A Pale View of Hills

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  Chapter Six

  I cannot be sure now how long I spent searching for her that night. Quite possibly it was for a considerable time, for I was advanced in my pregnancy by then and careful to avoid hurried movements. Besides, once having come outside, I was finding it strangely peaceful to walk beside the river. Along one section of the bank, the grass had grown very tall. I must have been wearing sandals that night for I can remember distinctly the feel of the grass on my feet. As I walked, there were insects making noises all around me.

  Then eventually I became aware of a separate sound, a rustling noise as if a snake were sliding in the grass behind me. I stopped to listen, then realized what had caused it; an old piece of rope had tangled itself around my ankle and I had been dragging it through the grass. I carefully released it from around my foot. When I held it up to the moonlight it felt damp and muddy between my fingers.

  “Hello, Mariko,” I said, for she was sitting in the grass a short way in front of me, her knees hunched up to her chin. A willow tree—one of several that grew on the bank—hung over the spot where she sat. I took a few steps towards her until I could make out her face more clearly.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Nothing. It just tangled on to my foot when I was walking.”

  “What is it though?"

  “Nothing, just a piece of old rope. Why are you out here?”

  “Do you want to take a kitten?”

  “A kitten?”

  “Mother says we can’t keep the kittens. Do you want one?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But we have to find homes for them soon. Or else Mother says we’ll have to drown them.”

  “That would be a pity"

  You could have Atsu.”

  “We’ll have to see.”

  “Why have you got that?

  “I told you, it’s nothing. It just caught on to my foot.” I took a step closer. Why are you doing that, Mariko?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You were making a strange face just now.”

  “I wasn’t making a strange face. Why have you got the rope?”

  “You were making a strange face. It was a very strange face."

  “Why have you got the rope?”

  I watched her for a moment. Signs of fear were appearing on her face.

  “Don’t you want a kitten then?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. What’s the matter with you?” Mariko got to her feet. I caine forward until I reached the willow tree. I noticed the cottage a short distance away, the shape of its roof darker than the sky. I could hear Mariko’s footsteps running off into the darkness.

  When I reached the door of the cottage, I could hear Sachiko’s voice from within, talking angrily. They both turned to me as I came in. Sachiko was standing in the middle of the room, her daughter before her. In the light cast by the lantern, her carefully prepared face had a mask-like quality.

  “I fear Mariko’s been giving you trouble,” she said to me.

  “Well, she ran outside”

  “Say sorry to Etsuko-San.” She gripped Mariko’s arm roughly.

  “I want to go outside again.”

  “You won’t move. Now apologize.”

  “I want to go outside.”

  With her free hand, Sachiko slapped the child sharply on the back of her thigh. “Now, apologize to Etsuko-San.”

  Small tears were appearing in Mariko’s eyes. She looked at me briefly, then turned back to her mother. “Why do you always go away?”

  Sachiko raised her hand again warningly.

  “Why do you always go away with Frank-San?”

  “Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

  “Frank-San pisses like a pig. He’s a pig in a sewer.” Sachiko stared at her child, her hand still poised in the air.

  “He drinks his own piss.”

  “Silence.”

  “He drinks his own piss and he shits in his bed.” Sachiko continued to glare, but remained quite still. “He drinks his own piss.” Mariko pulled her aim free and walked across the room with an air of nonchalance. At the entryway she turned and stared back at her mother. “He pisses like a pig,” she repeated, then went out into the darkness.

  Sachiko stared at the entryway for some moments, apparently oblivious of my presence.

  “Shouldn’t someone go after her?” I said, after a while. Sachiko looked at me and seemed to relax a little. “No,” she said, sitting down. “Leave her.”

  “But it’s very late."

  “Leave her. She can come back when she pleases.” A kettle had been steaming on the open stove for some

  time. Sachiko took it off the flame and began making tea. I watched her for several moments, then asked quietly:

  Did you find your friend?”

  “Yes, Etsuko," she said. “I found him.” She continued with her tea-making, not looking up at me. Then she said:

  “It was very kind of you to have come here tonight. I do apologize about Mariko.”

  I continued to watch her. Eventually, I said: “What are your plans now?”

  “My plans?” Sachiko finished filling the teapot, then poured the remaining water on to the flame. “Etsuko, I’ve told you many times, what is of the utmost importance to me is my daughter’s welfare. That must come before everything else. I’m a mother, after all. I’m not some young saloon girl with no regard for decency I’m a mother, and my daughter’s interests come first.”

  “Of course.”

  “I intend to write to my uncle. I’ll inform him of my whereabouts and I’ll tell him as much as he has a right to know about my present circumstances. Then if he wishes, I’ll discuss with him the possibilities of our returning to his house.” Sachiko picked up the teapot in both hands and began to shake it gently. “As a matter of fact, Etsuko, I’m rather glad things have turned out like this. Imagine how unsettling it would have been for my daughter, finding herself in a land full of foreigners, a land full of Ame-kos. And suddenly having an Ame-ko for a father, imagine how confusing that would be for her. Do you understand what I’m saying, Etsuko? She’s had enough disturbance in her life already, she deserves to be somewhere settled. It’s just as well things have turned out this way.”

