Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [48]
The next few days, I tried to pass the time reading, but couldn’t concentrate. Under the bandages, parts of my face throbbed awfully, others itched like hell and I had bouts of feeling hot and claustrophobic. I longed to play my sax, and the thought that it would be weeks yet until I could put my facial muscles under that kind of pressure made me even more despondent. In the end, I worked out the best way to get through the day was to alternate listening to CDs with spells of staring at sheet music—I’d brought the folder of charts and lead sheets I worked with in my cubicle—and humming improvisations to myself.
It was towards the end of the second week, when I was starting to feel a little better both physically and mentally, my nurse handed me an envelope with a knowing smile, saying: “Now that ain’t something you’ll get every day.” Inside was a page of hotel notepaper, and since I’ve got it right here beside me, I’ll quote it just the way it came.
Gracie tells me you’re getting weary of this high life. I’m that way too. How about you come and visit? If five o’clock tonight isn’t too early for cocktails? Dr. B. says no alcohol, I expect same for you. So looks like club sodas and Perrier. Curse him! See you at five or I’ll be heartbroken. Lindy Gardner.
Maybe it was because I’d become so bored by this point; or just that my mood was on the up again; or that the thought of having a fellow prisoner to swap stories with was extremely appealing. Or maybe I wasn’t so immune myself to the glamor thing. In any case, despite everything I felt about Lindy Gardner, when I read this, I felt a tingle of excitement, and I found myself telling Gracie to let Lindy know I’d be over at five.
LINDY GARDNER HAD ON even more bandages than I did. I’d at least been left an opening at the top, from which my hair sprang up like palms in a desert oasis. But Boris had encased the whole of Lindy’s head so it was a contoured coconut shape, with slots only for eyes, nose and mouth. What had happened to all that luxuriant blonde hair, I didn’t know. Her voice, though, wasn’t as constricted as you’d expect, and I recognised it from the times I’d seen her on TV.
“So how are you finding all this?” she asked. When I replied I wasn’t finding it too bad, she said: “Steve. May I call you Steve? I’ve heard all about you from Gracie.”
“Oh? I hope she left out the bad part.”
“Well, I know you’re a musician. And a very promising one too.”
“She told you that?”
“Steve, you’re tense. I want you to relax when you’re with me. Some famous people, I know, they like the public to be tense around them. Makes them feel all the more special. But I hate that. I want you to treat me just like I’m one of your regular friends. What were you telling me? You were saying you don’t mind this so much.”
Her room was significantly bigger than mine, and this was just the lounge part of her suite. We were sitting facing each other on matching white sofas, and between us was a low coffee table made of smoked glass, through which I could see the hunk of driftwood it rested on. Its surface was covered with shiny magazines and a fruit basket still in cellophane. Like me, she had the air-conditioning up high—it gets warm in bandages—and the blinds low over the windows against the evening sun. A maid had just brought me a glass of water and a coffee,