Kazuo Ishiguro (28 page)

Then, as I continued my lunch, I found myself thinking of my last meeting with Jennifer that sunny afternoon at her school: of the two of us, in the prefects’ room, sitting awkwardly in our armchairs, the sun playing on the oak panelling, the grass leading down to the lake visible in the windows behind her. She had listened in silence as I had explained, to the best of my ability, the necessity of my going away, the overwhelming importance of the task awaiting me in Shanghai.

I had paused at several points, expecting her to ask questions, or at least to make some comment. But each time, she had given a serious nod, and waited for me to continue. In the end, when I realised I had started to repeat myself, I had come to a halt and said to her: ‘So, Jenny. What do you have to say?’

I do not know what I had expected. But after gazing at me for another moment with a look devoid of any anger, she had replied: ‘Uncle Christopher, I realise I’m not very good at anything.

But that’s because I’m rather young still. Once I’m older, and it might not be so long now, I’ll be able to help you. I’ll be able to help you, I promise you I will. So while you’re away, would you please remember? Remember that I’m here, in England, and that I’ll help you when you come back?’

It was not quite what I had expected, and though often since arriving here I have thought over these words of hers, I am still not sure what she meant to convey to me that day. Was she implying that, for all I had just been saying to her, I was unlikely to succeed in my mission in Shanghai? That I would have to return to England and continue my work for yet many more years? Just as likely, these were simply the words of a confused child, trying hard not to display her upset, and it is pointless to subject them to any sort of scrutiny. For all that, I found myself yet again pondering our last meeting as I sat over my lunch that afternoon in the hotel conservatory.

It was while I was finishing my coffee that the concierge came to tell me I was wanted urgently on the telephone. I was directed to a booth on the landing just outside, and after a little confusion with the operator, heard a voice which was vaguely familiar to me.

‘Mr Banks? Mr Banks? Mr Banks, at last I have remembered.’

I remained silent, fearing if I said anything at all I would jeopardise our plans. But then the voice said: ‘Mr Banks? Can you hear me? I have remembered something important. About the house we could not search.’

I realised it was Inspector Kung; his voice, though croaky, sounded startlingly rejuvenated.

‘Inspector, excuse me. You took me by surprise. Please, tell me what you’ve remembered.’

‘Mr Banks. Sometimes, you know, when I indulge in a pipe, it helps me remember. Many things I have long forgotten drift before my eyes. So I thought very well, one last time, I shall go back to the pipe. And I remembered something the suspect told us. The house we could not search. It is directly opposite the house of a man called Yeh Chen.’

‘Yeh Chen? Who is that?’

‘I do not know. Many of the poorer people, they do not use street addresses. They talk of landmarks. The house we could not search. It is opposite Yeh Chen’s house.’

‘Yeh Chen. Are you sure that was the name?’

‘Yes, I’m sure. It came back very clearly.’

‘Is that a common name? How many people in Shanghai are likely to have that name?’

‘Fortunately there is one further detail the suspect gave us.

This Yeh Chen is a blind man. The house you seek is opposite that of Yeh Chen the blind man. Of course, he may have moved house, or passed away. But if you could discover where this man lived at the time of our investigation…’

‘Of course, Inspector. Why, this is immensely useful.’

‘I am glad. I thought you would find it so.’

‘Inspector, I cannot thank you enough.’

I had become aware of the time, and when I put down the phone, I did not return to my lunch, but went straight upstairs to my room to pack.

I recall a strange sense of unreality coming over me as I contemplated which items to take away. At one stage, I sat down on the bed and stared out at the sky visible through my window.

It struck me as most curious how, only a day earlier, the piece of information I had just received would have constituted something utterly central to my life. But here I was, turning it over casually in my head, and already it felt like something consigned to a past era, something I need not remember if I did not wish to.

I must have completed my packing with time to spare, for when the knock came on my door at half past three precisely, I had been sitting in my chair waiting for a good while. I opened the door to a young Chinese man, perhaps not even twenty, dressed in a gown, his hat in his hand.

‘I am your driver, sir,’ he announced softly. ‘If you have suitcase, I will carry.’

