Kazuo Ishiguro - Nocturnes - five stories of music and nightfall

“So what? Look, you’ll never see those Krauts again. And if Hag Fraser finds out we’ve been recommending her place to passing tourists, she’s hardly going to complain, is she?”

Maggie shook her head, but there was more of a smile about it this time.

THE CAFE GOT QUIETER after that, then Geoff came back, so I went off upstairs, feeling I’d done more than my share for the time being. Up in my room, I sat at the bay window with my guitar and for a while got engrossed in a song I was halfway through writing. But then-and it seemed like no time-I could hear the afternoon tea rush starting downstairs. If it got really mad, like it usually did, Maggie was bound to ask me to come down-which really wouldn’t be fair, given how much I’d done already. So I decided the best thing would be for me to slip out to the hills and continue my work there.

I left the back way without encountering anyone, and immediately felt glad to be out in the open. It was pretty warm though, especially carrying a guitar case, and I was glad of the breeze.

I was heading for a particular spot I’d discovered the previous week. To get there you climbed a steep path behind the house, then walked a few minutes along a more gradual incline till you came to this bench. It’s one I’d chosen carefully, not just because of the fantastic view, but because it wasn’t at one of those junctions in the paths where people with exhausted children come staggering up and sit next to you. On the other hand it wasn’t completely isolated, and every now and then, a walker would pass by, saying “Hi!” in the way they do, maybe adding some quip about my guitar, all without breaking stride. I didn’t mind this at all. It was kind of like having an audience and not having one, and it gave my imagination just that little edge it needed.

I’d been there on my bench for maybe half an hour when I became aware that some walkers, who’d just gone past with the usual short greeting, had now stopped several yards away and were watching me. This did rather annoy me, and I said, a little sarcastically:

“It’s okay. You don’t have to toss me any money.”

This was answered by a big hearty laugh which I recognised, and I looked up to see the Krauts coming back towards the bench.

The possibility flashed through my mind that they’d gone to Hag Fraser’s, realised I’d pulled a fast one on them, and were now coming to get even with me. But then I saw that not only the guy, but the woman too, was smiling cheerfully. They retraced their steps till they were standing in front of me, and since by this time the sun was falling, they appeared for a moment as two silhouettes, the big afternoon sky behind them. Then they came closer and I could see they were both gazing at my guitar-which I’d continued to play-with a look of happy amazement, the way people gaze at a baby. Even more astonishing, the woman was tapping her foot to my beat. I got self-conscious and stopped.

“Hey, carry on!” the woman said. “It’s really good what you play there.”

“Yes,” the husband said, “wonderful! We heard it from a distance.” He pointed. “We were right up there, on that ridge, and I said to Sonja, I can hear music.”

“Singing too,” the woman said. “I said to Tilo, listen, there is singing somewhere. And I was right, yes? You were singing also a moment ago.”

I couldn’t quite accept that this smiling woman was the same one who’d given us such a hard time at lunch, and I looked at them again carefully, in case this was a different couple altogether. But they were in the same clothes, and though the man’s ABBA-style hair had come undone a bit in the wind, there was no mistaking it. In any case, the next moment, he said:

“I believe you are the gentleman who served us lunch in the delightful restaurant.”

I agreed I was. Then the woman said:

“That melody you were singing a moment ago. We heard it up there, just in the wind at first. I loved the way it fell at the end of each line.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s something I’m working on. Not finished yet.”

“Your own composition? Then you must be very gifted! Please do sing your melody again, as you were before.”

“You know,” the guy said, “when you come to record your song, you must tell the producer this is how you want it to sound. Like this!” He gestured behind him at Herefordshire stretched out before us. “You must tell him this is the sound, the aural environment you require. Then the listener will hear your song as we heard it today, caught in the wind as we descend the slope of the hill…”

“But a little more clearly, of course,” the woman said. “Or else the listener will not catch the words. But Tilo is correct. There must be a suggestion of outdoors. Of air, of echo.”

They seemed on the verge of getting carried away, like they’d just come across another Elgar in the hills. Despite my initial suspicions, I couldn’t help but warm to them.

“Well,” I said, “since I wrote most of the song up here, it’s no wonder there’s something of this place in it.”

“Yes, yes,” they both said together, nodding. Then the woman said: “You must not be shy. Please share your music with us. It sounded wonderful.”

“All right,” I said, playing a little doodle. “All right, I’ll sing you a song, if you really want me to. Not the one I haven’t finished. Another one. But look, I can’t do it with you two standing right over me like this.”

“Of course,” Tilo said. “We are being so inconsiderate. Sonja and I have had to perform in so many strange and difficult conditions, we become insensitive to the needs of another musician.”

He looked around and sat down on a patch of stubbly grass near the path, his back to me and facing the view. Sonja gave me an encouraging smile, then sat down beside him. Immediately, he put an arm around her shoulders, she leaned towards him, then it was almost like I wasn’t there any more, and they were having an intimate lovey-dovey moment gazing over the late-afternoon countryside.

“Okay, here goes,” I said, and went into the song I usually open with at auditions. I aimed my voice at the horizon but kept glancing at Tilo and Sonja. Though I couldn’t see their faces, the whole way they remained snuggled up to each other with no hint of restlessness told me they were enjoying what they were hearing. When I finished, they turned to me with big smiles and applauded, sending echoes around the hills.

“Fantastic!” Sonja said. “So talented!”

“Splendid, splendid,” Tilo was saying.

I felt a little embarrassed by this and pretended to be absorbed in some guitar work. When I eventually looked up again, they were still sitting on the ground, but had now shifted their positions so they could see me.

“So you’re musicians?” I asked. “I mean, professional musicians?”

“Yes,” said Tilo, “I suppose you could call us professionals. Sonja and I, we perform as a duo. In hotels, restaurants. At weddings, at parties. All over Europe, though we like best to work in Switzerland and Austria. We make our living this way, so yes, we are professionals.”

“But first and foremost,” Sonja said, “we play because we believe in the music. I can see it is the same for you.”

“If I stopped believing in my music,” I said, “I’d stop, just like that.” Then I added: “I’d really like to do it professionally. It must be a good life.”

“Oh yes, it’s a good life,” said Tilo. “We’re very lucky we are able to do what we do.”

“Look,” I said, maybe a little suddenly. “Did you go to that hotel I told you about?”

“How very rude of us!” Tilo exclaimed. “We were so taken by your music, we forgot completely to thank you. Yes, we went there and it is just the ticket. Fortunately there were still vacancies.”