KAZUO ISHIGURO

Never Let Me Go - fragments
 

My name is Kathy H. I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years. And I can think of one carer at least who went on for all of fourteen years despite being a complete waste of space. So I’m not trying to boast. But then I do know for a fact they’ve been pleased with my work, and by and large, I have too. My donors have always tended to do much better than expected. Their recovery times have been impressive, and hardly any of them have been classified as “agitated,” even before fourth donation. Okay, maybe I am boasting now. But it means a lot to me, being able to do my work well, especially that bit about my donors staying “calm.” I’ve developed a kind of instinct around donors. I know when to hang around and comfort them, when to leave them to themselves; when to listen to everything they have to say, and when just to shrug and tell them to snap out of it.
Anyway, I’m not making any big claims for myself. I know carers, working now, who are just as good and don’t get half the credit. If you’re one of them, I can understand how you might get resentful—about my bedsit, my car, above all, the way I get to pick and choose who I look after. And I’m a Hailsham student—which is enough by itself sometimes to get people’s backs up. Kathy H., they say, she gets to pick and choose, and she always chooses her own kind: people from Hailsham, or one of the other privileged estates. No wonder she has a great record. I’ve heard it said enough, so I’m sure you’ve heard it plenty more, and maybe there’s something in it. But I’m not the first to be allowed to pick and choose, and I doubt if I’ll be the last. And anyway, I’ve done my share of looking after donors brought up in every kind of place. By the time I finish, remember, I’ll have done twelve years of this, and it’s only for the last six they’ve let me choose.
And why shouldn’t they? Carers aren’t machines. You try and do your best for every donor, but in the end, it wears you down. You don’t have unlimited patience and energy. So when you get a chance to choose, of course, you choose your own kind. That’s natural. There’s no way I could have gone on for as long as I have if I’d stopped feeling for my donors every step of the way. And anyway, if I’d never started choosing, how would I ever have got close again to Ruth and Tommy after all those years?
But these days, of course, there are fewer and fewer donors left who I remember, and so in practice, I haven’t been choosing that much. As I say, the work gets a lot harder when you don’t have that deeper link with the donor, and though I’ll miss being a carer, it feels just about right to be finishing at last come the end of the year.
Ruth, incidentally, was only the third or fourth donor I got to choose. She already had a carer assigned to her at the time, and I remember it taking a bit of nerve on my part. But in the end I managed it, and the instant I saw her again, at that recovery centre in Dover, all our differences—while they didn’t exactly vanish—seemed not nearly as important as all the other things: like the fact that we’d grown up together at Hailsham, the fact that we knew and remembered things no one else did. It’s ever since then, I suppose, I started seeking out for my donors people from the past, and whenever I could, people from Hailsham.
There have been times over the years when I’ve tried to leave Hailsham behind, when I’ve told myself I shouldn’t look back so much. But then there came a point when I just stopped resisting. It had to do with this particular donor I had once, in my third year as a carer; it was his reaction when I mentioned I was from Hailsham. He’d just come through his third donation, it hadn’t gone well, and he must have known he wasn’t going to make it. He could hardly breathe, but he looked towards me and said: “Hailsham. I bet that was a beautiful place.” Then the next morning, when I was making conversation to keep his mind off it all, and I asked where he’d grown up, he mentioned some place in Dorset and his face beneath the blotches went into a completely new kind of grimace. And I realised then how desperately he didn’t want reminded. Instead, he wanted to hear about Hailsham.
So over the next five or six days, I told him whatever he wanted to know, and he’d lie there, all hooked up, a gentle smile breaking through. He’d ask me about the big things and the little things. About our guardians, about how we each had our own collection chests under our beds, the football, the rounders, the little path that took you all round the outside of the main house, round all its nooks and crannies, the duck pond, the food, the view from the Art Room over the fields on a foggy morning. Sometimes he’d make me say things over and over; things I’d told him only the day before, he’d ask about like I’d never told him. “Did you have a sports pavilion?” “Which guardian was your special favourite?” At first I thought this was just the drugs, but then I realised his mind was clear enough. What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham, just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that’s what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they’d really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his. That was when I first understood, really understood, just how lucky we’d been—Tommy, Ruth, me, all the rest of us.



Driving around the country now, I still see things that will remind me of Hailsham. I might pass the corner of a misty field, or see part of a large house in the distance as I come down the side of a valley, even a particular arrangement of poplar trees up on a hillside, and I’ll think: “Maybe that’s it! I’ve found it! This actually is Hailsham!” Then I see it’s impossible and I go on driving, my thoughts drifting on elsewhere. In particular, there are those pavilions. I spot them all over the country, standing on the far side of playing fields, little white prefab buildings with a row of windows unnaturally high up, tucked almost under the eaves. I think they built a whole lot like that in the fifties and sixties, which is probably when ours was put up. If I drive past one I keep looking over to it for as long as possible, and one day I’ll crash the car like that, but I keep doing it. Not long ago I was driving through an empty stretch of Worcestershire and saw one beside a cricket ground so like ours at Hailsham I actually turned the car and went back for a second look.
