The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  I thanked him tersely and walked back to the car. When I climbed back in behind the wheel, Sophie and Boris were again gazing at the sunset. I started the engine without speaking. Only after we had bumped past the wooden kiosk – I gave the car park attendant a quick wave – did Sophie ask: ‘So you found out the way?’

  ‘Yes, yes. We just follow the red car that left just now.’

  As I said this, I realised how angry I still was at her. But I said nothing further and moved the car onto the road that circled the edge of the estate.

  We passed block after block of apartments, the sunset reflected in the countless windows. Then the housing estate vanished and the road turned into a highway bound on either side by fir forests. The road was virtually empty, offering a clear view, and before long I spotted the red car up ahead, a small dot in the distance, travelling at an easy speed. Given the sparse traffic, I saw no necessity to follow hard up behind him and I too dropped to a leisurely speed with a respectful distance still between us. All the while, Sophie and Boris had both remained dreamily silent, and eventually I too began to get lulled into a tranquil mood watching the sun setting over the deserted highway.

  After a little time, I found myself replaying in my head the second goal scored by the Dutch football team in a World Cup semi-final against Italy some years ago. It had been a stupendous long-range shot and had always been one of my favourite sporting memories, but now, to my annoyance, I found I had forgotten the identity of the goal scorer. The name of Rensenbrink came drifting through my mind, and certainly he had been playing in that match, but in the end I felt certain he had not been the scorer. I saw again the ball floating through the sunshine, past the curiously transfixed Italian defenders, drifting on and on, beyond the outstretched hand of the goalkeeper. It was frustrating to have forgotten such a detail and I was systematically going through the names of all the Dutch footballers I could recall from that era, when Boris suddenly said behind me:

  ‘We’re too near the centre of the road. We’re going to crash.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘No, we’re not!’ I could feel him banging the back of my seat. ‘We’re too near the centre. If something comes the other way, we’ll crash!’

  I said nothing, but moved the car a little more towards the edge of the road. This seemed to reassure Boris and he became quiet again. Then Sophie said:

  ‘You know, I have to admit, I wasn’t at all happy when I first heard. About this reception, I mean. I thought it would spoil our evening together. But when I thought about it some more, and especially when I realised it wouldn’t stop us having our meal tonight, I thought, well, it’s a good thing. In some ways, it’s exactly what we need. I know I can do well at it, and Boris too. We’ll both do well, and then we’ll have something to celebrate when we get back. The whole evening, it could really seal things for us.’

  Before I could say something to this, Boris shouted again:

  ‘We’re much too near the centre!’

  ‘I’m not moving any further over,’ I said. ‘We’re perfectly fine now.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s frightened,’ Sophie said to me quietly.

  ‘Of course he’s not frightened.’

  ‘I’m frightened! We’re going to have a major accident!’

  ‘Boris, please be quiet. I’m driving perfectly safely.’

  I had spoken quite sternly and Boris fell silent. But then, as I continued to drive, I became aware that Sophie was watching me uneasily. Occasionally she would glance back at Boris, then her gaze would return to me. Finally, she said quietly:

  ‘Why don’t we stop somewhere?’

  ‘Stop somewhere? Why do we want to do that?’

  ‘We’ll get to the gallery in good time. A few minutes wouldn’t make us late.’

  ‘I think we should just find the place first.’

  Sophie fell into silence for another few minutes. Then she turned to me again and said: ‘I think we should stop. We could all have a drink and some refreshments. It’ll help you cool down.’

  ‘What do you mean, cool down?’

  ‘I want to stop!’ Boris called from the back.

  ‘What do you mean, cool down?’

  ‘It’s so important you two don’t have another quarrel tonight,’ said Sophie. ‘I can see it starting up again. But not this evening. I won’t let it. We should all go and relax. Get ourselves into the right sort of mood.’

  ‘What do you mean, right sort of mood? There’s nothing the matter with any of us.’

  ‘I want to stop! I’m frightened! I feel sick!’

  ‘Look’ – Sophie pointed at a passing sign – ‘there’s a service station coming up soon. Please, let’s stop there.’

  ‘This is completely unnecessary …’

  ‘You’re getting really angry. And tonight’s so important. It’s not to happen tonight.’

  ‘I want to stop! I want the toilet!’

  ‘There it is now. Please, let’s stop. Let’s put it right before it gets any worse.’

  ‘Put what right?’

  Sophie did not reply, but went on looking anxiously out through the windscreen. We were now moving through mountainous country. The fir forests had gone and in their place were craggy slopes towering up on either side of us. The service station was visible on the horizon, a structure resembling a spaceship built high into the cliffs. All my anger at Sophie had for the moment returned with a fresh intensity, but for all that – almost in spite of myself – I slowed down into the inside lane.

  ‘It’s all right, we’re stopping,’ Sophie said to Boris. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘He wasn’t worried in the first place,’ I said coldly, but Sophie did not seem to hear.

