The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ryder,’ she said, turning to me. ‘I’ll be with you in just a moment.’ Then she said into the receiver: ‘Yes, in about five minutes. The sausages too. They should start frying in the next few minutes. And the fruit. That ought to be ready by now.’

  ‘Miss Stratmann,’ I said, advancing towards her desk, ‘there are matters more pressing than when the sausages should be fried.’

  She glanced up at me quickly and said once more: ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr Ryder.’ Then she spoke into the receiver again and began to write something down.

  ‘Miss Stratmann,’ I said, hardening my voice, ‘I have to ask you to come off that telephone and listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Miss Stratmann said into the phone. ‘I’ve got someone here I’d better deal with. I won’t be a minute.’ Then she put down the receiver and glared at me. ‘What is it, Mr Ryder?’

  ‘Miss Stratmann,’ I said, ‘when we first met, you assured me you would keep me fully informed on all aspects of my visit here. That you would advise me fully about my schedule and the nature of my various commitments. I believed you to be someone I could depend on. I’m sorry to say you’ve fallen considerably short of expectations.’

  ‘Mr Ryder, I don’t know to what I owe this tirade. Is there something in particular you’re unhappy with?’

  ‘I am unhappy with everything, Miss Stratmann. I have not had important information when I’ve needed it. I have not been told of last-minute changes to my schedule. I haven’t been supported or assisted at crucial points. As a result, I have not been able to prepare myself for my tasks in the way I would have liked. Nevertheless, for all that, I intend shortly to go on stage where I’ll endeavour to salvage something from what is turning out to be a disastrous evening for you all. But before I do so, I have one simple thing to ask you. Where are my parents? They arrived some time ago by horse and carriage. But when I looked for them earlier in the auditorium, I could not see them. They had not been seated in any of the boxes nor in any of the VIP seats at the front. So I ask you again, Miss Stratmann, where are they? Why have they not been looked after in the careful way you promised?’

  Miss Stratmann studied me carefully in the dawn light, then gave a sigh.

  ‘Mr Ryder, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about this for some time. We were all of us very pleased when you informed us some months ago of your parents’ intention to visit our city. Everyone was truly delighted. But I must remind you, Mr Ryder, it was from you and you alone that we heard of their plans to visit us. Now for the past three days, and today in particular, I have been doing all I can to ascertain their whereabouts. I have repeatedly telephoned the airport, the railway station, the bus companies, every hotel in this city, and I have found no sign of them. No one has heard from them, no one has seen them. Now, Mr Ryder, I have to ask you. Are you certain they are coming to this town?’

  As she had been talking, a number of doubts had passed through my mind and suddenly I felt something inside me beginning to collapse. To conceal my discomfort, I turned away and looked out at the dawn.

  ‘Well,’ I said eventually, ‘I was very sure they would come this time.’

  ‘You were very sure.’ Miss Stratmann, whose professional pride I had obviously ruffled quite badly, was now fixing me with an accusing stare. ‘Do you realise, Mr Ryder, the great trouble everyone here has gone to in anticipation of your parents’ arrival? The medical arrangements, the hospitality, the horse and carriage? One group of local ladies has spent many weeks putting together a programme to entertain your parents during their stay. You were very sure they were coming, you say.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said with a laugh, ‘I would never have put people to such trouble had I been anything less than convinced. But the fact was’ – another laugh escaped me – ‘the fact was, I was sure that this time, at last, they would come. Surely, it wasn’t unreasonable of me to assume they would come this time? After all, I’m at the height of my powers now. How much longer am I supposed to go on travelling like this? Of course, I’m sorry if I’ve put anyone to unnecessary inconvenience, but surely it won’t come to that. They must be here somewhere. Besides, I heard them. When I stopped the car in the woods, I could hear them coming, their horse and carriage. I heard them, they must be here, surely, it’s not unreasonable …’

  I collapsed into a nearby chair and realised I had started to sob. As I did so, I remembered all at once just how tenuous had been the whole possibility of my parents’ coming to the town. I could not understand at all how I had ever been so confident about the matter to the extent of demanding an explanation from Hoffman and then Miss Stratmann in the manner I had just been doing. I continued to sob for several more moments, then became aware that Miss Stratmann was standing over me.

