The Painted Cage (24 page)

‘That which we are is the consequence of that which we have been,' Matthew interpreted, explaining nothing. ‘In Japan they say the consequences of
mangō
and
ingō,
the two classes of actions.'

‘Good and evil?' Amy queried, trying to find some ground beneath her feet.

‘Greater and Lesser,' Matthew said. ‘There are no perfect actions. Every act contains merit and demerit. Just as the most beautiful painting has both defects and
attributes.
When the sum of good exceeds the sum of evil, the result is progress. And by such progress all evil can be eliminated.'

The old man looked benignly at Amy's anxious face as Matthew spoke. ‘The chain of causes and effects is not easy to explain in a few words. You will learn that the world itself exists only because of acts.'

The cat regarded her from narrowed, sleepy eyes, as if her ignorance of the truth of things disturbed the peace about them. She was silent, full of questions about the strange path she had stumbled upon. In the face of the old man she saw only virtue and serenity, and yet she had been taught to call him pagan.

Matthew turned to her. ‘Perhaps you should wander about outside,' he said. ‘Draw what attracts you and represents to you the spirit of the temple. I shall talk on with the priest.' The nun smiled and led the way.

She drew the altar with the
jizo
and the cat, who appeared and placed himself with a lethargic jump at the very feet of the statue. The sun, streaming through the open paper doors, gilded his polished ginger fur, as if the gods in benign amusement had deified him too. The
thought delighted her, for the sleepy, sanctified cell of the temple was like nowhere she had seen before, no part of the world she existed in. She went out, her face to the afternoon sun in the courtyard. Before the surrounding dilapidated houses on bamboo poles threadbare jackets and kimonos, washed and wet, were crucified with outstretched arms, like souls hung out to dry. She felt at peace in the shabby place, her thoughts meandered without conclusion, there was harmony in herself. Soon Matthew emerged accompanied by the priest. Amy left with regret; the door in the huge gate was closed behind them. She looked back once at the weathered wall
shutting
away its secret. Above flamed the branches of a ginko tree, as if to remind her of a dream.

Once Matthew stopped their
rikishas
at the foot of a wooded hill. They set off along a paved avenue, ascending in a stately, gentle way. The sky was a tiny patch far away above the shadows of the intimidating trees. Flight after flight of steps led to empty terrace after empty terrace. The woods enclosed them and the path grew narrower. Eventually, beyond a humble
torii
they stood before their goal, a small, empty, weathered shrine, no bigger than a large doll's house. The shock of this nothingness was eerie after the eloquent approach. About them the silence was watchful. Matthew sat down beneath a tree. He patted the place beside him, and when she settled herself produced from his pocket a packet of caramel lozenges.

‘Of what significance is it? she asked staring at the shrine.

‘Of no more than much in life,' Matthew smiled. ‘We have just climbed one of the multitude of Buddhist and Shinto experiences. The Ways That Go Nowhere and the Steps That Lead to Nothing. In Buddhist terms, the climb symbolizes the pomp and power and beauty that we attach to life and that in the end, in death, leads us all to this ultimate small silence. I find this one of the most beautiful of all the beautiful things in Japan.' The bowl of his pipe bloomed as he drew upon it.

Amy considered the matter in silence. Matthew leaned
back and looked up at the leaves. The scent of pines impregnated with tobacco and the sweet caramel in Amy's mouth was comforting and seemed to bind them together as strongly as emotion in the strange, high clearing near the sky.

‘My brain aches with all I'm thinking and learning,' she said in contentment, sucking on the caramel, sticking her feet out before her, legs apart beneath her skirts.

Matthew laughed. ‘You look like a child playing truant. It's the first time I've seen you being quite yourself.'

‘That's what I feel like with you, as if I'm playing truant.' Amy agreed.

‘And do you enjoy it?' Matthew teased.

‘Yes,' she laughed. ‘I never knew Japan had so much to teach me.'

Matthew drew on his pipe. A bird called sharply high above, in a short, repetitive chant. They chewed in unison upon the caramels, large, nubbly things that filled their mouths and demanded concentration. The clearing was silent, sweet with the rot of fallen leaves. Speech seemed for long periods unnecessary with Matthew. Amy felt at peace with him, supported and expanded. Yet at times she was frightened by the strange, esoteric centre of him, like no one she had ever known.

