Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [37]
“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