagging. The entire structure seems to be melting, losing the memory of its sha
pe. Leaves and dead insects and bark peelings cover its floor. Something slithers among them and I step back.

  The track leading into the garden is paved with rings of slate cut from drill cores discarded from the gold mines of Raub. Each turn in the path reveals a different view; at no point is the entire garden revealed, making it appear more extensive than it actually is. Ornaments lie half-hidden among the overgrown lallang grass: a granite torso; a sandstone Buddha’s head with his features smoothed by mist and rain; rocks with unusual shapes and striations. Stone lanterns, their eaves curtained with tattered spiderwebs, squat among the curling ferns. Yugiri was designed to look old from the first stone Aritomo set down, and the illusion of age he had created has been transformed into reality.

  Frederik’s workers have been looking after the place, following the instructions I have given them. The garden has been maintained by untrained hands: branches that should have been left to grow pruned away; a view that should have been obscured opened up; a path widened without consideration to the overall harmony of the garden. Even the wind streaming through the shrubs sounds wrong because the undergrowth has been allowed to grow too densely and too high.

  The omissions and errors are like the noise generated by a collection of badly tuned musical instruments. Aritomo once told me that of all the gardens he created, this one meant the most to him.

  Halfway in my walk through the garden, I stop, turn around and head back to the house.

  The fourteenth-century bronze Buddha in the study has not grown older; his face is unmarked by the cares of the world. Ah Cheong has opened the windows to air the room all day, but the smell of mildew from the books on the shelves ages the twilight filling up the house.

  The feeling that something was wrong with me surfaced five or six months ago. I was often awakened by headaches in the night, and I began to tire easily. There were days when I could not summon up any interest in my work. My concerns sharpened into fear when I began to forget names and words. It was not merely the unfolding of age, I suspected, but something more. I was frail when I emerged from the slave-labor camp, and my health has never recovered completely. I forced myself to pick up the life I had known before the war. Being an advocate, and later on, a judge, gave me solace; I found enjoyment in working with words, in applying the law. For over forty years I succeeded in staving off this exhaustion of the body, but I always feared that a day would come when there was nothing left to be depleted from me. What I did not expect was how soon, how swiftly that moment would arrive.