‘Are you a Buddhist?' she asked.

‘No,' he laughed. ‘I am nothing. Nothing but myself.' This reply only deepened the mystery of him. He offered no elaboration and she did not press the matter.

But away from him feelings she tried to press down and deny filled her body, filled her mind. She did not want these emotions to destroy the respect of their
partnership,
that had not been struck upon the mundane foundations of physical attraction. To expose her feelings to Matthew would, she felt, expose her as no different from other women and diminish her. Without the
blatancy
of touch she felt their relationship deepened, alert and sensitive to areas of emotion anything more physical would destroy.

‘You should come some time to Tokyo. There are people I could introduce you to – artists, foreigners like yourself.
Tokyo, you know, is different from Yokohama. Money is not our God,' Matthew suggested.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘so I've heard. I'd like to come. I'll see what I can arrange.'

Arrangements were always the problem. There was gossip in Yokohama. She was marked by her own
rebelliousness
and Mabel's patronage, but with Matthew Armitage she had the excuse of intellectual pursuit. It was only the fact that many people appeared impressed by her abilities and the project she was working on that kept Reggie belligerently to the bargain struck in Miyanoshita. But he made sure the reflection upon himself furthered his own applause.

‘I told Cooper-Hewitt,' Reggie said, his eyes full of sly amusement, ‘that the book will be presented to the Empress, just like the one by d'Anethan‘s wife. And that shut him up. Or rather the opposite, left him with his mouth hanging open.' Reggie laughed hugely. Across the table, laden with dishes of cooled vegetables and a
half-carved
stump of lamb, Amy controlled her irritation. She told the boy to bring more gravy for Reggie to soak his bread in.

‘Well,' Reggie said through a full mouth. ‘And how's our Organ Grinder? Back in the bushes with the birds, or still chasing a clutch of heathen gods? How much more have you got to do for that silly book? You should have a copy bound in velvet or satin or some such thing, and really get it to the Empress through all those bluebloods Mabel knows. Or even your Organ Grinder – he's in thick with them all. He'd help you do that much, wouldn't he? That d'Anethan woman had rosebuds embroidered on her cover. The thing is to make it look pretty, that's what you'll have to do.' Reggie piled squares of meat, potato and carrots on his fork until the implement was loaded.

‘We'll see,' she said lightly, to keep him quiet.

She was going with Mabel to Tokyo. Mabel went often now on the train to Tokyo to attend the reception days the ladies of the legations each held once a month. Mabel had been clever, insinuating herself with the Baroness
d'Anethan since that day on the slopes of Owakidani. Mabel knew, like inserting a needle into tough cloth, the vermicular art of ingratiation. She did not hold Matthew Armitage in much more respect than did Reggie.

‘Positively ugly, darling. I don't even think his
fingernails
are clean. But still, if it's what you want, you know you can always depend upon me. There's just no accounting for taste. The old thing, I suppose, of one man's meat. You'd better come to Tokyo under my umbrella. Once there you can go where you want. Nobody will know.'

Amy took a
rikisha
by herself from the station to Matthew's home. She had agreed to meet Mabel back there in the early evening.

Tokyo was different from Yokohama. It was not a
European
town, although there were buildings of Western style. In spite of crowds, as thick as in Yokohama's Native Town, Tokyo appeared a leisurely city. Everywhere was green, and everywhere there was Japan, without a reminder of Europe; not a foreign face or a foreign voice or a foreign home in view. Babies in green and orange and purple kimonos played in the streets. Kitchenmaids, red-cheeked and blowsy, haggled for vegetables at street corners. Coolies and workmen and austere old gentlemen in grey kimonos shuffled by on their clogs; pale women of quality passed in
rikishas
or palanquins. The streets were filled by the colours of flowers, fruit, people and odours that rushed from heady perfumes to the stench of open drains. It was careless and imperious, unconcerned with the pretensions upon which Yokohama thrived. It appeared as Matthew had described it, a flowery, stinking, adorable city. On a raised island of pines, surrounded by reflective moats, was the Emperor's new Palace, hidden behind trees and huge high walls.
Everywhere
there was a sense of depth and stability Yokohama did not have.

