Kazuo Ishiguro (16 page)

In any case, as I say, the arrival of the plump Chinese man that day did not much excite my interest. I remember glancing down from my playroom window and seeing him getting out of his motor car. His appearance on that occasion was, I believe, much as it is in my newspaper picture: dark gown, cap, pigtail. I noticed the car was a vast gleaming affair, and that he had two men to assist him as well as his chauffeur, but even this was not so remarkable; in those days following my father’s disappearance, a number of very grand visitors had already turned up at the house. I was, though, vaguely struck by the way Uncle Philip, who had been in the house for the past hour or so, marched out to greet the plump man. They exchanged the most effusive greetings - as though they were the dearest friends then Uncle Philip led the visitor into our house.

I do not remember what I got up to for the next little while. I did remain in the house - though not on account of the plump man, who, as I say, had not much interested me. In fact when I first heard the commotion downstairs, I remember being surprised the visitor was still with us. Rushing back to my playroom window I saw the motor car still on the carriage track, and the three servants who had stayed in the car - who too had heard the disturbance - hastening out of the vehicle with looks of alarm. Then I saw below me the plump man walking quite calmly towards the car, signalling to his men not to worry. The chauffeur held open the door for the plump man and as he was climbing in, my mother came into view. In fact, it had been her voice that had first sent me rushing to the window. I had been trying to convince myself it was just the same voice she used when angry with me or our servants, but by the time my mother’s figure appeared below me, her every word now clearly audible, the effort became pointless. There was something about her that had lost control, something I had never seen before, and yet which I at once registered as something I would have to accept in the wake of my father’s disappearance.

She was yelling at the plump man, having actually to be restrained by Uncle Philip. My mother was telling the plump man he was a traitor to his own race, that he was an agent of the devil, that she did not want help of his sort, that if he ever returned to our house, she would ‘spit on him like the dirty animal he was’.

The plump man took all this very calmly. He signalled to his men to get in the car, and then, as his chauffeur wound the crank, he smiled from his window almost approvingly towards my mother, as though she were uttering the most gracious of farewells. Then the car was gone and Uncle Philip was persuading my mother to come inside.

By the time they came into the hall, my mother had gone silent. I could hear Uncle Philip saying: ‘But we have to pursue every possible avenue, don’t you see?’ His footsteps followed my mother’s into the drawing room, the door closed and I heard no more.

Of course, to see my mother behaving in such a way was most disturbing to me. But if she had found shouting at her visitor a liberation after weeks of keeping her feelings on a tight rein, then I too experienced something similar. It was witnessing her outburst that allowed me, after at least two or three weeks, finally to acknowledge the momentous nature of what had happened to us, and this brought with it a tremendous sense of relief.

I will have to admit, incidentally, that I cannot say with complete certainty that the plump Chinese man I saw that day was one and the same as the man in the newspaper photograph the man now identified as the warlord Wang Ku. All I can say is that from the moment I first set eyes on the photograph, that face - and it was the face, not the gown, cap and pigtail, which of course could have been those of any Chinese gentleman struck me unmistakably as one I had seen during the days immediately after my father’s disappearance. And the more I have turned that particular incident over in my mind, the more convinced I have become that the man in the photograph was the one who visited our house that day. This discovery I believe to be most significant - one that may well help shed light on my parents’ present whereabouts, and prove central to those investigations upon which, as I have said, I intend before long to embark.

There is a further aspect to this incident I have just described which I hesitate to mention here, uncertain as I am that there is any substance to it. It has to do with Uncle Philip’s manner that day as he tried to restrain my mother in front of our house; and again, something in his voice when he said as they came in: ‘But we have to pursue every possible avenue, don’t you see?’ There was nothing at all concrete I could put my finger on, but then a child is sometimes very receptive to these less tangible things. Anyway, my feeling was that there was something definitely odd about Uncle Philip that day. I do not know why, but I got the distinct impression that on this occasion, Uncle Philip was not on ‘our side’; that the intimacy he shared with the plump Chinese man was greater than the one he shared with us; even - and quite possibly this was merely my fancy - that he and the plump man exchanged looks as the car drove off. As I say, I cannot point to anything solid to support these impressions, and it is more than possible I am projecting back certain perceptions in the light of what ultimately occurred with Uncle Philip.

