Fire & Water (14 page)

Jake turned and walked back into our room. Burt followed him, teacup in hand. “Drop the Uenu Park thing. That’s bullshit,” Jake snapped. “It’s a goddamn photo op. I’m here to do art. I’m here to make history.”

“It’s more than a photo op, friend. That hunk of bronze is your ticket to work in this country. I’ve worked on this for two years. Cancel one, you can forget the other. This is not a country in which you insult people. Forget about the rocks. We go back to the wooden structures we had planned. That’s that.”

I watched Jake’s wiry body go rigid. His face gathered into an expression that I’d seen on junkies and psychotics I’d treated in the ER. Everything in his appearance became a brewing storm.

“That’s not THAT!” Jake picked up the telephone from the dresser top, jerked the wires from the wall, and flung it at Burt. Burt ducked and the phone hit a mirror on the wall behind him, sending glass to the floor in a glittering waterfall. I covered my head and jumped to the other side of the room. I stood, frozen, my body taut like a coil ready to spring. Jake snatched up a long shard of broken mirror and held it, sword-like, toward Burt. Blood soon dripped from the heel of his hand from under his grip.

Burt held up his hand to stop Jake from moving. “Settle down now,” he said, his voice low and level.

“I won’t settle down!” Jake shouted. He waved his sketch with his left hand. I could see a fat stream of blood spilling from the palm that still clutched the glass, a puddle forming on the rug beneath him. “
This
is it.
This
is the art I came here to do.
This
is what I’m doing. I don’t care about the Disneyland shit.”

“All right, Jake-O. We’ll see what we can get done. Just let go of that glass, all right?” Burt turned and glared at me. I’d hoped for a look of reassurance or kindness. Instead I felt the pierce of his gaze that said,
You shouldn’t be here. This is your fault
.

“Just get it done, Burt!” Jake shouted. He flung the sketch toward Burt and it went sailing and landed on the pile of silver mirror slivers; then he dropped the bloodied glass onto the pile. He pounded out of the room and disappeared.

Burt turned to me, his eyes bloodshot. “Did he sleep at all?”

“I don’t know. He’s always awake by the time I wake up.”

At nearly a run, Burt took off behind Jake.

* * *

Several hours later, I sat on the small sofa in the living room of the suite, wrapping Jake’s hand in sterile gauze. “Thank God you’re left-handed. This is deep. I need to get you to a clinic for stitches. These butterflies won’t hold on a palm.”

Jake’s head hung. “Never mind that.” He pulled me toward him. “I’m so sorry, Kat. I’m such an idiot. It’s just that—”

I was still trembling. I’d walked the streets alone the entire time Jake had been gone, thinking about what I should do. When I’d returned to the suite, Jake had been curled in a ball on the sofa.

He rested his head on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I get an idea and it seems like that’s the only idea I can—and I just, I just—I know I scared you.”

I pushed him away from me and looked into his eyes. “You did scare me. You really did.”

“I’d never hurt Burt. I’d never hurt you. You’ve got to know that. I—”

I got up from the couch, leaving Jake sitting there. “You need to know one thing about me,” I said. “I will never be threatened like that. If I was Burt and you’d held that glass out at me, I’d be gone. I arranged for a car to take me to the airport. I don’t belong here.”

Jake stood and reached toward me. “Please, Kat. Don’t leave. You do belong here. With me.” Jake’s face was guileless sincerity, melting my resolve.

“Never again, Jake. I swear to God.”

“I know. I know.” His face was lined with anguish.

At that moment, Burt came back into the room. His fiery eyes had cooled. “You all right, Kate?” he asked. I nodded that I was okay.

Burt slapped Jake’s chest with a folder filled with papers. “Well, I’ve worked your bully miracle,” he said. “It took a lot of bowing, a hundred phone calls, and an enormous donation from the president of Sony, whose arse you will take over kissing. I’ve got your pebbles and your permits. Here’s the whole enchilada, Jake-O.” Burt grabbed Jake’s shirt collar like a bullying older brother. “You do the unveiling at Uenu Park. No objections. And you act like you love that wanking hunk of bronze in the park. You do the press that I know you hate. You shake the hands, you kiss the babies. You change not so much as a molecule of that plan. Then, and only then, we go to Kamakura and you put in your goddamned green rocks. When we come back to Tokyo, you do every ceremony and business dinner.”

