Kazuo Ishiguro (2 page)

Stanton, who had lied about his age in order to volunteer, was killed in the third battle of Ypres. Thornton-Browne, I heard, died of tuberculosis two years ago. In any case, both boys left St Dunstan’s in the fifth year and I had long since lost touch with them by the time I heard of their deaths. I still remember, though, how disappointed I was when Thornton-Browne left the school; he had been the one real friend I had made since arriving in England, and I missed him much throughout the latter part of my career at St Dunstan’s.

The second of these two instances that comes to mind occurred a few years later - in the Lower Sixth - but my recollection of it is not as detailed. In fact, I cannot remember at all what came before and after this particular moment. What I have is a memory of walking into a classroom - Room 15 in the Old Priory - where the sun was pouring through the narrow cloister windows in shafts, revealing the dust hanging in The master had yet to arrive, but I must have come in slightly late, for I remember finding my classmates already sitting about in dusters on the desk-tops, benches and window ledges. I was about to join one such group of five or six boys, when their faces all turned to me and I saw immediately that they had been discussing me. Then, before I could say anything, one of the group, Roger Brenthurst, pointed towards me and remarked: ‘But surely he’s rather too short to be a Sherlock.’

A few of them laughed, not particularly unkindly, and that, as far as I recall, was all there was to it. I never heard any further talk concerning my aspirations to be a ‘Sherlock’, but for some time afterwards I had a niggling concern that my secret had got out and become a topic for discussion behind my back.

Incidentally, the need to exercise caution around this whole topic of my ambitions had been impressed upon me before I ever arrived at St Dunstan’s. For I had spent much of my first few weeks in England wandering about the common near my aunt’s cottage in Shropshire, performing amidst the damp ferns the various detective scenarios Akira and I had evolved together in Shanghai. Of course, now that I was alone, I was obliged to take on all his roles as well; moreover, aware as I was that I could be seen from the cottage, I had had the sense to enact these dramas with restrained movements, muttering our lines under my breath - in marked contrast to the uninhibited manner in which Akira and I had been accustomed to carry on.

Such precautions, however, had proved inadequate. For one morning I had overheard from the little attic room I had been given, my aunt talking with some friends down in the drawing room. It was the sudden lowering of their voices that had first aroused my curiosity, and I soon found myself creeping out on to the landing and leaning over the rail.

‘He’s gone for hours,’ I could hear her saying. ‘It’s hardly healthy, a boy his age, sunk in his own world like that. He has to start looking ahead.’

‘But it’s only to be expected, surely,’ someone said. ‘After everything that’s happened to him.’

‘He has nothing at all to gain by brooding.’ my aunt said.

‘He’s been well provided for, and in that sense he’s been lucky.

It’s time he looked forward. I mean to put a stop to all this introspection.’

From that day on I ceased to go to the common, and in general, took steps to avoid any further displays of ‘introspection’.

But I was then still very young, and at nights, lying in that attic room, listening to the creak of the boards as my aunt moved about the cottage winding her clocks and seeing to her cats, I would often enact again, in my imagination, all our old detective dramas in just the way Akira and I had always done.

But let me return to that summer’s day Osbourne called at my Kensington flat. I do not wish to imply that this remark of his, about my being ‘an odd bird’, preoccupied me for more than a few moments. In fact, I went out myself, not long after Osbourne, in rather good spirits, and was soon to be found in St James’s Park, strolling about the flower beds, growing ever more eager for the evening ahead.

Thinking again of that afternoon, it strikes me I had every right to feel a little nervous, and it is entirely typical of the foolish arrogance that carried me through those early London days that I did not. I was aware, of course, that this particular evening would be on a different level from anything I had ever attended at university; that I might well, moreover, encounter points of custom as yet unfamiliar to me. But I felt sure I would, with my usual vigilance, negotiate any such difficulties, and in general acquit myself well. My concerns as I drifted around the park were of a quite different order. When Osbourne had talked of ‘well-connected’ guests, I had immediately assumed these to include at least a few of the leading detectives of the day. I fancy, then, that I spent a lot of my time that afternoon working out just what I would say should I be introduced to Matlock Stevenson, or perhaps even to Professor Charleville. I rehearsed over and over how I would - modestly, but with a certain dignity - outline my ambitions; and I pictured to myself one or the other of them taking a fatherly interest in me, offering all kinds of advice and insisting I come to him for guidance in the future.

