Kazuo Ishiguro - Nocturnes - five stories of music and nightfall

“I get visitors. Matter of fact, someone called this morning. Musician I used to work with.”

“Oh yeah? That’s good. You know, sweetie, I’ve never been sure how these knights move. If you see me do something wrong, you just say, okay? It’s not me trying to pull a fast one.”

“Sure.” Then I said: “The guy who came to see me today, he told me some news. It was kind of strange. A coincidence.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s this saxophone player we both knew a few years back, in San Diego, guy called Jake Marvell. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s big-league now. But back then, when we knew him, he was nothing. In fact, he was a phoney. What you’d call a bluffer. Never knew his way around the keys properly. And I’ve heard him recently, plenty of times, and he hasn’t gotten any better. But he’s had a few breaks and now he’s considered hot. I swear to you he’s not one bit better than he used to be, not one bit. And you know what this news was? This same guy, Jake Marvell, he’s getting a big music award tomorrow, right here in this hotel. Jazz Musician of the Year. It’s just crazy, you know? So many talented sax players out there, and they decide to give it to Jake.”

I made myself stop, and looking up from the chess board, did a little laugh. “What can you do?” I said, more gently.

Lindy was sitting up, her attention fully on me. “That’s too bad. And this guy, he’s no good, you say?”

“I’m sorry, I was kind of out of line there. They want to give Jake an award, why shouldn’t they?”

“But if he’s no good…”

“He’s as good as the next guy. I was just talking. I’m sorry, you have to ignore me.”

“Hey, that reminds me,” Lindy said. “Did you remember to bring your music?”

I indicated the CD beside me on the sofa. “I don’t know if it would interest you. You don’t have to listen…”

“Oh, but I do, I absolutely do. Here, let me see it.”

I handed her the CD. “It’s a band I played with in Pasadena. We played standards, old-fashioned swing, a little bossa nova. Nothing special, I just brought it because you asked.”

She was examining the CD case, holding it close to her face, then away from her again. “So are you in this picture?” She brought it up close again. “I’m kind of curious what you look like. Or I should say, what you looked like.”

“I’m second from the right. In the Hawaiian shirt, holding the ironing board.”

“ This one?” She stared at the CD, then over at me. Then she said: “Hey, you’re cute.” But she said it quietly, in a voice devoid of conviction. In fact, I noted a definite touch of pity there. Almost immediately, though, she’d recovered. “Okay, so let’s hear it!”

As she moved towards the Bang & Olufsen, I said: “Track number nine. ‘The Nearness of You.’ That’s my special track.”

“‘The Nearness of You’ coming up.”

I’d settled on this track after some thought. The musicians in that band had been top-notch. Individually we’d all had more radical ambitions, but we’d formed the band with the express purpose of playing quality mainstream material, the sort the supper crowd would want. Our version of “The Nearness of You”-which featured my tenor all the way through-wasn’t a hundred miles from Tony Gardner territory, but I’d always been genuinely proud of it. Maybe you think you’ve heard this song done every way possible. Well, listen to ours. Listen, say, to that second chorus. Or to that moment as we come out of the middle eight, when the band go III-5 to VIx-9 while I rise up in intervals you’d never believe possible and then hold that sweet, very tender high B-flat. I think there are colors there, longings and regrets, you won’t have come across before.

So you could say I was confident this recording would meet with Lindy’s approval. And for the first minute or so, she looked to be enjoying herself. She’d stayed on her feet after loading the CD, and just like the time she’d played me her husband’s record, she began swaying dreamily to the slow beat. But then the rhythm faded from her movements, until she was standing there quite still, her back to me, head bent forward like she was concentrating. I didn’t at first see this as a bad sign. It was only when she came walking back and sat down with the music still in full flow, I realised something was wrong. Because of the bandages, of course, I couldn’t read her expression, but the way she let herself slump into the sofa, like a tense mannequin, didn’t look good.

When the track ended, I picked up the remote and turned it all off. For what felt a long time, she stayed the way she was, stiff and awkward. Then she hauled herself up a little and began fingering a chess piece.

“That was very nice,” she said. “Thank you for letting me hear it.” It sounded formulaic, and she didn’t seem to mind that it did.

“Maybe it wasn’t quite your kind of thing.”

“No, no.” Her voice had become sulky and quiet. “It was just fine. Thank you for letting me hear it.” She put the chess piece down on a square, then said: “Your move.”

I looked at the board, trying to remember where we were. After a while, I asked gently: “Maybe that particular song, it has special associations for you?”

She looked up and I sensed anger behind her bandages. But she said in the same quiet voice: “That song? It has no associations. None at all.” Suddenly she laughed-a short, unkind laugh. “Oh, you mean associations with him , with Tony? No, no. It was never one of his numbers. You play it very nicely. Really professional.”

“Really professional? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean… that it’s really professional. I mean it as a compliment.”

“Professional?” I got to my feet, crossed the room and got the disc out of the machine.

“What are you so mad about?” Her voice was still distant and cold. “I say something wrong? I’m sorry. I was trying to be nice.”

I came back to the table, put the disc back in its case, but didn’t sit down.

“So we going to finish the game?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few things I have to do. Phone calls. Paperwork.”

“What are you so mad about? I don’t understand.”

“I’m not mad at all. Time’s getting on, that’s all.”

She at least got to her feet to walk me to the door, where we parted with a cold handshake.

I’VE SAID ALREADY how my sleep rhythm had been screwed up after the surgery. That evening I became suddenly tired, went to bed early, slept soundly for a few hours, then woke in the dead of night unable to go back to sleep. After a while I got up and turned on the TV. I found a movie I’d seen as a kid, so pulled up a chair and watched what remained of it with the volume down low. When that was over I watched two preachers shouting at each other in front of a baying audience. All in all, I was contented. I felt cosy and a million miles from the outside world. So my heart just about jumped out of my chest when the phone rang.

“Steve? That you?” It was Lindy. Her voice sounded odd and I wondered if she’d been drinking.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I know it’s late. But just now, when I was passing, I saw your light on under your door. I supposed you were having trouble sleeping, just like me.”

“I guess so. It’s difficult keeping regular hours.”

“Yeah. It sure is.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Sure. Everything’s good. Very good.”

I realised now she wasn’t drunk, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was up with her. She probably wasn’t high on anything either-just peculiarly awake and maybe excited about something she had to tell me.