Kazuo Ishiguro (24 page)

I was always one for mucking in. I dare say you’re thinking of that fellow Bigglesworth. Adrian Bigglesworth. He was certainly a bit of a loner.’

‘Bigglesworth?’ Morgan thought about this, then shook his head. ‘I remember the chap. Rather heavy-set, jug ears? Old Bigglesworth. My, my. But no, I wasn’t thinking of him.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me, old man.’

‘Extraordinary.’ He shook his head again, then turned back to his window.

I too turned away, and for the next little while gazed out at the night-time streets. We were once again moving through a busy entertainment area, and I glanced through the faces in the crowds, hoping to glimpse Akira’s. Then we were in a residential district full of hedges and trees, and before long the driver brought the car to a halt inside the grounds of a large house.

Morgan left the vehicle hurriedly. I too got out - the chauffeur made no effort to assist - and followed him along a gravelled path leading around the side of the house. I suppose I had been expecting a big reception of some sort, but I could now see this was not what awaited us; the house was for the most part dark, and aside from our own car, there was only one other in the courtyard.

Morgan, who was clearly familiar with the house, brought us to a side door flanked by tall shrubs. He opened it without ringing and ushered me inside.

We found ourselves in a spacious hallway lit by candles.

Peering before me, I could make out musty-looking scrolls, huge porcelain vases, a lacquered chest of drawers. The smell in the air - of incense mingled with that of excrement - was oddly comforting.

No servant or host appeared. My companion continued to stand beside me, not saying a word. After a time, it occurred to me he was waiting for me to make some comment on our surroundings.

So I said: ‘I know little about Chinese artwork. But even to my eye, it’s clear we’re surrounded by some rather fine things.’

Morgan stared at me in astonishment. Then he shrugged and said: ‘I suppose you’re right. Well, let’s go in.’

He led the way further into the house. We were in darkness for several steps, and then I heard voices talking in Mandarin, and saw light coming from a doorway hung with beaded threads. We passed through the beads, then a further set of drapes, into a large warm room lit with candles and lanterns.

What do I remember now of the rest of that evening? It has already grown a little hazy in my mind, but let me try and piece it together as clearly as I can. My first thought on entering that room was that we had disturbed some family celebration. I glimpsed a big table laden with food, and seated around it, eight or nine people.

All were Chinese; the youngest - two men in their twenties were dressed in Western suits, but the rest were in traditional dress. An old lady, seated at one end of the table, was being assisted in her eating by a servant. An elderly gentleman - surprisingly tall and broad for an Oriental - whom I took to be the head of the household, had immediately risen upon our arrival, and now the other males in the company followed his example.

But at this stage, my impression of these people remained vague, for very rapidly it was the room itself that had begun to command all my attention.

The ceiling was high and beamed. Beyond the diners, right at the back, was a kind of minstrels’ gallery, from the rail of which hung a brace of paper lanterns. It was this section of the room that had drawn my gaze, and I now continued to stare past the table towards it, hardly hearing my host’s words of welcome.

For what was dawning upon me was that the entire rear half of the room in which I was now standing was in fact what used to be the entrance hall of our old Shanghai house.

Obviously some vast restructuring had taken place over the years. I could not, for instance, work out at all how the areas through which Morgan and I had just entered related to our old hall. But the minstrels’ gallery at the back clearly corresponded to the balcony at the top of our grand curving staircase.

I drifted forward, and probably remained standing there for some time, gazing up at the gallery, tracing with my eye the route our stairs had once taken. And as I did so, I found an old memory coming back to me, of a period in my childhood when I had made a habit of coming down the long curve of the stairs at huge speed and taking off two or three steps from the bottom usually while flapping my arms - to land in the depths of a couch positioned just a little way away. My father, whenever he witnessed this, would laugh; but both my mother and Mei Li disapproved. Indeed, my mother, who could never quite explain why this particular practice was wrong, would always threaten to have the couch removed if I persisted with the habit.

