The tram lurched forward as I staggered down the central aisle. I was so out of breath I only vaguely registered that the carriage was half full, and only when I collapsed into a seat near the rear did it occur to me I must have walked past Sophie and Boris. Still panting, I leaned to one side and looked back up the aisle.
The carriage was divided into two distinct sections separated by an exit area in the middle. In the front portion, the seating was arranged as two long rows facing one another, and I could see Sophie and Boris sitting together on the sunny side of the tram not far from the driver’s cabin. My view of them was obscured by some passengers standing in the exit area hanging onto straps, and I leaned further over into the aisle. As I did so, the man sitting opposite me – in our half of the carriage, the seats were arranged in pairs facing one another – slapped his thigh and said:
‘Another sunny day by the look of things.’
He was dressed neatly, if modestly, in a short zip-up jacket, and I supposed he was some sort of skilled workman – an electrician perhaps. I smiled at him quickly, upon which he began to tell me something about a building he and his colleagues had been working in for the past several days. I listened to him vaguely, occasionally smiling or making an assenting noise. Meanwhile my view of Sophie and Boris became further obscured as more and more people rose to their feet and crowded around the exit doors.
Then the tram stopped, the passengers got out and my view improved. Boris, looking as self-possessed as ever, had one hand on Sophie’s shoulder and was regarding the other passengers suspiciously as though they presented a threat to his mother. Sophie’s expression was still hidden from me. I could see her though, every few seconds, making an irritated waving motion through the air, perhaps at some insect flying around her.
I was about to adjust my position again when I realised the electrician had somehow got onto the topic of his parents. They were now both in their eighties, he was telling me, and though he did his best to visit them once a day, this was becoming increasingly difficult due to his current job. A thought suddenly came to me and I interrupted him saying:
‘Excuse me, but speaking of parents, it seems mine were here in this city some years ago. Just as tourists, you know. It would have been a good few years ago now. It’s just that the person who told me was only a child at the time and had no clear memory of them. So I was just wondering, since we were talking about parents, and well, I don’t mean to be rude, but I assume you must be well into your fifties, I wondered if you yourself had any memory of their visit.’
‘It’s quite possible,’ the electrician said. ‘But you’ll have to describe them a little.’
‘Well, my mother, she’s quite a tall woman. Dark hair, shoulder length. A rather bird-like nose. That would make her look a little stern, even when she wasn’t intending to be.’
The electrician thought for a moment, looking out at the city going by outside. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding. ‘Yes, I think I can remember a lady just like that. It was just for a few days. Looking around at the sights, that sort of thing.’
‘That’s it. You remember then?’
‘Yes, she seemed very pleasant. This would have been, oh, at least thirteen, fourteen years ago. Maybe even longer than that.’
I nodded enthusiastically. ‘That would tie in with what Miss Stratmann told me. Yes, that was my mother. Tell me, did she seem to be enjoying herself here?’
The electrician thought hard, then said: ‘From what I recall, she appeared to like it here, yes. In fact’ – he had spotted my look of concern – ‘in fact, I’m certain she did.’ He reached forward and patted my knee in a kindly manner. ‘I’m jolly certain she enjoyed it here. Look, just think about it. She’s bound to have done, isn’t she?’
‘I suppose so,’ I said and turned to the window. The sun was now moving across the interior of the tram. ‘I suppose so. It’s just that …’ I gave a deep sigh. ‘It’s just that I wish I’d known at the time. I wish someone had thought to inform me. And what about my father? Did he seem to be enjoying himself?’
‘Your father. Hmm.’ The electrician folded his arms, a slight frown on his face.
‘He would have been quite thin by then,’ I said. ‘Greying hair. He had a favourite jacket. A tweed one, pale green, with leather elbow patches.’
The electrician continued to think. Then finally he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t say I remember your father.’
‘But that’s impossible. Miss Stratmann assured me they came here together.’
‘I’m sure she’s right. It’s just that I personally can’t remember your father. Your mother, yes. But your father …’ He shook his head again.
