‘Nemo turned, looked at the steep steps that led up from the landing into the darkness above, and said, “It had slipped my mind, I had quite forgotten. I’m sorry. But of course, if you insist …”
‘Forgive me, I said. I do not insist. I am merely curious to see your work. But if it’s not convenient and we haven’t time …
‘“He really should be going,” called up a voice, the voice of the old maid, on the flight below, looking up at us.
‘But Nemo just smiled, a thin and brief, sad smile. He put his foot on the first step and said, “I have the time, and I am grateful for your interest. I only hope you will not be disappointed. But please follow me, and do take care. These stairs can be quite lethal.”
‘In fact, the stairs more closely resembled a ladder on a ship, an impression only heightened by a handrail made of rope and to which I clung as I climbed up behind Nemo.
‘At the top of the steps, Nemo paused on the narrow ledge before the door. He reached inside his pocket for a key, turned it in the lock, pushed open the door and said, “Let me first light the lamp …”
‘I stood before the ledge, on the last of the steps, and waited until the soft light of a lamp fell through the door upon my face and Nemo called out, “Ready when you are, Mr Natsume.”
‘I stepped through the door into the attic and gasped: even in lamplight and shadow I could sense it was an enormous room, half barn, half church, with a sloping ceiling low on either side but twice the height of a man in the centre and where, at the highest point of its spine, a glass skylight had been installed. The clutter of one hundred junkshops danced before me in the faint and trembling light, but even such a muddle could not diminish my sense of the size of the space.
‘Nemo stood some distance in, a lantern in his hand. He waved the light from right to left and said, “Please forgive the mess, and mind your step, but do come in, come in, come closer please …”
‘I walked towards him, or rather waded in, the floorboards strewn with a carpet of debris: books and newspapers, boxes and tins, empty bottles and broken crates, remains of furniture and strips of cloth, old clothes and odd shoes, brushes in jars, brushes in vases, a ladder here, an easel there, all covered in dust or caked with paint –
‘The artist was before me now. His coat gone, Nemo had put on a cap, pulled it low across one eye and tied a red kerchief about his neck. He set down the lantern on a small deal dining table, pointed to a battered horsehair sofa, smiled and said, “Do take a pew …”
‘I sat down, yes, though even then I could not have told you why I did, what made me stay, not turn and leave. For he had changed, and more than his clothes I knew, I knew; within that space, within that moment, I knew he’d changed, knew all had changed, including me, especially me, the me who stayed, the me who said, who said, who said, And the paintings? I do not see any paintings …
‘Nemo picked up a biscuit tin from the table, sat down beside me on the sofa and said, “You really are a most persistent chap, I have to say, and I should be flattered you are so keen. But the light it fails us both, so I’m afraid these sad sketches must suffice –”
‘I accepted the proffered biscuit tin from his hands and placed it in my lap. I took the lid off the tin, set it to one side, then turned back to look inside. A broken pencil lay in two halves upon a loose sheaf of irregular papers. I took out the sheaf of papers, the parts of the pencil falling with a clink and a clank into the bottom of the tin, and then, one by one, sheet after sheet, sketch after sketch, I went through those pages, those seventeen scraps, until the last, until the end.
‘I had come to this country, this city to learn. The biggest, greatest city on the earth, the centre, the capital of the world. To drink from its cups of knowledge, to taste the wisdom of its harvests, then to return to Japan laden with the fruits of my learning, to share my studies, to teach what I myself had been taught. But here I sat, in this city, in this house, in this attic, on this sofa, parched and starved and close to death, the sum total of my account an unreadable report.
‘Yes, I had come to the end, the ends of the earth. I steadied my hand, straightened the papers and put them back inside the biscuit tin. I replaced the lid, steadied my voice and said, You see such things, I’m sorry.
‘Beside me on the sofa, his knee against my own, Nemo took the tin from my lap and quietly said, “And you do not?”
‘I stared straight ahead, past the lantern on the table, my eyes too inured to the shadows now, a wardrobe looming up over an iron bedstead, its bedding torn, its mattress split, a grim pillow at its head, an easel standing before the scene, a canvas waiting in its place. I closed my eyes, closed my eyes and whispered, No.
‘“No, of course you don’t,” said Nemo, his voice a sigh but close, so much closer now. I felt him push my leg, felt him grip my thigh, heard him say,