  ‘Mr Ryder, Mr Ryder,’ she was repeating gently. Then, as I brought my tears under control, she said in a kindly tone: ‘Mr Ryder. Perhaps no one here has mentioned this to you yet. But there was a time once, quite some years ago now, when your parents did come to this city.’

  I stopped sobbing and looked up at her. She gave me a smile, then walked away slowly towards the glass and gazed out again at the dawn.

  ‘They must have been taking a holiday together,’ she said, her eyes still on the distance. ‘They came by train and stayed two or three days looking about the city. As I say, it was some time ago and you weren’t quite as eminent as you are today. But all the same, you were hardly unknown and someone, the people at their hotel perhaps, asked if they were related to you. You know, because of the name and their being English. That’s how it got out, that this nice, elderly English couple were your parents. There may not have been quite the fuss there’d be today, but they were looked after very well indeed. And then over the years, as your fame spread, people remembered about it, about the time your parents came here. I don’t personally have many memories of their visit because I was so small then. Though I can remember people talking about it.’

  I looked carefully at her back. ‘Miss Stratmann, you’re not telling me all this just to comfort me, are you?’

  ‘No, no, it’s all true. Anyone will confirm what I’m saying. As I say, I was just a child then, but a lot of people here would be able to tell you all about it. Besides, it’s all been pretty well documented.’

  ‘But did they seem happy? Were they laughing together and enjoying their holiday?’

  ‘I’m sure they were, Mr Ryder. By all accounts, they enjoyed themselves very much here. In fact everyone remembers them as a very pleasant couple. Very kind and considerate to one another.’

  ‘But … but what I’m asking, Miss Stratmann, is were they well looked after? That’s what I’m asking you …’

  ‘Of course they were well looked after. And they enjoyed themselves. They were very happy the whole time they were here.’

  ‘How can you remember that? You said yourself you were no more than a child at the time.’

  ‘What I’m reporting is how everyone here remembers it.’

  ‘If any of this you’re saying is true, how is it no one has raised the matter with me the whole time I’ve been here?’

  Miss Stratmann hesitated a second and turned again to the trees and the sunrise. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know why that should be. But you’re right. People don’t talk about it as much as you’d think they would. But there’s no mistake, I can assure you. I remember it all distinctly from my childhood.’

  From outside came the sounds of birds beginning their chorus. Miss Stratmann went on gazing at the trees in the distance, other memories from her childhood perhaps drifting through her mind. I watched her for a while, then said:

  ‘You say they were treated well here.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Miss Stratmann said almost in a whisper, her eyes still far away. ‘I’m sure they were very well treated. It would have been the spring, and the spring is so lovely here. And the Old Town, you’ve seen for yourself h
ow charming it is. People would have pointed things out to them, just ordinary people who happened to be passing. The buildings of special interest, the crafts museum, the bridges. And if they stopped for a coffee and a snack anywhere and weren’t quite sure what to order, perhaps because of the language problem, the waiter or waitress would have been very helpful. Oh yes, they would have enjoyed themselves here.’

  ‘But you said they came by rail. Did anyone help them with their luggage?’

  ‘Oh, the railway porters would have immediately gone about helping them. Taken all the luggage out to the taxi, then the taxi driver would have seen to it after that. They’d have been driven to their hotel and that would have been that. I’m sure they didn’t have to even think about their luggage.’

  ‘Hotel? Which hotel was this?’

  ‘A very comfortable hotel, Mr Ryder. One of the best there was in those days. They were sure to have loved it there. Loved every minute of it.’

  ‘It wasn’t too near the main roads, I hope. My mother always hated traffic noise.’

