Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [54]
So you could say I was confident this recording would meet with Lindy’s approval. And for the first minute or so, she looked to be enjoying herself. She’d stayed on her feet after loading the CD, and just like the time she’d played me her husband’s record, she began swaying dreamily to the slow beat. But then the rhythm faded from her movements, until she was standing there quite still, her back to me, head bent forward like she was concentrating. I didn’t at first see this as a bad sign. It was only when she came walking back and sat down with the music still in full flow, I realised something was wrong. Because of the bandages, of course, I couldn’t read her expression, but the way she let herself slump into the sofa, like a tense mannequin, didn’t look good.
When the track ended, I picked up the remote and turned it all off. For what felt a long time, she stayed the way she was, stiff and awkward. Then she hauled herself up a little and began fingering a chess piece.
“That was very nice,” she said. “Thank you for letting me hear it.” It sounded formulaic, and she didn’t seem to mind that it did.
“Maybe it wasn’t quite your kind of thing.”
“No, no.” Her voice had become sulky and quiet. “It was just fine. Thank you for letting me hear it.” She put the chess piece down on a square, then said: “Your move.”
I looked at the board, trying to remember where we were. After a while, I asked gently: “Maybe that particular song, it has special associations for you?”
She looked up and I sensed anger behind her bandages. But she said in the same quiet voice: “That song? It has no associations. None at all.” Suddenly she laughed—a short, unkind laugh. “Oh, you mean associations with him, with Tony? No, no. It was never one of his numbers. You play it very nicely. Really professional.”
“Really professional? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean … that it’s really professional. I mean it as a compliment.”
“Professional?” I got to my feet, crossed the room and got the disc out of the machine.
“What are you so mad about?” Her voice was still distant and cold. “I say something wrong? I’m sorry. I was trying to be nice.”
I came back to the table, put the disc back in its case, but didn’t sit down.
“So we going to finish the game?” she asked.
“If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few things I have to do. Phone calls. Paperwork.”
“What are you so mad about? I don’t understand.”
“I’m not mad at all. Time’s getting on, that’s all.”
She at least got to her feet to walk me to the door, where we parted with a cold handshake.
I’VE SAID ALREADY how my sleep rhythm had been screwed up after the surgery. That evening I became suddenly tired, went to bed early, slept soundly for a few hours, then woke in the dead of night unable to go back to sleep. After a while I got up and turned on the TV. I found a movie I’d seen as a kid, so pulled up a chair and watched what remained of it with the volume down low. When that was over I watched two preachers shouting at each other in front of a baying audience. All in all, I was contented. I felt cosy and a million miles from the outside world. So my heart just about jumped out of my chest when the phone rang.
“Steve? That you?” It was Lindy. Her voice sounded odd and I wondered if she’d been drinking.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“I know it’s late. But just now, when I was passing, I saw your light on under your door. I supposed you were having trouble sleeping, just like me.”
“I guess so. It’s difficult keeping regular hours.”
“Yeah. It sure is.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Sure. Everything’s good. Very good.”
I realised now she wasn’t drunk, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was up with her. She probably wasn’t high on anything either—just peculiarly awake and maybe excited about