Klara and the Sun

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘What you were saying earlier,’ the Mother said. ‘About her getting well. Some special kind of help coming along. You were just talking, right?’

  ‘You must excuse me. I know that you, the doctor and Melania Housekeeper have all considered very carefully Josie’s condition. It’s very concerning. Even so, I’m hoping soon she’ll get better.’

  ‘Is that merely hoping? Or is this something more solid you’re expecting? Something the rest of us haven’t seen?’

  ‘I suppose…it’s merely a hope. But a real one. I believe Josie will soon become better.’

  The Mother didn’t speak for several moments after that, her eyes staring through the windshield with an expression so distant I wondered if she could see the road before us. Then she said quietly:

  ‘You’re an intelligent AF. Maybe you can see things the rest of us can’t. Maybe you’re right to be hopeful. Maybe you’re right.’

  * * *

  —

  When we got back to the house, Josie wasn’t in the kitchen or the Open Plan. The Mother and Melania Housekeeper stood in the doorway of the kitchen and talked in low voices, and I could tell Melania Housekeeper was reporting that Josie had been fine in our absence. The Mother kept nodding, then walked across the hall to the bottom of the stairs and called up to Josie. When Josie called back with a single ‘Okay’, the Mother remained not moving at the foot of the stairs for some time. Then she shrugged and went off towards the Open Plan. I was now alone in the hall, so went up the stairs to Josie.

  She was sitting on the rug, her back against the bed, her knees drawn up to rest a sketchpad against them. She was concentrating on what she was drawing with her pencil and so didn’t look up when I greeted her. Scattered around her were several other sheets torn from the sketchpad, some abandoned after a few quick lines, others densely filled.

  ‘I’m so glad Josie’s been well,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ She didn’t look up from her sketching. ‘So how was the trip?’

  ‘It was marvelous. Such a pity Josie couldn’t come.’

  ‘Yeah. That was too bad. Did you check out the waterfall?’

  ‘Yes. It was wonderful.’

  ‘Mom enjoy herself?’

  ‘I believe so. Of course she very much missed having Josie there.’

  At last she looked my way, glancing quickly over the top of her sketchpad, and I saw in her eyes an expression I’d never seen before. And I remembered again the voice, at the interaction meeting, asking Josie why she hadn’t chosen a B3, and her replying with a laugh, ‘Now I’m starting to think I should have.’ Then her gaze fell away from me and she began to draw again. For a long time I remained standing at the spot where I’d first entered the room. Eventually I said:

  ‘I’m very sorry if I did something to upset Josie.’

  ‘Didn’t upset me. What makes you think that?’

  ‘So we’re still good friends?’

  ‘You’re my AF. So we must be good friends, right?’

  But there was no smile in her voice. It was clear she wished to be alone to get on with her sketching, so I left the room, to stand outside on the landing.

  PART THREE

  I hoped the shadows of the Morgan’s Falls trip might be gone by the next morning, but I was disappointed, and Josie’s cold manner continued for a long time afterwards.

  Even more puzzling was the change Morgan’s Falls made to the Mother’s manner. I’d believed the trip had gone well, and that there would now be a warmer atmosphere between us. But the Mother, just like Josie, became more distant, and if she encountered me in the hall or on the landing, she’d no longer greet me in the way she’d done before.

  Naturally then, in the days that followed, I thought often about why the interaction meeting should cast no shadows at all, but Morgan’s Falls, despite my complying with Josie’s and the Mother’s wishes, had produced such consequences. Again, the possibility came into my mind that my limitations, in comparison to a B3’s, had somehow made themselves obvious that day, causing both Josie and the Mother to regret the choice they’d made. If this were so, I knew my best course was to work harder than ever to be a good AF to Josie until the shadows receded. At the same time, what was becoming clear to me was the extent to which humans, in their wish to escape loneliness, made maneuvers that were very complex and hard to fathom, and I saw it was possible that the consequences of Morgan’s Falls had at no stage been within my control.

  As things turned out, however, I had little time to dwell on the Morgan’s Falls shadows, because several days after the outing, Josie’s health collapsed.

  * * *

  —

  She became too weak to go down in the mornings to the Mother’s quick coffee. So instead, the Mother would come up to the bedroom and stand over Josie’s sleeping figure, her back remaining very straight even as she sipped her coffee and looked down at the bed.

  Once the Mother left for the day, Melania Housekeeper would take over, moving the easy chair close to the bed and sitting with her oblong on her lap, eyes moving back and forth between the screen and the sleeping Josie. And it was on one such morning, as I was standing just inside the bedroom door in readiness to help, that Melania Housekeeper turned and said:

  ‘AF. You behind me all the time. Creep me out. Go outdoors.’

  She had said ‘outdoors’. I turned to the door before asking quietly: ‘Excuse me, housekeeper. Do you mean outside the house?’

  ‘Outside room, outside house, who care? Come back quick if I send signal.’

  I had never before gone into the outdoors on my own. But it was clear that as far as Melania Housekeeper was concerned there was no reason why I shouldn’t do so. I went carefully down the staircase, excitement entering my mind despite the worries concerning Josie.