  I murmured something in assent.

  “Children, Etsuko,” she went on, “mean responsibility. You’ll discover that yourself soon enough. And that’s what he’s really scared of, anyone can see that. He’s scared of Mariko. Well, that’s not acceptable to me, Etsuko. My daughter comes first. It’s just as well things have turned out this way.” She went on rocking the teapot in her hands.

  “This must be very distressing for you," I said, eventually.

  “Distressing?”—Sachiko laughed—“Etsuko, do you imagine little things like this distress me? When I was your age, perhaps. But not any more. I’ve gone through too much over the last few years. In any case, I was expecting this to happen. Oh yes, I’m not surprised at all. I expected this. The last time, in Tokyo it was much the same, he disappeared and spent all our money, drank it all in three days. A lot of it was my money too. Do you know, Etsuko, I actually worked as a maid in a hotel? Yes, as a maid. But I didn’t complain, and we almost had enough, a few more weeks and we could have got a ship to America. But then he drank it all. All those weeks I spent scrubbing floors on my knees and he drank it all up in three days. And now there he is again a bar with his worthless saloon girl. How can I place my daughter’s future in the hands of a man like that?

  “I’m a mother, and my daughter comes first."

  We fell silent again. Sachiko put the teapot down in front of her and stared at it.

  “I hope your uncle will prove understanding," I said.

  She gave a shrug. “As far as my uncle’s concerned, Etsuko, I’ll discuss the matter with him. I’m willing to do so for Mariko’s sake. If he proves unhelpful, then I’ll just find some alternative course. In any case, I’ve no intention of ccompanying some foreign drun
kard to America. I’m quite happy he’s found some saloon girl to drink with him, I’m sure they deserve one another. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m going to do what’s best for Mariko, and that’s my decision.”

  For some time, Sachiko continued to stare at the teapot. Then she sighed and got to her feet. She went over to the window and peered out into the darkness.

  “Should we go and look for her now?" I said.

  “No,” Sachiko said, still looking out. “She’ll be back soon. Let her stay out if that’s what she wants”

  I feel only regret now for those attitudes I displayed towards Keiko. In this country, after all, it is not unexpected that a young woman of that age should wish to leave home. All I succeeded in doing, it would seem, was to ensure that when she finally left— now almost six years ago—she did so severing all her ties with me. But then I never imagined she could so quickly vanish beyond my reach; all I saw was that my daughter, unhappy as she was at home, would find the world outside too much for her. It was for her own protection I opposed her so vehemently.

  That morning—the fifth day of Niki’s visit—I awoke during the early hours. What occurred to me first was that I could no longer hear the rain as on previous nights and mornings. Then I remembered what had awoken me.

  I lay under the covers looking in turn at those objects visible in the pale light. After several minutes I felt somewhat calmer and closed my eyes again. I did not sleep, however. I thought of the landlady—Keikos landlady— and how she had finally opened the door of that room in Manchester.

  I opened my eyes and once more looked at the objects in the room. Finally I rose and put on my dressing gown. I made my way to the bathroom, taking care not to arouse Niki, asleep in the spare room next to mine. When I came out of the bathroom, I remained standing on the landing for some time. Beyond the staircase, at the far end of the hallway, I could see the door of Keiko’s room. The door, as usual, was shut. I went on staring at it, then moved a few steps forward. Eventually, I found myself standing before it. Once, as I stood there, I thought I heard a small sound, some movement from within. I listened for a while but the sound did not come again. I reached forward and opened the door.

  Keikos room looked stark in the greyish light; a bed covered with a single sheet, her white dressing table, and on the floor, several cardboard boxes containing those of her belongings she had not taken with her to. Manchester. I stepped further into the room. The curtains had been left open and I could see the orchard below. The sky looked pale and white; it did not appear to be raining. Beneath the window, down on the grass, two birds were pecking at some fallen apples. I started to feel the cold then and returned to my mom.

  “A friend of mine’s writing a poem about you,” said Niki.

  We were eating breakfast in the kitchen.

  “About me? Why on earth is she doing that?”

  “I was telling her about you and she decided she’d write a poem. She’s a brilliant poet."

  “A poem about me? How absurd. What is there to write about? She doesn’t even know me.”

  “I just said, Mother. I told her about you. It’s amazing how well she understands people. She’s been through quite a bit herself, you see.”

  “I see. And how old is this Mend of yours?”

  “Mother, you’re always so obsessed about how old people are. It doesn’t matter how old someone is, it’s what they’ve experienced that counts. People can get to be a hundred and not experience a thing.”

  “I suppose so.” I gave a laugh and glanced towards the windows. Outside, it had started to drizzle.

  “I was telling her about you," Niki said. “About you and Dad and how you left Japan. She was really impressed. She appreciates what it must have been like, how it wasn’t quite as easy as it sounds.

  For a moment, I went on gazing at the windows. Then I said quickly: “I’m sure your friend will write a marvellous poem." I took an apple from the fruit basket and Niki watched as I began to peel it with my knife.

