A Pale View of Hills

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  The car remained at the platform for several more minutes and the tubby boy began to walk around impatiently. Beside me, Mariko was looking out of the window, her knees up on the bench. From our side of the car, we could see the forecourt and the gathering of young spectators at the turnstiles. Mariko seemed to be testing the effectiveness of her binoculars, holding them to her eyes one moment, taking them away the next. Then the tubby boy came and knelt on the bench beside her. For a little while, the two children ignored each other. Finally, the boy said:

  “I want to have a look now.” He held out his hand for the binoculars. Mariko looked at him coldly.

  “Akira, don’t ask like that,” said his mother. “Ask the little lady nicely.”

  The boy took his hand away and looked at Mariko. The little girl stared back. The boy turned and went to another window.

  The children at the turnstiles waved as the car began to pull away. I instinctively reached for the metal bar running along the window, and the American woman made a nervous noise and laughed. The forecourt was growing smaller and then the hillside began to move beneath us; the cable-car swayed gently as we climbed higher; for a moment, the treetops seemed to brush against the windows, then suddenly a large dip opened beneath us and we were hanging in the sky. Sachiko laughed softly and pointed to something out of the window. Mariko continued to look through her binoculars.

  The cable-car finished its climb and we filed out cautiously as if uncertain we had arrived on solid ground. The higher station had no concrete forecourt, and we stepped off the wooden boards into a small grass clearing. Other than the uniformed man who ushered us out, there were no other people in sight. At the back of the clearing, almost amidst the pine trees, stood several wooden picnic tables. The near edge of the clearing where we had disembarked was marked by a metal fence, which separated us from a cliff-edge. When we had regained our bearings a little, we wandered over to the fence and looked out over the falling mountainside. After a moment, the two women and the boy joined us.

  “Quite breathtaking, isn’t it?” the Japanese woman said to me. “I’m just showing my friend all the interesting sights. She’s never been in Japan before.”

  “I see. I hope she’s enjoying it here.”

  “I hope so. Unfortunately, I don’t understand English so well. Your friend seems to speak it much better than I do."

  “Yes, she speaks it very well.”

  We both glanced towards Sachiko. She and the American woman were again exchanging remarks in English.

  “How nice to be so well educated,” the woman said to me. “Well, I hope you all have a nice day.”

  We exchanged bows, then the woman made gestures to her American guest, suggesting they move off.

  “Please may I look,” the tubby boy said, in an angry voice. Again, he was holding out his hand. Mariko stared at him, as she had done in the cable-car.

  “I want to see it,” the boy said, more fiercely.

  “Akira, remember to ask the little lady nicely.”

  “Please! I want to see it."

  Mariko continued to look at him for a second, then took the plastic strap from around her neck and handed the boy the binoculars. The boy put them to his face and for some moments gazed over the fence.

  “These aren’t any good,” he said finally, turning to his mother. “They aren’t nearly as good as mine. Mother, look, you can’t even see those trees over there properly. Take a look.”

  He held the binoculars towards his mother. Mariko reached for them but the boy snatched them away and again offered them to the woman.

  “Take a look, Mother. You can’t even see those trees the near ones.”

  “Akira, give them back to the little lady now.”

  “They aren’t nearly as good as mine.”

  “Now Akira, that’s not a nice thing to say. You know everyone isn't as lucky as you."

  Mariko reached for the binoculars and this time the boy let go.

  “Say thank you to the little lady,” said his mother. The boy said nothing and started to walk away. The mother laughed a little.

  “Thank you very much,” she said to Mariko. “You were vety kind.” Then she smiled in turn towards Sachiko and myself. “Splendid scenery, isn’t it?” she said. “I do hope you have a nice day.?

  The path was covered with pine needles and rose up the side of the mountain in zig-zags. We walked at an easy pace, often stopping to rest. Mariko was quiet and—rather to my surprise—showed no signs of wishing to misbehave. She did however display a curious reluctance to walk alongside her mother and myself. One moment she would be lagging behind, causing us to cast anxious glances over our shoulders; the next moment, she would go running past us and walk on ahead.