  When I stepped out onto the loose stones, the Sun was high, but seemed weary. I was unsure about closing the house door behind me, but in the end, since there were no passers-by, and I didn’t wish to disturb Josie by sounding the door chime on my return, I pulled the door nearly closed without engaging the lock mechanism. Then I stepped further into the outdoors.

  To my left I could see the grass mound where I’d met Rick flying his birds. Beyond the mound was the road along which the Mother left each morning – where I myself had traveled to Morgan’s Falls. But I turned away from these sights and walked in the opposite direction, crossing the loose stones to where I had a clear view of the fields behind the house.

  The sky was pale and large. Because the fields rose gradually into the distance, Mr McBain’s barn was still visible despite my no longer having the benefit of the rear window’s height. The blades of grass were easier to distinguish than from the bedroom, but the main change was that I could now see Rick’s house rising out of the grass. I realized that if the rear window had been positioned just a little more to the left, Rick’s house would have been visible also from the bedroom.

  But I didn’t consider Rick’s house, because my mind had become filled once more with the Josie worries, and specifically the question of why the Sun hadn’t yet sent his special help as he’d done for Beggar Man and his dog. I’d first expected the Sun to help Josie in the days when she’d become weak before Morgan’s Falls. I’d then accepted that he’d perhaps been correct at that point to wait, but now with Josie so much weaker, and so many things concerning her future in uncertainty, it was puzzling why he continued to delay.

  I’d already given much thought to this matter, but now I was outside on my own, the fields so close and the Sun high above me, I was able to bring several speculations together. I could understand that for all his kindness, the Sun was very busy; that there were many people besides Josie who required his attention; that even the Sun could be expected to miss individual cases like Josie, especially if she appeared well looked after by a mother, a housekeeper and an AF. The
idea came into my mind, then, that for her to receive the Sun’s special help, it might be necessary to draw his attention to Josie’s situation in some particular and noticeable way.

  I walked on the soft earth till I was beside the fence to the first field, and a wooden gate that resembled a picture frame. The gate could be opened simply by raising the loop of cord hung over its post, and I saw I could then move on into the field unimpeded. The grass in the field looked very tall – and yet Josie and Rick, while still small children, had managed to walk through it all the way to Mr McBain’s barn. I could see the start of an informal trail, created by the feet of passers-by, leading into the grass, and wondered how possible it might be that I could undertake the same journey. I thought too about the time the Sun had given his special nourishment to Beggar Man and his dog, and considered the important differences between his circumstances and Josie’s. For one thing, many passers-by had known Beggar Man, and when he’d become weak, he’d done so in a busy street, visible to taxi drivers and runners. Any of these people might have drawn the Sun’s attention to his condition and that of his dog. Even more significantly, I remembered what had been happening not long before the Sun had given his special nourishment to Beggar Man. The Cootings Machine had been making its awful Pollution, obliging even the Sun to retreat for a time, and it had been during the fresh new era after the dreadful machine had gone away that the Sun, relieved and full of happiness, had given his special help.

  I remained for a time in front of the picture frame gate, watching the grass lean one way then the other, wondering what other trails might be hidden within it, and how I might help to rescue Josie from her sickness. But I wasn’t yet used to being outdoors alone, and could sense disorientation starting to set in. So I turned from the fields and made my way back to the house.

  * * *

  —

  Dr Ryan visited frequently during this period, and Josie spent long stretches of the day asleep. The Sun would pour in his normal nourishment each day, his pattern often falling across her sleeping form, but there remained no sign of his special help. But here again, the Sun was perhaps correct to wait, for Josie did become gradually stronger, until eventually she was able to sit up in bed.

  She’d been warned by Dr Ryan not to resume her oblong lessons, so there now came the days when, propped up on her pillows, she created many pictures with her sharp pencils and sketchpad. Each time she finished a picture, or decided to abandon one, she’d tear it out and toss it into the air, allowing it to float down onto the rug, and it became my job to gather these sheets together into ordered piles.

  As Dr Ryan came less, Rick visited more. Melania Housekeeper had always been wary of Rick, but even she could see how much his visits raised Josie’s spirits. So she allowed the visits, though insisting they last no more than thirty minutes. The first afternoon Rick was shown up to the bedroom, I started to leave in order to give privacy, but Melania Housekeeper stopped me on the landing, whispering: ‘No, AF! You stay in there. Make sure no hanky-panky.’

  So it became normal for me to remain during Rick’s visits, even though he sometimes looked towards me with go away eyes, and almost never addressed me, even to say hello or goodbye. Had Josie also made such go away signals, I wouldn’t have remained, even after Melania Housekeeper’s instruction. But Josie seemed happy about my presence – I even thought she took comfort from it – though she never included me in their conversations.

  I did my best to give privacy by remaining on the Button Couch and fixing my gaze over the fields. I couldn’t help hearing what was being said behind me, and though I sometimes thought I shouldn’t listen, I remembered it was my duty to learn as much about Josie as possible, and that by listening in this way, I might gather fresh observations otherwise unavailable to me.

