The Unconsoled

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  For some time Brodsky appeared to be rehearsing something in his head, his lips mouthing the odd word, and it did not feel appropriate to say anything to him. From time to time he would scrutinise the bouquet as though everything depended on it and the slightest blemish would be a major setback. Then, after we had been sitting without speaking for some time, he finally looked towards me and said:

  ‘Mr Ryder. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance at last.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Brodsky,’ I said. ‘I hope you’re well.’

  ‘Oh …’ He waved his hand in a vague gesture. ‘I can’t say I feel well. I have, you see, a pain.’

  ‘Oh? A pain?’ Then, when he said nothing, I asked: ‘You mean an emotional pain?’

  ‘No, no. It’s a wound. I got it many years ago and it’s always given me trouble. Bad pain. Perhaps that’s why I drank so much. If I drink, I don’t feel it.’

  I waited for him to say more, but he became silent. After a moment I said:

  ‘You’re referring to a wound of the heart, Mr Brodsky?’

  ‘Heart? My heart’s not so bad. No, no, it’s to do with …’ Suddenly he laughed loudly. ‘I see, Mr Ryder. You think I am being poetic. No, no, I meant simply, I had a wound. I was injured, very badly, many years ago. In Russia. The doctors weren’t so good, they did a bad job. And the pain’s been bad. It’s never healed properly. I’ve had it for so long now, it still hurts me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. It must be a great nuisance.’

  ‘Nuisance?’ He thought about this then laughed again. ‘You could say that, Mr Ryder, my friend. A nuisance. It’s been a hell of a nuisance to me.’ He suddenly seemed to remember he was holding his flowers. He sniffed them and breathed in deeply. ‘But let’s not talk of this. You asked how I felt and I told you, but I didn’t mean to talk about it. I try to be brave about the wound. For years I never mentioned it, but now I’m old and I don’t drink, it’s got very painful. It hasn’t really healed at all.’

  ‘Surely there’s something you can do about it. Have you seen a doctor? Perhaps a specialist of some sort?’

  Brodsky looked at his flowers again and smiled. ‘I want to make love to her again,’ he said almost to himself. ‘Before this wound gets worse. I want to make love to her again.’

  There was an odd silence. Then I said:

  ‘If your wound is so old, Mr Brodsky, I wouldn’t have thought it’s likely to get worse.’

  ‘These old wounds.’ He gave a shrug. ‘They stay the same for years. You think you’ve got the measure of it. Then you get old and they start to grow again. But it’s not so bad just now. Perhaps I can still make love. I’m old now, but sometimes …’ He leaned forward confidentially. ‘I tried it. You know, on my own. I can still do it. I can forget the pain. When I was drunk, my prick, you know, it was nothing, nothing. I never thought about it. Just for the toilet. That was all. But now I can do it, even with all the pain. I tried it, the night before last. I can’t necessarily, you know, not all the way, not everything. My prick’s so old and for so many years it was just, well, it was just the toilet. Ah.’ He leaned back in his chair and gazed past my shoulder into the sunshine. A wistful look had come into his eyes. ‘I so want to make love to her again. But we wouldn’t live here. Not in this place. I’ve always hated this place. I used to come by here, yes, I admit it, I used to walk by here late at night when no one could see me. She never knew, but I often used to come and stand out there, looking at the building. I used to hate this street, this apartment. We wouldn’t live here. You know, this is the first time, the first time I’ve come inside this terrible place. Why did she choose a place like this? It’s not what she likes. We’ll live outside the city. If she doesn’t want to come back to the farmhouse, that’s okay. We’ll find something else, another cottage maybe. Something surrounded by grass and trees where our animal can enjoy itself. Our animal, it won’t like it here.’ He looked around carefully at the walls and ceilings, perhaps for a moment re-considering the merits of the apartment. Then he concluded: ‘No, how can our animal enjoy it here? We’ll live somewhere, grass, trees, fields. You know, in a year’s time, six months, if the pain gets too much, my prick can’t do it, we can’t make love any more, I don’t care. As long as I can make love to her just once more. No, once wouldn’t be enough, we’ll have to get back, you know, like we used to be. Six times, that’s it, six times and we’ll have remembered everything, that’s all I want. After that, all right, all right. If someone, a doctor, God, if he said you can make love to her just six more times, then that’s it, you’ll be too old, your wound will hurt too much, after that it’s the finish, it’s just the toilet, I won’t care. I’ll say, all right, fine by me. As long as I can take her in my arms again, six times is enough, so we’re like we used to be, back where we were, then I don’t care, I don’t care after that. We’ll have our animal anyway. We won’t need to make love. That’s for young lovers who don’t know each other enough, who’ve never hated each other and loved each other again. You know, I can do it still. I tried it, on my own, the night before last. Not all the way, but I could make it stiff.’