We loved our sports pavilion, maybe because it reminded us of those sweet little cottages people always had in picture books when we were young. I can remember us back in the Juniors, pleading with guardians to hold the next lesson in the pavilion instead of the usual room. Then by the time we were in Senior 2—when we were twelve, going on thirteen—the pavilion had become the place to hide out with your best friends when you wanted to get away from the rest of Hailsham.
The pavilion was big enough to take two separate groups without them bothering each other—in the summer, a third group could hang about out on the veranda. But ideally you and your friends wanted the place just to yourselves, so there was often jockeying and arguing. The guardians were always telling us to be civilised about it, but in practice, you needed to have some strong personalities in your group to stand a chance of getting the pavilion during a break or free period. I wasn’t exactly the wilting type myself, but I suppose it was really because of Ruth we got in there as often as we did.
Usually we just spread ourselves around the chairs and benches—there’d be five of us, six if Jenny B. came along—and had a good gossip. There was a kind of conversation that could only happen when you were hidden away in the pavilion; we might discuss something that was worrying us, or we might end up screaming with laughter, or in a furious row. Mostly, it was a way to unwind for a while with your closest friends.
On the particular afternoon I’m now thinking of, we were standing up on stools and benches, crowding around the high windows. That gave us a clear view of the North Playing Field where about a dozen boys from our year and Senior 3 had gathered to play football. There was bright sunshine, but it must have been raining earlier that day because I can remember how the sun was glinting on the muddy surface of the grass.
Someone said we shouldn’t be so obvious about watching, but we hardly moved back at all. Then Ruth said: “He doesn’t suspect a thing. Look at him. He really doesn’t suspect a thing.”
When she said this, I looked at her and searched for signs of disapproval about what the boys were going to do to Tommy. But the next second Ruth gave a little laugh and said: “The idiot!”
And I realised that for Ruth and the others, whatever the boys chose to do was pretty remote from us; whether we approved or not didn’t come into it. We were gathered around the windows at that moment not because we relished the prospect of seeing Tommy get humiliated yet again, but just because we’d heard about this latest plot and were vaguely curious to watch it unfold. In those days, I don’t think what the boys did amongst themselves went much deeper than that. For Ruth, for the others, it was that detached, and the chances are that’s how it was for me too.
Or maybe I’m remembering it wrong. Maybe even then, when I saw Tommy rushing about that field, undisguised delight on his face to be accepted back in the fold again, about to play the game at which he so excelled, maybe I did feel a little stab of pain. What I do remember is that I noticed Tommy was wearing the light blue polo shirt he’d got in the Sales the previous month—the one he was so proud of. I remember thinking: “He’s really stupid, playing football in that. It’ll get ruined, then how’s he going to feel?” Out loud, I said, to no one in particular: “Tommy’s got his shirt on. His favourite polo shirt.”
I don’t think anyone heard me, because they were all laughing at Laura—the big clown in our group—mimicking one after the other the expressions that appeared on Tommy’s face as he ran, waved, called, tackled. The other boys were all moving around the field in that deliberately languorous way they have when they’re warming up, but Tommy, in his excitement, seemed already to be going full pelt. I said, louder this time: “He’s going to be so sick if he ruins that shirt.” This time Ruth heard me, but she must have thought I’d meant it as some kind of joke, because she laughed half-heartedly, then made some quip of her own.
Then the boys had stopped kicking the ball about, and were standing in a pack in the mud, their chests gently rising and falling as they waited for the team picking to start. The two captains who emerged were from Senior 3, though everyone knew Tommy was a better player than any of that year. They tossed for first pick, then the one who’d won stared at the group.
“Look at him,” someone behind me said. “He’s completely convinced he’s going to be first pick. Just look at him!”
There was something comical about Tommy at that moment, something that made you think, well, yes, if he’s going to be that daft, he deserves what’s coming. The other boys were all pretending to ignore the picking process, pretending they didn’t care where they came in the order. Some were talking quietly to each other, some re-tying their laces, others just staring down at their feet as they trammelled the mud. But Tommy was looking eagerly at the Senior 3 boy, as though his name had already been called.
