The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘Well,’ I said eventually, ‘this building of yours. Is it literally a few minutes’ drive away?’

  Pedro sat up abruptly, his face lit with enthusiasm.

  ‘You mean it? You’ll pose in front of the Sattler monument? Jesus, what a break! I just knew you’d be a great guy!’

  ‘Now wait …’

  ‘Are you sure, Mr Ryder?’ the journalist said grasping my arm. ‘Are you really sure? I know you’ve got a heavy schedule. Why, that’s really magnificent of you! And truly, it will take no more than three minutes by taxi. In fact, if you’ll just wait here, sir, I’ll go and hail one now. Pedro, why don’t you get a few shots of Mr Ryder here anyhow while he’s waiting.’

  The journalist hurried off. The next moment I saw him at the edge of the pavement, leaning towards the oncoming traffic, an arm held poised in the air.

  ‘Mr Ryder, sir. Please.’

  Pedro was crouched down on one knee, squinting up at me through a camera. I arranged myself in my chair – adopting a relaxed but not overly languid posture – and put on a genial smile.

  Pedro snapped the shutter a few times. Then he retreated some distance and crouched down again, this time beside an empty table, disturbing as he did so a flock of pigeons pecking away at some crumbs. I was about to re-adjust my posture, when the journalist came rushing back.

  ‘Mr Ryder, I can’t find a taxi just now, but here’s a tram just arrived. Please hurry, we can jump on. Pedro, quickly, the tram.’

  ‘But will it be as quick as a taxi?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, yes. In fact with the traffic like this the tram will be quicker. Really, Mr Ryder, you’ve no need to worry. The Sattler monument is very near. In fact’ – he raised his hand to shade his eyes and looked into the far distance – ‘in fact, you can almost see it from here. If it weren’t for that grey tower over there, we’d be able to see the Sattler monument right at this moment. That’s how close we are, really. In fact, if someone of normal height – no taller than you or me – if such a person were to climb onto the roof of the Sattler building, stand up straight and hold up some pole-like object – a household mop, say – on a morning like this, we’d be able to see it quite easily above that grey tower. So you see, we’ll be there in no time at all. But please, the tram, we must hurry.’

  Pedro was already down at the kerb. I could see him, his heavy bag of equipment on his shoulder, trying to persuade the tram driver to wait for us. I followed the journalist out of the courtyard and clambered aboard.

  The tram started up again as the three of us made our way down the central aisle. The carriage was crowded, making it impossible for us to sit near one another. I squeezed myself into a seat towards the back of the carriage, between a small elderly man and a matronly mother with a toddler on her lap. The seat was surprisingly comfortable and after a few moments I began rather to enjoy the journey. Opposite me were three old men reading one newspaper, held open by the man in the middle. The jogging of the tram seemed to give them difficulties and at times they tussled for command of a particular page.

  We had been travelling for a while when I became aware of activity around me and saw that a ticket inspector was making her way down the aisle. It occurred to me then that my companions must have purchased my ticket for me – I certainly had not acquired one on boarding. When I next glanced over my shoulder I saw that the ticket inspector, a petite woman whose ugly black uniform could not entirely disguise her attractive figure, had all but reached our part of the carriage. All around me, people were producing their tickets and passes. Suppressing a sense of panic, I set about formulating something to say that would sound at once dignified and convincing.

  Then the ticket inspector was looming above us and my neighbours all proffered their tickets. While she was still in the process of clipping them, I announced firmly:

  ‘I’m without a ticket, but in my case there are special circumstances which, if you’ll allow me, I’ll explain to you.’

  The ticket inspector looked at me. Then she said: ‘Not having a ticket is one thing. But you know, you really let me down last night.’