  He paused and nodded to me with a serious expression.

  ‘Really,’ I said smiling. ‘That’s marvellous.’

  Brodsky leaned back in his chair and gazed out of the window again. Then he said: ‘It was different, not like when you’re young. When you’re young you think of whores, you know, whores doing filthy things, stuff like that. I don’t care about any of that now, there’s only one thing left I want my prick to do, I want to make love to her again in the old way, just where we left off, that’s all. Then if it wants to rest, that’s okay, I don’t ask any more. But I want to do it again, six times, that’s enough, the way we used to do it. When we were young, we weren’t great lovers. We didn’t do it everywhere like young people maybe do now, I don’t know. But we had, well, a good understanding. Yes, at times, it’s true, when I was young I got tired of it, the same way every time. But she was like that, she was … she didn’t want to do it any other way, I used to get angry with her, and she didn’t know why. But now I want to repeat that old routine, step by step, exactly as we used to do it. The night before last, when I was, you know, when I was trying, I thought about whores, imaginary ones, fantastic ones doing fantastic things, and nothing, nothing, nothing. And then I thought, well, that’s reasonable. My old prick, there’s only one last mission, why taunt it with all these whores, what’s that got to do with my old prick now? There’s only one last mission, I should think about that. So I did. I lay there in the dark, remembering, remembering, remembering. I could remember how we used to do it, step by step. And that’s how we’re going to do it again. Of course our bodies are old now, but I’ve thought it through. We’ll do it just the way we did. And she’ll remember, she’ll not have forgotten, step by step by step. Once we’re in the darkness, under the sheet, we were never so bold, you see, it was her, she was modest, she wanted it that way. I minded it then, I always wanted to say to her: “Why can’t you be like a whore? Display yourself in the light?” But now I don’t mind, I want to do it just the way we used to, pretend we’re going to sleep, keep quiet, ten minutes, fifteen minutes. Then I’ll say something suddenly, something bold and dirty in the dark. “I want them to see you naked,” I’ll say. “Drunken sailors in a bar. A seaport tavern, drunken filthy men, I want them to see you naked on the floor.” Yes, Mr Ryder, I used to say such things, suddenly, after we’d been lying there pretending to go to sleep, yes, suddenly break the silence, that’s important, suddenly. Of course, she was young then, she was beautiful, now it sounds strange, an old woman naked on the floor of a tavern, but I’ll say it anyway because that’s how we used to get it started. She’ll say nothing and so I’ll say more. “I want them all to stare at you. On all fours, on the floor.” But can you imagine it? A frail old woman doing that? What would our drunken sailors say now? But then maybe they’ve grown old with us, our sailors in the seaport
tavern, maybe in their mind’s eye she’ll be just as she was then and they wouldn’t care. “Yes, they’ll be staring at you! All of them!” And I’ll touch her, just the side of her hip, I remember that, she liked me to touch her sides, I’ll touch her just as I used to, then I’ll get close to her and whisper: “I’ll make you work in a brothel. Night after night.” Can you imagine it? But I’ll say it, because that’s how it was. And I’ll throw off the bedclothes and bend over her, I’ll part her thighs, maybe they’ll click, the joint between the thigh and the hip, it might make a little snapping noise, someone said she’d hurt her hip, maybe she can’t part her thighs widely now. Well, we’ll do it the best we can because that’s what came next. Then I’ll bend down to kiss her pussycat, I won’t expect it to smell the way it did then, no, I’ve thought it through, it might smell bad, like stale fish, her whole body will smell bad maybe, I’ve thought hard about it. And me, my body, look at me now, it’s not so good either. My skin, I have these scales, they keep flaking off, I don’t know what it is. When it started, last year, it was just the scalp. When I combed my hair, these huge flakes, like fish scales, you could see through them, they came off. It was just the scalp, but now it’s all over, my elbows, then my knees, now my chest. They smell like fish too, these flakes. Well, they’ll keep falling, I won’t be able to stop that, she’ll have to put up with it, so I won’t complain about her pussycat smelling the way it does, or the way her thighs won’t part properly without clicking, I won’t get angry, you won’t see me trying to force them apart like something broken, no, no. We’ll do it exactly like we used to. And my old prick, maybe only half stiff, when the time comes she’ll reach down and she’ll whisper: “Yes, I’ll let them! I’ll let the sailors all see me! I’ll tease them till they can bear it no more!” Can you imagine it? The way she is now? But we won’t care. And anyway, like I said, maybe the sailors will have aged with us. She’ll reach down for it, my old prick, back then it would have been very hard, nothing in the world would have made it slack except for … well, but now maybe it’ll be only half stiff, that was the best I could get it the other night, who knows, maybe it will be all the way, and we’ll try and put it in, but she might be like a shell, but we’ll try. And at just the right moment, we’ll remember when, even if nothing’s happening down there, we’ll know how to finish the steps, because by then we’ll have remembered so well, there’ll be nothing to stop us, even if there’s nothing happening down there, even if all we’re doing is holding ourselves against each other, it won’t matter, we’ll still say it at just the right time. “They’ll take you! They’ll take you, you’ve teased them too long!” And she’ll say: “Yes, they’ll have me, all the sailors, they’ll have me!” and even if nothing’s happening down there, we can still hold each other, we’ll hold each other and say it like we used to, it won’t matter. Maybe the pain will be too much for my old prick, you know, because of my wound, but it won’t matter, she’ll remember how we did it. All these years, but she’ll remember, every step. Mr Ryder, you don’t have a wound?’

