earth. And yet it was only in the carefully planned and created garden of Yugiri that I had found a sense of order and calm and even, for a brief moment of time, forgetfulness.
‘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 had also been 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 enquiries 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 wood-block 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 strive to recall where I have heard this, but it eludes me. It will come back to me, I try 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 towards Frederik. ‘Mr Pretorius is a friend of mine.’
‘Ah! From Majuba Tea Estate,’ Tatsuji says, glancing at me before bowing to Frederik.
I indicate Tatsuji to the customary seat for an honoured guest, giving him the best view of the garden. He is in his mid-sixties, dressed in a light grey 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 programmes. 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.