Then once, when I was around eight, I attempted this feat for the first time in months to discover the couch could no longer take the impact of my increased weight. One end of the frame completely collapsed, and I tumbled on to the floor, utterly shocked.

The next instant, though, I had remembered my mother was coming down the stairs behind me, and had braced myself for the most terrible dressing down. But my mother, looming over me, had burst out laughing. ‘Look at your face, Puffin!’ she had exclaimed. ‘If you could only see your face!’

I had not been hurt at all, but when my mother had continued to laugh - and perhaps because I was still afraid of a scolding I had begun to make the most of a pain I could feel in my ankle. My mother had then stopped her laughing and had helped me up gently. I remember her then walking me slowly round and round the hall, an arm around my shoulder, saying: ‘There now, that’s better, isn’t it? We’ll just walk it off. There now, it’s nothing.’

I never was scolded over the incident and a few days later I came in to find the couch had been mended; but although I continued often to jump from the second or third step, I never again attempted a dive into the couch.

I took a few paces around the room, trying to work out the exact spot where the couch would have been. As I did so, I found I could conjure up only the haziest picture of what it had actually looked like - though I could recall quite vividly the feel of its silky fabric.

Then eventually I became conscious of the others in the room, and the fact that they were all watching me with gentle smiles. Morgan and the elderly Chinese man had been conferring quietly. Seeing me turn, Morgan took a step forward, cleared his throat and began the introductions.

He was obviously friendly with the family and reeled off the names without hesitation. As he did so, each of them gave a little bow and smile, touching hands together. Only the old lady at the end of the table, whom Morgan introduced with extra deference, went on gazing at me impassively. The family was called Lin beyond this, I do not now remember any names - and it was Mr Lin himself, the elderly, bulky gentleman, who from this point took charge.

‘I trust, my good sir,’ he said in an English only slightly accented, ‘that it gives a warm feeling to return here again.’

‘Yes, it does.’ I gave a little laugh. ‘Yes. And it’s a little strange also.’

‘But that is natural,’ Mr Lin said. ‘Now please make yourself comfortable. Mr Morgan tells me you have already dined. But as you see, we have prepared food for you. We did not know if you cared for Chinese cuisine. So we borrowed the cook of our English neighbour.’

‘But perhaps Mr Banks isn’t hungry.’

This was said by one of the young men in suits. Then turning to me the latter continued: ‘My grandfather is rather the old-fashioned type. He gets very offended if a guest doesn’t accept every piece of hospitality.’ The young man smiled broadly at the old man. ‘Please don’t let him bully you, Mr Banks.’

‘My grandson believes me to be an old-fashioned Chinese,’

Mr Lin said, coming closer to me, the smile never leaving his face. ‘But the truth is, I am born and bred in Shanghai, here in the International Settlement. My parents were obliged to flee the Empress Dowager’s forces, and take sanctuary here, in the foreigner’s city, and I have grown up a Shanghailander through and through. My grandson here has no idea what life is like in the real China. He considers me old-fashioned! Ignore him, my dear sir. There is no need to worry about protocol in this house. If you do not wish to eat, then never mind. I will certainly not bully you.’

‘But you’re all so kind,’ I said, perhaps a little distractedly, for in truth I was still trying to work out how the building had been altered.

Then suddenly the old lady said something in Mandarin.

The young man who had addressed me before, then said: ‘My grandmother says she thought you would never come.

It was such a long wait. But now she’s seen you, she’s very happy you are here.’

Even before he had finished translating, the old lady was talking again. This time, when she finished, the young man remained silent for a moment. He looked at his grandfather as though for guidance, then appeared to come to a decision.

‘You must excuse Grandmother,’ he said. ‘She is sometimes a little eccentric’

The old lady, perhaps understanding the English, gestured impatiently for a translation. Finally the young man sighed and said: ‘Grandmother says that until you came in this evening, she resented you. That is to say, she was angry that you are to take our home from us.’

I looked at the young man, quite baffled, but now the old lady was talking again.