Laura kept up her performance all through the team-picking, doing all the different expressions that went across Tommy’s face: the bright eager one at the start; the puzzled concern when four picks had gone by and he still hadn’t been chosen; the hurt and panic as it began to dawn on him what was really going on. I didn’t keep glancing round at Laura, though, because I was watching Tommy; I only knew what she was doing because the others kept laughing and egging her on. Then when Tommy was left standing alone, and the boys all began sniggering, I heard Ruth say:
“It’s coming. Hold it. Seven seconds. Seven, six, five…”
She never got there. Tommy burst into thunderous bellowing, and the boys, now laughing openly, started to run off towards the South Playing Field. Tommy took a few strides after them—it was hard to say whether his instinct was to give angry chase or if he was panicked at being left behind. In any case he soon stopped and stood there, glaring after them, his face scarlet. Then he began to scream and shout, a nonsensical jumble of swear words and insults.
We’d all seen plenty of Tommy’s tantrums by then, so we came down off our stools and spread ourselves around the room. We tried to start up a conversation about something else, but there was Tommy going on and on in the background, and although at first we just rolled our eyes and tried to ignore it, in the end—probably a full ten minutes after we’d first moved away—we were back up at the windows again.
The other boys were now completely out of view, and Tommy was no longer trying to direct his comments in any particular direction. He was just raving, flinging his limbs about, at the sky, at the wind, at the nearest fence post. Laura said he was maybe “rehearsing his Shakespeare.” Someone else pointed out how each time he screamed something he’d raise one foot off the ground, pointing it outwards, “like a dog doing a pee.” Actually, I’d noticed the same foot movement myself, but what had struck me was that each time he stamped the foot back down again, flecks of mud flew up around his shins. I thought again about his precious shirt, but he was too far away for me to see if he’d got much mud on it.
“I suppose it is a bit cruel,” Ruth said, “the way they always work him up like that. But it’s his own fault. If he learnt to keep his cool, they’d leave him alone.”
“They’d still keep on at him,” Hannah said. “Graham K.’s temper’s just as bad, but that only makes them all the more careful with him. The reason they go for Tommy’s because he’s a layabout.”
Then everyone was talking at once, about how Tommy never even tried to be creative, about how he hadn’t even put anything in for the Spring Exchange. I suppose the truth was, by that stage, each of us was secretly wishing a guardian would come from the house and take him away. And although we hadn’t had any part in this latest plan to rile Tommy, we had taken out ringside seats, and we were starting to feel guilty. But there was no sign of a guardian, so we just kept swapping reasons why Tommy deserved everything he got. Then when Ruth looked at her watch and said even though we still had time, we should get back to the main house, nobody argued.
Tommy was still going strong as we came out of the pavilion. The house was over to our left, and since Tommy was standing in the field straight ahead of us, there was no need to go anywhere near him. In any case, he was facing the other way and didn’t seem to register us at all. All the same, as my friends set off along the edge of the field, I started to drift over towards him. I knew this would puzzle the others, but I kept going—even when I heard Ruth’s urgent whisper to me to come back.
I suppose Tommy wasn’t used to being disturbed during his rages, because his first response when I came up to him was to stare at me for a second, then carry on as before. It was like he was doing Shakespeare and I’d come up onto the stage in the middle of his performance. Even when I said: “Tommy, your nice shirt. You’ll get it all messed up,” there was no sign of him having heard me.
So I reached forward and put a hand on his arm. Afterwards, the others thought he’d meant to do it, but I was pretty sure it was unintentional. His arms were still flailing about, and he wasn’t to know I was about to put out my hand. Anyway, as he threw up his arm, he knocked my hand aside and hit the side of my face. It didn’t hurt at all, but I let out a gasp, and so did most of the girls behind me.
That’s when at last Tommy seemed to become aware of me, of the others, of himself, of the fact that he was there in that field, behaving the way he had been, and stared at me a bit stupidly.
“Tommy,” I said, quite sternly. “There’s mud all over your shirt.”
“So what?” he mumbled. But even as he said this, he looked down and noticed the brown specks, and only just stopped himself crying out in alarm. Then I saw the surprise register on his face that I should know about his feelings for the polo shirt.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” I said, before the silence got humiliating for him. “It’ll come off. If you can’t get it off yourself, just take it to Miss Jody.”
He went on examining his shirt, then said grumpily: “It’s nothing to do with you anyway.”
He seemed to regret immediately this last remark and looked at me sheepishly, as though expecting me to say something comforting back to him. But I’d had enough of him by now, particularly with the girls watching—and for all I knew, any number of others from the windows of the main house. So I turned away with a shrug and rejoined my friends.
Ruth put an arm around my shoulders as we walked away. “At least you got him to pipe down,” she said. “Are you okay? Mad animal.”