As the young man steered the motor car away from the Cathay Hotel, I stared out at the busy crowds of Nanking Road in the afternoon sunshine, and felt I was watching them from a vast distance. I then settled myself in my seat, content to leave everything in the hands of my driver, who despite his youth appeared assured and competent. I was tempted to ask what his connection was with Sarah, but then remembered her caution about speaking any more than necessary. I thus remained silent, and soon found my thoughts turning to Macao and some photographs I had seen of the place many years ago in the British Museum.

Then after we had been travelling for perhaps ten minutes, I suddenly leant forward to the young man and said: ‘I say, excuse me. This is something of a long shot. But do you happen to know of anyone called Yeh Chen?’

The young man did not take his gaze from the traffic before him and I was about to repeat my question when he said: ‘Yeh Chen. Blind actor?’

‘Yes. Well, I know he’s blind, though I didn’t know he was an actor.’

‘Not famous actor. Yeh Chen. He was actor once, many years ago, when I was boy.’

‘Do you mean… you know him?’

‘Not know him. But I know who he is. You interest in Yeh Chen, sir?’

‘No, no. Not especially. Someone just happened to mention him to me. It really doesn’t matter.’

I did not say anything else to the young man for the remainder of our journey. We travelled down a baffling series of little alleys and I had quite lost any sense of where we were by the time he pulled up in a quiet back street.

The young man opened my door and gave me my suitcase.

“That shop,’ he said, pointing. ‘With phonograph.’

Across the street was a small shop with a grimy window, within which indeed a phonograph was displayed. I could see too a sign in English reading: ‘Gramophone Records. Piano Rolls. Manuscripts.’ Glancing up and down the street, I saw that apart from two rickshawmen squatting beside their vehicles and exchanging banter, the young man and I were alone. I picked up the suitcase and was about to cross the street, when something made me say to him: ‘I wonder, could you wait here a little?’

The young man looked puzzled. ‘Lady Medhurst say only to bring you here.’

‘Yes, yes. But I’m asking you now, you see. I’d like you to wait just a little longer, just in case I need your services further.

Of course, I may not need you. But you know, just in case. Look here’ I reached into my jacket and took out some bills - ‘look, I’ll make it worth your while.’

The young man’s face flushed with anger, and he spun away from the money as though I were proffering something quite repulsive. He sullenly got back into the car and slammed his door.

I saw I had made a miscalculation of some sort, but at that moment could not be bothered to worry about it. Besides, for all his anger, the young man had not started up the engine. I stuffed my money back into my jacket, picked up the suitcase again and crossed the street.

Inside, the shop was very cramped. The afternoon sun was streaming in, but somehow only a few dusty patches were lit by it. To one side was an upright piano with discoloured keys, and several gramophone records displayed without their sleeves along the music stand. I could see not only dust but cobwebs on the records. Elsewhere there were odd pieces of thick velvet - they appeared to be off-cuts from theatre curtains nailed up on the walls, together with photographs of opera singers and dancers. I had perhaps expected Sarah to be standing there, but the only person present was a spindly European with a dark pointed beard sitting behind the counter.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said in a Germanic accent, glancing up from a ledgerbook spread before him. Then looking me up and down carefully, he asked: ‘You are English?’

‘Yes, I am. Good afternoon.’

‘We have some records from England. For example, we have a recording of Mimi Johnson singing “I Only Have Eyes for You”. Would you appreciate?’

Something in the cautious way he had spoken suggested this was the first part of an agreed code. But though I searched my memory for some password or phrase Sarah might have told me, I could remember nothing. In the end, I said: ‘I have no phonograph with me here in Shanghai. But I’m very fond of Mimi Johnson. In fact, I attended a recital of hers in London a few years ago.’

‘Really? Mimi Johnson, yes.’

I got the distinct impression I had puzzled him with the wrong response. So I said: ‘Look here, my name is Banks.

Christopher Banks.’

‘Banks. Mr Banks.’ The man said my name neutrally, then said: ‘If you appreciate Mimi Johnson, “I Only Have Eyes for You”, I shall play it for you. Please.’