Jake burst into a smile and flung himself at Burt, then kissed both of Burt’s cheeks. “Thank you. Thank you and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Burt shrugged. His eyes stuck on mine. “Forget it, mate. Anything for art, right? Don’t get all kissy.” Burt smiled at me, but his eyes still wore worry. “Jesus Christ on a raft, I’ve had girlfriends less trouble than you. And at least with them I usually end up with a wank after they throw such a fuss.”

Jake sniffed. “I probably owe you that, too.”

“Kiss arses, Jake and you can just keep your mitts off my willie.”

Jake laughed, lifted his glasses, and wiped tears from his face. “Just wait, Burt. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

In a quick jerk Burt locked his thick arm around Jake’s neck and rubbed his knuckles briskly on his scalp. “Oh, quit your blubbering, you ridiculous baby.”

* * *

The days that followed returned us to almost where we’d been before. Gone was the irrational, tantrum-throwing child. Gone was the feral animal that turned dangerous when thwarted. Returned was my gentle lover, my playful, good-humored companion. His wild energy when directed to his work was laser beam-focused. He moved with buoyant cheer. Among the yet unbloomed cherry blossom trees of Ueno Park, he played hacky-sack with the children who gathered to watch the unveiling of his sculpture. The sculpture that he thought so unimportant was a tower of interwoven bronze and copper bamboo stalks, green with patina. The tower reached nearly fifteen feet, but defied both its materials and its size and evoked images of lacy jungle growth.

Jake and I attended formal teas with government and corporate dignitaries and art patrons. He charmed them and caused the same easy laughter that he had with my family at the bar.

Having watched my share of concussive exchanges among doctors, it was surprisingly easy to dismiss the outburst in our suite as the momentary explosion of tension and creativity. Surgeons, the divas of the medical field, are not above bringing nurses to tears by berating them for miniscule imprecision. One surgeon at Stanford, upon being told he’d not been given approval for the surgery he recommended, became so enraged he pushed a conference room table over, causing everyone seated to jump to their feet with coffee down the front of their clothing. He ultimately got his approval, resulting in the saved life of a newborn. Medical journals later lauded him. Millions in research funding for Stanford’s coffers quieted the administrators and gave
carte blanche
to the surgeon for future tirades.

Watching Jake’s and his crew’s execution of his vision in Kamakura provoked the same fascination for me as watching surgery. With ancient shrines and gardens around us, Jake ran his installation like a maestro with an entire orchestra responding to his slightest move. He inspired them to feats they could never have imagined. He insisted on perfection and wouldn’t stop until it was achieved. “No, no. This boulder is the wrong shade. I don’t care how much it cost to get it here, it’s not right.”

Burt spoke in soothing tones, delivering his orders in Japanese to the crew of local laborers and art students. The harmony of the team reflected the surroundings, with its tranquil, reflective ponds and sculpted gardens. Winding paths and graceful willows created an environment that seemed to invite everyone—even the hard-hatted crane operators—to speak in reverent, whispered voices. And the Great Buddha himself drew from me a feeling I’d never had in any cathedral. Looking into his serene face, climbing the steps to stand in the cool shade that he cast, was an experience of quiet power I had never known.

When the installation was finished, I stood gazing at the enormous Buddha, Kamakura, with the giant stones winding up the grassy corridor toward him. The boulders appeared as ancient as the shrine itself; as if they
belonged
exactly where they sat, deposited there by an ancient river. They functioned to guide the viewer’s eyes, not just to the Great Buddha but to his holy essence. Though I’d watched with my own eyes the power equipment and a giant auger that had broken each boulder into halves, their splits appeared completely organic. I’d seen the forklifts and cranes and the dozens of muscled men move the great stones, but they now rested there in what seemed like it had been their location for centuries.

