The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  It was just at this point I suddenly remembered again the many things needing to be done before my performance, and it occurred to me that, with the doctor having arrived, this was as good a moment as any for me to slip away. I moved quietly back out into the corridor and was about to set off in search of Hoffman when I heard a movement behind me and felt my arm being grasped roughly.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Sophie asked in an angry whisper.

  ‘I’m sorry, but you clearly don’t understand. I’ve got a lot to do now. There’s going to be an electronic scoreboard, everything. There’s an awful lot depending on me.’ I said this, all the time trying to free my arm from her grip.

  ‘But Boris. He needs you here. We both need you here.’

  ‘Look, you obviously have no idea! My parents, don’t you see? My parents will be arriving at any moment! There’s a thousand things I have to do! You’ve no idea, you’ve clearly no idea at all!’ I finally wrenched myself free. ‘Look, I’ll come back,’ I called in a conciliatory tone over my shoulder as I hurried away. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

  34

  I was still making my way rapidly along the corridor when I became aware of several figures standing in a line against the wall. Glancing towards them, I saw they were all wearing kitchen overalls and, as far as I could make out, were each waiting their turn to climb into a small black cupboard. Growing curious, I slowed my pace, then eventually turned and walked towards them.

  The cupboard, I could now see, was tall and narrow like a broom closet and fixed to the wall a half-metre or so off the ground. A short series of steps led up to it, and from the demeanour of those in the queue I supposed the cupboard contained a urinal or perhaps a drinking fountain. But as I came closer I saw that the man currently at the top of the steps was bent right forward with his rear protruding, to all appearances rummaging busily through the cupboard’s contents. Those in the queue, meanwhile, were gesticulating and calling up impatiently for him to finish his turn. Then, as the man came out of the cupboard and was looking cautiously behind him for the top step, someone in the queue let out an exclamation and pointed in my direction. All heads turned to me and the next moment the queue had dissolved as everyone hurried to make way for me. The man who had been in the cupboard came down the steps as quickly as he could, then, bowing to me, made an ushering motion up to the cupboard.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘but I believe there were others already waiting.’

  There was a storm of protest and several hands virtually pushed me up the short staircase.

  The narrow door of the cupboard had fallen shut, and when I opened it – it pulled towards me, obliging me to balance precariously on the top step – I discovered to my surprise that I was looking down onto the auditorium from a vast height. The entire back of the cupboard was missing and, were I reckless enough, I saw that I could, by leaning out and stretching a little, touch the concert hall ceiling. The view certainly was commanding, but the whole arrangement struck me as idiotically hazardous. The cupboard, if anything, actually leaned forward, encouraging a careless spectator to totter towards the edge. Meanwhile only a thin cord tied at waist height had been provided to resist a plunge down into the audience. I could not see any obvious reason for the cupboard – other than perhaps that it was part of some system which allowed flags and such to be suspended across the hall.

  I moved my feet carefully until they were both inside the cupboard, then, gripping the door frame tightly, took a look at the scene below me.

  Around three-quarters of the seats were now occupied, but the lights were still up and everywhere people were chatting and greeting one another. Some were waving to those in distant rows, others crowding the aisles, talking and laughing. All the while more people were arriving by the two main doors. The array of gleaming music stands in the orchestra pit was catching the light, while on the stage itself – the curtains had been left open – a solitary grand piano was waiting with its lid raised. As I looked down at this instrument on which I was soon to give this most momentous of performances, the thought struck me that this was as close as I was now likely to come to carrying out an inspection of the conditions, and I again felt frustration about the whole way I had organised my time since arriving in the city.

  Then, as I watched, Stephan Hoffman came onto the stage from the wings. There had been no announcement and the lights did not dim even slightly. Stephan’s manner, moreover, lacked any sense of ceremony. He walked briskly to the piano with a preoccupied air, not glancing towards the audience. It was hardly surprising then that most people in the hall displayed nothing more than mild curiosity and went on with their talking and greeting. Certainly there was some surprise when he went into the explosive opening of Glass Passions, but even then the large majority seemed to conclude, after a few seconds, that the young man was simply testing out the piano or else the amplification system. Then, only several bars in, something seemed to catch Stephan’s eye and his playing lost all intensity, as though someone had suddenly pulled out a plug. His gaze followed something moving through the crowd, until eventually he was playing with his head twisted right away from the piano. I then saw he was watching a couple of figures leaving the auditorium and, leaning forward a little further, made out just in time Hoffman and his wife disappearing below me out of my angle of vision.

  Stephan stopped playing altogether and, swivelling right round on his stool, sat staring after his parents. This action appeared to remove any remaining doubts in the crowd that Stephan was engaged in a sound check. Indeed, for a moment he looked for all the world like someone awaiting signals from technicians on the other side of the hall, and no one paid any attention when he eventually rose from the stool and strode off the stage.

  Only when he had reached the wings did he allow himself to give in to the feeling of outrage now engulfing him. On the other hand, the notion that he had abandoned the stage after only a few bars had for the moment a sense of utter unreality about it, and he hardly gave it thought as he hurried down the wooden steps and through the series of backstage doors.

