Something for the Weekend

Baking, scorching, melting ...

The current British summer has taken us all (as usual) by surprise. And (as usual) the transport system has failed in a huge way, electrics are blowing up, and many a fair-skinned bod has been toasted a startling shade of scarlet.

As this taste of the tropics continues, the comely invitation of al fresco pleasures and picnics will be impossible to resist this coming weekend. Nevertheless, I feel the lull in my blogging should be interrupted, so that if anyone is so inclined to peruse their 'device',  they might stumble on this amuse bouche.  

An offering that, in my languorous state, requires little more effort than a few clicks, is a story that I adapted for inclusion in a story cabaret held by the delightful editorial duo Little Fishes, here in Lewes, East Sussex. 

The theme of the cabaret was 'Objet D'Art' and offered such an array of talent, that when I finally took my place for the final slot, I felt a tad amateurish and intimidated. However, the cocktails worked admirably at steeling my nerves, and it was well received. 

So, here it is - The Ersatz Idol.

 I was still teaching English when I saw Kinkakuji for the first time. If you're anything like me, that won’t mean much. It means Golden Temple. That golden temple in Japan, on all the postcards and stuff? I went along because that’s what you see when you're in Kyoto. We spent five hours on a train to get there. I bloody wanted to see that temple.

It was almost Autumn, but it was still hot. It was late in the afternoon when we got there, me and my two Aussie colleagues, Chris and Kate. It wasn’t even that crowded, but it felt like there were too many people. I started to feel panicky and suffocated. I fumbled for my camera and watched helplessly as the lens cap fluttered to the ground and disappeared into the grass. The camera felt slippery in my hands as I squinted through the viewfinder at the temple.

It was so golden; I was dazzled. It was delicately perched above a pond like a dancing maiko draped in her wedding kimono. I had never seen a building like this. It was too beautiful to be true. Too beautiful to exist.

I felt butterflies in my stomach. I had senses only for this beautiful object. The incomprehensible muttering of the visitors faded. I only heard birds, the wind in bamboo and I seemed to sense the temple itself resonating with a tone too low or too high in frequency for my human ear. I wondered if it was a time machine hosting the spirits of eagle faced samurai and emaciated zen masters. Shifting in its shimmering form between eras; appearing to me now in my stunned and static present.

Then I felt the tourists pressing against me, anxious to do the next thing on their itineraries.  The brief, magical rapport between me and the golden temple faded. I realised Chris and Kate were both hovering hesitantly, eyes questioning. I ignored them, turning away to skirt the boundaries of the tiny wooden fence, my head inclined awkwardly, with one aim: to capture the temple at any and every angle and fix those visions in my mind’s eye.

Reluctantly, driven on by the surge of the crowds, I followed the path to the gardens, and still my eyes searched for the temple that winked in tantalising  instances through dense bamboo.

I found Chris and Kate near the exit. We sat on a dry dusty rock across from the souvenir shop and waited for the bus. I began to read the creased pamphlet in my hand. I must have gasped.

“What’s wrong?” asked Kate.

 “The temple. It’s a fake.”

Chris grimaced as he swallowed cold tea from a can.

“Yeah,” he said. “Some guy burned down the original.”

“I think there was a book about it,” added Kate.

I couldn’t believe they'd known and hadn’t said a word.

“It’s still amazing though, isn’t it?” said Kate.

I didn’t answer. Kate stood to join Chris in an attempt to flag down a taxi.

I thought about how I had been sold this fake thing. How I’d been cheated. I had wanted to possess that thing of beauty -  I wanted to suck up its essence inside me.

And now, here I am in a hostess bar, perched up on my high stool staring at my reflection in the black granite table top.  Now when I try to imagine the man who could destroy something as beautiful as Kinkakuji,  I can. All too easily.

When I hear the door,  I keep my eyes cast down and put on my demure smile that’s twisted into a smirk by my reflection. Mama-san rattles out her greeting with fraudulent delight and I listen to the reply.

It’s for me.

Kimura-san sits at my table, eyes round with pleasure, ready to glug down his gorgeous gaijin along with his whisky. He doesn’t know I’m a fake. The real thing burned down years ago.