The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  Hoffman stared at me, the colour draining from his face. ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Ryder.’

  ‘So I must ask you’ – I managed to control my voice a little – ‘please. Kindly lead me to this annexe without further delay.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Ryder.’ He laughed oddly. ‘I understand perfectly. After all, these are just ordinary citizens. What need is there for someone such as yourself …’ Then he collected himself and said firmly: ‘This way, Mr Ryder, if you’d care to follow me.’

  24

  We walked a little way further along the corridor, then crossed a large laundry room containing several growling machines. Hoffman then ushered me through a narrow exit and I stepped out to find the double doors of the drawing room facing me.

  ‘We’ll take a short cut through here,’ Hoffman said.

  As soon as we entered the drawing room, I understood better his earlier reluctance to clear the room for me. It was packed to overflowing with people, laughing and talking, some of them dressed very flamboyantly, and my first thought was that we had stumbled into a private party. But as we slowly made our way through the crowd, I could make out several distinct groups. Some exuberant locals were occupying one section of the room. Another group appeared to be comprised of rich young Americans – many of whom were singing in unison some college anthem; while in yet another area a group of Japanese men had drawn several tables together and were also carrying on boisterously. Curiously, though these groups were clearly separate, there appeared to be much interaction between them. All around me, people were wandering from table to table, slapping one another on the back, taking photographs of each other and passing plates of sandwiches back and forth. A harassed-looking waiter in a white uniform was going among them with a coffee jug in each hand. I thought to look for the piano, but found myself too busy squeezing past people in an effort to keep up with Hoffman. Eventually I reached the other side of the drawing room where Hoffman was holding open another door for me.

  I went through into a passageway, one end of which was open to the outdoors. The next moment I stepped out into a small sunny car park, which I quickly recognised as the one Hoffman had led me to the night we had driven to Brodsky’s banquet. Hoffman ushered me towards a large black car, and a few minutes later we were moving slowly through the lunch-time congestion.

  ‘The traffic in this town,’ Hoffman sighed. ‘Mr Ryder, would you like the air-conditioning? Are you sure? My goodness, look at this traffic. Thankfully we won’t have to put up with it for long. We’ll take the south road.’

  Sure enough, at the next traffic lights Hoffman turned down a road on which the vehicles were moving much more smoothly, and in no time we were travelling at a good speed across open countryside.

  ‘Ah yes, this is the wonderful thing about our town,’ Hoffman said. ‘No need to drive far before you find yourself in pleasant surroundings. You see, the air is improving already.’

  I said something in agreement and fell silent, not wishing to be drawn into conversation at this point. For one thing I had begun to have misgivings about my earlier decision to perform Asbestos and Fibre. The more I thought about it, the more some recollection seemed to come back to me of my mother once expressing her irritation specifically with this composition. I considered for a moment the possibility of something altogether different, something like Kazan’s Wind Tunnels, but then remembered the piece would take two and a quarter hours to perform. There was no doubting that the short, intense Asbestos and Fibre was the obvious choice. Nothing else of that length would provide quite the same opportunity to demonstrate such a wide range of moods. And certainly, on the surface at least, it was a piece one could expect my mother very much to appreciate. And yet there was still something – admittedly nothing more than the shadow of a recollection – that prevented me from feeling at ease with the choice.

  Apart from a lorry far up ahead in the distance, we appeared now to be alone on the road. I watched the farmland going by on either side of us and tried again to recall this elusive fragment of memory.

  ‘We won’t be long now, Mr Ryder,’ Hoffman said beside me. ‘I’m sure you’ll find the practice room in the annexe much more to your liking. It’s very tranquil, an ideal place to practise for an hour or two. Very soon now, you’ll be lost in your music. How I envy you, sir! You’ll soon be browsing among your musical ideas. Just as if you were wandering through some magnificent gallery where by some miracle you’d been told you could pick up a shopping basket and take home whatever you fancied. Forgive me’ – he gave a laugh – ‘but I’ve always entertained just such a fantasy. My wife and I, walking together through some wonderful gallery full of the most beautiful objects. Apart from ourselves, the place is deserted. Not even an attendant. And yes, there is a shopping basket on my arm, we have been told we can take whatever we wish. There would be certain rules, naturally. We could not take more than could be held in the basket. And of course, we would not be permitted to sell anything later on – not that we would dream of abusing such a sublime opportunity in that way. So there we would be, my wife and I, walking together through this heavenly hall. This gallery, it would be part of some large country mansion somewhere, perhaps overlooking vast areas of land. The balcony would have a spectacular view. And great statues of lions at each corner. My wife and I, we would stand there gazing over the scenery, discussing which items we should take. In this fantasy, for some reason, there is always a storm about to break. The sky is a slate grey, and yet somehow the shadows are all as though the brightest summer sun were shining on us. Creepers, ivy, all over the terrace. And just my wife and I, our supermarket basket still empty, discussing our choice.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Forgive me, Mr Ryder, I’m being indulgent. It’s just that this is how I imagine it must be for someone like yourself, someone of your genius, left at a piano for an hour or so in tranquil surroundings. That this is how it must be for the inspired. You will wander amidst your sublime musical ideas. You will examine this one, shake your head, put it back. Beautiful as it is, it isn’t quite what you were looking for. Ha! How beautiful it must be inside your head, Mr Ryder! How I would love to be able to accompany you on the journey you will embark on the moment your fingers touch the keys. But of course, you will go where I can’t possibly follow. How I envy you, sir!’