  When he emerged into the corridor it was busy with rushing stage-hands and catering staff. Stephan set off towards the lobby where he hoped to find his parents, but before he had gone far he spotted his father coming towards him, unaccompanied and wearing a preoccupied air. For his part the hotel manager did not notice Stephan until they were virtually about to collide. He then stopped and stared at his son with astonishment.

  ‘What? You’re not playing?’

  ‘Father, why did you and Mother leave like that? And where’s Mother now? Isn’t she feeling well?’

  ‘Your mother.’ Hoffman sighed gravely. ‘Your mother felt it was correct she should leave at this point. Of course, I escorted her and … Well, let me be truthful, Stephan. Let me say it. I tended to concur with her view. I didn’t resist the idea. You look at me like that, Stephan. Yes, I realise I’ve let you down. I promised you you could have this chance, this platform to play in front of the whole town, in front of all our friends and colleagues. Yes, yes, I promised you this. Perhaps it was you yourself who asked me, perhaps you caught me when I was distracted, who knows how it came about? It doesn’t matter. The point is I agreed, I promised, I didn’t want to go back on it, there, it was my fault. But you have to try and understand, Stephan, how it is for us, your parents. How difficult it is to have to witness …’

  ‘I’m going to talk to Mother,’ Stephan said and began to walk off. For a brief second Hoffman looked aghast, and then he grasped his son’s arm quite roughly, laughing self-consciously as he did so.

  ‘You can’t do that, Stephan. What I mean is, you see, your mother has gone to the ladies’ room. Ha ha. In any case, I think it best you let her sit things out, so to speak. But Stephan, what have you done? You should be playing. Ah, but perhaps that’s for the best in the end. A few embarrassing questions, but no more than that.’

  ‘Father, I’m going back to play. Pl
ease take your seat. And please persuade Mother to come back.’

  ‘Stephan, Stephan.’ Hoffman shook his head and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘I want you to know that we both think very highly of you. We’re both immensely proud. But this idea of yours, this idea you’ve had all your life. I mean about … about your music. Your mother and I, we’ve never had the heart to tell you. Naturally, we wanted you to have your dreams. But this. All this’ – he gestured in the direction of the auditorium – ‘this has all been a terrible mistake. We should never have let things get this far. You see, Stephan, the fact is this. Your playing is very charming. Extremely accomplished in its way. We’ve always enjoyed listening to you play at home. But music, serious music, music at the sort of level required tonight … that, you see, is another thing. No, no, don’t interrupt, I’m trying to tell you something, something I should have said long ago. You see, this is the civic concert hall. Audiences, concert audiences, they are not like friends and relatives who listen sympathetically in the living room. Real concert audiences, they are used to standards, professional standards. Stephan, how can I put this?’

  ‘Father,’ Stephan interrupted, ‘you don’t realise. I’ve practised hard. And even though the piece I’m about to play is a very late choice, nevertheless, I’ve practised very hard and if you’d only come now you’d see …’

  ‘Stephan, Stephan …’ Hoffman shook his head again. ‘If only it were just a matter of hard work. If only it were just that. But some of us, we’re just not born with the gift. We haven’t got it in us, and that’s something we have to come to terms with. It’s terrible I have to tell you this at such a moment, and after having led you on for so long. I hope you can forgive us, your mother and me, we were weak for so long. But we could see how much pleasure it brought you and we didn’t have the heart. But it’s no excuse, I know that. This is awful, my heart bleeds for you at this moment, it really does. I hope you’ll be able to forgive us. It was a terrible mistake, to have let you go this far. To have you go on stage in front of the whole town. Your mother and I, we love you too much to be able to watch it. It would simply be too much to … to see our own dear son being made a laughing stock. There, I’ve said it, I’ve put my cards on the table. It’s cruel, but I’ve told you at last. I thought I might be able to do it. That I would be able to sit there amidst the smirks and the sniggers. But when the moment came, your mother found she could not, and neither could I. What is it? Why won’t you listen to me? Don’t you realise this is bringing me great pain? It’s not easy to speak so frankly, even to one’s own son …’

  ‘Father, please, I beg you. Just come and listen, if only for a few minutes, and judge for yourself. And Mother. Please, please, persuade Mother. You’ll both see then, I know you will …’

  ‘Stephan, it’s time for you to go back on stage. Your name is printed on the programme. You have appeared once already. You must now at the very least make a go of it. Let everyone see that you at least did your best. There, that’s my advice. Never mind them, never mind their sniggers. Even if they openly laugh as though some hilarious pantomime were being performed on the stage rather than a solemn and profound piece of music, even then, you can remember your mother and father are proud you at least had the courage to see it through. Yes, you must go now and see it through, Stephan. But you must forgive us, we simply love you too much to witness it. In fact, Stephan, I believe it would break your mother’s heart to do so. Now you must go, there’s little time left. Go, go, go.’

  Hoffman spun around, a hand to his forehead, as though reeling from a migraine, and in this manner drifted a few steps away from Stephan. Then he abruptly straightened and looked back at his son.