  “So many women”, he said, “get stuck with kids and lousy husbands and they’re just miserable. But they can’t pluck up the courage to do a thing about it. They’ll just go on like that for the rest of their lives

  “I see. So you’re saying they should desert their children, are you, Niki?”

  You know what I mean. It’s pathetic when people just waste away their lives.”

  I did not speak, although my daughter paused as if expecting me to do so.

  “It couldn’t have been easy, what you did, Mother. You ought to be proud of what you did with your life.” I continued to peel the apple. When I had finished, I dried my fingers on the napkin.

  “My friends all think so too,’ said Niki. “The ones I’ve told anyway.”

  “I’m very flattered. Please thank your marvellous friends.”

  “I was just saying, that’s all.”

  “Well you’ve made your point quite clearly now.” Perhaps I was unnecessarily curt with her that morning, but then it was presumptious of Niki to suppose I would need reassuring on such matters. Besides, she has little idea of what actually occurred during those last days in gki. One supposes she has built up some sort of picture from what her father has told her. Such a picture, inevitably, would have its inaccuracies. For, in truth, despite all the impressive articles he wrote about Japan, my husband never understood the ways of our culture, even less a man like Jim. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection then he was never the oafish man my husband considered him to be. Jim worked hard to do his part for the family and he expected me to do mine; in his own terms, he was a dutiful husband. And indeed, for the seven years he knew his daughter, he was a good father to her. Whatever else I convinced myself of during those final days, I never pretended Keiko would not miss him.

  But such things are long in the past now and I have no wish to ponder them yet again. My motives for leaving Japan were justifiable, and I know I always: kept Keiko’s interests very much at heart. There is nothing to be gained in going over such matters again.

  I had been pruning the pot plants along the window ledge for some time when I realized how quiet Niki had become. When I turned to her, she was standing in front of the fireplace, looking past me out into the garden. I turned back to the window, trying to follow her gaze; despite the mist on the pane, the garden was still clearly discernible. Niki, it seemed, was gazing over to a spot near the hedge, where the rain and wind had put into disarray the canes which supported the young tomato plants.

  “I think the tomatoes are mined for this year,” I said. “I’ve really rather neglected them.”

  I was still looking at the canes when I heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and when I turned again, Niki was continuing with her search. She had decided after breakfast to read through all her father’s newspaper articles, and had spent much of the morning going through all the drawers and bookshelves in the house.

  For some minutes, I continued working on my pot plants; there were a large number of them, cluttering the window ledge. Behind me, I could hear Niki going through the drawers. Then she became quiet again, and when I turned to her, she was once more gazing past me, out into the garden.

  “I think I’ll go and do the goldfish now,” she said.

  “The goldfish?”

  Without replying, Niki left the room, and a moment later I saw her go striding across the lawn. I wiped away a little mist from the pane and watched her. Niki walked to the far end of the garden, to the fish-pond amidst the rockery. She poured in the feed, and for several seconds remained standing there, gazing into the pond. I could see her figure in profile; she looked very thin, and despite her fashionable clothes there was still something unmistakably childlike about her. I watched the wind disturb her hair and wondered why she had gone outside without a jacket.

  On her way back, she stopped beside the tomato plants and in spite of the heavy drizzle stood contemplating them for some time. Then she took a few steps closer and with much
care began straightening the canes. She stood up several that had fallen completely, then, crouching down so her knees almost touched the wet grass, adjusted the net I had laid above the soil to protect the plants from marauding birds.

  “Thank you, Niki,” I said to her when she came in. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

  She muttered something and sat down on the settee. I noticed she had become quite embarrassed.

  “I really have been rather neglectful about those tomatoes this year, I went on. “Still, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I never know what to do with so many tomatoes these days. Last year, I gave most of them to the Morrisons.”

  “Oh God,” said Niki ”the Morrisons. And how are the dear old Morrisons?”

  “Niki, the Monisons are perfectly kind people. I’ve never understood why you need to be so disparaging. You and Cathy used to be the best of friends once.”

  “Oh yes, Cathy. And how’s she these days? Still living at home, I suppose?”

  “Well, yes. She works in a bank now.”

  “Typical enough.”

  “That seems to me a perfectly sensible thing to be doing at her age. And Marilyn’s married now, did you know?"

  “Oh yes? And who did she marry?”

  “I don’t remember what her husband does. I met him once. He seemed very pleasant.”

  “I expect he’s a vicar or something like that.”

  “Now, Niki, I really don’t see why you have t adopt this tone. The Morrisons have always been extremely kind to us.

  Niki sighed impatiently. “It’s just the way they do things,” she said. “It makes me sick. Like the way they’ve brought up their kids."

  “But you’ve hardly seen the Morrisons in years."

  “I saw them often enough when I used to know Cathy. People like that are so hopeless. I suppose I ought to feel sorry for Cathy.”

  “You’re blaming her because she hasn’t gone to live in London like you have? I must say, Niki, that doesn’t sound like the broadmindedness you and your friends seem so proud of.”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. You don’t understand what I’m talking about anyway.” She glanced towards me, then heaved another sigh. It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, looking the other way.