Nocturnes_ Five Stories of Music and Nightfall - Kazuo Ishiguro [75]
“What else can I do?” he said to us. “By the time I get back, I’ll have no money left at all.”
TIBOR HAD A PLEASANT enough break in our countryside. He didn’t tell us much about it, other than that he’d made friends with some German hikers, and that he’d spent more than he could afford in the hillside trattorias. He came back after a week, looking visibly refreshed, but anxious to establish that Eloise McCormack had not left the city during his absence.
The tourist crowds were beginning to thin by then, and the cafe waiters were bringing out terrace heaters to place among the outdoor tables. On the afternoon of his return, at their usual time, Tibor took his cello to the Excelsior again, and was pleased to discover not only that Eloise was there waiting for him, but that she’d obviously missed him. She welcomed him with emotion, and just as someone else, in a surfeit of affection, might have plied him with food or drink, she pushed him into his usual chair and began impatiently unpacking the cello, saying: “Play for me! Come on! Just play!”
They had a wonderful afternoon together. He’d worried beforehand how things would be, after her “confession” and the way they’d last parted, but all the tension seemed simply to have evaporated, and the atmosphere between them felt better than ever. Even when, after he’d finished a piece, she closed her eyes and embarked on a long, stringent critique of his performance, he felt no resentment, only a hunger to understand her as fully as possible. The next day and the day after, it was the same: relaxed, at times even jokey, and he felt sure he’d never played better in his life. They didn’t allude at all to that conversation before he’d gone away, nor did she ask about his break in the countryside. They only talked about the music.
Then on the fourth day after his return, a series of small mishaps—including a leaking toilet cistern in his room—prevented him going to the Excelsior at the usual hour. By the time he came past the cafe, the light was fading, the waiters had lit the candles inside the little glass bowls, and we were a couple of numbers into our dinner set. He waved to us, then went on across the square towards the hotel, his cello making him look like he was limping.
He noticed the receptionist hesitate slightly before phoning up to her. Then when she opened the door, she greeted him warmly, but somehow differently, and before he had a chance to speak, she said quickly:
“Tibor, I’m so glad you’ve come. I was just telling Peter everything about you. That’s right, Peter’s found me at last!” Then she called into the room: “Peter, he’s here! Tibor’s here. And with his cello too!”
As Tibor stepped into the room, a large, shambling, greying man in a pale polo shirt rose to his feet with a smile. He gripped Tibor’s hand very firmly and said: “Oh, I’ve heard all about you. Eloise is convinced you’re gonna be a big star.”
“Peter’s persistent,” she was saying. “I knew he’d find me in the end.”
“No hiding from me,” said Peter. Then he was pulling up a chair for Tibor, pouring him a glass of champagne from an ice-bucket on the cabinet. “Come on, Tibor, help us celebrate our reunion.”
Tibor sipped the champagne, aware that Peter had pulled up for him, by chance, his usual “cello chair.” Eloise had vanished somewhere, and for a while, Tibor and Peter made conversation, their glasses in their hands. Peter seemed kindly and asked a lot of questions. How had it been for Tibor growing up in a place like Hungary? Had it been a shock when he’d first come to the West?
“I’d love to play an instrument,” Peter said. “You’re so lucky. I’d like to learn. A little late now though, I guess.”
“Oh, you can never say too late,” Tibor said.
“You’re right. Never say