  ‘Stephan,’ he said sternly. ‘It’s time for you to go back on stage.’

  Stephan went on staring at his father for a second, then, seeing finally that his cause was a hopeless one, turned and set off down the corridor.

  As he made his way again through the succession of backstage doors, Stephan found himself besieged by a variety of thoughts and emotions. Naturally he was frustrated at this failure to persuade his parents to return to their seats. Moreover, he could feel awakening deep within him a nagging fear he had not experienced for some years – namely that what his father had said was true and that he was indeed the victim of some massive delusion. But then as he approached the wings his confidence rapidly returned and with it came an aggressive urge to find out for himself just what he was capable of.

  Stephan came back onto the stage to find the lights had dimmed a little. The auditorium was far from dark, however, and many guests were still on their feet. In various parts of the hall waves of people could be seen rising up as someone else crept along a row to their seat. The hubbub lowered only slightly as the young man sat down at the piano and continued steadily while he waited for his emotions to settle. Then his hands came down in the harsh, precise way they had earlier, evoking a territory somewhere between shock and exhilaration essential for the opening of Glass Passions.

  By the time he was half-way through the brief prologue, the audience had become significantly quieter. By the time he was completing the first movement, the auditorium had fallen entirely silent. Those who had been standing talking in the aisles were still on their feet, but appeared frozen, their eyes fixed on the stage. All those seated were watching and listening with concentration. A small crowd had formed at one of the entrances where the last of the people drifting in had stopped in their tracks. As Stephan began the second movement, the technicians turned the house lights right down and I could no longer see the audience well. But there was no doubting the general astonishment which continued to envelope the hall. Admittedly a part of this response was down to the audience’s surprise at discovering one of their own young men capable of scaling such technical heights as they were now witnessing. But over and beyond his expertise, there was some strangely intense quality to Stephan’s playing that virtually refused to be ignored. It was my impression, moreover, that many of those present saw in this unexpected start to the evening a kind of omen. If this was merely the prelude, what did the rest of the proceedings hold in store? Would the evening prove a turning point for the community after all? Such seemed to be the unspoken questions behind many a startled face in the crowd below me.

  Stephan rounded off with a wistful, faintly ironic reading of the coda. There was a second or two of silence after he had finished, and then the hall burst into enthusiastic applause, which the young man leapt to his feet to acknowledge. He was clearly delighted, and if he was feeling all the more frustrated that his parents were not present to witness this triumph, he did not allow it to show on his face. He took several bows as the applause continued, and then, perhaps suddenly remembering his contribution was only a modest part of the whole programme, retreated hastily out of view.

  The applause continued strongly for some time before subsiding into an excited murmur. Then, before people had had much chance to exchange views, a severe-faced man with silver hair appeared from the wings. As he came slowly and self-importantly towards the lectern at the front, I recognised him as the man who had presided over the banquet in honour of Brodsky on my first night.

  The auditorium quickly fell silent, but for a good thirty seconds the severe-faced man said nothing, simply regarding the audience with faint disgust. Then finally he took a weary breath and said:

  ‘Although it is my wish that you all enjoy this evening, I would remind you that we are not gathered here now to witness a cabaret. Gravely important issues lie behind tonight’s occasion. Make no mistake. Issues relating to our future, to the very identity of our community.’

  The severe-faced man continued to reiterate pedantically this same point for several more minutes, occasionally taking long pauses during which he surveyed the room with a scowl. I began to lose interest and, remembering the queue of people behind me waiting to use the cupboard, decided to allow someone else his turn. But just as I was negotiating my way out
of the confined space, I realised the severe-faced man had moved onto a fresh point – that in fact he was in the process of introducing someone onto the stage.

  The personage in question, it seemed, was not only ‘the cornerstone of the city’s entire library system’, but was also possessed of the ability to ‘capture the curl of the dewdrop on the tip of an autumn leaf’. The severe-faced man stared contemptuously at the audience for one last time, then mumbled a name and stalked off. The auditorium broke into keen applause, directed evidently at the severe-faced man rather than the person he had introduced. Indeed, the latter did not appear for another minute or so, and when he did was greeted somewhat hesitantly.

  The man was small and neat with a bald head and a moustache. He came on carrying a folder which he put down on the lectern. He then unclipped some sheets of paper and began to shuffle them about, never once looking up to acknowledge the audience. A restlessness began to grow in the hall. I became curious again and, deciding that those in the queue would not mind waiting just a little longer, repositioned myself carefully near the edge of the cupboard.

  When the bald-headed man finally spoke, he did so much too close to the microphone and his voice boomed shakily.

  ‘I would like tonight to present a selection of my work from each of my three periods. Many of these poems will be familiar to you from my readings at the Café Adèle, but I trust you will not object to hearing them again in this grand context. And I will tell you now, there will be a small surprise at the end. Something I trust will bring you a modest amount of pleasure.’

  He then returned to shuffling his papers and a few murmured conversations started up in the crowd. Then the bald-headed man at last made up his mind and coughed loudly into the microphone, restoring the silence.