  Rick’s visits to the bedroom during this time fell into three phases. In the first phase, he’d glance around nervously when he arrived, and behave throughout the thirty minutes as though any careless movement he made might damage the furniture. It was in this phase he took up the habit of seating himself on the floor just in front of the modern wardrobe, resting his back against its doors. From the Button Couch I could see their reflections in the window, and with Rick in this position, and Josie sitting up in bed, they looked almost as though they were seated side by side, except with Josie at a higher level.

  Throughout this first phase, there was a gentle atmosphere and the thirty minutes often passed with nothing much of substance being said. The children would often share memories from when they were younger, and make jokes about them. It would take only a word or a single reference to trigger such a memory and then they’d become immersed in it. They conversed at such moments in a speech that was like a code, making me wonder if this was on account of my presence in the room, but I quickly understood it had simply to do with their familiarity with each other’s lives, and that there was no intention to exclude my understanding.

  Josie didn’t at first draw pictures while hosting Rick. But as they became more relaxed, she often sketched throughout the entire thirty minutes, tearing out sheets as she went, and allowing them to float down to where he was sitting. And this was how – quite innocently at first – the bubble game began.

  The coming of the bubble game marked the start of the next phase of Rick’s visits. It’s possible that the bubble game was one they’d invented a long time earlier in their childhoods. Certainly, when the game started this time round, there’d been no need for instructions between them. Josie had simply begun to throw down her sketches to Rick, even as they continued their rambling conversations, until at one point he’d scrutinized a picture and said:

  ‘Okay. Is this now the bubble game?’

  ‘If you want. Just if you want, Ricky.’

  ‘I don’t have a pencil. Throw me one of the dark ones.’

  ‘I need all the dark ones here. Who’s the artist here anyway?’

  ‘How can I do the bubbles if you won’t even lend me a pencil?’

  Even with my back to them, it wasn’t hard to guess the outline of this game. And once Rick left at the end of each half hour, I was able to observe the pages as I gathered them from the floor. And so it was I began to appreciate the growing importance this game had for them both.

  Josie’s sketches were skillful, usually showing one, two or occasionally three people together, their heads drawn deliberately too large for their bodies. During those earlier visits, the faces tended always to be kind, and were sketched only with black sharp pencil, while their shoulders and bodies, like the surroundings, had been done with color sharp pencils. In each picture, Josie left an empty bubble hovering above one head or the other – sometimes two bubbles over two heads – for Rick to fill with written words. I understood quickly that even when the faces didn’t resemble Rick or Josie, within the world of this game, it was possible for all sorts of picture girls to stand for Josie, and picture boys for Rick. Similarly, other figures could stand for others in Josie’s life – the Mother, say, or children from the interaction meeting, as well as others I’d not yet encountered. Although for me it was difficult to understand who many faces stood for, Rick appeared to have no such problem. He never asked for clarification concerning the drawings that fluttered down to him, and would write his words into the bubbles without any hesitation.

  I soon understood that the words Rick wrote inside the bubbles represented the thoughts, sometimes the speech, of the picture people, and that as such, his task carried some danger. From the start, I worried that something Josie drew, or something Rick wrote, would bring tension. But during this phase, the bubble game seemed to result only in enjoyment and reminiscences, and I’d see them reflected in the glass, laughing and pointing forefingers at each other. Had they concentrated solely on their game as they first played it – if they’d kept their conversation focused just on the pictures – perhaps the tensions wouldn’t have leaked in. But a
s Josie continued to sketch, and Rick to fill the bubbles, they began to converse about topics unrelated to the pictures.

  One sunny afternoon, with the Sun’s pattern touching Rick’s feet where he sat against the modern wardrobe, Josie said:

  ‘You know, Ricky, I’m wondering if you’re getting jealous. The way you always keep asking about this portrait.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You mean you’re doing an actual portrait of me up there?’

  ‘No, Ricky. I mean the way you keep bringing up my portrait. The one this guy’s doing of me up in the city.’

  ‘Oh that. Well, I did once mention it, I suppose. That’s hardly bringing it up all the time.’

  ‘You keep bringing it up. Twice just yesterday.’

  Rick’s writing hand paused, but he didn’t look up. ‘I suppose I’m curious. But how can anyone get jealous about your portrait getting done?’

  ‘Seems dumb. But you definitely sound that way.’

  For the next few moments they were silent, getting on with their respective tasks. Then Rick said:

  ‘I wouldn’t say I’m jealous. I’m concerned. This guy, this artist person. Everything you say about him sounds, well, creepy.’

  ‘He’s just doing my portrait, is all. He’s always respectful, always anxious not to tire me out.’

  ‘He never sounds right. You say I keep bringing this up. Well, that’s because each time I do, you say something else to make me think, oh my God, this is getting creepy.’

  ‘What’s creepy about it?’

  ‘For one thing, you’ve been to his studio, what, four times? But he never shows you anything. No rough sketches, nothing. All he seems to do is take photos up close. This piece of you, that piece of you. Is that what artists really do?’

  ‘He prefers photos because that way I don’t get exhausted sitting still for hours in the old-fashioned way. This way I’m only in there twenty minutes tops, each time. He takes the photos he needs stage by stage. And Mom’s always there. Look, would my mom hire some pervert to do my portrait?’