Кадзуо Исигуро - Klara and the Sun

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Dr Ryan visited frequently during this period, and Josie spent long stretches of the day asleep. The Sun would pour in his normal nourishment each day, his pattern often falling across her sleeping form, but there remained no sign of his special help. But here again, the Sun was perhaps correct to wait, for Josie did become gradually stronger, until eventually she was able to sit up in bed.

She’d been warned by Dr Ryan not to resume her oblong lessons, so there now came the days when, propped up on her pillows, she created many pictures with her sharp pencils and sketchpad. Each time she finished a picture, or decided to abandon one, she’d tear it out and toss it into the air, allowing it to float down onto the rug, and it became my job to gather these sheets together into ordered piles.

As Dr Ryan came less, Rick visited more. Melania Housekeeper had always been wary of Rick, but even she could see how much his visits raised Josie’s spirits. So she allowed the visits, though insisting they last no more than thirty minutes. The first afternoon Rick was shown up to the bedroom, I started to leave in order to give privacy, but Melania Housekeeper stopped me on the landing, whispering: ‘No, AF! You stay in there. Make sure no hanky-panky.’

So it became normal for me to remain during Rick’s visits, even though he sometimes looked towards me with go away eyes, and almost never addressed me, even to say hello or goodbye. Had Josie also made such go away signals, I wouldn’t have remained, even after Melania Housekeeper’s instruction. But Josie seemed happy about my presence – I even thought she took comfort from it – though she never included me in their conversations.

I did my best to give privacy by remaining on the Button Couch and fixing my gaze over the fields. I couldn’t help hearing what was being said behind me, and though I sometimes thought I shouldn’t listen, I remembered it was my duty to learn as much about Josie as possible, and that by listening in this way, I might gather fresh observations otherwise unavailable to me.

Rick’s visits to the bedroom during this time fell into three phases. In the first phase, he’d glance around nervously when he arrived, and behave throughout the thirty minutes as though any careless movement he made might damage the furniture. It was in this phase he took up the habit of seating himself on the floor just in front of the modern wardrobe, resting his back against its doors. From the Button Couch I could see their reflections in the window, and with Rick in this position, and Josie sitting up in bed, they looked almost as though they were seated side by side, except with Josie at a higher level.

Throughout this first phase, there was a gentle atmosphere and the thirty minutes often passed with nothing much of substance being said. The children would often share memories from when they were younger, and make jokes about them. It would take only a word or a single reference to trigger such a memory and then they’d become immersed in it. They conversed at such moments in a speech that was like a code, making me wonder if this was on account of my presence in the room, but I quickly understood it had simply to do with their familiarity with each other’s lives, and that there was no intention to exclude my understanding.

Josie didn’t at first draw pictures while hosting Rick. But as they became more relaxed, she often sketched throughout the entire thirty minutes, tearing out sheets as she went, and allowing them to float down to where he was sitting. And this was how – quite innocently at first – the bubble game began.

The coming of the bubble game marked the start of the next phase of Rick’s visits. It’s possible that the bubble game was one they’d invented a long time earlier in their childhoods. Certainly, when the game started this time round, there’d been no need for instructions between them. Josie had simply begun to throw down her sketches to Rick, even as they continued their rambling conversations, until at one point he’d scrutinized a picture and said:

‘Okay. Is this now the bubble game?’

‘If you want. Just if you want, Ricky.’

‘I don’t have a pencil. Throw me one of the dark ones.’

‘I need all the dark ones here. Who’s the artist here anyway?’

‘How can I do the bubbles if you won’t even lend me a pencil?’

Even with my back to them, it wasn’t hard to guess the outline of this game. And once Rick left at the end of each half hour, I was able to observe the pages as I gathered them from the floor. And so it was I began to appreciate the growing importance this game had for them both.

Josie’s sketches were skillful, usually showing one, two or occasionally three people together, their heads drawn deliberately too large for their bodies. During those earlier visits, the faces tended always to be kind, and were sketched only with black sharp pencil, while their shoulders and bodies, like the surroundings, had been done with color sharp pencils. In each picture, Josie left an empty bubble hovering above one head or the other – sometimes two bubbles over two heads – for Rick to fill with written words. I understood quickly that even when the faces didn’t resemble Rick or Josie, within the world of this game, it was possible for all sorts of picture girls to stand for Josie, and picture boys for Rick. Similarly, other figures could stand for others in Josie’s life – the Mother, say, or children from the interaction meeting, as well as others I’d not yet encountered. Although for me it was difficult to understand who many faces stood for, Rick appeared to have no such problem. He never asked for clarification concerning the drawings that fluttered down to him, and would write his words into the bubbles without any hesitation.

I soon understood that the words Rick wrote inside the bubbles represented the thoughts, sometimes the speech, of the picture people, and that as such, his task carried some danger. From the start, I worried that something Josie drew, or something Rick wrote, would bring tension. But during this phase, the bubble game seemed to result only in enjoyment and reminiscences, and I’d see them reflected in the glass, laughing and pointing forefingers at each other. Had they concentrated solely on their game as they first played it – if they’d kept their conversation focused just on the pictures – perhaps the tensions wouldn’t have leaked in. But as Josie continued to sketch, and Rick to fill the bubbles, they began to converse about topics unrelated to the pictures.

One sunny afternoon, with the Sun’s pattern touching Rick’s feet where he sat against the modern wardrobe, Josie said:

‘You know, Ricky, I’m wondering if you’re getting jealous. The way you always keep asking about this portrait.’

‘I don’t understand. You mean you’re doing an actual portrait of me up there?’

‘No, Ricky. I mean the way you keep bringing up my portrait. The one this guy’s doing of me up in the city.’

‘Oh that. Well, I did once mention it, I suppose. That’s hardly bringing it up all the time.’

‘You keep bringing it up. Twice just yesterday.’

Rick’s writing hand paused, but he didn’t look up. ‘I suppose I’m curious. But how can anyone get jealous about your portrait getting done?’

‘Seems dumb. But you definitely sound that way.’

For the next few moments they were silent, getting on with their respective tasks. Then Rick said:

‘I wouldn’t say I’m jealous. I’m concerned. This guy, this artist person. Everything you say about him sounds, well, creepy .’

‘He’s just doing my portrait, is all. He’s always respectful, always anxious not to tire me out.’

‘He never sounds right. You say I keep bringing this up. Well, that’s because each time I do, you say something else to make me think, oh my God, this is getting creepy.’