Even today, I find it brings me some pain to remember the way my relationship with Uncle Philip concluded. As I have probably made clear, he had become over the years a figure to idolise, so much so that in the first days after my father’s disappearance, I remember contemplating the notion that I need not mind so much since Uncle Philip could always take my father’s place. Admittedly, this was an idea I found in the end curiously unconvincing, but my point is that Uncle Philip was a special person for me, and it is no wonder at all I should have lowered my guard that day and followed him.

I say ‘lowered my guard’ because for some time before that final day, I had been keeping watch over my mother with increasing anxiety. Even when she demanded to be left alone, I continued to keep a careful eye over the room she had gone into, and over the doors and windows through which kidnappers might enter. At nights I lay awake listening to her movements around the house, and always kept close to hand my weapon - a stick with a sharpened end Akira had given me.

However, when I think further about this, I have a feeling that deep down, I still did not at that stage truly believe my fears could be realised. Even the fact that I considered a pointed , stick an adequate deterrent to kidnappers - that I often fell asleep fantasising I was locked in combat with dozens of intruders coming up our staircase, whom I would fell one by one with my stick - testifies perhaps to the oddly unreal level at which my fears still operated at that time.

For all that, there is no doubting the anxiety I felt for my mother’s safety, and my bewilderment that the other adults had taken no steps at all to protect her. I did not like to let my mother out of my sight during this period, and as I say, I would never have lowered my guard on that day had it been anyone other than Uncle Philip.

It was a sunny, windy morning. I remember watching from the playroom windows the leaves blowing in the front yard over the carriage track. Uncle Philip had been downstairs with my mother since shortly after breakfast, and I had been able to relax for a while, believing as I did that nothing could happen to her while he was with her.

Then midway through the morning I heard Uncle Philip calling me. I went out on to the landing and, looking down over the balcony rail, saw my mother and Philip standing in the hall, gazing up at me. For the first time in weeks I sensed something cheerful about them, as though they had just been enjoying a joke. The front door was ajar and a long streak of sunlight was falling across the hall. Uncle Philip said: ‘Look here, Puffin. You’re always saying you want a piano accordion. Well, I intend to buy you one. I spotted an excellent French model in a window in Hankow Road yesterday. Shopkeeper obviously has no idea what it’s worth. I propose the two of us go and look it over. If it takes your fancy, then it’s yours.

Good plan?’

This brought me down the staircase at great speed. I jumped the last four steps and circled round the adults, flapping my arms in impersonation of a bird of prey. As I did so, to my delight, I heard my mother laughing - laughing in a way I had not heard her laugh for a while. In fact it is possible it was this very atmosphere - this feeling that things were perhaps starting to return to what they had been - which played a significant part in causing me to ‘lower my guard’. I asked Uncle Philip when we could go, to which he shrugged and said: ‘Why not now? If we leave it, someone else might spot it. Perhaps someone’s buying it at this moment, even as we speak!’

I rushed to the doorway and again my mother laughed. Then she told me I would have to put on proper shoes and a jacket. I remember thinking of protesting about the jacket, but then deciding not to in case the adults changed their minds, not only about the accordion, but also about this whole lighthearted mood we were enjoying.

I waved casually to my mother as Uncle Philip and I set off across the front courtyard. Then several steps on, as I was hurrying towards the waiting carriage, Uncle Philip grasped me by the shoulder, saying: ‘Look! Wave to your mother!’ despite my already having done so. But I thought nothing of it at the time, and turning as bidden, waved once more to my mother’s figure, elegantly upright in the doorway.