He ducked under the counter, and I took the opportunity to look out of the shop window back into the street. The two rickshawmen were still laughing and talking, and I was reassured to see my young man still there in the car. Then just as I was wondering if there had not been some huge misunderstanding, the warm languid sound of a jazz orchestra filled the room. Mimi Johnson began to sing and I remembered how the song had been all the rage in London clubs a few years before.

After a while, I became aware of the spindly man indicating a spot on the rear wall hung with heavy dark drapes. I had not noticed before that there was a doorway there, but when I pushed, I indeed found myself stepping through into an inner room.

Sarah was sitting on a wooden trunk wearing a light coat and hat. A cigarette was burning in her holder and the cupboard like room was already thick with her smoke. All around us were piles of gramophone records and sheet music stored in an assortment of cardboard boxes and tea-chests. There was no window, but I could see a back door, at that moment slightly ajar, which led outside.

‘Well, here I am,’ I said. ‘I brought just the one suitcase as you insisted. But I see you’ve three yourself.’

‘This bag here’s just for Ethelbert. My teddy bear. He’s been with me since, well, for ever really. Silly, isn’t it?’

‘Silly? No, not at all.’

‘When Cecil and I first came here, I made the mistake of putting Ethelbert in with a whole lot of other things. Then when I opened the case, his arm had fallen off. I found it right in a corner, stuck inside a slipper. So this time, give or take a few shawls, he’s got a whole bag all to himself. It is silly.’

‘No, no. I understand perfectly. Ethelbert, yes.’

She carefully put down her cigarette holder and stood up.

Then we were kissing - just like, I suppose, a couple on the cinema screen. It was almost exactly as I had always imagined it would be, except there was something oddly inelegant about our embrace, and I tried more than once to adjust my posture; but my right foot was hard against a heavy box and I could not quite negotiate the necessary turn without risking my balance.

Then she had taken a step back, breathing deeply, all the time looking into my face.

‘Is everything ready?’ I asked her.

She did not at first reply, and I thought she was about to kiss me again. But in the end, she said simply: ‘Everything’s fine. We just have several more minutes to wait. Then we’ll go out there’ - she indicated the back door ‘walk down to the jetty and a sampan will take us out to our steamer two miles down the river. After that it’s Macao.’

‘And Cecil, does he have any idea at all?’

‘I didn’t see him all day. He set off for one of his little places straight after breakfast, and I expect he’s still there.’

‘It’s a great shame. Really, someone should tell him to pull himself together.’

‘Well, it’s no longer up to us to do so.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ I let out a sudden laugh. ‘I suppose it’s not up to us to do anything other than what we choose.’

“That’s right. Christopher, is something wrong?’

‘No, no. I was just trying to… I just wished…’

I reached out to her, thinking to initiate another embrace, but she raised a hand, saying: ‘Christopher, I think you should sit down. Don’t worry, there’ll be time to do everything, everything, later.’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Once we’re in Macao, we can have a good think about our future. A good think about where would be good for us. And where would be good for Jennifer. We’ll spread all our maps out over the bed, look out of our room on to the sea and argue about it all. Oh, I’m sure we will argue. I’m looking forward even to our arguments. Are you going to sit down? Look, sit here.’

‘I say… Look, if we have to wait a few minutes, let me just go and do something.’

‘Do something? What exactly?’

‘Just… just something. Look really, I won’t be gone long, just a few minutes. You see, I just have to ask someone something.’

‘Who? Christopher, I don’t think we should talk to anyone at this point.’

“That’s not what I mean, exactly. I fully realise the need for caution and so on. No, no, don’t worry. It’s just that young man. The one who you sent, the one who drove me here. I just need to ask him something.’

‘But surely he’s gone.’

‘No, he’s not. He’s still out there. Look, I’ll be straight back.’

I hurried out through the curtain back into the shop, where the spindly man with the beard looked up at me in surprise.

‘You appreciated Mimi Johnson?’ he asked.

‘Yes, yes. Wonderful. I just have to pop out for a second.’

‘May I make it clear, sir, that I am Swiss. There is no impending hostility between your country and mine.’