Kazuo Ishiguro - Nocturnes - five stories of music and nightfall

“Of course, our country has many beautiful features. But here, in this spot, you have a special charm. We have wanted to visit this part of England for so long. We always talked of it, and now finally we are here!” He gave a hearty laugh. “So happy to be here!”

“That’s splendid,” Maggie said. “I do hope you enjoy it. Are you here for long?”

“We have another three days before we must return to our work. We have looked forward to coming here ever since we observed a wonderful documentary film many years ago, concerning Elgar. Evidently Elgar loved these hills and explored them thoroughly on his bicycle. And now we are finally here!”

Maggie chatted with him for a few minutes about places they’d already visited in England, what they should see in the local area, the usual stuff you were supposed to say to tourists. I’d heard it loads of times before, and I could do it myself more or less on automatic, so I started to tune out. I just took in that the Krauts were actually Swiss and that they were travelling around by hired car. He kept saying what a great place England was and how kind everyone had been, and made big laughing noises whenever Maggie said anything halfway jokey. But as I say, I’d tuned out, thinking they were just this fairly boring couple. I only started paying attention again a few moments later, when I noticed the way the guy kept trying to bring his wife into the conversation, and how she kept silent, her eyes fixed on her guidebook and behaving like she wasn’t aware of any conversation at all. That’s when I took a closer look at them.

They both had even, natural suntans, quite unlike the sweaty lobster looks of the locals outside, and despite their age, they were both slim and fit-looking. His hair was grey, but luxuriant, and he’d had it carefully groomed, though in a vaguely seventies style, a bit like the guys in ABBA. Her hair was blonde, almost snowy white, and her face was stern-looking, with little lines etched around the mouth that spoilt what would otherwise have been the beautiful older woman look. So there he was, as I say, trying to bring her into the conversation.

“Of course, my wife enjoys Elgar greatly and so would be most curious to visit the house in which he was born.”

Silence.

Or: “I am not a great fan of Paris, I must confess. I much prefer London. But Sonja here, she loves Paris.”

Nothing.

Each time he said something like this, he’d turn towards his wife in the corner, and Maggie would be obliged to look over to her, but the wife still wouldn’t glance up from her book. The man didn’t seem especially perturbed by this and went on talking cheerfully. Then he stretched out his arms again and said: “If you will excuse me, I think I may for a moment go and admire your splendid scenery!”

He went outside, and we could see him walking around the terrace. Then he disappeared out of our view. The wife was still there in the corner, reading her guidebook, and after a while Maggie went over to her table and began clearing up. The woman ignored her completely until my sister picked up a plate with a tiny bit of roll still left on it. Then suddenly she slammed down her book and said, far more loudly than necessary: “I have not finished yet!”

Maggie apologised and left her with her piece of roll-which I noticed the woman made no move to touch. Maggie looked at me as she came past and I gave her a shrug. Then a few moments later, my sister asked the woman, very nicely, if there was anything else she’d like.

“No. I want nothing else.”

I could tell from her tone she should be left alone, but with Maggie it was a kind of reflex. She asked, like she really wanted to know: “Was everything all right?”

For at least five or six seconds, the woman went on reading, like she hadn’t heard. Then she put down her book again and glared at my sister.

“Since you ask,” she said, “I shall tell you. The food was perfectly okay. Better than in many of the awful places you have around here. However, we waited thirty-five minutes simply to be served a sandwich and a salad. Thirty-five minutes.”

I now realised this woman was livid with anger. Not the sort that suddenly hits you, then drains away. No, this woman, I could tell, had been in a kind of white heat for some time. It’s the sort of anger that arrives and stays put, at a constant level, like a bad headache, never quite peaking and refusing to find a proper outlet. Maggie’s always so even-tempered she couldn’t recognise the symptoms, and probably thought the woman was complaining in a more or less rational way. Because she apologised and started to say: “But you see, when there’s a big rush like we had earlier…”

“Surely you get it every day, no? Is that not so? Every day, in the summer, when the weather is fine, there is just such a big rush? Well? So why can’t you be ready? Something that happens every day and it surprises you. Is that what you are telling me?”

The woman had been glaring at my sister, but as I came out from behind the counter to stand beside Maggie, she transferred her gaze to me. And maybe it was to do with the expression I had on my face, I could see her anger go up a couple more notches. Maggie turned and looked at me, and began gently to push me away, but I resisted, and kept gazing at the woman. I wanted her to know it wasn’t just her and Maggie in this. God knows where this would have got us, but at that moment the husband came back in.

“Such a marvellous view! A marvellous view, a marvellous lunch, a marvellous country!”

I waited for him to sense what he’d walked into, but if he noticed, he showed no sign of taking it into account. He smiled at his wife and said, presumably for our benefit in English:

“Sonja, you really must go and have a look. Just walk to the end of the little path out there!”

She said something in German, then went back to her book. He came further into the room and said to us:

“We had considered driving on to Wales this afternoon. But your Malvern Hills are so wonderful, I really think we might stay here in this district for the remaining three days of our vacation. If Sonja agrees, I will be overjoyed!”

He looked at his wife, who shrugged and said something else in German, to which he laughed his loud, open laugh.

“Good! She agrees! So it is settled. We will no longer drive to Wales. We will hang out here in your district for the next three days!”

He beamed at us, and Maggie said something encouraging. I was relieved to see the wife putting her book away and getting ready to leave. The man, too, went to the table, picked up a small rucksack and put it on his shoulder. Then he said to Maggie:

“I wonder. Is there by any chance a small hotel you can recommend for us nearby? Nothing too expensive, but comfortable and pleasant. And if possible, with something of the English flavour!”

Maggie was a bit stumped by this and delayed her answer by saying something meaningless like: “What sort of place did you want?” But I said quickly:

“The best place around here is Mrs. Fraser’s. It’s just down along the road to Worcester. It’s called Malvern Lodge.”

“The Malvern Lodge! That sounds just the ticket!”

Maggie turned away disapprovingly and pretended to be clearing away more things while I gave them all the details on how to find Hag Fraser’s hotel. Then the couple left, the guy thanking us with big smiles, the woman not giving a backward glance.

My sister gave me a weary look and shook her head. I just laughed and said:

“You’ve got to admit, that woman and Hag Fraser really deserve one another. It was just too good an opportunity to miss.”

“It’s all very well for you to amuse yourself like that,” Maggie said, pushing past me to the kitchen. “I have to live here.”