Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall by Kazuo Ishiguro
He noticed the receptionist hesitate slightly before phoning up to her. Then when she opened the door, she greeted him warmly, but somehow differently, and before he had a chance to speak, she said quickly:
“Tibor, I’m so glad you’ve come. I was just telling Peter everything about you. That’s right, Peter’s found me at last!” Then she called into the room: “Peter, he’s here! Tibor’s here. And with his cello too!”
As Tibor stepped into the room, a large, shambling, greying man in a pale polo shirt rose to his feet with a smile. He gripped Tibor’s hand very firmly and said: “Oh, I’ve heard all about you. Eloise is convinced you’re gonna be a big star.”
“Peter’s persistent,” she was saying. “I knew he’d find me in the end.”
“No hiding from me,” said Peter. Then he was pulling up a chair for Tibor, pouring him a glass of champagne from an ice-bucket on the cabinet. “Come on, Tibor, help us celebrate our reunion.”
Tibor sipped the champagne, aware that Peter had pulled up for him, by chance, his usual “cello chair.” Eloise had vanished somewhere, and for a while, Tibor and Peter made conversation, their glasses in their hands. Peter seemed kindly and asked a lot of questions. How had it been for Tibor growing up in a place like Hungary? Had it been a shock when he’d first come to the West?
“I’d love to play an instrument,” Peter said. “You’re so lucky. I’d like to learn. A little late now though, I guess.”
“Oh, you can never say too late,” Tibor said.
“You’re right. Never say too late. Too late is always just an excuse. No, the truth is, I’m a busy man, and I tell myself I’m too busy to learn French, to learn an instrument, to read War and Peace. All the things I’ve always wanted to do. Eloise used to play when she was a kid. I guess she told you about that.”
“Yes, she did. I understand she has a lot of natural gifts.”
“Oh, she sure does. Anyone who knows her will be able to see that. She has such sensitivity. She’s the one who should be having those lessons. Me, I’m just Mr. Banana Fingers.” He held up his hands and laughed. “I’d like to play piano, but what can you do with hands like these? Great for digging the earth, that’s what my people did for generations. But that lady”-he indicated towards the door with his glass-“now she’s got sensitivity.”
Eventually, Eloise emerged from the bedroom in a dark evening dress and a lot of jewellery.
“Peter, don’t bore Tibor,” she said. “He’s not interested in golf.”
Peter held out his hands and looked pleadingly at Tibor. “Now tell me, Tibor. Did I say a single word to you about golf?”
Tibor said he should be going; that he could see he was keeping the couple from their dinner. This was met by protests from both of them, and Peter said:
“Now look at me. Do I look like I’m dressed for dinner?”
And though Tibor thought he looked perfectly decent, he gave the laugh that seemed expected of him. Then Peter said:
“You can’t leave without playing something. I’ve been hearing so much about your playing.”
Confused, Tibor had actually started to unfasten his cello case, when Eloise said firmly, some new quality in her voice:
“Tibor’s right. Time’s getting on. The restaurants in this town, they don’t keep your table if you don’t come on time. Peter, you get yourself dressed. Maybe a shave too? I’ll see Tibor out. I want to speak with him in private.”
In the lift, they smiled affectionately at each other, but didn’t speak. When they came outside, they found the piazza lit up for the night. Local kids, back from their holidays, were kicking balls, or chasing each other around the fountain. The evening passeggiata was in full flow, and I suppose our music would have come drifting through the air to where they were standing.
“Well, that’s it,” she said, eventually. “He’s found me, so I guess he deserves me.”
“He is a most charming person,” Tibor said. “You intend to return to America now?”
“In a few days. I suppose I will.”
“You intend to marry?”
“I guess so.” For an instant, she looked at him earnestly, then looked away. “I guess so,” she said again.
“I wish you much happiness. He is a kind man. Also a music lover. That’s important for you.”
“Yes. That’s important.”
“When you were getting ready just now. We were talking not of golf, but of music lessons.”
“Oh really? You mean for him or for me?”
“For both. However, I don’t suppose there will be many teachers in Portland, Oregon, who could teach you.”
She gave a laugh. “Like I said, it’s difficult for people like us.”
“Yes, I appreciate that. After these last few weeks, I appreciate that more than ever.” Then he added: “Miss Eloise, there is something I must tell you before we part. I will soon leave for Amsterdam, where I have been given a position in a large hotel.”
“You’re going to be a porter?”
“No. I will play in a small chamber group in the hotel dining room. We will entertain the hotel guests while they eat.”
He was watching her carefully and saw something ignite behind her eyes, then fade away. She laid a hand on his arm and smiled.
“Well then, good luck.” Then she added: “Those hotel guests. They’ve got some treat coming up.”
“I hope so.”
For another moment, they remained standing there together, just beyond the pool of light cast by the front of the hotel, the bulky cello between them.
“And I hope also,” he said, “you’ll be very happy with Mr. Peter.”
“I hope so too,” she said and laughed again. Then she kissed him on the cheek and gave him a quick hug. “You take care of yourself,” she said.
Tibor thanked her, then before he quite realised it, he was watching her walking back towards the Excelsior.
TIBOR LEFT OUR CITY soon after that. The last time we had drinks with him, he was clearly very grateful to Giancarlo and Ernesto for his job, and to us all for our friendship, but I couldn’t help getting the impression he was being a little aloof with us. A few of us thought this, not just me, though Giancarlo, typically, now took Tibor’s side, saying the boy had just been feeling excited and nervous about this next step in his life.
“Excited? How can he be excited?” Ernesto said. “He’s spent the summer being told he’s a genius. A hotel job, it’s a comedown. Sitting talking to us, that’s a comedown too. He was a nice kid at the start of the summer. But after what that woman’s done to him, I’m glad we’re seeing the back of him.”
Like I said, this all happened seven years ago. Giancarlo, Ernesto, all the boys from that time except me and Fabian, they’ve all moved on. Until I spotted him in the piazza the other day, I hadn’t thought about our young Hungarian maestro for a long time. He wasn’t so hard to recognise. He’d put on weight, certainly, and was looking a lot thicker around the neck. And the way he gestured with his finger, calling for a waiter, there was something-maybe I imagined this-something of the impatience, the off-handedness that comes with a certain kind of bitterness. But maybe that’s unfair. After all, I only glimpsed him. Even so, it seemed to me he’d lost that youthful anxiety to please, and those careful manners he had back then. No bad thing in this world, you might say.
I would have gone over and talked with him, but by the end of our set he’d already gone. For all I know, he was here only for the afternoon. He was wearing a suit-nothing very grand, just a regular one-so perhaps he has a day job now behind a desk somewhere. Maybe he had some business to do nearby and came through our city just for old times’ sake, who knows? If he comes back to the square, and I’m not playing, I’ll go over and have a word with him.
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kazuo Ishiguro is the author of six previous novels, including Never Let Me Go and The Remains of the Day, which won the Booker Prize and was adapted into an award-winning film. Ishiguro
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Kazuo Ishiguro, Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall
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