  ‘We’ll have a quick snack,’ she was telling the little boy. ‘We’ll all feel much better then.’

  I followed a sign off the highway and up a steep narrow road. We climbed on through a number of hair-pin bends, then the road levelled off and we pulled into an open-air car park. Several lorries were parked side by side, as well as a dozen or so cars.

  I climbed out and stretched my arms. When I glanced back, I saw Sophie helping Boris out of the car. I watched him take a few steps across the tarmac looking rather dozy. Then, as though to wake himself up, he turned his face up to the sky and let out a Tarzan yell, actually beating his chest as he did so.

  ‘Boris, stop that!’ I shouted.

  ‘But he’s not disturbing anyone,’ Sophie said. ‘No one can hear him.’

  We were, it was true, high on a cliff-top and standing some distance away from the glassy structure that was the service station. The sunset had become a deep red and was reflecting off all the surfaces of the building. Without speaking, I strode past the pair of them and on towards the entrance.

  ‘I’m not disturbing anyone!’ Boris shouted after me. There came a second Tarzan yell, this time tailing off into a yodel. I carried on without turning. Only when I got to the entrance did I pause and wait, holding open the heavy glass door for them.

  We crossed a lobby area with a bank of public telephones, and then through a second glass door into the café area. An aroma of grilled meat greeted us. The room was vast, with long rows of oval tables. On all sides were large glass panes through which we could see expanses of sky. From somewhere far off came the sounds of the highway beneath us.

  Boris hurried over to the self-service counter and picked up a tray. Asking Sophie to buy me a bottle of mineral water, I went off to select a table. There were not many customers – only four or five tables were occupied – but I walked right to the end of one of the long rows and sat down with my back to the clouds.

  After a few minutes Boris and Sophie came down the aisle holding their trays. They sat down in front of me and began to spread out their refreshments in an oddly muted manner. I then noticed Sophie giving Boris glances and supposed that while at the counter she had been urging the little boy to say something to me – something to make good the dama
ge done by our recent altercation. It had not until this point occurred to me any sort of reconciliation was necessary between me and Boris, and I was annoyed to see Sophie so clumsily meddling in the situation. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I made some humorous remark concerning the futuristic décor surrounding us, but Sophie replied distractedly and darted another glance at Boris. The lack of subtlety was such that she might as well have nudged him with an elbow. Boris, understandably, seemed reluctant to comply and continued grumpily to twist around his fingers a packet of nuts he had purchased. Finally he mumbled without looking up:

  ‘I’ve been reading a book in French.’

  I shrugged and looked out at the sunset. I was aware of Sophie urging Boris to say something further. Eventually he said sulkily:

  ‘I read a whole book in French.’

  I turned to Sophie and said: ‘Myself, I’ve never got on with the French language. I still have more trouble with French than I do with Japanese. Really. I get by in Tokyo better than in Paris.’

  Sophie, presumably dissatisfied with this response, fixed me with a hard stare. Irritated by her coerciveness, I turned away and looked again over my shoulder at the sunset. After a while, I heard Sophie say:

  ‘Boris is getting so much better at languages now.’

  When neither Boris nor I responded, she leaned over towards the little boy, saying:

  ‘Boris, you’ve got to make more effort now. We’ll arrive at the gallery soon. There’ll be a lot of people there. Some of them might look very important, but you won’t be afraid, will you? Mother’s not going to be afraid of them, and neither will you. We’ll show everyone how well we can cope. We’ll be a big success, won’t we?’

  For a moment Boris went on twisting his little packet round and round his fingers. Then he looked up and gave a sigh.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I know what you have to do.’ Then he sat up and went on: ‘You have to put one hand in your pocket. Like this. And then you hold your drink, like this.’

  He held the posture for a while, putting on as he did so an expression of great haughtiness. Sophie burst out laughing. I too could not help smiling a little.

  ‘And when people come up to you,’ Boris continued, ‘you just say over and over: “Quite remarkable! Quite remarkable!” Or if you like, you can say: “Priceless! Priceless!” And when the waiter comes up with things on a tray, you do this to him.’ Boris made a sour face and shook his finger from side to side.

  Sophie was still laughing. ‘Boris, you’ll be a big hit tonight.’

  Boris beamed, clearly pleased with himself. Then suddenly he got up, saying: ‘I’m going to the toilet now. I forgot I wanted to go. I won’t be a minute.’

  He performed his disdainful finger shake for us one last time, then hurried off.

  ‘He’s very amusing sometimes,’ I said.

  Sophie was watching over her shoulder Boris going off up the aisle. ‘He’s growing so fast,’ she said. Then she sighed and her expression grew more thoughtful. ‘Soon he’ll be grown. We don’t have much time.’

  I said nothing, waiting for her to continue. For a few seconds she went on gazing over her shoulder. Then turning to me she said quietly: ‘This is his childhood, now, slipping away. Soon he’ll be grown and he’ll never have known anything better.’