‘But that’s ridiculous! What would my mother have been doing here alone?’
‘I’m not saying he wasn’t with her. It’s just that I don’t remember him. Look, don’t upset yourself so much. I wouldn’t have been so frank if I’d known it was going to upset you like this. I’ve got a terrible memory. Everyone says so. Just yesterday I left my tool box at my brother-in-law’s house where I had my lunch. I lost forty minutes going back to get it. My tool box!’ He gave a laugh. ‘You see, my memory’s terrible. I’m the last person to trust about something important like this. I’m sure your father would have been here with your mother. Particularly if that’s what other people are saying. Really, I’m the last person to rely on.’
But I had now turned away from him and was once more looking towards the front of the carriage, where Boris had finally given in to his emotions. He was now being embraced by his mother, and I could see his shoulders moving with his sobs. Suddenly there seemed nothing of importance other than to go to him and, muttering a quick apology to the electrician, I rose and began to make my way up the carriage.
I had almost reached them when the tram turned a sharp curve and I was forced to grab a nearby pole to keep my balance. When I looked again, I realised that Sophie and Boris had remained quite unaware of my approach, even though I was now standing very close to them. They were still in a deep embrace, their eyes closed. Patches of sunlight were drifting over their arms and shoulders. There was at that moment something so private about their comforting of each other that it seemed impossible even for me to intrude. And as I went on gazing at them, I began to feel, for all their obvious distress, a strange sense of envy. I moved a little closer until I could almost feel the very texture of their embrace.
Then at last Sophie opened her eyes. She watched me expressionlessly as the little boy continued to sob into her breast.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to her eventually. ‘I’m very sorry about everything. I only heard about your father just now. Of course, I came after you as soon as I heard …’
Something about her expression made me stop. For another moment, Sophie went on regarding me coldly. Then she said tiredly:
‘Leave us. You were always on the outside of our love. Now look at you. On the outside of our grief too. Leave us. Go away.’
Boris broke away from her and turned to look at me. Then he said to his mother: ‘No, no. We’ve got to keep together.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘No, it’s useless. Leave him be, Boris. Let him go around the world, giving out his expertise and wisdom. He needs to do it. Let’s just leave him to it now.’
Boris stared at me in confusion, then back at his mother. He might have been about to say something, but at that moment Sophie stood up.
‘Come on, Boris. We’ve got to get off here. Boris, come on.’
Indeed the tram was slowing down and other passengers were getting up from their seats. A few people pushed past me, and then Sophie and Boris squeezed by. Still clutching my pole, I watched Boris moving away down the aisle towards the exit. At one point he glanced back at me, and I heard him say:
‘But we’ve got to stay together. We’ve got to.’
I then saw Sophie’s face behind him, gazing at me with an odd detachment, and I heard her voice say:
‘He’ll never be one
of us. You’ve got to understand that, Boris. He’ll never love you like a real father.’
More people pushed past me. I raised my hand in the air.
‘Boris!’ I called.
The little boy, hanging back in the throng, looked towards me once more.
‘Boris! That bus ride, you remember it? That bus ride to the artificial lake. Remember, Boris, how good it was? How kind everyone was to us on the bus? The little presents they gave, the singing. You remember, Boris?’
Passengers had now started to disembark. Boris gave me one last glance and then disappeared from my view. More people pushed past and then the tram began to move again.
After a while I turned and made my way back to my seat. The electrician smiled cheerfully as I sat down again in front of him. Then I became aware of him leaning forward, patting my shoulder, and I realised I was sobbing.
‘Listen,’ he was saying, ‘everything always seems very bad at the time. But it all passes, nothing’s ever as bad as it looks. Do cheer up.’ For a while he went on uttering such empty phrases while I continued to sob. Then I heard him say: ‘Look, why don’t you have some breakfast. Just have something to eat, like the rest of us. You’re bound to feel a little better then. Come on. Go and get something to eat.’
