A Slight Trick of the Mind Page 18

  So it was prudent of Dr. Watson to bestow the three journals to him, lest they fall into the wrong hands. Moreover, Holmes had decided, it was important for the volumes to be destroyed; otherwise, after his own passing, the doctor's texts might become public. What would get lost, he figured, was either already published as fictional accounts, likely inconsequential, or worthy of perishing to maintain the secrets of those who had sought his confidentiality. And with that—avoiding even a flip through the pages, resisting even a brief glimpse at all that Dr. Watson had written down—the volumes ended up in the library fireplace, the paper and binding smoking profusely, suddenly bursting into orange-blue flames.

  But many years later, while traveling across Japan, Holmes recalled the destruction of the journals with some misgivings. According to Mr. Umezaki's story, he had supposedly advised the man's father in 1903, which meant—if the story had any truth value—the details of that encounter had surely been reduced to ashes. Then resting at an inn in Shimonoseki, he again envisioned Dr. Watson's journals blazing on the hearth—those glowing cinders once etched with days gone by, breaking apart gradually and soaring up the chimney like ascending souls and becoming irretrievable as they floated off into the sky. The remembrance blunted his mind; stretched on a futon, eyes closed, he experienced a sensation of emptiness, of inexplicable loss. Such an acute, hopeless sensation returned to him months thereafter, finding him while he sat among the rocks on that overcast, gray morning.

  And as Roger was being buried elsewhere, Holmes could neither perceive nor understand a single thing, nor could he push aside the suffocating feeling of his self somehow stripped bare (his diminished faculties now navigating an uninhabited region, exiled from the familiar, bit by bit, without a way back into the world). Yet it was a lone tear that revived him—sliding into his whiskers, coursing toward his jawline—a tear then dangling on a chin hair, hastening fingers. “All right,” he said with a sigh, opening his inflamed eyes to the beeyard, his fingers lifting from the grass, rising to catch a tear before it fell.

  19

  THERE, near the apiary—then there, somewhere else: The sunlight increased; the overcast summer morning shifted backward to a windy spring day—to another shore, to that far-off land. Yamaguchi-ken, the extreme western tip of Honshu, the island of Kyushu visible across the narrow strait. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” said the round-faced hostess as Holmes and Mr. Umezaki sat on tatami mats (both wearing gray kimonos, seated at a table with a garden view). They were staying at the Shimonoseki Ryokan, a traditional inn where every guest was loaned a kimono and given an opportunity to sample, upon request, regional famine food with each meal (a variety of soups, rice balls, and dishes using carp as the main ingredient).

  The hostess went from the morning room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the morning room, carrying trays. She was a heavy woman. Her stomach bulged against the sash around her waist; the tatamis vibrated on her approach. Mr. Umezaki wondered aloud how she stayed so fat, with the country's shortage of food. But she continually bowed at her guests without ever understanding Mr. Umezaki's English, coming and going from the morning room like a well-fed, obedient dog. Then as bowls, plates, and steaming dishes were set on the table, Mr. Umezaki wiped his glasses, replacing them while reaching for chopsticks. And Holmes—studying their breakfast, gingerly taking up chopsticks—yawned away what had been a fitful sleep (a vagrant wind having shaken the walls until dawn, its frightful whine keeping him half-awake).

  “If you don't mind, what is it you dream in the night?” Mr. Umezaki abruptly asked, picking at a rice ball.

  “What do I dream in the night? I am sure I dream nothing whatsoever.”

  “How is it possible? You must dream sometimes—doesn't everyone?”

  “As a boy I did—I am fairly certain of that. I cannot say when it stopped—possibly after adolescence, or later on. In any case, I don't recall the details of whatever dreams I may have once had. Such hallucinations are infinitely more useful to artists and theistic minds, wouldn't you agree? For men like me, however, they are rather an unreliable nuisance.”

  “I've read about people who claim they are dreamless, but I've never believed it. I just assumed they felt the need to suppress them for some reason.”

