The Unconsoled

Kazuo Ishiguro

It was music that first brought us together, he said eventually. We would sit in the cafes in Herrengasse and talk about music. Or rather, I talked. I suppose I talked and talked. I remember once walking through the Volksgarten with her and describing in great detail, perhaps for a full hour, my feelings about Mullery's Ventilations. Of course, we were young, we had time to indulge ourselves in such things. Even in those days, she didn't talk so much, but she listened to what I had to say and I could see she was deeply moved. Oh yes. Incidentally, Mr Ryder, I say we were young, but then I suppose neither of us was as young as all that. We were both the sort of age when we might already have been married for some time. Perhaps she was feeling some sense of urgency, who knows? In any case we talked of getting married, I was so in love with her, Mr Ryder, from the first I was very much in love with her. And she was so beautiful then. Even now, if you saw her, you'd see how very beautiful she must have been then. But beautiful in a special sort of way. You could see immediately she had a sensitivity to the finer things. I don't mind admitting to you, I was very much in love with her. I can't tell you what it meant to me when she agreed to marry me. I thought my life would be a joy, a continuous unbroken joy. But then it was just a few days later, a few days after she agreed to marry me, she came to visit me in my room for the first time. I was at that time working at the Hotel Burgenhof, adn I was renting a room nearby in Glockenstrasse, beside the canal. Not exactly desirable, but a perfectly fine room. There were good bookshelves on one wall and an oak desk at the window. And as I say, it looked over the canal. It was winter, a splendid sunny winter's morning, there was a beautiful light coming into the room. Of course, I had tidied everything, made it just so. She came in and looked around, she looked all around. Then she asked, quietly: But where do you compose your music? I remember that very well, that actual instant, Mr Ryder, I remember it very vividly. I see it as a sort of turning point in my life. I don't exaggerate, sir. In many ways, I see it now, my present life started from that moment. Christine, standing by the window, that January light, her hand on the desk, just a few fingers as though to steady herself. She looked very beautiful. And she asked me that question with genuine surprise. You see, sir, she was puzzled. But where do you compose your music? There's no piano. I didn't know what to say. I saw in an instant there had been a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding of catastrophically cruel proportions. Can you blame me, sir, if I felt the temptation to save myself? I wouldn't have told an out and out lie. Oh no, not even to save myself. But it was a very difficult moment. I think of it now and I feel a shudder go through me, even now as I tell you this. But where do you compose your music? No, there's no piano, I said cheerfully. There's nothing. No manuscript paper, nothing. I've decided not to compose again for two years. That's what I said to her. I was very quick, I said it with no outward sign of distress or hesitation. I even gave a specific date on which I planned to return to my composing. But for the time being, no, I wasn't composing. What could I say, sir? did you expect me to take it lying down? To say to her: Oh dear, it's all been a misunderstanding. Naturally I release you from any obligation. Please, let's part herewith...Of course I could not, sir. You might think I was dishonest. That's too harsh. In any case, you see, at that point in my life what I said wasn't entirely a lie. As it happened, I had every intention of taking up an instrument one day, and yes, I wished to try my hand at composition.

Then at one point I went over to the table where there was a buffet, and I was helping myself to a few things when I realised Mr Piotrowski was standing there right next to me. I was still quite young then, I hadn't so much experience of celebrities, and I admit, yes, I was a little nervous. But then Mr Piotrowski smiled pleasantly, asked me if I was enjoying the evening, very quickly put me at my ease. And then he said: "I was just speaking to your most charming wife. She was telling me about her great love of Baudelaire. I had to confess to her I didn't know Baudelaire's work in any depth. She very correctly reprimanded me for this deplorable state of affairs. Oh, she made me thoroughly ashamed. I mean to put it right without delay. Your wife's love for the poet is absolutely infectious!" To which I nodded and said: "Yes, of course. She's always loved Baudelaire." "And with such passion," Piotrowski said. "She made me thoroughly ashamed." And that was all that took place, all that was said between us. But you see, Mr Ryder, my point is this. I had never known of her love of Baudelaire! Never even suspected it! You see what I am saying. She had never revealed this passion to me! And when Piotrowski said this to me, something fell into place. All of a sudden I saw clearly something I'd been trying not to see over the years. I mean, that she had always hidden certain parts of herself from me. Preserving them, as though contract with my coarseness would damage them. As I say, sir, I had perhaps always suspected it. That there was a whole side to herself she was preserving from me. And who could blame her? A woman of great sensitivity, brought up in a household such as hers. She had not hesitated to tell Piotrowski, but at no point during our years together had she once hinted of this love of Baudelaire. For the next several minutes I wandered about the reception hardly knowing what I was saying to people, just mouthing pleasantries, in a turmoil inside. Then I looked across the room, it must have been half an hour after the conversation with Piotrowski, I looked across the room and I saw her, my wife, laughing happily on the sofa beside Piotrowski. There was nothing flirtatious, you understand. Oh no, my wife has always been meticulous where propriety is concerned. But she was laughing with an ease I realised I had not seen since our walks together along the canal in the days before we were married. That's to say, before she realised. It was a long sofa and there were two others sitting on it, and some people were also sitting on the floor in order to be near Piotrowski. But Piotroski had just spoken to my wife and she was laughing happily. But it was not just this laugh, Mr Ryder, that spoke volumes to me. As I watched, I was standing on the other side of the room, as I watched, what happened next was this. Piotrowski until that point had been sitting on the edge of the sofa, his hands clasped around his knee, like so! As he laughed and made some remark to my wife, he began to recline, yes, as though he wished simply to sit back in the sofa. And as he began to recline, very swiftly, very deftly, my wife took a cushion from behind her and placed it for Piotrowski, so that by the time his head touched the back of the sofa, the cushion was there. It was done so swiftly, almost without thinking, a very graceful movement, Mr Ryder. And when I saw it, I felt my heart breaking. It was a movement so full of natural respect, a desire to be solicitous, to please in a small way. That little action, it revealed a whole realm of her heart she kept tightly closed to me. And I realised at that moment how deluded I had been. I realised then what I have known and never doubted since. I mean, sir, I realised she would leave me. Sooner or later. It was just a matter of time. Ever since that evening, I've known it.

Stephan, Stephan. Hoffman shook his head and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. I want you to know that we both think very highly of you. We're both immensely proud. But this idea of yours, this idea you've had all your life. I mean about...about your music. Your mother and I, we've never had the heart to tell you. Naturally, we wanted you to have your dreams. But this. All this --he gestured in the direction of the auditorium--this has all been a terrible mistake. We should never have let things get this far. You see, Stephan, the fact is this. Your playing is very charming. Extremely accomplished in its way. We've always enjoyed listening to you play at home. But music, serious music, music at the sort of level required tonight...that, you see, is another thing. No, no, don't interrupt, I'm trying to tell you something, something I should have said long ago. You see, this is the civic concert hall. Audiences, concert audiences, they are not like friends and relatives who listen sympathetically in the living room. Real concert audiences, they are used to standards, professional standards. Stephan, how can I put this?

Ishiguro is the most subtle writer I have ever read. He took 350 pages to set up the above scene and in those 350 fifty pages you wouldn't have imagined it was heading here, not because he didn't give you hints, but because all the hints were so dreadfully small--but very dense. I was almost going to put this book down, and then I found that I couldn't put it down because it was already wrapped around my heart. If you can understand this story and it doesn't make you cry, try again. But it's all a farce anyway.