Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [57]
“It’s going to be some party,” she said. “Four hundred, five hundred people?”
I wandered further into the room and threw the torch beam around some more. “Maybe this is where it’s going to happen. Where they’re going to give Jake his award.”
“Of course it is. Where I found this”—she held up the statuette—“there were other ones too. Best Newcomer. R&B Album of the Year. That kind of stuff. It’s going to be a big event.”
Now my eyes had adjusted, I could see the place better, even though the flashlight wasn’t so powerful. And for a moment, as I stood there looking up at the stage, I could imagine the way the place would look later on. I imagined all the people in their fancy clothes, the record-company men, the big-time promoters, the random showbiz celebrities, laughing and praising each other; the fawningly sincere applause every time the MC mentioned the name of a sponsor; more applause, this time with whoops and cheers, when the award winners went up. I imagined Jake Marvell up on that stage, holding his trophy, the same smug smile he’d always have in San Diego when he’d finished a solo and the audience had clapped.
“Maybe we’ve got this wrong,” I said. “Maybe there’s no need to return this. Maybe we should throw it in the garbage. And all the other awards you found with it.”
“Yeah?” Lindy sounded puzzled. “Is that what you want to do, sweetie?”
I let out a sigh. “No, I guess not. But it would be … satisfying, wouldn’t it? All those awards in the garbage. I bet every one of those winners is a fake. I bet there isn’t enough talent between the lot of them to fill a hot-dog bun.”
I waited for Lindy to say something to this, but nothing came. Then when she did speak, there was some new note, something tighter, in her voice.
“How do you know some of these guys aren’t okay? How do you know some of them don’t deserve their award?”
“How do I know?” I felt a sudden tide of irritation. “How do I know? Well, think about it. A panel that considers Jake Marvell the year’s outstanding jazz musician. What other kind of people are they going to honor?”
“But what do you know about these guys? Even this Jake fella. How do you know he didn’t work really hard to get where he has?”
“What is this? You’re Jake’s greatest fan now?”
“I’m just expressing my opinion.”
“Your opinion? So this is your opinion? I guess I shouldn’t be so surprised. For a moment there, I was forgetting who you were.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? How dare you speak to me that way?!”
It occurred to me I was losing my grip. I said quickly: “Okay, I’m out of line. I’m sorry. Now let’s go find this office.”
Lindy had gone silent, and when I turned to face her, I couldn’t see well enough in the light to guess what she was thinking.
“Lindy, where’s this office? We need to find it.”
Eventually, she indicated with the statuette towards the back of the hall, then led the way past the tables, still not speaking. When we were there, I put my ear against the door for a few seconds, and hearing nothing, opened it carefully.
We were in a long narrow space that seemed to run parallel with the ballroom. A dim light had been left on somewhere, so we could just about make things out without the flashlight. It was obviously not the office we were after, but some kind of catering-cum-kitchen area. Long extended work counters ran along both walls, leaving a gangway down the middle wide enough for staff to put final touches to the food.
But Lindy seemed to recognise the place and went striding purposefully down the gangway. About halfway