The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  The air felt wonderfully refreshing after the stuffiness of the café, and had I not been so short of time I would have strolled about the square for a few moments to clear my head. As it was, I set off purposefully in search of the concert hall.

  For the next several minutes I hurried through the empty streets, past the closed cafés and shops, without once catching sight of the domed roof. The Old Town under the street lamps had a distinct charm about it, but the longer I went on walking the harder it became to suppress a sense of panic. I had expected, not unreasonably, to encounter a few taxis cruising the night; at the least a few people, perhaps drifting out of some late-night establishment, from whom I could get directions. But apart from some stray cats I appeared to be the only thing awake for miles around.

  I crossed a tram line, then found myself walking along the embankment of a canal. There was a chilly wind blowing across the water and, with still no sign of the concert hall, I could not avoid the feeling that I was getting myself thoroughly lost. I had decided to try a turning a little way in front of me – a narrow street going off at a fine angle – when I heard footsteps and saw a woman emerge from out of it.

  I had grown so accustomed to the idea of the streets being completely deserted that I stopped in my tracks at the sight of her. My surprise had been compounded, moreover, by the fact that she was dressed in a flowing evening gown. The woman for her part had also stopped, but she seemed then to recognise me and with a smile started towards me again. As she stepped further into the lamplight, I saw she was in her late forties, perhaps even her early fifties. She was slightly plump, but carried herself with considerable grace.

  ‘Good evening, madam,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you might help me. I was looking for the concert hall. Am I going in the right direction?’

  The woman had now come right up to me. Smiling again, she said:

  ‘No, actually it’s over that way. I’ve just come from it. I was walking to take the air, but I’ll gladly guide you back there, Mr Ryder. If you don’t object, that is.’

  ‘It would be a great pleasure, madam. But I don’t want to cut short your walk.’

  ‘No, no. I’ve already been walking for nearly an hour. It’s time I got back. I should really have waited and arrived with all the other guests. But I had this foolish notion I should be there through all the preparations, just in case I was needed. Of course, there’s nothing for me to do. Mr Ryder, please excuse me, I’ve not introduced myself. I’m Christine Hoffman. My husband is the manager of your hotel.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs Hoffman. Your husband has told me a great deal about you.’

  I regretted this remark as soon as it had left my mouth. I glanced quickly at Mrs Hoffman, but could no longer see her face clearly in the light.

  ‘It’s this way, Mr Ryder,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

  The sleeves of her evening dress billowed as we started to walk. I coughed and said:

  ‘May I take it, from what you say, Mrs Hoffman, that proceedings are not yet fully under way at the concert hall? That the guests and so on, they’ve not yet all arrived?’

  ‘The guests? Oh no. I shouldn’t imagine any guests will arrive for at least another hour.’

  ‘Ah. Fine.’

  We continued at an easy pace along the canal, both of us turning from time to time to gaze at the reflection of the lamps in the water.

  ‘I was wondering, Mr Ryder,’ she said eventually, ‘if my husband, when he spoke about me, if he left you with the impression that I was … a rather cold person. I wonder if he left you with that impression.’

  I gave a short laugh. ‘The overwhelming impression he left me with, Mrs Hoffman, was that he’s extremely devoted to you.’

  She continued to walk in silence and I was not sure she had registered my reply. After a while she said:

  ‘When I was young, Mr Ryder, no one would ever have thought to describe me in such a way. As a cold person. Certainly when I was a child, I was anything but cold. Even now, I can’t think of myself like that.’

  I mumbled something vaguely diplomatic. Then, as we turned away from the canal into a narrow side-street, I saw at last the domed roof of the concert hall illuminated against the night sky.