I glanced up and saw that the electrician was holding a plate on his lap, on which was a half-finished croissant and a small knob of butter. His knees were covered in crumbs.
‘Ah,’ I said, straightening and recovering my composure. ‘Where did you get that?’
The electrician indicated beyond my shoulder. Turning, I saw a crowd of passengers standing at the very rear of the tram where some sort of buffet had been laid out. I noticed too that the whole back half of the carriage had become quite crowded, and that all around us passengers were eating and drinking. The electrician’s breakfast was modest in comparison to many being consumed; I could now see people working their way through large plates of eggs, bacon, tomatoes, sausages.
‘Come on,’ the electrician said again. ‘Go and get yourself some breakfast. Then we’ll talk about all your troubles. Or if you prefer, we can just forget about it all and talk about whatever you like, whatever’s likely to cheer you up. Football, cinema. Anything you like. But the first thing to do is to get some breakfast. You look like you haven’t eaten for some time.’
‘You’re quite right,’ I said. ‘Now I think of it, I haven’t eaten for a very long time. But please tell me. Where is this tram going? I have to get to my hotel to pack my things. You see, I have a flight this morning to Helsinki. I have to get to my hotel pretty soon.’
‘Oh, this tram will get you more or less anywhere you like in the city. This is what we call the morning circuit. Then there’s the evening circuit. Twice a day a tram goes right the way round the entire circuit. Oh yes, you can go anywhere on this tram. It’s the same again in the evening, but the atmosphere’s quite different then. Oh yes, this is a marvellous tram.’
‘How splendid. Well then, excuse me. I think I’ll take up your suggestion and get some breakfast. In fact, you’re quite right. Even the idea of it is making me feel better.’
‘That’s more the spirit,’ the electrician said and raised his croissant in a salute.
I got up and went to the back of the carriage. Various aromas came wafting towards me. A number of people were in the act of serving themselves, but peering over their shoulders I saw a large buffet presented in a semi-circular arrangement directly beneath the rear window of the tram. There was on offer virtually everything one could wish for: scrambled eggs, fried eggs, a choice of cold meats and sausages, sautéed potatoes, mushrooms, cooked tomatoes. There was a large platter with rolled herrings and other fish preparations, two huge baskets filled with croissants and different sorts of rolls, a glass bowl of fresh fruit, numerous jugs of coffee and juices. Everyone around the buffet seemed more than eager to get to the food, and yet the atmosphere was extremely cordial, with people passing things to one another and exchanging cheerful remarks.
I took a plate, glancing up as I did so through the rear window with its receding view of the city streets, and could feel my spirits rising yet further. Things had not, after all, gone so badly. Whatever disappointments this city had brought, there was no doubting that my presence had been greatly appreciated – just as it had been everywhere else I had ever gone. And now here I was, my visit almost at its close, a thoroughly impressive buffet before me offering virtually everything I had ever wished to eat for breakfast. The croissants looked particularly promising. Indeed, from the manner in which passengers all around the carriage were devouring theirs, it was obvious they were extremely fresh and of the highest possible quality. Then again, nothing my gaze fell upon looked anything less than enticing.
I started to serve myself a little of everything. As I did so, I began to picture myself, already back in my seat, exchanging pleasant talk with the electrician, glancing out between mouthfuls at the early-morning streets. The electrician was in many ways the ideal person for me to talk to at this moment. He was clearly kind-hearted, but at the same time careful not to be intrusive. I could see him now, still eating his croissant, obviously in no hurry to get off the tram. In fact, he looked set to go on sitting there for a long time to come. And with the tram running a continuous circuit, if the two of us were enjoying our conversation, he was just the sort to delay getting off until the next time his stop came around. The buffet too was clearly here to stay for some time yet, so that we would be able to break off from our conversation every now and then to replenish our plates. I could even see us repeatedly persuading each other to have more. ‘Go on! Just one more sausage! Here, give me your plate, I’ll get it for you.’ We would go on sitting there together, eating, exchanging views on football and whatever else took our fancy, while outside the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, brightening the streets and our side of the carriage. And only when we were thoroughly done, when we had eaten and talked all we could possibly want, the electrician might glance at his watch, give a sigh and point out that the stop for my hotel was coming round again. I too would sigh, and with some reluctance rise to my feet, brushing the crumbs off my lap. We would shake hands, wish each other a good day – he too would be having to get off before long, he would tell me – and I would go off to join the crowd of cheerful passengers gathering around the exit. Then, as the tram came to a halt, I would perhaps give the electrician one last wave and disembark, secure in the knowledge that I could look forward to Helsinki with pride and confidence.
I filled my coffee cup almost to the brim. Then, holding it carefully in one hand, my generously laden plate in the other, I began making my way back to my seat.
ALSO BY KAZUO ISHIGURO
AN ARTIST OF THE FLOATING WORLD
In the face of the misery he saw in his homeland, the artist Masuji Ono was unwilling to devote his art solely to the celebration of physical beauty. Instead, he envisioned a strong and powerful Japan of the future, and put his work in the service of the imperialist movement that led Japan into World War II. Now, as the mature Ono struggles through the devastation of that war, his memories of his youth and of the “floating world”—the nocturnal realm of pleasure, entertainment, and drink—offer him both escape and redemption, even as they punish him for betraying his early promise as an artist. Drifting in disgrace in postwar Japan, indicted by society for its defeat and reviled for his past aesthetics, he relives the passage through his personal history that makes him both a hero and a coward but, above all, a human being.
Fiction/Literature
NEVER LET ME GO
As children Kathy, Ruth, and Tommy were students at Hailsham, an exclusive boarding school secluded in the English countryside. It was a place of mercurial cliques and mysterious rules where teachers were constantly reminding their charges of how special they were. Now, years later, Kathy is a young woman. Ruth and Tommy have reentered her life. And for the first time she is beginning to look back at their shared past
and understand just what it is that makes them special—and how that gift will shape the rest of their time together. Suspenseful, moving, beautifully atmospheric, Never Let Me Go administers its revelations as precisely as drops of acid.
Fiction
A PALE VIEW OF HILLS
The highly acclaimed first novel by Kazuo Ishiguro, A Pale View of the Hills is the story of Etsuko, a Japanese woman now living alone in England, dwelling on the recent suicide of her eldest daughter. In a story where past and present confuse in a haunting and sometimes macabre way, she relives scenes of Japan’s devastation in the wake of World War II, even as she recounts the weirdnesses and calamities of her own life.
Fiction/Literature
THE REMAINS OF THE DAY
The Remains of the Day is a profoundly compelling portrait of the perfect English butler and of his fading, insular world in a postwar England. At the end of his three decades of service at Darlington Hall, Stevens embarks on a country drive, during which he looks back over his career to reassure himself that he has served humanity by serving “a great gentleman.” But lurking in his memory are doubts about the true nature of Lord Darlington’s “greatness” and graver doubts about his own faith in the man he served.
Fiction/Literature
THE UNCONSOLED
The setting is a Central European city where a renowned pianist has come to give the most important performance of his life. Instead, he finds himself diverted on a series of cryptic and infuriating errands that nevertheless provide him with vital clues to his own past. In The Unconsoled, Kazuo Ishiguro creates a work that is itself a virtuoso performance, deeply strange, hauntingly familiar, and resonant with humanity and wit.
Fiction/Literature
WHEN WE WERE ORPHANS
Christopher Banks, an English boy born in early twentieth-century Shanghai, is orphaned at age nine when both his mother and father disappear under suspicious circumstances. Sent to live in England, he grows up to become a renowned detective, and, more than twenty years later, returns to Shanghai to solve the mystery of their disappearances. Brilliantly crafted—a feat of both complex logic and soaring imagination—rich in emotional and psychological detail, When We Were Orphans is Kazuo Ishiguro at his astonishing best.
The Unconsoled Page 61