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 master,’ 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 tea-room I want to show you. The views are magnificent. You can’t leave again so soon.’ He looks at me and a slow realisation 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