Burt ran up to Jake and me as we took in the grand view. “Do you see this?” he said, waving a newspaper. “Word about this installation has exploded like bloody fireworks. Every room within a hundred miles is booked for the duration. The tourism board is saying that they’ve already gotten hundreds of international calls from people wanting to come see the great Path of Stones.” Burt squinted and scanned the paper. “Let’s see, they’re calling this ‘an unforgettable image from one of the most important figures of contemporary art… lofty in beauty, scale, and in the sublimely spiritual impact it makes on those who see it.’ Do you hear that, Jake-O?”

Jake shrugged. “I’m glad you’re happy, Burty.” Jake patted his friend’s bulky shoulder.

Burt folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I’ve got to check the answering service. I bet the phones are ringing off the hook.”

Seeing a man of Burt’s size actually scamper away made both of us laugh. Jake turned to me. “I’m starved. Want to get some lunch?”

The accolades that turned Burt from grumpy to giddy mattered not a whit to Jake. The installation would be disassembled after a few months, though it broke my heart to think about it. Jake’s perfect, broken boulders would be moved to a garden elsewhere in the small village of Kamakura, but not near the Buddha where Jake had envisioned them—where they belonged.

I wanted each of his creations to stand so that generations could view them and experience the awe of their simple beauty. Burt seemed to want that, too, and he strived to preserve the grandeur of them as best he could with his camera. Soon the Great Buddha would once again be alone in the maple grove among the ancient temples, as he had been since the thirteenth century. I wondered if he would feel lonely. I wanted to talk about it all with Jake, but whenever I tried, he changed the subject. The experience, though it lingered for me, was over for him. He had moved on.

* * *

We returned to Tokyo after the Kamakura installation. Jake complied with every one of Burt’s demands.

“What next, Mr. Bloom?” one reporter asked in broken English at a press conference. “What is the art will you make after you leave Japan?”

Jake was seated on a stage, behind a table with a linen tablecloth, a spider web of microphones before him. Burt skulked at the side of the room. Jake grinned at me where I sat in the audience. Cameras flashed. “We’ll enjoy a few more days in your beautiful country. Then I’ll go back to San Francisco, where my dear lady friend’s artistry as a surgeon is of much greater importance than what I’ve done here.”

I watched as Burt shook his head, frustrated, I assumed, that Jake would waste an opportunity talking of my work instead of promoting his own.

A diminutive Japanese woman stood. She held a small notepad and spoke in perfect English, in a voice so light that it could have been a child’s. “If you please. It has been reported that there was initially great resistance to your work in Kamakura. How did such an enormous vision become reality with so many obstacles in the path?”

“I can answer that question in just two words,” Jake said. He paused, and a hush filled the room. Jake shielded his eyes from the light and scanned the room. “Burt Swift. Burt, come on up here.”

Jake began to clap and the crowd followed, offering a reserved round of applause. Burt arrived at the front, his face glowing bright pink as Jake waxed on about all that he’d done to make the Path of Stones possible. The questions went on for over an hour.

In our final day in Tokyo, Burt collected his last chit from Jake, requiring him to pose for a formal portrait near his sculpture in Ueno Park. “Okay, but snap fast. I think I’ve just about paid you off,” Jake complained.

Once the last photo was taken, I went to get us coffees before we were to leave the city for a few days of solitude and Jake’s final installation. When I returned, I couldn’t find Jake anywhere. I searched among the lines of cherry blossom trees, now just beginning to bud, and the picturesque arched wooden bridges and gardens. Afloat on a tranquil reflecting pond were lily pads and lotus blossoms, mirrored images of bamboo stalks, and maples. Finally, I spotted Jake crouched at the water’s edge.

Before him was a row of three simple nests constructed of gray twigs, each surrounded by beds of burgundy maple leaves. “Wow,” I whispered. “How can you make a cluster of twigs and leaves so beautiful?”