  “Well, if indeed the dreams do come, then I have grown accustomed to ignoring them. But now I ask you, my friend: what is it that plays in your head at night?”

  “Any number of things. It can be very specific, you see—places I've been, everyday faces, often mundane situations—other times it's remote, disconcerting scenes that are seen—my childhood, dead friends, people whom I know well but who look nothing like themselves. Sometimes I awake confused, unsure of where I am or what I've glimpsed—it's like I'm caught somewhere between the real and the imagined, though only for a short moment.”

  “I know the feeling.” Holmes smiled, glancing to the window. Beyond the morning room, in the garden outside, a breeze swayed the red and yellow chrysanthemums.

  “I regard my dreams as frayed pieces of my memory,” Mr. Umezaki said. “Memory itself is like the fiber of one's existence. Dreams, I think, are like broken strands of the past, little ragged edges that veer from the fiber but remain a part of it. Maybe that's a fanciful notion—I don't know. Still, don't you think dreams are a kind of memory, an abstraction of what was?”

  For a while, Holmes continued gazing out the window. Then he said, “Yes, it is a fanciful notion. As for me, I have shed my skin and regenerated for ninety-three years now, so those ragged strands you speak of must be many—yet I am positive I dream nothing. Or maybe it is that the fibers of my memory are extremely durable; otherwise—judging from your metaphor—I would likely be lost in time. Anyway, I don't believe dreams are an abstraction of the past—they could easily be symbols for our fears and desires, like the Austrian doctor was so fond of suggesting.” With chopsticks, Holmes took a pickled cucumber slice from a bowl and Mr. Umezaki watched as he moved it carefully toward his mouth.

  “Fears and desires,” Mr. Umezaki said, “are products of the past as well. We simply carry them with us. But there's a lot more to dreaming than that, isn't there? Don't we seem to occupy another region in sleep, a world built on the experiences we've had in this one?”

  “I haven't the foggiest.”

  “What are your fears and desires, then? I myself have plenty.”

  Holmes did not reply, even as Mr. Umezaki paused and waited for a response. Keeping his eyes fixed on the bowl of pickled cucumbers, a deeply troubled expression appeared on his face. No, he would not answer the question, nor would he say that his fears and desires were, at some point, one and the same: the forgetfulness increasingly plaguing him, startling him awake, gasping, a sense of the familiar and safe turning against him, leaving him helpless and exposed and struggling for air; the forgetfulness also subduing the despairing thoughts, muting the absence of those he could never see again, grounding him in the present, where all he might want or need was at hand.

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Umezaki said. “I didn't mean to pry. We should've spoken last night, after I came to you—but it seemed the wrong moment.”

  Holmes lowered his chopsticks. Using his fingers, he picked two slices from the bowl, eating them. When finished, he rubbed his fingers on his kimono. “My dear Tamiki, do you suspect I dreamt something about your father last night? Is this why you are asking me these questions?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Or were you dreaming of him, and now you wish to relate the experience to me over breakfast, in a somewhat roundabout fashion.”

  “I have dreamt of him, yes—although it's been a long while.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “So pray tell me: What is the pertinence of this?”

  “I'm sorry.” Mr. Umezaki bowed his head. “I apologize.”

  Holmes realized he was being needlessly short, but then it was irksome to be pressed repeatedly for answers he didn't possess. Besides, he was already annoyed that Mr. Umezaki had en
tered his room during the previous night, kneeling near the futon while he slept restlessly; when he was stirred by the wind—a plaintive, mournful whir at the windows—the shadowy presence of the man must have taken his breath away (hovering just above him like a black cloud, asking with a hushed voice, “Are you all right? Tell me. What is it?”), because he couldn't utter anything, couldn't move his arms, his legs. How difficult it was at that moment to remember where exactly he was, or to comprehend the voice addressing him through the darkness: “Sherlock, what is it? You can tell me.”