  As soon as she said this, I recognised Fiona Roberts, a girl from my village primary school in Worcestershire with whom I had developed a special friendship around the time I was nine years old. She had lived near us, a short way along the lane in a cottage not unlike ours, and I had often wandered down to spend an afternoon playing with her, particularly during the difficult period before our departure to Manchester. I had not seen her at all since those days, and so was quite taken aback by her accusing manner.

  ‘Ah yes,’ I said. ‘Last night. Yes.’

  Fiona Roberts went on looking at me. Perhaps it was to do with the reproachful expression she was now wearing, but I suddenly found myself recalling an afternoon from our childhood, when the two of us had been sitting together under her parents’ dining table. We had, as usual, created our ‘hide-out’ by hanging an assortment of blankets and curtains down over the sides of the table. That particular afternoon had been warm and sunny, but we had persisted in sitting inside our hide-out, in the stuffy heat and near-darkness. I had been saying something to Fiona, no doubt at some length and in an upset manner. More than once she had tried to interrupt, but I had continued. Then finally, when I had finished, she had said:

  ‘That’s silly. That means you’ll be all on your own. You’ll get lonely.’

  ‘I don’t mind that,’ I had said. ‘I like being lonely.’

  ‘You’re just being silly again. No one likes being lonely. I’m going to have a big family. Five children at least. And I’m going to cook them a lovely supper every evening.’ Then, when I did not respond, she had said again: ‘You’re just being silly. No one likes being on their own.’

  ‘I do. I like it.’

  ‘How can you like being lonely?’

  ‘I do. I just do.’

  In fact, I had felt some conviction in making this assertion. For by that afternoon it had already been several months since I had commenced my ‘training sessions’; indeed, that particular obsession had probably reached its peak just around that time.

  My ‘training sessions’ had come about quite unplanned. I had been playing by myself out in the lane one grey afternoon – absorbed in some fantasy, climbing in and out of a dried-out ditch running between a row of poplars and a field – when I had suddenly felt a sense of panic and a need for the company of my parents. Our cottage had not been far away – I had been able to see the back of it across the field – and yet the feeling of panic had grown rapidly until I had been all but overcome by the urge to run home at full speed across the rough grass. But for some reason – perhaps I had quickly associated the sensation with immaturity – I had forced myself to delay my departure. There had not been any question in my mind that I would, very soon, start to run across the field. It was simply a matter of holding back that moment with an effort of will for several more seconds. The strange mixture of fear and exhilaration I had experienced as I had stood there transfixed in the dried-out ditch was one that I was to come to know well in the weeks that followed. For within days, my ‘training sessions’ had become a regular and important feature of my life. In time, they had acquired a certain ritual, so that as soon as I felt the earliest signs of my need to return home I would make myself go to a special spot along the lane, under a large oak tree, where I would remain standing for several minutes, fighting off my emotions. Often I would decide I had done enough, that I could now set off, only to pull myself back again, forcing myself to remain under the tree for just a few seconds more. There was no doubting the strange thrill that had accompanied the growing fear and panic of these occasions, a sensation which perhaps accounted for the somewhat compulsive hold my ‘training sessions’ came to have over me.

  ‘But you know, don’t you,’ Fiona had said to me that afternoon, her face close to mine in the darkness, ‘when you get married, it needn’t be like it is with your mum and dad. It won’t be like that at
all. Husbands and wives don’t always argue all the time. They only argue like that when … when special things happen.’

  ‘What special things?’

  Fiona had remained silent for a moment. I had been about to repeat my question, this time more aggressively, when she had said with some deliberation:

  ‘Your parents. They don’t argue like that just because they don’t get on. Don’t you know? Don’t you know why they argue all the time?’

  Then suddenly an angry voice had called from outside our hide-out and Fiona had vanished. And as I had continued sitting alone in the darkness under the table, I had caught the sounds from the kitchen of Fiona and her mother arguing in lowered voices. At one point I had heard Fiona repeating in an injured tone: ‘But why not? Why can’t I tell him? Everybody else knows.’ And her mother saying, her voice still lowered: ‘He’s younger than you. He’s too young. You’re not to tell him.’

