Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [72]
“But he … appreciates you?”
“He knows it won’t always be easy, living with a virtuoso.” She gave a sigh. “That’s been the problem for me all my life. It won’t be easy for you either. But you and me, we don’t really have a choice. We have our paths to follow.”
She didn’t bring Peter up again, but now, after that exchange, a new dimension had opened in their relationship. When she had those quiet moments of thought after he’d finished playing, or when, sitting together in the piazza, she became distant, staring off past the neighbouring parasols, there was nothing uncomfortable about it, and far from feeling ignored, he knew his presence there beside her was appreciated.
ONE AFTERNOON when he’d finished playing a piece, she asked him to play again one short passage—just eight bars—from near the close. He did as asked and saw the little furrow remain on her forehead.
“That doesn’t sound like us,” she said, shaking her head. As usual, she was sitting in profile to him in front of the big windows. “The rest of what you played was good. All the rest of it, that was us. But that passage there …” She did a little shudder.
He played it again, differently, though not at all sure what he was aiming for, and wasn’t surprised to see her shake her head again.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You must express yourself more clearly. I do not understand this ‘not us.’”
“You mean you want me to play it myself? Is that what you’re saying?”
She’d spoken calmly, but as she now turned to face him, he was aware of a tension descending on them. She was looking at him steadily, almost challengingly, waiting for his answer.
Eventually he said: “No, I’ll try again.”
“But you’re wondering why I don’t just play it myself, aren’t you? Borrow your instrument and demonstrate what I mean.”
“No …” He shook his head with what he hoped looked like nonchalance. “No. I think it works well, what we’ve always done. You suggest verbally, then I play. That way, it’s not like I copy, copy, copy. Your words open windows for me. If you played yourself, the windows would not open. I’d only copy.”
She considered this, then said: “You’re probably right. Okay, I’ll try and express myself a little better.”
And for the next few minutes she talked—about the distinction between epilogues and bridging passages. Then when he played those bars once more, she smiled and nodded approvingly.
But from that little exchange on, something shadowy had entered their afternoons. Perhaps it had been there all along, but now it was out of the bottle and hovered between them. Another time, when they were sitting in the piazza, he’d been telling her the story of how the previous owner of his cello had come by it in the Soviet Union days by bartering several pairs of American jeans. When he’d finished the story, she looked at him with a curious half-smile and said:
“It’s a good instrument. It has a fine voice. But since I’ve never so much as touched it, I can’t really judge it.”
He knew then she was again moving towards that territory, and he quickly looked away, saying:
“For someone of your stature, it would not be an adequate instrument. Even for me, now, it is barely adequate.”
He found he could no longer relax during a conversation with her for fear she would hijack it and bring it back onto this territory. Even during their most enjoyable exchanges, a part of his mind would have to remain on guard, ready to shut her off if she found yet another opening. Even so, he couldn’t divert her every time, and he’d simply pretend not to hear when she said things like: “Oh, it would be so much easier if I could just play it for you!”
TOWARDS THE END OF SEPTEMBER—there was now a chill in the breeze—Giancarlo received a phone call from Mr. Kaufmann in Amsterdam; there was a vacancy for a cellist in a small chamber group at a five-star hotel in the centre of the city. The group played in a minstrels’ gallery overlooking the dining room four evenings a week, and the musicians also had other “light, non-musical duties” elsewhere in