  I muttered something nondescript and we travelled on in silence for a while. Then Hoffman said:

  ‘My wife, in the early days before we married. I think that’s how she saw our life together. Something like that, Mr Ryder. That we would enter arm in arm some beautiful deserted museum with our shopping basket. Though of course she would never have seen it in quite such fanciful terms. You see, my wife comes from a long line of talented people. Her mother was a very fine painter. Her grandfather one of the greatest poets in the Flemish language of his generation. For some unaccountable reason, he was neglected, but that alters nothing. Oh, there are others in the family, very talented, all of them. Being brought up in a family like that, she always took beauty and talent for granted. How could it have been otherwise? I tell you, sir, it led to certain misunderstandings. In fact it led to a very large misunderstanding early in our relationship.’

  He fell silent again and for a while stared at the road unwinding before us.

  ‘It was music that first brought us together,’ he said eventually. ‘We would sit in the cafés in Herrengasse and talk about music. Or rather, I talked. I suppose I talked and talked. I remember once walking through the Volksgarten with her and describing in great detail, perhaps for a full hour, my feelings about Mullery’s Ventilations. Of course, we were young, we had time to indulge ourselves in such things. Even in those days, she didn’t talk so much, but she listened to what I had to say and I could see she was deeply moved. Oh yes. Incidentally, Mr Ryder, I say we were young, but then I suppose neither of us was as young as all that. We were both the sort of age when we might already have been married for some time. Perhaps she was feeling some
sense of urgency, who knows? In any case we talked of getting married, I was so in love with her, Mr Ryder, from the first I was very much in love with her. And she was so beautiful then. Even now, if you saw her, you’d see how very beautiful she must have been then. But beautiful in a special sort of way. You could see immediately she had a sensitivity to the finer things. I don’t mind admitting to you, I was very much in love with her. I can’t tell you what it meant to me when she agreed to marry me. I thought my life would be a joy, a continuous unbroken joy. But then it was just a few days later, a few days after she agreed to marry me, she came to visit me in my room for the first time. I was at that time working at the Hotel Burgenhof, and I was renting a room nearby in Glockenstrasse, beside the canal. Not exactly desirable, but a perfectly fine room. There were good bookshelves on one wall and an oak desk at the window. And as I say, it looked over the canal. It was the winter, a splendid sunny winter’s morning, there was a beautiful light coming into the room. Of course, I had tidied everything, made it just so. She came in and looked around, she looked all around. Then she asked quietly: “But where do you compose your music?” I remember that very well, that actual instant, Mr Ryder, I remember it very vividly. I see it as a sort of turning point in my life. I don’t exaggerate, sir. In many ways, I see it now, my present life started from that moment. Christine, standing by the window, that January light, her hand on the desk, just a few fingers as though to steady herself. She looked very beautiful. And she asked me that question with genuine surprise. You see, sir, she was puzzled. “But where do you compose your music? There’s no piano.” I didn’t know what to say. I saw in an instant there had been a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding of catastrophically cruel proportions. Can you blame me, sir, if I felt the temptation to save myself? I wouldn’t have told an out and out lie. Oh no, not even to save myself. But it was a very difficult moment. I think of it now and I feel a shudder go through me, even now as I tell you this. “But where do you compose your music?” “No, there’s no piano,” I said cheerfully. “There’s nothing. No manuscript paper, nothing. I’ve decided not to compose again for two years.” That’s what I said to her. I was very quick, I said it with no outward sign of distress or hesitation. I even gave a specific date on which I planned to return to my composing. But for the time being, no, I wasn’t composing. What could I say, sir? Did you expect me to look at this woman, this woman I loved desperately, who had only a few days earlier agreed to marry me, did you expect me to take it lying down? To say to her: “Oh dear, it’s all been a misunderstanding. Naturally I release you from any obligation. Please, let’s part herewith …” Of course I could not, sir. You might think I was dishonest. That’s too harsh. In any case, you see, at that point in my life what I said wasn’t entirely a lie. As it happened, I had every intention of taking up an instrument one day, and yes, I wished to try my hand at composition. So it wasn’t a complete lie. I was disingenuous, yes, I admit it. But what else could I do? I couldn’t let her go. So I told her I had made a decision to stop composing for two calendar years. In order to clear my head and my emotions, some such thing, I remember talking about it for some time. And she listened to me, taking it all in, nodding her beautiful, intelligent head in sympathy to this nonsense I was telling her. But what could I do, sir? And you know, after that morning, she never mentioned my composing again, never in all these years. Incidentally, Mr