  He was suddenly looking at me.

  ‘A wound?’

  ‘I have this old injury. Maybe that’s why I drink. It gives me so much pain.’

  ‘How unfortunate.’ Then, after a short silence, I added: ‘I did once injure a toe quite badly in a football match. I was nineteen. It wasn’t anything too serious.’

  ‘In Poland, Mr Ryder, when I was a conductor, even then, I never thought the wound would heal. When I conducted my orchestra, I always touched my wound, caressed it. Some days I picked at its edges, even pressed it hard between the fingers. You realise soon enough when a wound’s not going to heal. The music, even when I was a conductor, I knew that’s all it was, just a consolation. It helped for a while. I liked the feeling, pressing the wound, it fascinated me. A good wound, it can do that, it fascinates. It looks a little different every day. Has it changed? you wonder. Maybe it’s healing at last. You look at it in a mirror, it looks different. But then you touch it and you know it’s the same, your old friend. You do this year after year, and then you know it’s not going to heal and in the end you get tired of it. You get so tired.’ He fell silent and looked again at his bouquet. Then he said again: ‘You get so tired. You’re not tired yet, Mr Ryder? You get so tired.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said tentatively, ‘Miss Collins has the power to heal your wound.’

  ‘Her?’ He laughed suddenly then went silent again. After a while he said quietly: ‘She’ll be like the music. A consolation. A wonderful consolation. That’s all I ask now. A consolation. But heal the wound?’ He shook his head. ‘If I showed it to you now, my friend, I could show it to you, you’d see that was an impossibility. A medical impossibility. All I want, all I ask for now is a consolation. Even if it’s like the way I said, just half-way stiff and we’re doing no more than just dancing, six more times, that’ll be enough. After that the wound can do what it likes. We’ll have our animal by then, the grass, the fields. Why did she choose a place like this?’

  He looked around again and shook his head. This time he remained silent for a long time, perhaps for as long as two or three minutes. I was about to say something when he suddenly leaned forward in his chair.