  ‘In those days, of course, the traffic wasn’t nearly the problem it is now. I remember when I was a child, I used to play with my friends in some of the residential streets with a skipping rope or a ball. No question of children doing that today! Oh yes, we used to play like that, sometimes for hours. But to return to your question, Mr Ryder’ – Miss Stratmann turned to me with a wistful smile – ‘the hotel your parents stayed in was nowhere near traffic. It was an idyllic hotel. It doesn’t exist any more, but if you like I can show you a picture of it. Would you like to see it? The hotel you parents stayed in?’

  ‘I would very much, Miss Stratmann.’

  She smiled again and came back across the room towards her desk. I thought she was about to open a drawer, but at the last moment she changed course and went to the rear wall of the office. Reaching up a hand, she tugged at a cord and began pulling down something that looked like a wall chart. I then saw it was not a chart as such, but a gigantic colour photograph. She continued to pull it down almost to the floor, where the roller gave a click and held fast. Then, moving back to her desk, she switched on her reading lamp and turned the beam towards the picture.

  For the next few moments we both studied the picture before us in silence. The hotel looked like a smaller version of the sort of fairy-tale castle built by mad kings in the last century. It stood right on the edge of a plunging valley covered with ferns and spring flowers. The photograph had been taken on a sunny day from the opposite side of the valley, providing the kind of comfortable composition suitable for a postcard or calendar.

  ‘I believe your parents stayed in this room here,’ I heard Miss Stratmann say. She had produced from somewhere a pointer and was indicating a window in one of the hotel’s turrets. ‘A nice view they would have had, you see?’

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  Miss Stratmann lowered her pointer, but I continued to stare at the window, trying to imagine the view it would have presented. My mother in particular would have much appreciated such a view. Even if she had had one of her bad days, and had had to spend her whole time in bed, she would still have been greatly comforted by it. She would have watched the breeze blowing through the pit of the valley, disturbing the ferns and the foliage on the twisted trees climbing the valley slope on the far side. She would have liked too the wide expanse of sky visible to her. I then noticed in the very foreground of the picture – cutting across the bottom right-hand corner – a section of the hill road from which presumably the photographer had taken the shot. My mother, almost certainly, would have had a view of this road from her room. She would then have been able to watch the local life going by in the distance. The odd car or grocery van would have passed, perhaps even a horse-drawn cart; now and then a farm tractor or some children hiking. Such sights were bound to have cheered her greatly.

  Eventually, as I went on looking at the window, I began to weep again. Not as uncontrollably as before, but the tears filled my eyes very steadily and ran down my face. Miss Stratmann noticed my tears, but this time appeared to feel no need to stop them. She smiled gently at me, then turned back to the picture.

  Suddenly I was startled by a knock at the door. Miss Stratmann too gave a start. Then she said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Ryder,’ and walked over to the door.

  I turned in my seat as a man in a white uniform came in, pulling after him a catering trolley. He brought the trolley half-way over the threshold so that it was propping open the door and looked out at the dawn.

  ‘It’s going to be a fine day,’ he said, smiling at us in turn. ‘Here’s your breakfast, miss. Would you like it on the desk there?’

  ‘Breakfast?’ Miss Stratmann looked confused. ‘It’s not supposed to be served for another half an hour yet.’

  ‘Mr von Winterstein ordered breakfast to commence now, miss. And in my view, he’s right. The people are in need of breakfast at this point.’

  ‘Oh.’ Miss Stratmann continued to look confused and glanced back at me as though for guidance. Then she asked the man: ‘Is everything out there … all right?’

