Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [13]
In the late ’80s, there was talk of making a lot of money teaching in Japan, and I made serious plans to go, but it never worked out. I thought about Brazil too, even read a few books about the culture and sent off for application forms. But somehow I never got away that far. Southern Italy, Portugal for a short spell, back here to Spain. Then before you know it, you’re forty-seven years old, and the people you started out with have long ago been replaced by a generation who gossip about different things, take different drugs and listen to different music.
Meanwhile, Charlie and Emily had married and settled down in London. Charlie told me once, when they had children I’d be godfather to one of them. But that never happened. What I mean is, a child never came along, and now I suppose it’s too late. I have to admit, I’ve always felt slightly let down about this. Perhaps I always imagined that being godfather to one of their children would provide an official link, however tenuous, between their lives in England and mine out here.
Anyway, at the start of this summer, I went to London to stay with them. It had been arranged well in advance, and when I’d phoned to check a couple of days beforehand, Charlie had said they were both “superbly well.” That’s why I’d no reason to expect anything other than pampering and relaxation after a few months that hadn’t exactly been the best in my life.
In fact, as I emerged out of their local Underground that sunny day, my thoughts were on the possible refinements that might have been added to “my” bedroom since the previous visit. Over the years, there’s almost always been something or other. One time it was some gleaming electronic gadget standing in the corner; another time the whole place had been redecorated. In any case, almost as a point of principle, the room would be prepared for me the way a posh hotel would go about things: towels laid out, a bedside tin of biscuits, a selection of CDs on the dressing table. A few years ago, Charlie had led me in and with nonchalant pride started flicking switches, causing all sorts of subtly hidden lights to go on and off: behind the headboard, above the wardrobe and so on. Another switch had triggered a growling hum and blinds had begun to descend over the two windows.
“Look, Charlie, why do I need blinds?” I’d asked that time.
“I want to see out when I wake up. Just the curtains will do fine.”
“These blinds are Swiss,” he’d said, as though this were explanation enough.
But this time Charlie led me up the stairs mumbling to himself, and as we got to my room, I realised he was making excuses. And then I saw the room as I’d never seen it before. The bed was bare, the mattress on it mottled and askew. On the floor were piles of magazines and paperbacks, bundles of old clothes, a hockey stick and a loudspeaker fallen on its side. I paused at the threshold and stared at it while Charlie cleared a space to put down my bag.
“You look like you’re about to demand to see the manager,” he said, bitterly.
“No, no. It’s just that it’s unusual to see it this way.”
“It’s a mess, I know. A mess.” He sat down on the mattress and sighed. “I thought the cleaning girls would have sorted all this. But of course they haven’t. God knows why not.”
He seemed very dejected, but then he suddenly sprang to his feet again.
“Look, let’s go out for some lunch. I’ll leave a note for Emily. We can have a long leisurely lunch and by the time we come back, your room—the whole flat—will be sorted out.”
“But we can’t ask Emily to tidy everything.”
“Oh, she won’t do it herself. She’ll get on to the cleaners. She knows how to harass them. Me, I don’t even have their number.