Ryder, I can see you’re about to ask, I will tell you, I will assure you. I had never before that morning, never at any time during our courtship, during all our walks along the canal, the times we met for coffee in the cafés on Herrengasse, I never, never, intentionally led her to believe I composed music. That I was perpetually in love with music, that it fuelled my spirit every day, that I heard it in my heart each morning I awoke, yes, these things I implied and they were true. But I never deliberately misled her, sir. Oh no, never. It was simply a terrible misunderstanding. She, coming from the family that she comes from, inevitably she assumed … Who knows, sir? But until that morning in my room, I had never uttered a single word to imply such a thing. Well, as I say, Mr Ryder, she never mentioned the matter again, not once. We married in due course, bought a small apartment over Friedrich Square, I found a good position at the Ambassadors. We began our life together and for a time we were reasonably happy. Of course, I never forgot about … about the misunderstanding. But it didn’t worry me as much as you might suppose. You see, as I said before, in those days, well, I had every intention, when the time came, when there was an opportunity, to take up my instrument. Perhaps the violin. I had certain plans then, such as you do when you are young, when you don’t realise how limited time is, when you don’t realise there’s a shell built around you, a hard shell so you can’t – get – out!’ Suddenly he took both hands off the steering wheel and pushed upwards against an invisible dome around him. The gesture contained more weariness than anger, and the next second he let his hands fall back onto the wheel again. He went on with a sigh: ‘No, I didn’t know about such things then. I still hoped I would become in time the sort of person she believed me to be. Indeed, sir, I believed I would succeed in becoming such a person precisely because of her presence, because of her influence. And the first year of our marriage, Mr Ryder, as I say, we were reasonably happy. We bought that apartment, it was perfectly adequate. There were days when I thought she’d realised about the misunderstanding and that she didn’t mind. I don’t know, every sort of thought ran through my mind in those days. Then in time, naturally, the date I’d mentioned, the two-year point when I was to return to composing, it came and went. I watched her carefully, but she said nothing about it. She was quiet, that was true, but she was always quiet. She said nothing, did nothing unusual. But I suppose it was from around that time, around the time of the two-year mark, the tension came into our lives. It was a sort of low-lying tension, it seemed always to be there, however happily we might spend an evening, it would still be there. I would arrange little surprise outings to her favourite restaurant. Or bring home flowers or her favourite perfumes. Yes, I worked diligently to delight her. But there was always this tension. For a lot of the time I managed not to notice it. I told myself I was imagining it. I suppose I didn’t wish to admit it was there and growing by the day. I only knew for sure it had been there the day it went away. Yes, it went away and then I realised what it had been. It was one afternoon, we’d been married three years by then, I came in from work, I’d brought her a little present, a book of poetry I happened to know she was wanting. She hadn’t explicitly said so, but I had guessed it. I came into the apartment and found her looking down at the square. You could see all the people returning from work at that time of the afternoon. It was a noisy apartment, but not so bad when one is relatively young. I handed her the volume. “Just a small gift,” I said to her. She continued to look out of the window. She was kneeling up on the sofa, her arms resting on the back of it so she could cradle her head as she gazed out. Then she took the book from me, very wearily, and without saying a word went on looking down at the square. I remained standing in the middle of the room waiting for her to say something, to acknowledge my gift. Perhaps she wasn’t well. I stood waiting with some concern. Then finally she turned round and looked at me. Not unkindly, oh no, but she looked at me, it was a particular look. The look of someone confirming with her eyes what she had been thinking. Yes, that’s what it was, and I knew then she had finally seen through me. And that was when I realised, realised what the tension had been. I had been waiting, all that time, I had been waiting for this moment. And you know, it may seem odd, but it was a huge relief. At last, at last, she had seen through me. Oh, what a relief! I felt so liberated. I actually exclaimed: “Ha!” and smiled. She must have thought it odd and the next second I pulled myself together. I realised immediately – oh yes, my feeling of liberation was all too brief – I realised immediately what new dragons I had to wrestle and in a moment I was all caution. I saw I would have to work doubly, triply hard if I were to k