  ‘Even these days,’ Mrs Hoffman said beside me, ‘early in the morning, I have these dreams. Always early in the morning. The dreams are always about … about tenderness. Nothing much happens in them, they’re usually no more than little fragments. I might be watching my son, Stephan, for instance. Watching him play in the garden. We were very close once, Mr Ryder, when he was small. I’d comfort him, share his little triumphs with him. We were so close when he was small. Or sometimes a dream might be about my husband. The other morning, I dreamt my husband and I were unpacking a suitcase together. We were in some bedroom and we were unpacking it onto the bed. We might have been in an hotel room abroad or perhaps we were at home. In any case, we were unpacking this suitcase together and there was this … this comfortable feeling between us. There we were, performing this task together. He’d take something out, then I’d take something out. Talking all the time, about nothing special, just exchanging conversation while we unpacked. It was only the morning before last, I had this dream. Then I woke up and I lay there looking at the dawn through the curtains, feeling very happy. I said to myself, it might soon really be like that. Later that very day, even, we would make a moment just like that one. We wouldn’t necessarily unpack a suitcase, of course. But something, we’d do something later in the day, there’d be some chance. I fell asleep again, telling myself this, feeling very happy. Then the morning came. It’s an odd thing, Mr Ryder, it happens like this every time. As soon as the day starts, this other thing, this force, it comes and takes over. And whatever I do, everything between us just goes another way, not the way I want it. I fight against it, Mr Ryder, but over the years I’ve steadily lost ground. It’s something that’s … that’s happening to me. My husband tries very hard, tries to help me, but it’s no use. By the time I go down to breakfast, all the things I felt in the dream, they’ve long since gone.’

  Some parked cars on the pavement obliged us to walk in single file and Mrs Hoffman moved a few steps ahead of me. When I drew up alongside her again, I asked:

  ‘What do you suppose it is? This force you talk of?’

  She laughed suddenly. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound quite so supernatural, Mr Ryder. Of course, the obvious answer would be that it’s all to do with Mr Christoff. That’s what I believed for some time. Certainly, that’s what my husband believes, I know. Like many people in this city I thought it simply a matter of replacing Mr Christoff in our affections with someone more substantial. But lately I’m not at all sure. I’m coming to believe it might be to do with me. A sort of illness I have. It might even be part of the ageing process. After all, we get older and parts of us start to die. Perhaps we start to die emotionally too. Do you think that’s possible, Mr Ryder? I do fear it, I do fear that might be the truth of it. That we shall see off Mr Christoff, only to find, in my particular case at least, that nothing has changed.’

  We turned another corner. The pavements were very narrow and we moved into the centre of the street. I had the impression she was waiting for my response, and said eventually:

  ‘Mrs Hoffman, in my opinion, whatever the facts about the ageing process, I would say it’s essential for you to keep up your spirits. To not give in to this … whatever it is.’

  Mrs Hoffman looked up at the night sky and walked on for a while without replying. Then she said: ‘These lovely dreams in the early morning. When the day starts and none of it happens, I often blame myself bitterly. But I assure you, I haven’t given up yet, Mr Ryder. If I gave up, there’d be very little left in my life. I refuse just yet to let go of my dreams. I still want one day a warm and close family. But it’s not just that, Mr Ryder. You see, I may be quite silly in believing this, perhaps you can tell me if I am. But one day, you see, I hope to catch it out, this wh
atever it is. I hope to catch it out and then it won’t matter, all these years it’s been steadily working on me, they’ll all be wiped away. I have this feeling, that all it will take will be one moment, even a tiny moment, provided it’s the correct one. Like a cord suddenly snapping and a thick curtain dropping to the floor to reveal a whole new world, a world full of sunlight and warmth. Mr Ryder, you look utterly incredulous. Am I completely mad to believe this? That despite all these years, just one moment, the right moment, will change it all?’