Matthew lived on the ground floor of an elegant,
two-storeyed,
Western-style house. Above was a young married couple from the German Legation. They shared the garden with him. The house was spacious and airy
and the precious and beautiful things the rooms held, collected carefully by Matthew, had a powerful effect. Everywhere patterns pressed one upon another – the cool blues of flowery china, soft, dark rugs from Persia or Afghanistan, bright weavings and embroidered shawls draped over sofas and chairs. Jars, scrolls, paintings and ivory built up the texture of the room. A huge screen of a tiger and a dragon, in old soft silvers, stood as a backdrop behind a sofa that between its several draperies showed the elderly comfort of some fray. And yet the complexity of the room gave a feeling only of tranquillity. Matthew Armitage's home reflected him in complement, as
unconventional
and yet as caring as himself.

A woman sat in the middle of the room, on the sofa of many draperies. She seemed a natural part of the setting, as if it had been created for her, extending out from where she sat. Her clothes, like the room, were not the sharp decisions most people took, possessive of fashion and approval. Mabel, with one eye on Paris and the other on New York, might have cruel comments. Yet the woman appeared poised and elegant in a fashion of her own. Her face was fine-boned and her hair was swept into a thick blonde knot behind a large tortoiseshell comb. Something bare and thoughtful and certain diffused her. She was gentle and interested without condescension. Her name was Edwina May. She was passing through Japan on her way from China back to England. She was travelling on her own.

‘But I have friends everywhere, which is wonderful. Everybody has been very kind.' She smiled and turned to Matthew. A look passed between them that excluded Amy and disturbed her. She tried to find things to say, but her comments and questions echoed about her ears, diminishing her to herself. Edwina weighed even trivial matters with well-chosen words.

‘Your dress is so unusual,' Amy said at last in
desperation,
hating herself for seeking the safety of such a mundane comment.

‘I'm afraid it's probably not the fashion you follow in Yokohama, but I'm rather fond of it. I had it made from
a Chinese gown that was designed for me especially by Tz'u-Hsi, the old Empress Dowager of China. A wicked old witch,' Edwina laughed.

‘While in Peking,' Matthew explained, ‘Edwina was commissioned to paint the Empress's portrait. And that's some honour, I can assure you. She was one of few
foreigners
who have entered the isolated heart of the Forbidden City.'

‘If you're an artist it's not so hard,' Edwina replied. ‘Old Tz'u-Hsi is so vain there is nothing she likes better than having her portrait painted by a “foreign devil”.'

‘Or “she-devil”,' Matthew chuckled. Edwina smiled and explained to Amy about the imperious old Chinese Empress.

‘How exciting it sounds, and how lucky you are to have the opportunity to live such a life,' Amy said, acutely aware of the inadequacies of her own life before the
glamorous
Edwina. She felt suddenly as dowdy as old Mrs Ewart.

Matthew took out his pocket watch, shaking his head. ‘Walter Landor is late as usual.' He reached for a magazine on a small table and handed it to Amy. ‘Perhaps you'd like to read this.'

The magazine was open at a page of paintings. The pictures were Edwina May's and the article was a critique of her work by Matthew. It was impossible before them both to digest it as she wished, but the words that surfaced as she read quickly were full of praise. It seemed Edwina May was well established in her world. And linked with Matthew, as she was on the page, by the reflection of his thought and the binding clarity of print, it seemed they were a pair.

She smiled as she handed it back, but something within her closed into silence. Watching them, she felt she had stumbled upon an intimacy she was not expected to see. A sudden nakedness in expression or a spoken familiarity exposed between them something Amy had no wish to define. She wanted to be released, she wished she could go away. Instead, politeness seemed pinned to her face. Once, as she talked with Edwina, she turned her head to
find Matthew observing them both, his eyes alert and small, upon one and then the other. She was sure that between him and Edwina there was a relationship from a shared past, still intimate and warm. She tried to push aside the knowledge, to deny it to herself. She felt
jealousy
and her own extraneousness; something cold and small.