  ‘Mr Ryder, I had a dog, Bruno, he died. I’ve … I’ve still not buried him. He’s in a box, a sort of coffin. He was a good friend. Just a dog, but a good friend. I planned a small ceremony, just to say goodbye. Nothing special. Bruno, he’s the past now, but a small ceremony just to say goodbye, what’s wrong with that? Mr Ryder, I wanted to ask you. A small favour, for me and Bruno.’

  The door suddenly opened and Miss Collins came into the room. Then, as Brodsky and I rose to our feet, Parkhurst came in behind her and closed the door.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Miss Collins,’ he said, giving Brodsky an angry look. ‘He just wouldn’t hear of respecting your privacy.’

  Brodsky was standing stiffly in the middle of the room. As Miss Collins came closer, he gave a bow and I could see the shadow of a considerable elegance he must once have possessed. He held the bouquet out to her saying: ‘Just a small gift. I picked them myself.’

  Miss Collins took the flowers from him, but otherwise completely disregarded them. ‘I might have guessed you’d come here like this, Mr Brodsky,’ she said. ‘I came to the zoo yesterday and now you think you can take any liberties you wish.’

  Brodsky lowered his eyes. ‘But there’s so little time,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to waste time now.’

  ‘Waste time to do what, Mr Brodsky? It’s quite ridiculous, your coming here like this. You must know I’m busy in the mornings.’

  ‘Please.’ He raised his palm. ‘Please. We’re old now. We don’t have to argue like we used to. I just came by to give you the flowers. And to make a simple proposal. That was all.’

  ‘A proposal? What sort of proposal was that, Mr Brodsky?’

  ‘Simply that you meet me this afternoon at St Peter’s Cemetery. Half an hour, that’s all. To be on our own and talk a few things over.’

  ‘But there’s nothing to talk over. It was clearly a mistake for me to come to the zoo yesterday. And did you say the cemetery? Why on earth are you proposing such a place for a rendez-vous? Have you altogether taken leave of your senses? A restaurant, a café, perhaps some gardens or a lake. But you propose a cemetery!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Brodsky seemed genuinely crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think. I’d forgotten. That is, I’d forgotten St Peter’s Cemetery was a cemetery.’

  ‘Don’t be so absurd.’

  ‘I mean, I’ve been there so often, we used to feel so peaceful there, Bruno and I. Even when things were at their worst, I felt not so bad when I was there, it was peaceful, very beautiful, we liked it there. That’s why I asked. Really, I’d forgotten. About the dead people being there.’

  ‘And what did you intend for us to do there? Sit on a gravestone and reminisce about old times? Mr Brodsky, you really ought to think more carefully about your pr
oposals.’

  ‘But we used to like it there, Bruno and I. I thought you’d like it too.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Now that your dog has died, you wish me to go in its place.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Brodsky suddenly lost his demure look and a flash of impatience crossed his face. ‘I didn’t mean it that way at all, you know it. You always did this. I spend a long time thinking, trying to find something good for us, and then you, you scorn it, you laugh at it, you make out it’s a ridiculous thing. Anyone else and you’d say what a charming idea. You always did this. Like the time I arranged for us to sit in the front at the Kobyliansky concert …’

  ‘That was over thirty years ago. How can you still be talking about such things?’

  ‘But it’s the same, the same. I think of something, something good for us, because I know deep down you like things to be a little unusual. Then you just laugh at them. Maybe it’s because my ideas, like the cemetery, they really appeal to you, deep down, and you can see I understand your heart. So you pretend …’

  ‘This is a nonsense. There’s no reason on earth why we should be discussing such matters. It’s much too late, there’s nothing for us to discuss, Mr Brodsky. I can’t meet you in a cemetery whether it appeals to me or not, because I have nothing to discuss with you …’

  ‘I just wanted to explain. Why it happened, everything, why I was the way I was …’

  ‘It’s much too late for that, Mr Brodsky. At least twenty years too late. Besides, I couldn’t bear to listen to you trying to apologise all over again. Even now, I’m sure, I wouldn’t be able to hear an apology on your lips without shuddering. For many, many years, an apology from you was not the end but the beginning. The beginning to another round of pain and humiliation. Oh, why don’t you just leave me alone now? It’s simply too late. Besides, you’ve taken to dressing absurdly since you became sober. What are these clothes you’ve started to wear?’