eep her. But you see, I still thought then that if I worked at it, even though she had realised, if I worked very hard at it, I could yet win her. What a fool I was! Do you know, for several years after that day, I continued to believe it, I actually believed I was succeeding? Oh, I attended very carefully. I did all in my power to please her. And I never grew complacent. I realised that her tastes, her preferences, were bound to change with time and so I watched every nuance, ready to anticipate any change. Oh yes, even though I say so myself, Mr Ryder, for those few years, I performed my role as her husband quite magnificently. If a composer she had liked for years was beginning to please her less, I would pick it up instantly, almost before she had articulated the change to herself. The next time the composer was mentioned, I would say quickly, even as she was hesitantly thinking of expressing her doubt, I would say quickly: “Of course, he’s not what he was. Please, we won’t bother to go to the concert tonight. You’ll find it tiresome.” And I would be rewarded by the unmistakable look of relief on her face. Oh yes, I was extremely attentive, and as I say, sir, I believed it. I fooled myself, I loved her so, I fooled myself into believing I was slowly winning her. For just a few years, I actually felt confident. And then it all changed, all changed in one evening. I saw how inevitable it all was, how all my great efforts could only add up to nothing. I saw it all in one evening, sir. We’d been invited to Mr Fischer’s house, he’d organised a little reception for Jan Piotrowski following his concert here. We were just starting to get invited to such things then, I was beginning to earn a certain respect here for my keen appreciation of the arts. Well, in any case, there we were at Mr Fischer’s house, in his fine drawing room. Not a large gathering, forty at the most, it was a very relaxed sort of evening. I don’t know if you ever met Piotrowski, sir. He turned out to be a very pleasant man indeed, most skilled at putting everyone at their ease. The conversation flowed very easily, we were all enjoying ourselves. Then at one point I went over to the table where there was a buffet, and I was helping myself to a few things when I realised Mr Piotrowski was standing there right next to me. I was still quite young then, I hadn’t so much experience of celebrities, and I admit, yes, I was a little nervous. But then Mr Piotrowski smiled pleasantly, asked me if I was enjoying the evening, very quickly put me at my ease. And then he said: “I was just speaking to your most charming wife. She was telling me about her great love of Baudelaire. I had to confess to her I didn’t know Baudelaire’s work in any depth. She very correctly reprimanded me for this deplorable state of affairs. Oh, she made me thoroughly ashamed. I mean to put it right without delay. Your wife’s love for the poet is absolutely infectious!” To which I nodded and said: “Yes, of course. She’s always loved Baudelaire.” “And with such passion,” Piotrowski said. “She made me thoroughly ashamed.” And that was all that took place, all that was said between us. But you see, Mr Ryder, my point is this. I had never known of her love of Baudelaire! Never even suspected it! You see what I am saying. She had never revealed this passion to me! And when Piotrowski said this to me, something fell into place. All of a sudden I saw clearly something I’d been trying not to see over the years. I mean, that she had always hidden certain parts of herself from me. Preserving them, as though contact with my coarseness would damage them. As I say, sir, I had perhaps always suspected it. That there was a whole side to herself she was preserving from me. And who could blame her? A woman of great sensitivity, brought up in a household such as hers. She had not hesitated to tell Piotrowski, but at no point during our years together had she once hinted of this love of Baudelaire. For the next several minutes I wandered about the reception hardly knowing what I was saying to people, just mouthing pleasantries, in a turmoil inside. Then I looked across the room, it must have been half an hour after the conversation with Piotrowski, I looked across the room and I saw her, my wife, laughing happily on the sofa beside Piotrowski. There was nothing flirtatious, you understand. Oh no, my wife has always been meticulous where propriety is concerned. But she was laughing with an ease I realised I had not seen since our walks together along the canal in the days before we were married. That’s to say, before she realised. It was a long sofa and there were two others sitting on it, and some people were also sitting on the floor in order to be near Piotrowski. But Piotrowski had just spoken to my wife and she was laughing happily. But it was not just this laugh, Mr Ryder, that spoke volumes to me. As I watched, I was standing on the other side of the room, as I watched, what happened next was this. Piotrowski until that point had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped around his knee, like so! As he laughed and made some remark to my wife, he began to recline, yes, as though he wished simply to sit back in the sofa. And as he began to recline, very swiftly, very deftly, my wife took a cushion from behind her and placed it for Piotrowski, so that by the time his head touched the back of the sofa, the cushion was there. It was done so swiftly, almost without thinking, a very graceful movement, Mr Ryder. And when I saw it, I felt my heart breaking. It was a movement so full of natural respect, a desire to be solicitous, to please in a small way. That little action, it revealed a whole realm of her heart she kept tightly closed to me. And I realised at that moment how deluded I had been. I realised then what I have known and never doubted since. I mean, sir, I realised she would leave me. Sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. Ever since that evening, I’ve known it.’