  What she had taken for incredulity had been nothing of the sort. Rather, while she had been speaking, I had remembered about Stephan’s forthcoming recital and no doubt my excitement had made itself obvious. I now said, perhaps a little eagerly:

  ‘Mrs Hoffman, I don’t wish to raise any false hopes. But it’s possible, just possible, you’ll experience something very soon, something that might well be such a moment, exactly of the sort you talk of. It’s just possible you’ll encounter such a moment in the very near future. Something that will surprise you, force you to re-assess everything and see everything in a better, fresher light. Something that will indeed wipe away all these bad years. I don’t wish to raise false hopes, I’m merely saying it’s possible. Such a moment might even occur tonight, so it’s essential you keep up your spirits.’

  I stopped myself, the thought striking me that I was tempting fate. After all, although I had been impressed by the snatch of Stephan’s playing I had caught, for all I knew the young man was perfectly capable of crumbling under pressure. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I regretted having intimated as much as I had. When I looked at Mrs Hoffman, however, I noticed my words had neither surprised nor excited her. After a few moments she said:

  ‘When you found me wandering these streets just now, Mr Ryder, I wasn’t simply taking the air as I pretended. I was trying to prepare myself. Because the possibility you mention, it naturally did occur to me. A night like tonight. Yes, many things are possible. So I was preparing myself. And I don’t mind confessing to you, I am at this moment a little frightened. Because you see, just occasionally in the past, such moments have come and I’ve not been strong enough to seize them. Who knows how many more such chances there will be? So you see, Mr Ryder, I was doing my best to prepare myself. Ah, here we are. This is the rear of the building. This entrance will take you into the kitchens. I’ll show you to the performers’ entrance. I won’t come in myself just yet. I think I need to take a little more air.’

  ‘I’m very glad to have met you, Mrs Hoffman. It’s kind of you to have shown me here at such a time for you. I do hope everything goes well for you tonight.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ryder. And you too, you have a lot to think about, I’m sure. It’s been delightful to meet you.’

  29

  As Mrs Hoffman disappeared into the night, I turned and hurried towards the doorway she had indicated. I did so telling myself that I should heed fully the lesson of the false alarm I had just experienced; that it was imperative I did not let anything further deflect me from the crucial tasks in front of me. In fact, at this moment, on the point at last of entering the concert hall building, everything seemed suddenly very simple to me. The fact of the matter was that finally, after all these years, I was about to perform once more before my parents. The priority above all else, then, was to ensure that my performance was the richest, the most overwhelming of which I was capable. By comparison, even the question-and-answer session was a secondary consideration. All the setbacks, all the chaos of the preceding days would prove to have been of no consequence whatsoever provided I could now achieve, on this evening, my one central objective.

  The broad white door was dimly illuminated from above by a single night light. I had to lean my weight on it before it would open and I entered the building with a slight stumble.

  Although Mrs Hoffman had been confident this was the performers’ entrance, my immediate impression was that I had come in through the kitchens after all. I was in a wide bare corridor lit harshly with fluorescent ceiling strips. From all around came the sound of voices calling and shouting, the clanging of heavy metallic objects, the hissing of water and steam. Directly in front of me was a catering trolley beside which two men in uniforms were arguing furiously. One man was holding a long piece of paper which had unrolled almost to his feet, and was repeatedly thrusting his finger at it. I thought about interrupting them to ask where I might find Hoffman – my first concern now being to carry out an inspection of the auditorium, and of the piano itself, before the public began to arrive – but they seemed lost in their argument and I decided to walk on.

  The corridor curved gradually. I encountered a good many people, but they all seemed very busy and somewhat fraught. Most of them, dressed in white uniforms, were hurrying with distracted expressions, carrying heavy sacks or else pushing trolleys. I did not feel inclined to stop any of them and carried on down the corridor assuming I would eventually reach some other section of the building where I would find the dressing rooms – and hopefully Hoffman or someone else who could show me the facilities. But then I realised a voice behind me was calling my name and turned to find a man running after me. He looked familiar, and then I recognised the bearded porter who had opened the dancing at the café earlier in the evening.