  We met the American woman for the second time an hour or so after we had disembarked from the cable-car. She and her companion were coming back down the path and, recognizing us, gave cheerful greetings. The tubby boy, coming behind them, ignored us. As she passed, the American woman said something to Sachiko in English, and when Sachiko replied, gave a loud laugh. She seemed to want to stop and talk, but the Japanese woman and her son did not break their step; the American woman waved and walked on.

  When I complimented Sachiko on her command of English, she laughed and said nothing. The encounter, I noticed, had had a curious effect upon her. She became quiet, and walked on beside me as if lost in thought. Then, when Mariko had once more rushed on ahead, she said to me: “My father was a highly respected man, Etsuko. Highly respected indeed. But his foreign connections almost resulted in my marriage proposal being withdrawn." She smiled slightly and shook her head. “How odd, Etsuko. That all seems like another age now.”

  “Yes," I said. “Things have changed so much."

  The path bent sharply and began to climb again. The trees fell away and suddenly the sky seemed huge all around us. Up ahead, Mariko shouted something and pointed. Then she hunted on excitedly.

  “I never saw a great deal of my father,” Sachiko said. “He was abroad much of the time, in Europe and America. When I was young, I used to dream I’d go to America one day, that I’d go there and become a film actress. My mother used to laugh at me. But my father told me if I learnt my English well enough, I could easily become a business girl. I used to enjoy learning English.”

  Mariko had stopped at what looked like a plateau. She shouted something to us again. “I remember once,” Sachiko went on, “my father brought a book back from America for me, an English version of A Christmas Carol. That became something of an ambition of mine, Etsuko. I wanted to learn English well enough to read that book. Unfortunately, I never had the chance. When I married, my husband forbade me to continue learning. In fact, he made me throw the book away.”

  “That seems rather a pity," I said.

  “My husband was like that, Etsuko. Very strict and very patriotic. He was never the most considerate of men. But he came from a highly distinguished family and my parents considered it a good match. I didn’t protest when he forbade me to study English. After all, there seemed little point any more.”

  We reached the spot where Mariko was standing; it was a square area of ground that jutted off the edge of the path, bound in by several large boulders. A thick tree trunk fallen on to its side had been converted into a bench, the top surface having been smoothed and flattened. Sachiko and I sat down to recover our breath.

  “Don’t go too near the edge, Mariko,” Sachiko called. The little girl had walked out to the boulders and was looking at the view with her binoculars.

  I had a rather precarious feeling, perched on the edge of that mountain looking out over such a view; a long way down below us, we could see the harbour looking like a dense piece of machinery left in the water. Across the harbour, on the opposite bank, rose the series of hills that led into Nagasaki. The land at the foot of the hills was busy with houses and buildings. Far over to our right, the harbour opened out on to the sea.

  We sat there for a while, recovering
our breath and enjoying the breeze. Then I said: “wouldn’t think anything had ever happened here, would you? Everything so full of life. But all that area down there”—I waved my hand at the view below us—“all that area was so badly hit when the bomb fell. But look at it now.”

  Sachiko nodded, then turned to me with a smile.” How cheerful you are today. Etsuko,” she said.

  “But it’s so good to come out here. Today I’ve decided I’m going to be optimistic. I’m determined to have a happy r future. Mrs. Fujiwara always tells me how important it is to keep looking forward. And she’s right. If people didn’t do that, then all this”—I pointed again at the view—“all this would still be rubble.”

  Sachiko smiled again. “Yes, as you say, Etsuko. It would all be rubble.” For a few moments, she continued to gaze at the view below us. “Incidentally, Etsuko,” she said, after a while, “your friend, Mrs. Eujiwara. I assume she lost her family in the war.”

  I nodded. “She had five children. And her husband was an important man in Nagasaki. When the bomb fell, they all died except her eldest son. It must have been such a blow to her, but she just kept going.”