For much of the way, the carriage followed the route my mother and I usually took to the city centre. Uncle Philip was quiet on the journey, which surprised me a little, but I had never before been alone with him in a carriage and assumed this was perhaps his normal custom. Whenever I pointed out to him anything we were passing, he would reply cheerfully enough; but the next moment he would be staring silently once more out at the view. The leafy boulevards gave way to the narrow crowded streets, and our driver began to shout at the rickshaws and pedestrians in our path. We passed the little curio shops in Nanking Road, and I remember craning to see the window of the toy shop on the corner of Kwangse Road. I had just begun to anticipate the smell of rotting produce as we approached the vegetable market, when Uncle Philip suddenly rapped his cane to make the carriage stop.

‘From here, we’ll go on foot,’ he said to me. ‘I know a good short cut. It’ll be much quicker.’

This made perfectly good sense. I knew from experience how the little streets off Nanking Road could become so clogged with people that a carriage or motor car would often not move for five, even ten minutes at a time. I thus allowed him to help me down from the carriage with no argument. But it was then, I recall, that I had my first presentiment that something was wrong. Perhaps it was something in Uncle Philip’s touch as he handed me down; perhaps there was something else in his manner.

But then he smiled and made some remark I did not catch in the noise around us. He pointed towards a nearby alley and I stayed close behind him as we pushed our way through the good-humoured throng. We moved from bright sun to shade, and then he stopped and turned to me, right there in the midst of the jostling crowd. Placing a hand on my shoulder, he asked: ‘Christopher, do you know where we are now? Can you guess?’

I looked around me. Then pointing towards a stone arch under which crowds were pressing around the vegetable stalls, I replied: ‘Yes. That’s Kiukiang Road through there.’

‘Ah. So you know exactly where we are.’ He gave an odd laugh. ‘You know your way around here very well.’

I nodded and waited, the feeling rising from the pit of my stomach that something of great horror was about to unfold.

Perhaps Uncle Philip was about to say something else - perhaps he had planned the whole thing quite differently - but at that moment, as we stood there jostled on all sides, I believe he saw in my face that the game was up. A terrible confusion passed across his features, then he said, barely audibly in the din: ‘Good boy.’

He grasped my shoulder again and let his gaze wander about him. Then he appeared to come to a decision I had already anticipated.

‘Good boy!’ he said, this time more loudly, his voice trembling with emotion. Then he added: ‘I didn’t want you hurt.

You understand that? I didn’t want you hurt.’

With that he spun round and vanished into the crowd. I made a half-hearted effort to follow, and after a moment caught sight of his white jacket hurrying through the people.

Then he had passed under the arch and out of my view.

For the next few moments I remained standing there in the crowd, trying not to pursue the logic of what had just occurred.

Then suddenly I began to move, back in the direction we had just come, to the street in which we had left the carriage. Abandoning all sense of decorum, I forced my way through the crowds, sometimes pushing violently, sometimes squeezing myself through gaps, so that people laughed or called angrily after me. I reached the street to discover of course that the carriage had long since gone on its way. For a few confused seconds I stood in the middle of the street, trying to form in my head a map of my route back home. I then began to run as fast as I could.

I ran down Kiukiang Road, across the hard uneven stones of Yunnan Road, pushed through more crowds along Nanking Road. When at last I reached Bubbling Well Road, my breath was already coming in gasps, but I was encouraged that I now had left only this one long straight road, relatively free of people.

Perhaps it was because I was conscious of the highly private nature of my fears - or perhaps some profound shift in attitude was already taking place within me - but it did not once occur to me to solicit help from any of the adults I passed, or to try and hail a passing carriage or motor car. I set off at a run down that long road, and even though I soon began to pant pathetically, even though I knew my gait must look appalling to an onlooker, even though the heat and exhaustion reduced me at times to little more than walking pace, I believe I did not stop at all. Then at last I was going past the American consul’s residence, and then the Robertsons’ house. I turned off Bubbling Well Road into our road and a second wind took me the remaining distance to our gate.