  These memories were brought to a halt as Fiona Roberts came a few steps closer, saying to me:

  ‘I waited till ten-thirty. Then I told everyone to eat. People were starving by then.’

  ‘Of course. Naturally.’ I laughed weakly and looked around the carriage. ‘Ten-thirty. By that time, yes, people are bound to get hungry …’

  ‘And by that time, it was obvious you weren’t coming. No one believed any of it any more.’

  ‘No. I suppose by that time, inevitably …’

  ‘At first it was going fine,’ Fiona Roberts said. ‘I’d never held anything like that before, but it was going fine. They were all there, Inge, Trude, all of them in my apartment. I was a little nervous, but it was going fine and I was really excited too. Some of the women, they’d prepared so much for the evening, they’d come with folders full of information and photos. It wasn’t until around nine o’clock the restlessness started up, and that’s when it first occurred to me you might not come. I kept going in and out of the room bringing in more coffee, refilling the bowls of snacks, trying to keep things going. I could see they were all starting to whisper, but I still thought, well, you might come along yet, you were probably just caught up in the traffic somewhere. Then it got later and later, and in the end they were talking and whispering quite openly. You know, even when I was still in the room. In my own apartment! That’s when I told them just to eat. I just wanted the whole thing over with then. So they all sat around eating, I’d prepared all these little omelettes, and even as they were eating, some of them like that Ulrike, they kept whispering and sniggering. But you know, in some ways I actually preferred the ones who sniggered. I preferred them to the likes of Trude, pretending to feel so sorry for me, taking care to be nice right to the end, oh, how I loathe that woman! I could see her as she was leaving, thinking to herself: “Poor thing. She lives in a fantasy world. We really should have guessed.” Oh, I hate the lot of them, I really despise myself for having got involved with them at all. But, you see, I was living on the estate for four years, I hadn’t made a single proper friend, I was very isolated. For ages, those women, the people who were in my apartment last night, they wouldn’t have anything to do with me. They consider themselves the elite on the estate, you see. They call themselves the Women’s Arts and Cultural Foundation. It’s silly, it’s not a foundation in any real sense, but they think it sounds grand. They like to busy themselves whenever something’s being organised in the city. When the Peking Ballet came, for instance, they made all the bunting for the welcoming reception. Anyway, they consider themselves very exclusive and until recently they wouldn’t consider having anything to do with someone like me. That Inge, she wouldn’t even say hello if I saw her around the estate. But that all changed, of course, once it got around. That I knew you, I mean. I’m not sure how it got out, I wasn’t going around boasting about it. I suppose I must have just mentioned it to someone. Well anyway, as you can imagine, that changed everything. Inge herself stopped me one day earlier this year, when we were passing on the stairs, and invited me to one of their meetings. I didn’t really want to get involved with them, but I went along, I suppose I thought I might make some friends at last, I don’t know. Well right from the start, some of them, Inge and Trude too, they weren’t at all sure whether to believe it or not, you know, about my being an old friend of yours. But they went along with it in the end, it made them feel pretty good, I suppose. This whole idea about looking after your parents, it wasn’t mine, but obviously the fact that I knew you had a lot to do with it. When the news first came about your visit, Inge went along and put it to Mr von Braun, saying the Foundation was ready now, after the Peking Ballet, ready to take on something really important, and anyway, one of the group was an old friend of yours. That sort of thing. And so the Foundation got the job, of looking after your parents during their stay here, and everybody was thrilled of course, though some of those women, they got pretty nervous about such a responsibility. But Inge kept them all confident, saying it was no more than we deserved now. We kept having these meetings when we’d come up with ideas about how to entertain your parents. Inge told us – I was sorry to hear this – neither of your parents is very well now, and so quite a lot of the obvious things, tours around the city, that sort of thing, weren’t very suitable. But there were a lot of ideas, and everyone was beginning to get pretty excited. Then at the last meeting someone said, well, why shouldn’t we ask you to come and personally meet us all? Talk over what your parents might like. There was dead silence for a moment. Then Inge said: “Why shouldn’t we? After all, we’re uniquely qualified to invite him.” Then they were all staring at me. So in the end I said: “Well, I expect he’s going to be busy, but if you like I could ask him.” And I could see how thrilled they all were when I said that. Then once your reply came in, well, I became a princess, they treated me with such appreciation, smiling and caressing me whenever they ran into me, bringing presents for the children, offering to do this or that for me. So you can just imagine the effect it had last night when you didn’t turn up.’