  “Yes,” said Sachiko, nodding slowly, “I thought something of that nature had happened. And did she always have that noodle shop of hers?”

  “No, of course not. Her husband was an important man. That was only afterwards, after she lost everything. Whenever I see her, I think to myself I have to be like her, I should keep looking forward. Because in many ways, she lost more than I did. After all, look at me now, I’m about to start a family of my own.”

  “Yes, how right you are.” The wind had disturbed Sachiko’s carefully combed hair. She passed her hand through it, then took a deep breath, “How right you are Etsuko, we shouldn’t keep looking back to the past. The war destroyed many things for me, but I still have my daughter. As you say, we have to keep looking forward,”

  “You know,” I said, “it’s only in the last few days I’ve really thought about what it’s going to be like. To have a child, I mean. I don’t feel nearly so afraid now. I’m going to look forward to it. I’m going to be optimistic from now on."

  “And so you should, Etsuko. After all, you have a lot to look forward to. In fact, you’ll discover soon enough, it’s being a mother that makes life truly worthwhile. What do I care if life is a little dull at my uncle’s house? All I want is what’s best for my daughter. We’ll get her the best private tuition and she’ll catch upon her schoolwork in no time. As you say, Etsuko, we must look forward to life."

  “I’m so glad you feel like that,” I said. “We should both of us be grateful really. We may have lost a lot in the war, but there’s still so much to look forward to.”

  “Yes, Etsuko. There’s a lot to look forward to.”

  Mariko came nearer and stood in front of us. Perhaps she had overheard some of our conversation, for she said to me:

  “We’re going to live with Yasuko-San again. Did Mother tell you?”

  “Yes,” I said, “she did. Are you looking forward toliving there again, Mariko-San?”

  “We might be able to keep the kittens now,” the little girl said. “There’s plenty of mom at Yasuko-San’s house”

  “We’ll have to see about that, Mariko,” said Sachiko.

  Mariko looked at her mother for a moment. Then she said: “But Yasuko-San likes cats. And anyway, Maru was Yasuko-San’s cat before we took her. So the kittens are hers too.",

  “Yes, Mariko, but we’ll have to see. We’ll have to see what Yasuko-San’s father will say.”

  The little girl regarded her mother with a sullen look, then turned to me once more. “We might be able to keep them,” she said, with a serious expression.

  Towards the latter part of the afternoon, we found ourselves back at the clearing where we had first stepped off the cable-car. There still remained in our lunch-boxes some biscuits and chocolates, so we sat down for a snack atone of the picnic tables. At the other end of the clearing, a handful of people were gathered near the metal fence, awaiting the cable-car that would take them back down the mountain.

  We had been sitting at the picnic table for several minutes when a voice made us look up. The American woman came striding across the clearing, a broad smile on her face. Without the least sign of bashfulness, she sat down at our table, smiled to us in turn, then began to address Sachiko in English. She was, I supposed, grateful for the chance to communicate other than by means of gestures. Looking around, I spotted the Japanese woman nearby, putting a jacket on her son. She appeared less enthusiastic for our company, but eventually she came towards our table with a smile. She sat down opposite me, and when her son sat beside her, I could see the extent to which mother and child shared the same plump features; most noticeably, their cheeks had a kind of fleshy sagginess to them, not unlike the cheeks of bulldogs. The American woman, all the while, continued to talk loudly to Sachiko.

  At the arrival of the strangers, Mariko had opened her sketchbook and begun to draw. The plump-faced woman, after exchanging a few pleasantries with me, turned to the little girl.

  “And have you enjoyed your day?” she asked Mariko.

  “It’s very pretty up here, isn’t it?”

  Mariko continued to crayon her page, not looking up. The woman, however, did not seem in the least deterred.

  “What are you drawing there?" she asked. “It looks very nice.”

  This time, Mariko stopped drawing and looked at the woman coldly.