‘She says that for a long time,’ her grandson translated, ‘she hoped you would stay away. She believed this home belonged to our family now. But tonight, seeing you in person, seeing the emotion in your eyes, she is able to understand. She now feels in her heart that the agreement is correct.’

The agreement? But surely…’

I allowed the words to fade in my mouth. For puzzled as I was, while the young man had been translating his grandmother’s words, I had started to locate some vague recollection concerning some such arrangement regarding the old house and my eventual return to it. But as I say, my memory of it was only a very hazy one, and I sensed that by opening a discussion on the matter I would only embarrass myself. In any case, just at that moment Mr Lin said: ‘I fear we are all being most inconsiderate to Mr Banks. Here we are, making him chatter to us, when in fact he must be longing to look about this house once more.’ Then turning to me with a kindly smile, he said: ‘Come with me, good sir. There will be time enough to talk to everyone later. Come this way and I will show you the house.’

For the next several minutes, I followed Mr Lin all around the building. Despite his age, my host showed little sign of infirmity; he carried his bulk steadily, if slowly, hardly ever pausing for breath. I pursued his dark gown and whispering slippers up and down narrow stairs, and along back corridors lit often only by a single lantern. He led me through areas that were bare and cobwebbed, past numerous neatly stacked wooden crates of rice wine. Elsewhere the house became sumptuous; there were beautiful screens and wall hangings, clusters of porcelain displayed within alcoves. Every so often, he would open a door, then stand back to let me pass. I entered various kinds of room, but - for some time at least - saw nothing at all familiar to me.

Then finally I stepped through a door and felt something tugging at my memory. It took a few seconds more, but I then recognised with a wave of emotion our old ‘library’. It had been greatly altered: the ceiling was much higher, a wall had been knocked through to make the space L-shaped; and where there had once been double doors through into our dining room, there was now a partition against which were stacked more crates of rice wine. But it was unmistakably the same room where as a child I had done much of my homework.

I drifted further into the room, looking all around me. After a while I became aware of Mr Lin regarding me and gave him a self-conscious smile. At which point, he said: ‘No doubt much has been changed. Please accept my apologies.

But you must understand, over eighteen years, which is how long we have lived here, a few alterations have been inevitable to meet the needs of my household and of my business.

And I understand the occupants before us, and those before them, carried out extensive alterations. Most unfortunate, my good sir, but I suppose few could have foreseen that one day you and your parents…’

He trailed off, perhaps because he thought I was not listening, perhaps because like most Chinese, he was uncomfortable with apologies. I went on gazing about me for a while longer, then asked him: ‘So this house, it’s no longer owned by Morganbrook and Byatt?’

He looked astonished, then laughed. ‘Sir, I am the owner of this house.’

I saw I had insulted him, and said hurriedly: ‘Yes, of course. I do beg your pardon.’

‘Don’t worry, my good sir’ - his genial smile had quickly returned - ‘it was not an unreasonable question. After all, when you and your dear parents lived here, that was no doubt the situation. But I believe that has long ceased to be. My good sir, if you will only consider how much Shanghai has changed over the years. Everything, everything has changed and changed again. All this’ - he sighed and gestured about us - ‘by comparison these are small changes. There are parts of this city I once knew so well, places I would walk every day, I now go there and I know not which way to turn. Change, change all the time. And now the Japanese, they wish to make their changes here. The most terrible changes may yet overtake us. But one must not be pessimistic’

For a moment, we both stood there in silence, continuing to look about us. Then he said quietly: ‘My family, of course, will be saddened to leave this house.

My father died here. Two grandchildren were born here. But when my wife spoke earlier - and you must forgive her frankness, Mr Banks - she did speak for us all. We will consider it a great honour and privilege to return this house to you and your parents. Now, my good sir, let us continue if we may.’

I believe it was not long after that we climbed a carpeted staircase - one which certainly did not exist in my time - and stepped into a luxuriously furbished bedroom. There were rich fabrics, and lanterns casting a reddish glow.