The Garden of Evening Mists. Tan Twan Eng

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.

      ‘Did you bring them?’ I interrupt him. ‘Those prints your friend owned?’

      ‘They were destroyed in an air-raid, along with his house.’ He waits, and when I do not say anything he 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