  Only as Mr. Umezaki left him, silently crossing the floor, opening and shutting the sliding wall panel between their rooms, did Holmes regain himself. Turning on his side, he listened to the wind's melancholy din. He touched the tatami beneath the futon, pushing his fingertips against the mat. Then closing his eyes, he pondered what Mr. Umezaki had asked, the words at last registering: Tell me. What is it? You can tell me. For, in truth, despite all the man had said earlier about enjoying their trip together, Holmes knew that Mr. Umezaki was determined to learn something of his lost father, even if it meant holding a vigil at his bedside (why else would Mr. Umezaki enter his room—what other explanation could bring him there?). Holmes, too, had questioned sleepers—thieves, opium addicts, suspected murderers—in a similar manner (whispering into their ears, gathering information from the breathless mumbles of dreamers, those drowsy confessions, which later surprised the perpetrators with their accuracy). So he didn't begrudge the method, yet he wished Mr. Umezaki would let the mystery of his father rest, at least until their trip was finished.

  Such concerns are long in the past, Holmes wanted to tell him, and little will be gained by fretting over them now. Matsuda's motives for fleeing Japan were possibly justifiable, and maybe the family's better interests were very much a factor. Even so, without a father ever really present for Mr. Umezaki, he understood how the man could feel like an incomplete person. And whatever else Holmes convinced himself of during that night, he never pretended Mr. Umezaki's search was irrelevant. On the contrary, he'd always believed that the conundrums of one's own life were worthy of tireless investigation, but in the case of Matsuda, Holmes knew that any clues he might offer—if indeed they existed—had been destroyed on the hearth ages ago; the recollection of Dr. Watson's incinerated journals then preoccupied him, eventually dulling his mind, and soon he could envision nothing. Nor could he hear the wind anymore—while awake upon the futon—rampaging along the streets, tearing slits in latticed paper-covered windows.

  “It is I who should apologize,” said Holmes at breakfast, reaching across the table to pat Mr. Umezaki's hand. “I had a rather rough night, what with the weather and all, and feel worse for it today.”

  Mr. Umezaki, his head kept bowed, nodded. “It's just that I'm worried. I thought you cried out in your sleep—it was a horrible sound.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes, humoring him. “You know, I have wandered moors where the wind gave the distinct impression of someone yelling, a distant shout or wail, almost like a cry for help. A tempest can easily fool your ears; I have been fooled myself, I assure you.” Grinning, he retracted his hand, moving his fingers into the bowl of cucumbers.

  “You believe I was mistaken, then?”

  “It is possible, isn't it?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Umezaki, bringing his head up with a gesture of relief. “It is possible, I suppose.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes, holding a slice before his lips. “That puts an end to it. Shall we begin the day anew? And what is on the agenda this morning—another stroll along the beach? Or should we pursue our purpose for coming here—the quest for the elusive prickly ash?”

  But Mr. Umezaki looked perplexed. How often had they discussed Holmes's reasons for visiting Japan (the desire to taste prickly-ash cuisine, and also witness the shrub growing in the wild), and their destination, which would lead them, later that day, into the rustic izakaya by the sea (a Japanese version of a pub, Holmes would realize when stepping past the doorway)?

  When they entered the izakaya, there was a cauldron boiling inside and fresh prickly-ash leaves being cut by the proprietor's wife, and the local faces looked up, some with mistrust, from glasses of beer or sake. Yet since Holmes's arrival, how often had Mr. Umezaki spoken of the special cake sold at the izakaya, created with the roasted ground fruits and seeds of prickly ash, the ingredients kneaded into flour as a flavoring? And how often had they mentioned the letters sent back and forth over the years, the contents always touching on their interest in the slow-growing, mounding, perhaps life-enhancing shrub (nourished by salt-spray exposure, full sun, and drying winds)? Not once, it seemed.

  The izakaya smelled of peppercorns and fish, and they sat at a table, sipping tea and listening to the boisterous conversations around them. “Those two are fishermen,” said Mr. Umezaki. “They are arguing about a woman.”