  ‘Mr Ryder,’ he said panting, ‘thank God I’ve found you at last. This is the third time I’ve gone round the building. He’s holding out well, but we’re all anxious to get him to hospital and he’s still insisting on not budging until he’s spoken to you. Please, it’s this way, sir. He’s holding out well, though, God bless him.’

  ‘Who’s holding out well? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s this way, sir. We’d better go quickly, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry, Mr Ryder, I’m not explaining anything. It’s Gustav, he’s been taken ill. I wasn’t here myself when it happened, but a couple of the boys, Wilhelm and Hubert, they were working here with him, helping with the preparations, and they sent out the word. Of course as soon as I heard I sped over here and so did all the other boys. Apparently Gustav had been working very well, but then he went to the washroom and didn’t come out for a long time. This not being at all like Gustav, Wilhelm went in and had a look. It seems, sir, when he went in, Gustav was standing over a sink, his head bowed over it. He wasn’t so ill at that stage, he told Wilhelm he felt a bit giddy, that was all, and not to make a fuss. Wilhelm being Wilhelm, he wasn’t sure what to do, especially with Gustav saying not to make a fuss, and so he went and got Hubert. Hubert took one look and decided Gustav had to lie down somewhere. So they got on either side of him to help him, and that’s when they realised he’d passed out, still on his feet, gripping the sink. He was gripping the edges, really gripping them, and Wilhelm says they had to prise off his fingers one by one. Then Gustav seemed to come to a bit and they each took an arm and brought him out of there. And Gustav, he was saying again how he didn’t want any fuss, how he was all right and could carry on working. But Hubert wouldn’t hear of it and they put him in one of the dressing rooms, one of the empty ones.’

  He had been leading the way down the corridor at a considerable pace, talking all the time over his shoulder, but now broke off as we dodged past a trolley.

  ‘This is all very disturbing,’ I said. ‘Exactly when did this all happen?’

  ‘I suppose it must have been a couple of hours ago. He didn’t seem so bad at first and insisted all he needed was a few minutes to get his breath back. But Hubert was worried and sent out the word and we were all round here in no time, every one of us. We found a mattress for him to lie on, and a blanket, but then he seemed to get worse and we all talked about it and said he should get proper help. But Gustav wouldn’t hear of it, he suddenly got very determined and said he had to speak to you, sir. He was very insistent, he said he’d go along to hospital soon enough if that’s what we decided, but not before he’d spoken with you. And there he was getting worse right before our eyes. But there was no r
easoning with him, sir, and so we went out searching for you again. Thank God I found you. It’s this one here, the one on the end.’

  I had imagined the corridor to be a continuous circuit, but I now saw that it came to an end at a cream-coloured wall ahead of us. The last door before the wall was ajar and, stopping at the threshold, the bearded porter peered cautiously into the room. Then he gestured to me and I stepped in after him.

  There were a dozen or so people just inside the doorway who all turned to us, then hastily stood aside. I supposed these to be the other porters, but I did not pause to look at them carefully, my gaze being drawn to Gustav’s figure on the other side of the small room.

  He was lying on a mattress across the tiled floor, a blanket over his body. One of the porters was squatting down beside him saying something softly, but on seeing me stood up. Then within a moment the room had emptied, the door had closed behind me and I was alone with Gustav.

  The small dressing room contained no furniture, not even a wooden chair. It was windowless and, though the ventilation grid near the ceiling was emitting a low hum, the air felt stale. The floor felt cold and hard, and the overhead light had either been extinguished or was not working, leaving the bulbs around the make-up mirror as our only source of light. I could see well enough, though, how Gustav’s face had gone an odd grey colour. He was lying on his back, quite still except when every now and then some wave passed over him causing him to press his head back deeper into the mattress. He had smiled at me the moment I had entered, but had said nothing, no doubt saving himself for when we were alone. He now said, in a voice that was weak, but otherwise surprisingly composed:

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir, to have dragged you here like this. It’s most galling this should have happened, and tonight of all nights. Just when you’re about to do your great favour for us.’