Of course, the evening turned out to be a major disappointment - even if, as you will presently see, it was to prove particularly significant for quite other reasons. What I did not know at this point was that in this country, detectives tend not to participate in society gatherings. This is not through any lack of invitations; my own recent experience will testify to the fact that fashionable circles are forever trying to recruit the celebrated detectives of the day. It is just that these same persons tend to be earnest, often reclusive individuals who are dedicated to their work and have little inclination to mingle with one another, let alone with ‘society’ at large.

As I say, this was not something I appreciated as I arrived at the Charingworth Club that evening and followed Osbourne’s example of cheerily greeting the grandly uniformed doorman. But I was quickly disabused within minutes of our entering the crowded room on the first floor. I do not know how exactly this occurred - for I had not had the time to ascertain the identities of anyone present - but a kind of intuitive revelation swept over me which made me feel utterly foolish about my earlier excitement.

Suddenly it seemed unbelievable that I had ever expected to find Matlock Stevenson or Professor Charleville hob-nobbing with the financiers and government ministers I knew were around me.

Indeed, I was so thrown by this discrepancy between the event I had arrived at and the one I had been thinking about throughout the afternoon, that all my poise, at least temporarily, deserted me, and for half an hour or so, much to my annoyance, I could not bring myself to leave Osbourne’s side.

I am sure this same agitated frame of mind accounts for the fact that when I now think back to that evening, so many aspects seem somewhat exaggerated or unnatural. For instance, when I now try to picture the room, it is uncommonly dark; this despite the wall lamps, the candles on the tables, the chandeliers above us - none of which seem to make any impression on the pervading darkness. The carpet is very thick, so that to move about the room, one is obliged to drag one’s feet, and all around, greying men in black jackets are doing just this, some even pressing forward their shoulders as if walking into a gale. The waiters, too, with their silver trays, lean into conversations at peculiar angles. There are hardly any ladies present, and those one can see seem oddly self-effacing, almost immediately melting from one’s view behind the forest of black evening suits.

As I say, I am sure these impressions are not accurate, but that is how the evening remains in my mind. I remember standing about frozen with awkwardness, repeatedly sipping from my glass, as Osbourne chatted amiably with one guest after another, most of them a good thirty years older than us. I did once or twice try to join in, but my voice sounded conspicuously childlike, and in any case, most conversations centred on people or issues about which I knew nothing.

After a while, I grew angry - at myself, at Osbourne, at the whole proceedings. I felt I had every right to despise the people around me; that they were for the most part greedy and self seeking, lacking any idealism or sense of public duty. Fuelled by this anger, I was at last able to tear myself away from Osbourne and move off through the darkness into another part of the room.

I came to an area illuminated by a dull pool of light cast by a small wall lantern. The crowd was thinner here, and I noticed a silver-haired man of perhaps seventy smoking with his back to the room. It took a moment for me to realise he was gazing into a mirror, and by then he had noticed me looking at him. I was about to hurry on, when he said without turning: ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said with a light laugh. “Thank you. Yes, a splendid occasion.’

‘But a little lost, eh?’

I hesitated, then gave another laugh. ‘Perhaps a little. Yes, sir.’

The silver-haired man turned and studied me carefully. He then said: ‘If you wish, I’ll tell you who some of these people are. Then if there’s anyone you want especially to talk to, I’ll take you over and introduce you. What do you say to that?’

“That would be most kind. Most kind indeed.’

‘Good.’

He came a step closer and surveyed what was visible to us of the room. Then leaning towards me, he proceeded to point out this personage and that. Even when the name was an illustrious one, he would remember to add for my benefit ‘the financier’, ‘the composer’, or whatever. With the less well known, he would summarise in some detail the person’s career and the reason for his importance. I believe he was in the midst of telling me about a clergyman standing quite near us, when he broke off suddenly and said: ‘Ah. I see the attention has drifted.’