  Presently, the proprietor passed through a back-room curtain, revealing his toothless grin as he did so, addressing each patron in an overbearing, comical voice, laughing with those he knew, then eventually making his way to their table. The man appeared amused at the sight of the elderly Englishman and his refined companion, happily patting Mr. Umezaki on the shoulder, winking at Holmes as if they were all close friends. Sitting down at the table, the proprietor glanced at Holmes while saying something to Mr. Umezaki in Japanese—a remark that made everyone in the izakaya laugh, except Holmes. “What did he say?”

  “It's rather funny,” Mr. Umezaki told him. “He thanked me for bringing my father here—he said we're the spitting image—but he thinks you're more pleasing on the eye.”

  “I would agree with the latter statement,” said Holmes.

  Mr. Umezaki translated the message to the proprietor, who then burst out laughing, nodding his head in agreement.

  Then upon finishing his tea, Holmes said to Mr. Umezaki, “I should like a look at that cauldron. Will you ask our new friend if I may? Will you tell him that I would very much like to see how the prickly ash is stewed?”

  When the request was conveyed, the proprietor promptly stood. “He'll gladly let you,” said Mr. Umezaki. “But his wife does the cooking. She alone can show you the process.”

  “Delightful,” said Holmes, rising. “Are you coming?”

  “In a moment—I still have my tea.”

  “It is a rare chance, you know. I hope you won't mind if I don't wait for you.”

  “No, not at all,” said Mr. Umezaki, even though he stared sharply at Holmes, as if he were somehow being deserted.

  Soon, however, they would both be at the cauldron, holding the shrub's leaves in their hands and watching as the wife stirred the broth. Afterward, they were directed to where the prickly ash thrived—farther along the beach, somewhere among the dunes.

  “Should we go tomorrow morning?” asked Mr. Umezaki.

  “It isn't too late in the day to go now.”

  “It's a good distance, Sherlock-san.”

  “Shall we go part of the way—at least until dusk?”

  “If you wish.”

  They took a last, curious look around the izakaya—at the cauldron, the soup, the men with their glasses—before stepping outside, hiking across the sand, moving gradually into the dunes. By dusk, they had found no sign of the shrub and so decided to head back for supper at the inn, both feeling exhausted from the hike, each retiring early, instead of taking the usual evening drinks. But that night—the second evening of their stay in Shimonoseki—Holmes awoke around midnight, stirring from another fitful sleep. What struck him initially was that he could no longer hear the wind as on the previous night. Then he remembered what had preoccupied him in the minutes prior to sleep: the run-down izakaya by the sea, the prickly-ash leaves boiling in a cauldron of carp soup. He lay under the covers, staring at the ceiling in the dim light. After a while, he felt sleepy once more and closed his eyes. Except he didn't drift off; instead, he thought of the toothless proprietor—Wakui was his name—
and how his humorous comments had delighted Mr. Umezaki, among them a rather tasteless joke at the emperor's expense: “Why is General MacArthur the belly button of Japan? Because he is above the prick.”

  Yet no comment had pleased Mr. Umezaki more than Wakui's playful remark about Holmes being his father. In the late afternoon, as they had walked the beach together, Mr. Umezaki had brought up the remark again, saying, “It's strange to think of it—if my father was living, he would be just a bit older than you are.”

  “I suppose so,” Holmes had said, peering ahead at the dunes, surveying the sandy soil for signs of the prickly, sprawling shrub.

  “You're my English father—how's that?” Mr. Umezaki had unexpectedly taken hold of Holmes's arm, his hand remaining firmly on him as they went forward. “Wakui is a funny fellow. I'd like to visit him tomorrow.”

  Only then had Holmes perceived of himself as having been chosen—perhaps not consciously—as Matsuda's surrogate. It was already obvious that behind Mr. Umezaki's mature, circumspect demeanor lurked the psychic wounds of childhood. The rest did not become apparent until Wakui's remark had been repeated and Mr. Umezaki's needful fingers had grabbed him on the beach. Then how clear it had suddenly become: The last time you heard word from your father, Holmes had thought, was the first time you heard of me. Matsuda vanishes from your life, and I arrive in the form of a book—one replaces the other, as it were.