  ‘You talk as though he’s having an awful time. He has a perfectly good life.’

  ‘All right, I know, his life isn’t so bad. But this is his childhood. I know what it should be like. Because I remember, you see, the way it was. When I was very small, before Mother got ill. Things were good then.’ She turned back to face me, but her eyes seemed to focus on the clouds behind my back. ‘I want something like that for him.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. We’ll sort things out very soon. In the meantime, Boris is doing just fine. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘You’re like everyone else.’ There was now a hint of anger in her voice. ‘You go on like there’s all the time in the world. You just don’t realise, do you? Papa may have a good few years left in him yet, but he’s not getting any younger. One day he’ll be gone and then there’ll be only us. You and me and Boris. That’s why we have to get a move on. Build something for ourselves soon.’ She took a deep breath and shook her head, her eyes falling to the cup of coffee in front of her. ‘You don’t realise. You don’t realise what a lonely place the world can become if you don’t get on with things.’

  I saw no point in taking issue. ‘Well, that’s what we’ll do then,’ I said. ‘We’ll find something soon.’

  ‘You don’t realise how little time there is. Look at us. We’ve hardly started.’

  The accusing tone in her voice was growing. Meanwhile she appeared to have forgotten entirely the not insignificant role her own behaviour had played in preventing us from ‘getting on with things’. I felt a sudden temptation to point out all kinds of things to her, but in the end remained silent. Then, when neither of us had spoken for some time, I rose to my feet, saying:

  ‘Excuse me. I think I’ll get something to eat after all.’

  Sophie was staring again at the sky and seemed hardly to notice my departure. I made my way to the self-service counter and took a tray. It was as I was studying the choice of pastries, I suddenly remembered I did not know the way to the Karwinsky Gallery and that we were for the time being entirely dependent on the red car. I thought about the red car, even now travelling out there on the highway, getting further and further from us, and I realised we could not afford to waste much more time lingering around the service station. In fact, it occurred to me we should set off again without delay, and I was on the verge of returning my tray and hurrying back to our table when I became aware that two people sitting nearby were talking about me.

  Glancing round, I saw they were two middle-aged women, both smartly dressed. They were leaning across their table towards one another, speaking in lowered voices and, as far as I could make out, had no idea I was at that moment standing so close to them. They rarely referred to me by name and for this reason I could not at first be certain I was the subject of their discussion, but before long it became impossible to suppose they were talking of anyone else.

  ‘Oh yes,’ one of the women was saying. ‘They’ve been in touch with that Stratmann woman any number of times. She keeps assuring them he’ll turn up to inspect, but so far he hasn’t. Dieter says they don’t mind so much, it’s not as though they don’t have plenty of work to be getting on with, but they’re all of them so keyed up now, thinking he’s about to turn up any minute. And of course, Mr Schmidt keeps coming in every so often, shouting at them to tidy the place up, what if he came now and found the civic concert hall in such a condition? Dieter says they’re all nervous, even that Edmundo. And you never know with these geniuses, what they’ll pick out to criticise. They all still remember the time Igor Kobyliansky came to inspect and he tested everything so minutely. How he got down on all fours while they all stood in a big circle on the stage around him, how they all watched him while he crawled about, tapping all the floorboards, putting his ear right down to them. The last two days Dieter’s not been the same, he’s been so on edge when he’s set off to work. It’s been awful for all of them. Each time he doesn’t show at an appointed time, they wait an hour or so then phone this Stratmann woman again. She’s always very apologetic, she’s always got excuses, and arranges another time with them.’

  As I listened to this, a thought that had occurred to me several times during the past few hours came to the fore of my mind: namely that it would be wise for me to contact Miss Stratmann more frequently than I had been doing thus far. In fact I could even see some point in telephoning her from the public call boxes I had seen out in the lobby. But before I could give further consideration to this idea, the woman went on:

  ‘And this is all after this Stratmann woman had been insisting for weeks how anxious he was to carry out the inspection, that he wasn’t concerned just about the acoustics and all
the usual things, but about his parents, how they were to be accommodated in the hall during the evening. Apparently they’re neither of them very well, so they require special seating, special facilities, they require trained people nearby in case one or the other has a seizure or whatever. The arrangements needed are quite complicated and, according to this Stratmann woman, he was keen to go over each and every detail with all the staff. Well, that part of it was quite touching, to show so much concern about his aged parents. But then what do you know, he doesn’t show up! Of course, it could be to do with this Stratmann woman rather than him. That’s what Dieter thinks. By all accounts he’s got an excellent reputation, he doesn’t sound at all the type to keep inconveniencing people like this.’

  I had been getting quite annoyed at the women and was naturally relieved to hear these latter remarks. But it was what they had said concerning my parents – about the need to see to their various special requirement – that convinced me I could not afford to put off phoning Miss Stratmann a moment longer. Abandoning my tray on the counter, I hurried out into the lobby.