  She gave a deep sigh and was silent for a moment, staring blankly through the window at the buildings going by outside. Eventually, she went on:

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t blame you really. After all, we haven’t seen each other for so long now. But I thought you’d want to come for your parents’ sake. Everyone had so many ideas about what we could do for them here. This morning, they’ll all be talking about me. Hardly any of them go out to work, they have husbands who bring in good money, they’ll all be phoning each other or paying each other visits, they’ll all be saying: “Poor woman, she lives in a world of her own. We should have seen it earlier. I’d like to do something to help her, except that, well, she’s so wearying.” I can just hear them now, they’ll be really enjoying themselves. And Inge, a part of her will be very angry. “The little bitch tricked us,” she’ll be thinking. But she’ll be pleased, she’ll be relieved. Inge, you see, as much as she liked the idea of my knowing you, she always found it threatening. I could tell that. And the way the others were all treating me these last few weeks, ever since your reply, that might have given her something to think about. She’s been really torn, they all have. Anyway, they’ll be enjoying themselves this morning, I know they will be.’

  Naturally, as I listened to Fiona, I sensed I should be feeling considerable remorse over what had happened the previous night. However, despite her vivid account of the scenes at her apartment, as much as I felt deeply sorry for her, I found I had only the vaguest recollection of such an event having been on my schedule. Besides, her words had made me realise with something of a shock how little consideration I had so far given to the whole question of my parents’ imminent arrival in the city. As Fiona had mentioned, they were neither of them in good health and could hardly be left to fend for themselves. Indeed, as I looked at the harsh traffic and the glassy buildings going by outside, I felt a strong sense of protectiveness towards my elderly parents. It was in fact the ideal solution that a group of local women be entrusted with their welfar
e, and it had been immensely foolish of me not to have taken the opportunity to meet and talk to them. I felt a panic beginning to seize me about what to do with my parents – I could not imagine how I could have given so little thought to this whole dimension to my visit – and for a moment my mind was racing. I suddenly saw my mother and my father, both small, white-haired and bowed with age, standing outside the railway station, surrounded by luggage they could not hope to transport by themselves. I could see them looking at the strange city around them, and then eventually my father, his pride getting the better of his good sense, picking up two, then three cases, while my mother tried in vain to restrain him, holding his arm with her thin hand, saying: ‘No, no, you can’t carry that. It’s much too much.’ And my father, his face hard with determination, shaking off my mother saying: ‘But who else is going to carry them? How else will we ever reach our hotel? Who else is going to help us in this place if we don’t help ourselves?’ All this while cars and lorries roared past them and commuters rushed by. My mother, sadly resigning herself, watching my father as he tottered with his heavy burden, four paces, five, then finally overcome, lowering the suitcases, shoulders stooped, his breath coming heavily. Then my mother, after a while, going to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Never mind. We’ll find someone to help us.’ And my father, now resigned, perhaps satisfied because he had demonstrated at least his spirit, looking quietly into the rush before him, searching for someone who might have come to meet them, who would see to their luggage, make welcoming conversation and take them off to a hotel in a comfortable car.

  All these images filled my head as Fiona was speaking so that I was for some moments hardly able to consider her own unfortunate situation. But then I became aware of her saying: