A Pale View of Hills

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  “I see.”

  “I suppose you don’t go to bars, do you, Etsuko?”

  “No, I don’t."

  That was the first time I had crossed to the far side of the river. The ground felt soft, almost marshy under my feet. Perhaps it is just my fancy that I felt a cold touch of unease there on that bank, a feeling not unlike premonition, which caused me to walk with renewed urgency towards the darkness of the trees before us.

  Sachiko stopped me, grasping my arm. Following her gaze, I could see a short way along the bank something like a bundle lying on the grass, close to the river’s edge. It was just discernible in the gloom, a few shades darker than the ground around it. My first impulse was to run towards it, but then I realized Sachiko was standing quite still, gazing towards the object.

  “What is it?” I said, rather stupidly.

  “It’s Mariko,” she said, quietly. And when she turned to me there was a strange look in her eyes.

  Chapter Three

  It is possible that my memory of these events will have grown hazy with time, that things did not happen in quite the way they come back to me today. But I remember with some distinctness that eerie spell which seemed to bind the two of us as we stood there in the coming darkness looking towards that shape furtther down the bank. Then the spell broke and we both began to run. As we came nearer, I saw Mariko lying curled on her side, knees hunched, her back towards us. Sachiko reached the spot a little ahead of me, I being slowed by my pregnancy, and she was standing over the child when I joined her. Mariko’s eyes were open and at first I thought she was dead. But then I saw them move and they stared up at us with a peculiar blankness.

  Sachiko dropped on to one knee and lifted the child’s head. Mariko continued to stare.

  “Mariko-San, are you all right?” I said, a little out of breath.

  She did not reply. Sachiko too was silent, examining her daughter, turning her in her arms as if she were a fragile, but senseless doll. I noticed the blood on Sachiko’s sleeve, then saw it was coming from Mariko.

  “We’d better call someone,” I said.

  “It’s not serious,” Sachiko said. “It’s just a graze. See, it’s just a small cut.”

  Mariko had been lying in a puddle and one side of her short dress was soaked in dark water. The blood was coming from a wound on the inside of her thigh.

  “What happened?" Sachiko said to her daughter. “What happened to you?"

  Mariko went on looking at her mother.

  “She’s probably shocked,” I said. “Perhaps it’s best not to question her immediately.”

  Sachiko brought Mariko to her feet.

  “We were very worried about you, Mariko`San,” I said. The little girl gave me a suspicious look, then turned away and started to walk. She walked quite steadily; the wound on her leg did not seem to trouble her unduly.

  We walked back over the bridge and along the river. The two of them walked in front of me, not talking. It was completely dark by the time we reached the cottage.

  Sachiko took Mariko into the bathroom, lilt the stove in the centre of the main room to make some tea. Aside from the stove, an old hanging lantern Sachiko had lit provided the only source of light, and large areas of the room remained in shadow. In one corner several tiny black kittens aroused by our arrival started to move restlessly. Their claws, catching in the tatami, made a scuttling noise.

  When they appeared again, both mother and daughter had changed into kimonos. They went through to one of the small adjoining rooms and I continued to wait for some time. The sound of Sachiko’s voice came through the screen.

  Finally, Sachiko came out alone. “It’s still very hot,” she remarked, She crossed the room and slid apart the partitions which opened out onto the veranda.

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s all right. The cut’s nothing.” Sachiko sat down in the breeze, next to the partitions.

  “Shall we report the matter to the police?"

  “The police? But what is there to report? Mariko says she was climbing a tree and fell. That’s how she got her cut.”

  “So she wasn’t with anyone tonight?”

  “No. Who could she have been with?"

  “And what about this woman?" I said.

  “What woman?"

  “This woman Mariko talks about. Are you still certain she’s imaginary?”

  Sachiko sighed. “She’s not entirely imaginary", I suppose” she said. “She’s just someone Mariko saw once. Once, when she was much younger."

  “But do you think she could have been here tonight, this woman?”

  Sachiko gave a laugh. “No, Etsuko, that’s quite impossible in any case, that woman’s dead. Believe me, Etsuko, all this about a woman, it’s just a little game Mariko likes to play when she means to be difficult. I’ve grown

  quite used to these little games of hers.”

  “But why should she tell stories like that?”

  “Why?” Sachiko shrugged. “It’s just what children like to do. Once you become a mother, Etsuko, you’ll need to get used to such things.”

  “You’re sure she was with no one tonight?”

  “Quite sure. I know my own daughter well enough.”

  We fell silent for a moment. Mosquitoes were humming in the air around us. Sachiko gave a yawn, covering her mouth with a hand.

  “So you see, Etsuko,’ she said, “I’ll be leaving Japan very shortly. You don’t seem very impressed.”

  “Of course I am. And I’m very pleased, if this is what you wished. But won’t there be…various difficulties?"

  “Difficulties?”

  “I mean, moving to a different country, with a different language and foreign ways.”

  “I understand your concern, Etsuko. But really, I don’t think there’s much for me to worry about. You see, I’ve heard so much about America, it won’t be like an entirely foreign country. And as for the language, I already speak it to a certain extent. Frank-San and I, we always talk in English. Once I’ve been in America for a little while, I should speak it like an American woman. I really don’t see there’s any cause for me to be worrying. I know I’ll manage.”

  I gave a small bow, but said nothing. Two of the kittens began making their way towards where Sachiko was sitting. She watched them for a moment, then gave a laugh. “Of course,” she said, “I sometimes have moments when I wonder how everything will turn out. But really"—she smiled at me—“I know I’ll manage."

  “Actually,” I said, “it was Mariko I had in mind. What will become of her?”

  “Mariko? Oh, she’ll be fine. You know how children are. They find it so much easier to settle into new surroundings, don’t they?”

  “But it would still be an enormous change for her. Is she ready for such a thing?”

  Sachiko sighed impatiently. “Really, Etsuko, did you think I hadn’t considered all this? Did you suppose I would decide to leave the country without having first given the most careful consideration to my daughter’s welfare?”

  “Naturally,” I said, “you’d give it the most careful consideration.”

  “My daughter’s welfare is of the utmost importance to me, Etsuko. I wouldn’t make any decision that jeopardized her future. I’ve given the whole matter much consideration, and I’ve discussed it with Frank. I assure you, Mariko will be fine. There’ll be no problems.”

  “But her education, what will become of that?”

  Sachiko laughed again. “Etsuko, I’m not about to leave for the jungle. There are such things as schools in America. And you must understand, my daughter is a very bright child. Her father was an accomplished man, and on my side too, there were relatives of the highest rank. You mustn’t suppose, Etsuko, simply because you’ve seen her in these…in these present surroundings, that she’s some peasant’s child."

  “Of course not. I didn’t for one moment."

  “She’s a very bright child. You haven’t seen her as she really is, Etsuko. In surroundings like t
his, you can only expect a child to prove a little awkward at times. But if you’d seen her while we were at my uncle’s house, you’d have seen her true qualities then, if an adult addressed her, she’d answer back very dearly and intelligently, there’d be none of this giggling and shying away like most other children. And there were certainly none of these little games of hers. She went to school, and made friends with the best kinds of children. And we had a private tutor for her, and he praised her very highly. It was astonishing how quickly she began to catch up.”

  “To catch up?”

  “Well”—Sachiko gave a shrug—“it’s unfortunate that Mariko’s education’s had to be interrupted from time to time. What with one thing and another, and our moving around so much. But these are difficult times we’ve come through, Etsuko. If it wasn’t for the war, if my husband was still alive, then Mariko would have had the kind of up bringing appropriate to a family of our position.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Indeed.”

  Perhaps Sachiko had caught something in my tone; she looked up and stared at me, and when she spoke again, her voice had become more tense.

  “I didn’t need to leave Tokyo, Etsuko,” she said. “But I did, for Mariko’s sake. I came all this way to stay at my uncle’s house, because I thought it would be best for my daughter. I didn’t have to do that, I didn’t need to leave Tokyo at all."

  I gave a bow. Sachiko looked at me for a moment, then turned and gazed out through the open partitions, out into the darkness.

  “But you’ve left your uncle now,” I said. “And now you’re about to leave Japan.”

  Sachiko glared at me angrily. “Why do you speak to me like this, Etsuko? Why is it you can’t wish me well? Is it simply that you’re envious?”

  “But I do wish you well. And I assure you I …”

  “Mariko will be fine in America, why won’t you believe that? It’s a better place for a child to grow up. And she’ll have far more opportunities there, life’s much better for a woman in America.”

  “I assure you I’m happy for you. As for myself, I couldn’t be happier with things as they are. Jiro’s work is going so well, and now the child arriving just when we wanted it."

  “She could become a business girl, a film actress even. America’s like that, Etsuko, so many things are possible. Frank says I could become a business woman too. Such things are possible out there."

  “I’m sure they are. It’s just that personally, I’m very happy with my life where l am.”

  Sachiko gazed at the two small kittens, clawing at the tatami beside her. For several moments we were silent.

  “I must be getting back,” I said, eventually. “They’ll be getting worried about me.” I rose to my feet, but Sachiko did not take her eyes off the kittens. “When is it you leave?” I asked.

  “Within the next few days. Frank will come and get us in his car. We should be on a ship by the end of the week.”

  “I take it then you won’t be helping Mrs. Fujiwara much longer.”

  Sachiko looked up at me with a short incredulous laugh. “Etsuko, I’m about to go to America. There’s no need for me to work any more in a noodle shop.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact, Etsuko, perhaps you’d care to tell Mrs. Fujiwara what’s happened to me. I don’t expect to be seeing her again.”

  “Won’t you tell her yourself?”

  She sighed impatiently. “Etsuko, Can’t you appreciate how loathsome it’s been for someone such as myself to work each day in a noodle shop? But I didn’t complain and I did what was required of me. But now it’s over, I’ve no great wish to see that place again.” A kitten had been clawing at the sleeve of Sachiko’s kimono. She gave it a sharp slap with the back of her hand and the little creature went scurrying back across the tatami. “So please give my regards to Mrs. Fujiwara,” she said. “And my best wishes for her trade.”

  “I’ll do that. Now please excuse me, I must go.”

  This time, Sachiko got to her feet and accompanied me to the entryway.

  “I’ll come and say goodbye before we leave,” she said, as I was putting on my sandals.

  At first it had seemed a perfectly innocent dream; I had merely dreamt of something I had seen the previous day—the little girl we had watched playing in the park. And then the dream came back the following night. Indeed, over the past few months, it has returned to me several times.

  Niki and I had watched the girl playing on the swings the afternoon we had walked into the village. It was the third day of Niki’s visit and the rain had eased to a drizzle. I had not been out of the house for several days and enjoyed the feel of the air as we stepped into the winding lane outside.

  Niki tended to walk rather fast, her narrow leather boots creaking with each stride. Although I found it no trouble keeping up with her, I would have preferred a more leisurely pace. Niki, one supposes, has yet to learn the pleasures of walking for its own sake. Neither does she seem sensitive to the feel of the countryside despite having grown up here. I said as much to her as we walked, and she retorted that this was not the real countryside, just a residential version to cater for the wealthy people who lived here. I dare say she is right; I have never ventured north to the agricultural areas of England where, Niki insists, I will find the real countryside. Nevertheless, there is a calni and quietness about these lanes I have come to appreciate over the years.

  When we arrived at the village I took Niki to the tea shop where I sometimes go. The village is small, just a few hotels and shops; the tea shop is on a street corner, upstairs above a bakery. That afternoon, Niki and t sat at a table next to the windows, and it was from there we watched the little girl playing in the park below. As we watched, she climbed on to a swing and called out towards two women sithng together on a bench nearby. She was a cheerful little girl, dressed in a green mackintosh and small Wellington boots,

  “Perhaps you’ll get married and have children soon," I said. “I miss little children.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like less,” said Niki.

  “Well, I suppose you’re still rather young.”

  “It’s nothing to do with how young or old I am. I just don’t feel like having a Lot of kids screaming around me.”

  “Don’t worry, Niki,” I said, with a laugh. “I wasn’t insisting you became a mother just yet. I had this passing fancy just now to be a grandmother, that’s all. I thought perhaps you’d oblige, but it can wait.”

  The little girl, standing on the seat of the swing, was pulling hard on the chains, but somehow she could not make the swing go higher. She smiled anyway and called out again to the women.

  “A friend of mine’s just had a baby,” Niki said. “She’s really pleased. I can’t think why. Horrible screaming thing she’s produced.”

  “Well, at least she’s happy. How old is your friend?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen? She’s even younger than you are. Is she married?”

  “No. What difference does that make?”

  “But surely she can’t be happy about it.”

  “Why not? Just because she isn’t married?"

  “There’s that. And the fact that she’s only nineteen. I can’t believe she was happy about it”

  “What difference does it make whether she’s married?.

  She wanted it, she planned it and everything."

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “But, Mother, I know her, she’s a friend of mine. I know she wanted it.”

  The women on the bench got to their feet. One of them called to the little girl. She came of the swing and went pinning towards the women,

  “And what about the father?” tasked.

  He was happy about it too. I remember when they first found out. We alt went out to celebrate.”

  “But people always pretend to be delighted. It’s like that film we saw on the television last night.”

  “What film?”

  “I expect you weren’t
watching it. You were reading your magazine.”

  “Oh that, It looked awful.”

  It certainly was. But that’s what I mean. I’m sure nobody ever receives the news of a baby like these people do in these films.”

  “Honestly, Mother, I don’t know how you can sit and watch rubbish like that. You hardly used to watch television at all. I remember you used to keep telling me off because I watched it so much”

  I laughed. “You see how our roles are reversing, Niki. I’m sure you’re very good for me. You must stop me wasting my time away like that.”

  As we made our way back from the tea shop, the sky had clouded over ominously and the drizzle had become heavier. We had walked a little way past the small railway station when a voice called from behind us: “Mrs. Sheringham! Mrs. Sheringham!”

  I turned and saw a small woman in an overcoat hurrying up the road.

  “I thought it was you,” she said, catching up with us.

  “And how have you been keeping?" She gave me a cheerful smile.

  Hello, Mrs. Waters,” I said. “How nice to see you again.”

  “Seems to have turned all miserable again, hasn’t it? Why, hello, Keiko”—she touched Niki’s sleeve—“I didn’t realize it was you”

  “No," I said hurriedly, “this is Niki.”

  “Niki, of course. Good gracious, you’ve completely grown up, dear. That’s why I got you muddled. You’ve completely grown up.”

  “Hello, Mrs Waters,” Niki said, recovering.

  Mrs. Waters lives not far from me. These days I see her only very occasionally, but several years ago she had given piano lessons to both my daughters. She had taught Keiko for a number of years, and then Niki for a year or so when she was still a child. It had not taken me long to see Mrs. Waters was a very limited pianist and her attitude to music in general had often irritated me; for instance, she would refer to works by Chopin and Tchaikovsky alike as “charming melodies”. But she was such an affectionate woman I never had the heart to replace her.