The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro Page A

little while, the three of them had continued to sit silently. Finally his mother had risen saying:
    'It's been a very nice evening. Thank you, both of you. But I'm feeling tired now and I think I ought to go up to bed.'
    At first the hotel manager had seemed not to have heard. But as Stephan's mother had moved towards the door, he had raised his head and said very quietly: 'The cake, my dear. The cake. It's… it's something rather special.'
    'You're very kind, but really, I've had so much already to eat. I must get some sleep now.'
    'Of course, of course.' The hotel manager had stared down at the table again with an air of resignation. But then, as Stephan's mother was about to pass through the door, the hotel manager had suddenly straightened and said loudly: 'At least, my dear, come and look at it. Just look at it. As I say, it's something special.'
    His mother had hesitated, then said: 'Very well. Show it to me quickly. Then I really must sleep. It's the wine perhaps, but I feel extremely tired now.'
    On hearing this, the hotel manager had started to his feet and the next instant had ushered his wife out of the dining room.
    The young man had listened to his parents' footsteps going towards the kitchen, then, after no more than a minute, returning along the corridor and climbing the staircase. For some time after that Stephan had remained seated at the table. Various small noises had come from above but he had been unable to hear any voices. In the end it had occurred to him that his best course would simply be to drive back through the night to his digs. Certainly his presence at breakfast would hardly help his father on the slow, huge task of rebuilding his mother's good humour.
    He had left the dining room intending to slip out of the house unnoticed, but out in the hallway he had encountered his father descending the staircase. The hotel manager had put his finger to his lips, saying:
    'We must speak quietly. Your mother's just gone to bed.'
    Stephan had informed his father of his intention to return to Heidelberg, to which the hotel manager had said: 'What a pity. Your mother and I thought you'd be able to stay longer. But as you say, you have lectures in the morning. I'll explain to your mother, she's sure to understand.'
    'And Mother,' Stephan had said. 'I hope she enjoyed the evening.'
    His father had smiled, but for a brief moment before he did so Stephan had seen a look of profound desolation cross his face.
    'Oh yes. I know she did. Oh yes. She was so glad you could take a break from your studies and come all this way. I know she was hoping you would stay a few days, but don't worry. I'll explain it to her.'
    As he had driven along the deserted highways that night, Stephan had turned over every aspect of the evening's events -just as he was to do again and again over the following years. The anguish he felt each time he recalled that occasion had gradually diminished with time, but now the steady approach of Thursday night had brought back many of the old terrors, causing him yet again, as we drove on through the rainy night, to be transported back to that painful evening of several years ago.
    I felt sorry for the young man and broke the silence by saying to him:
    'I realise it's none of my business, and I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I do think you've been treated rather unfairly by your parents over the matter of your piano playing. My advice to you would be to try and enjoy your playing as much as you can, drawing satisfaction and meaning from it regardless of them.'
    The young man considered this for several moments. Then he said:
    'I'm grateful to you, Mr Ryder, for giving my position thought and all that. But actually - well, to be quite blunt about it -I don't think you really understand. I can see how to an outsider my mother's behaviour that night might look a little, well, a little inconsiderate. But that would be doing her an injustice and I'd really hate for you to go away with such an