  ‘Everything’s fine now, miss. Of course, after Mr Brodsky passed out like that, there was a bit of a panic, but now everyone’s very happy and enjoying themselves. You see, Mr von Winterstein gave a fine speech in the foyer just now all about the splendid heritage of this city, all the things we’ve got to be proud of. He mentioned a lot of our achievements down the years, pointed out all the awful problems other cities are blighted with we here never have to worry about. It’s what we needed, miss. I’m sorry you weren’t there to hear it. It made us all feel good about ourselves and our city and now everyone’s enjoying themselves. Look, there’s some of them now.’ He pointed out through the glass, and sure enough, in the faint light outside, several figures could be made out walking slowly across the grass holding their plates carefully in front of them, looking around for somewhere to sit down.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I must go and perform. I’m going to be late. Miss Stratmann, I’m very grateful. For your kindness, for everything. But please excuse me now.’

  Without waiting for a reply, I pushed my way past the breakfast trolley out into the corridor.

  37

  A pale morning light was now permeating the gloom of the corridor. I glanced towards the mirrored alcove where I had left Hoffman, but he had gone. I hurried on in the direction of the auditorium, past the paintings in their golden frames. At one point I encountered another waiter with a breakfast trolley stooping down to knock on a door, but otherwise the corridor was deserted.

  I continued to walk quickly, looking about for the emergency door that had originally brought me into this corridor. I had now become seized by a quite overwhelming urge to get my performance under way. Whatever disappointments I had just suffered did not, I realised, reduce at all my responsibility to all those who had waited many weeks for the moment I sat before them in front of a piano. In other words, it was my duty to perform on this evening at least to my usual standards. To do anything less – I suddenly sensed this strongly – would be to open some strange door through which I would hurtle into a dark, unknown space.

  After a time the corridor began to grow unfamiliar. The wallpaper became a deep blue, signed photographs replaced the paintings, and I realised I had missed my door. I saw, however, that I was approaching another altogether more substantial door marked ‘Stage’ and decided to go through.

  For a few seconds I groped through darkness, then found myself once more in the wings. I could see the piano in the middle of the empty stage, dimly lit from above by just one or two lights. I saw too that the curtains were still closed and stepped quietly out onto the stage.

  I peered down at the spot where Brodsky had earlier been lying, but could not see even a mark. I then glanced back to the piano, unsure how to proceed. If I sat down at the stool and began simply to play, it was possible the technicians would have the sense to draw back the curtains and
to turn up the spotlights. There was always the chance, however – one could not tell what had been going on – that the technicians had all abandoned their posts and the curtains would not even open. Moreover, when I had last seen the audience, people had been standing about talking restlessly. The best course, I decided, would be to step out through the curtains and make an announcement, giving everyone – the audience, the technicians – the chance to prepare themselves. I quickly rehearsed a few lines in my head, then, without further ado, went up to the gap in the drapes and drew back the heavy material.

  I had been ready to find the auditorium in some disorder, but the sight that greeted me quite took me aback. Not only was the audience absent in its entirety, all the seating had vanished as well. The idea came to me that the hall perhaps had some sort of device whereby at the tug of a lever all the seats disappeared into the floor – thus enabling the auditorium to double as a dance floor or whatever – but then I remembered the age of the building and decided this was highly unlikely. I could only suppose the seats had been of the stacking kind and had now all been cleared away as a fire precaution. In any case, before me now was a vast, dark, empty space. There were no lights on at all, but instead, here and there, large rectangular sections of the ceiling had been removed, allowing the daylight to come down in pale shafts onto the floor.

  Peering into the murky light, I thought I could make out a few figures towards the very back of the hall. They seemed to be standing around in conference – these were perhaps the stage-hands completing their tidying up – and then I heard the echo of footsteps as one of them strode off somewhere.

  I stood there on the edge of the stage wondering what to do next. I had, I supposed, spent much longer in Miss Stratmann’s office than I had thought – possibly as long as an hour – and clearly the audience had given up hope of my ever appearing. Nevertheless, if an announcement were to be made, the guests could be gathered back into the auditorium in a matter of minutes, and even with the seating gone I could see no reason why a perfectly satisfactory recital could not then take place. It was unclear, though, where the people had all got to and I realised I would first have to find Hoffman, or whoever had now taken charge, to discuss the next step.