Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall by Kazuo Ishiguro
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.”
“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.”
“It’s just what we wanted,” said Sonja. “Thank you.”
I pretended again to become absorbed in my chords. Then I said as casually as I could: “Come to think of it, there’s this other hotel I know. I think it’s better than Malvern Lodge. I think you should change.”
“Oh, but we’re quite settled now,” said Tilo. “We have unpacked our things, and besides, it’s just what we need.”
“Yeah, but… Well, the thing is, earlier on, when you asked me about a hotel, I didn’t know you were musicians. I thought you were bankers or something.”
They both burst out laughing, like I’d made a fantastic joke. Then Tilo said:
“No, no, we’re not bankers. Though there have been many times we wished we were!”
“What I’m saying,” I said, “is there are other hotels much more geared, you know, to artistic types. It’s hard when strangers ask you to recommend a hotel, before you know what sort of people they are.”
“It’s kind of you to worry,” said Tilo. “But please, don’t do so any longer. What we have is perfect. Besides, people are not so different. Bankers, musicians, we all in the end want the same things from life.”
“You know, I’m not sure that is so true,” Sonja said. “Our young friend here, you see he doesn’t look for a job in a bank. His dreams are different.”
“Perhaps you are right, Sonja. All the same, the present hotel is fine for us.”
I leant over the strings and practised another little phrase to myself, and for a few seconds nobody spoke. Then I asked: “So what sort of music do you guys play?”
Tilo shrugged. “Sonja and I play a number of instruments between us. We both play keyboards. I am fond of the clarinet. Sonja is a very fine violinist, and also a splendid singer. I suppose what we like to do best is to perform our traditional Swiss folk music, but in a contemporary manner. Sometimes even what you might call a radical manner. We take inspiration from great composers who took a similar path. Janáček, for instance. Your own Vaughan Williams.”
“But that kind of music,” Sonja said, “we don’t play so much now.”
They exchanged glances with what I thought was just a hint of tension. Then Tilo’s usual smile was back on his face.
“Yes, as Sonja points out, in this real world, much of the time, we must play what our audience is most likely to appreciate. So we perform many hits. Beatles, the Carpenters. Some more recent songs. This is perfectly satisfying.”
“What about ABBA?” I asked on an impulse, then immediately regretted it. But Tilo didn’t seem to sense any mockery.
“Yes, indeed, we do some ABBA. ‘Dancing Queen.’ That one always goes down well. In fact, it is on ‘Dancing Queen’ I actually do a little singing myself, a little harmony part. Sonja will tell you I have the most terrible voice. So we must make sure to perform this song only when our customers are right in the middle of their meal, when there is for them no chance of escape!”
He did his big laugh, and Sonja laughed too, though not so loudly. A power-cyclist, kitted out in what looked like a black wetsuit, went speeding by us, and for the next few moments, we all watched his frantic, receding shape.
“I went to Switzerland once,” I said eventually. “A couple of summers ago. Interlaken. I stayed at the youth hostel there.”
“Ah yes, Interlaken. A beautiful place. Some Swiss people scoff at it. They say it is just for the tourists. But Sonja and I always love to perform there. In fact, to play in Interlaken on a summer evening, to happy people from all over the world, it is something very wonderful. I hope you enjoyed your visit there.”
“Yeah, it was great.”
“There is a restaurant in Interlaken where we play a few nights every summer. For our performance, we position ourselves under the restaurant’s canopy, so we are facing the dining tables, which of course are outdoors on such an evening. And as we perform, we are able to see all the tourists, eating and talking together under the stars. And behind the tourists, we see the big field, where during the day the paragliders are landing, but which at night is lit up by the lamps along the Höheweg. And if your eye may travel further, there are the Alps overlooking the field. The outlines of the Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau. And the air is pleasantly warm and filled with the music we are making. I always feel when we are there, this is a privilege. I think, yes, it is good to be doing this.”
“That restaurant,” Sonja said. “Last year, the manager made us wear full costumes while we performed, even though it was so hot. It was very uncomfortable, and we said, what difference does it make, why must we have our bulky waistcoats and scarves and hats? In just our blouses, we look neat and still very Swiss. But the restaurant manager tells us, we put on the full costumes or we don’t play. Our choice, he says, and walks away, just like that.”
“But Sonja, that is the same in any job. There is always a uniform, something the employer insists you must wear. It is the same for bankers! And in our case, at least it is something we believe in. Swiss culture. Swiss tradition.”
Once again something vaguely awkward hovered between them, but it was just for a second or two, and then they both smiled as they fixed their gazes back on my guitar. I thought I should say something, so I said:
“I think I’d enjoy that. Being able to play in different countries. It must keep you sharp, really aware of your audiences.”
“Yes,” Tilo said, “it is good that we perform to all kinds of people. And not only in Europe. All in all, we have got to know so many cities so well.”
“Düsseldorf, for instance,” said Sonja. There was something different about her voice now-something harder-and I could see again the person I’d encountered back at the cafe. Tilo, though, didn’t seem to notice anything and said to me, in a carefree sort of way:
“Düsseldorf is where our son is now living. He is your age. Perhaps a little older.”
“Earlier this year,” Sonja said, “we went to Düsseldorf. We have an engagement to play there. Not the usual thing, this is a chance to play our real music. So we call him, our son, our only child, we call to say we are coming to his city. He does not answer his phone, so we leave a message. We leave many messages. No reply. We arrive in Düsseldorf, we leave more messages. We say, here we are, we are in your city. Still nothing. Tilo says don’t worry, perhaps he will come on the night, to our concert. But he does not come. We play, then we go to another city, to our next engagement.”
Tilo made a chuckling noise. “I think perhaps Peter heard enough of our music while he was growing up! The poor boy, you see, he had to listen to us rehearsing, day after day.”
“I suppose it can be a bit tricky,” I said. “Having children and being musicians.”
“We onl
“Yes, we were fortunate,” Sonja said. “Except Peter hated his school.”
The earlier good atmosphere was definitely slipping away. In an effort to cheer things up, I said quickly: “Well, anyway, it looks like you both really enjoy your work.”
“Oh yes, we enjoy our work,” said Tilo. “It’s everything to us. Even so, we very much appreciate a vacation. Do you know, this is our first proper vacation in three years.”
This made me feel really bad all over again, and I thought about having another go at persuading them to change hotels, but I could see how ridiculous this would look. I just had to hope Hag Fraser pulled her finger out. Instead, I said:
“Look, if you like, I’ll play you that song I was working on earlier. I haven’t finished it, and I wouldn’t usually do this. But since you heard some of it anyway, I don’t mind playing you what I’ve got so far.”
The smile returned to Sonja’s face. “Yes,” she said, “please do let us hear. It sounded so beautiful.”
As I got ready to play, they shifted again, so they were facing the view like before, their backs to me. But this time, instead of cuddling, they sat there on the grass with surprisingly upright postures, each with a hand up to the brow to shield away the sun. They stayed like that all the time I played, peculiarly still, and what with the way each of them cast a long afternoon shadow, they looked like matching art exhibits. I brought my incomplete song to a meandering halt, and for a moment they didn’t move. Then their postures relaxed, and they applauded, though perhaps not quite as enthusiastically as the last time. Tilo got to his feet, muttering compliments, then helped Sonja up. It was only when you saw how they did this that you remembered they were really quite middle-aged. Maybe they were just tired. For all I know, they might have done a fair bit of walking before they’d come across me. All the same, it seemed to me they found it quite a struggle to get up.