‘I’m terribly sorry…’

‘Quite all right. Perfectly natural, after all. Young fellow like you.’

‘I assure you, sir…’

‘No apology required.’ He gave a laugh and nudged my arm.

‘Find her pretty, eh?’

I did not know quite how to respond. I could hardly deny I had been diverted by the young woman several yards to our left, at that moment in conversation with two middle-aged men. But as it happened, that first time I saw her, I did not think her at all pretty. It is even possible I somehow sensed, there and then, at my first sight of her, those qualities which I have since discovered to be so significantly a part of her. What I saw was a small, rather elf-like young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair. Even though at that moment she was clearly wishing to charm the men she was talking to, I could see something about her smile that might in an instant turn it into a sneer. A slight crouch around her shoulders, like that of a bird of prey, gave her posture a suggestion of scheming. Above all, I noticed a certain quality around her eyes - a kind of severity, something ungenerously exacting which I see now, in retrospect, was what more than anything else caused me to stare at her with such fascination that evening.

Then, as we were both still gazing at her, she looked our way, and recognising my companion, sent him a quick, cold smile.

The silver-haired man gave a salute and a respectful bow of the head.

‘A charming young lady,’ he murmured, as he began leading me away. ‘But no sense in a chap like you wasting time pursuing her. I don’t mean to be offensive, you look a jolly decent type. But you see, that’s Miss Hemmings. Miss Sarah Hemmings.’

The name meant nothing to me. But whereas my guide had earlier been so conscientious in supplying me with the backgrounds of those he had pointed out, he uttered the name of this woman clearly expecting me to be familiar with it. So it was that I nodded and said: ‘Oh yes. So that’s Miss Hemmings.’

The gentleman paused again and surveyed the room from our new vantage point.

‘Now let me see. I take it you’re looking for someone to give you a leg up in life. Correct? Don’t worry. Played much the same game myself when I was young. Now let me see. Who do we have here?’ Then he turned back to me suddenly to ask: ‘Now what was it again you said you wanted to do with your life?’

Of course, I had not at that point told him anything. But now, after a slight hesitation, I answered simply: ‘Detective, sir.’

‘Detective? Hmm.’ He continued to gaze around the room.

‘You mean… a policeman?’

‘More a private consultant.’

He nodded. ‘Naturally, naturally.’ He continued to draw on his cigar, deep in thought. Then he said: ‘Not interested in museums, by any chance? Chap over there, known him for years. Museums. Skulls, relics, that kind of thing. Not interested?

Didn’t think so.’ He went on gazing around the room, sometimes craning his neck to see someone. ‘Of course,’ he said eventually, ‘a lot of young men dream of becoming detectives.

I dare say I did once, in my more fanciful moments. One feels so idealistic at your age. Longs to be the great detective of the day. To root out single-handedly all the evil in the world.

Commendable. But really, my boy, it’s just as well to have, let us say, a few other strings to your bow. Because a year or two from now - I don’t mean to be offensive - but pretty soon you’ll feel quite differently about things. Are you interested in furniture? I ask because over there stands none other than Hamish Robertson himself.’

‘With all respect, sir. The ambition which I just confided to you is hardly the whim of a moment. It’s a calling I’ve felt my whole life.’

‘Your whole life? But what are you? Twenty-one? Twenty two? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t discourage you. After all, if our young men won’t entertain idealistic notions of this sort, who is there to do so? And no doubt, my boy, you believe today’s world to be a far more evil place than the one of thirty years ago, is that it? That civilisation’s on the brink and all that?’

‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ 1 said curtly, ‘I do believe that to be the case.’

‘I remember when I thought so too.’ Suddenly his sarcasm had been replaced by a more kindly tone, and I even thought I saw tears fill his eyes. ‘Why is it, do you suppose, my boy? Is the world really getting more evil? Is Homo sapiens degenerating as a species?’