  “That looks very nice. May we see?” The woman reached forward and took the sketchbook. “Aren’t these nice, Akira,” she said to her son. “Isn’t the little lady clever?”

  The boy leaned across the table for a better view. He regarded the drawings with interest, but said nothing.

  “They’re very nice indeed.” The woman was turning over the pages. “Did you do all these today?"

  Mariko remained silent for a moment. Then she said:

  “The crayons are new. We bought them this morning. It’s harder to draw with new crayons.”

  “I see. Yes, new crayons are harder, aren’t they? Akira here draws too, don’t you. Akin?”

  “Drawing’s easy,” the boy said.

  “Aren’t these nice little pictures, Akin?"

  Mariko pointed to the open page. “I don’t like that one there. The crayons weren’t worn in enough. The one on the next page is better.”

  “Oh yes. This one’s lovely!”

  “I did it down at the harbour,” said Mariko. “But it was noisy and hot down there, so I hurried.”

  “But it’s very good. Do you enjoy drawing?”

  “Yes.”

  Sachiko and the American woman had both turned towards the sketchbook. The American woman pointed at the drawing and uttered loudly several times the Japanese word for ‘delicious".

  “And what’s this?” the plump-faced woman continued. “A butterfly! It must have been very hard to draw it so well. It couldn’t have stayed still for very long.”

  “I remembered it,” said Mariko. “I saw one earlier on.” The woman nodded, then turned to Sachiko. “flow clever your daughter is. I think it’s very commendable for a child to use her memory and imagination. So many children at this age are still copying out of books.”

  “Yes,” said Sachiko. “I suppose so."

  I was rather surprised at the dismissiveness of her tone, for she had been talking to the American woman in her most gracious manner. The tubby boy leaned further across the table and put his finger to the page.

  “Those ships are too big,” he said. “If that’s supposed to be a tree, then the ships would be much smaller.”

  His mother considered this for a moment. “Well, perhaps,” she said. “But it’s a lowly little drawing all the same. Don’t you think so, Akira?”

  “The ships are far too big,” said the boy.

  The woman gave a laugh. “You must excuse Akira,” she said to Sachiko. “But you see, he has a quite distinguished
tutor for his drawing, and so he’s obviously much more discerning about these things than most children his age. Does your daughter have a tutor for her drawing?”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Again, Sachiko’s tone was unmistakably cold. The woman, however, appeared to notice nothing.

  “It’s not a bad idea at all,” she went on. “My husband was against it at first. He thought it was quite enough for Akira to have home tuition for maths and science. But I think drawing is important too. A child should develop his imagination while he’s young. The teachers at school all agreed with me. But he gets on best with maths. I think maths is very important, don’t you?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Sachiko. “I’m sure it’s very useful.”

  “Maths sharpens children’s minds. You’ll find most children good at maths are good at most other things. My husband and I were in no disagreement about getting a maths tutor. And it’s been well worth it. Last year, Akira always came third or fourth in his class, but this year he’s been top throughout.”

  “Maths is easy,” the boy announced. Then he said to Mariko: “Do you know the nine times table?”

  His mother laughed again. “I expect the little lady’s very clever too. Her drawing certainly shows promise.”

  “Maths is easy,” the boy said again. “The nine times table is easy as anything.”

  “Yes, Akin knows all his multiplication now. A lot of children his age only know it up to three or four. Akira, what’s nine times five?”

  “Nine times five make forty-five!” “And nine times nine?"

  “Nine times nine make eighty-one!”

  The American woman asked Sachiko omething, and when Sachiko nodded she clapped her hands and once more repeated the word ‘delicious’ several times.

  “Your daughter seems a bright little lady,” the plump- faced woman said to Sachiko. “Does she enjoy school? Akira likes almost everything at school. Apart from maths and drawing, he gets on very well with geography. My friend here was very surprised to find Akira knew the names of all the large cities in America. Weren’t you, SuzieSan?” The woman turned to her friend and spoke several faltering words of English. The American woman did not appear to understand, but smiled approvingly towards the boy.