Laura Maria Diaconeasa (Berteanu)

Kazuo Ishiguro
 

Numele meu este Kathy H. Am 31 de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de mai bine de 11. Pare destul de mult, stiu, dar ei chiar vor sa mai continui inca opt luni, pana la sfarsitul anului. Atunci se vor implini aproape 12 ani. Acum stiu ca nu au nevoie sa lucrez atat de mult timp pentru ca m-ar considera deoseibt de buna la ceea ce fac. Stiu ingrijitori foarte buni carora li s-a spus sa se opreasca dupa doar doi sau trei ani. Si imi amintesc de cel putin unul care a lucrat toti cei 14 ani in continuu, in ciuda faptului ca ocupa locul degeaba. Asa ca nu incerc sa ma umflu-n pene. Pe de alta parte, stiu cu certitudine ca au fost intotdeauna multumiti de munca mea si, in cea mai mare parte, am fost si eu. Donatorii mei s-au descurcat aproape mereu mai bine decat era de asteptat, timpul de recuperare a fost mereu impresionant si rar s-a intamplat ca vreunul din ei sa fie clasificat drept „agitat”, chiar si inainte de patra donare. Bine, poate ca acum chiar ma umflu-n pene. Dar inseamna mult pentru mine sa stiu ca-mi fac bine treaba, mai ales mai ales acea parte in care trebuie sa-mi fac donatorii sa-si pastreze calmul. Mi-am format un fel de instinct in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa stau cu ei si sa-i alin si cand sa-i las singuri; cand sa ascult tot ce au ei de spus sau cand sa ridic pur si simplu din umeri si sa le spun sa-si vina-n fire.
In orice caz, nu pretind c-as fi nemaipomenita. Cunosc ingrijitori la fel de buni care lucreaza acum si care nu sunt apreciati nici pe jumatate. Daca esti unul dintre ei, inteleg de ce mi-ai putea purta pica, de ce ai putea fi invidios – pe garsoniera mea, pe masina mea, dar mai ales pentru ca pot sa-mi aleg singura donatorii de care sa am grija. Si am studiat la Hailsham – numai asta si e uneori suficient pentru a face oamenii sa-mi intoarca spatele. Kathy H., se spune, poate sa aleaga si alege mereu dintre ai ei, oameni din Hailsham sau din alte centre privilegiate. Nu-i de mirare ca are un registru impresionant. I-am auzit de multe ori spunand asta si sunt convinsa ca tu ai auzit-o si mai des. Si poate contine un sambure de adevar. Dar n-am fost prima careia i s-a dat voie sa aleaga si nu cred ca voi fi nici ultima. In orice caz, m-am ocupat si eu destul de donatori crescuti prin tot felul de locuri. Adu-ti aminte ca, atunci cand o sa termin, se vor implini 12 ani de cand fac asta. Si abia in ultimii sase m-au lasat sa aleg.
Si de ce sa nu ma lase? Ingrijitorii nu sunt masini. Incerci sa faci tot ce poti pentru fiecare donator dar, in cele din urma, te lasa puterile. Nu ai rabdare si energie nelimitata. Asa ca, atunci cand ai ocazia sa alegi, sigur ca alegi dintre ai tai. E normal. N-as fi putut sa fac asta atata timp daca nu mi-ar fi pasat de donatorii mei la fiecare pas. Si, in orice caz, daca n-as fi inceput sa aleg, cum m-as mai fi apropiat iar de Ruth si de Tommy, dupa atatia ani?
Dar in ziua de azi, desigur, sunt din ce in ce mai putini donatori pe care mi-i amintesc. Asa ca, practic, nu am ales chiar atat de mult. Cum spuneam, este mult mai greu atunci cand nu ai acea legatura profunda cu donatorul si, chiar daca o sa-mi lipseasca sa fiu ingrijitoare, mi se pare ca a venit totusi timpul sa ma opresc, la sfarsitul anului.
Ruth, intamplator, a fost doar al treilea sau al patrulea donator pe care am putut sa-l aleg. Avea deja un ingrijitor desemnat la acea vreme si-mi amintesc ca a fost nevoie sa actionez cu ceva tupeu in cazul ei. Dar am reusit in cele din urma si, in clipa in care am revazut-o, la centrul de recuperare din Dover, toate neintelegerile dintre noi – desi n-au disparut cu desavarsire – n-au mai parut nici pe departe atat de importante ca alte lucruri: ca de exemplu faptul ca am crescut impreuna in Hailsham, ca stiam si ne aminteam lucruri pe care nimeni altcineva nu le stia. De atunci cred ca am inceput sa caut sa-mi aleg donatorii dintre oamenii din trecutul meu, si, ori de cate ori puteam, oameni din Hailsham.
Au fost momente in decursul anilor cand am incercat sa las Hailsham-ul in urma, cand mi-am spus ca n-ar trebui sa privesc atat de mult inapoi. Dar a venit apoi o clipa cand n-am mai putut rezista. S-a intamplat din cauza unui donator pe care l-am avut in cel de-al treilea an de cand lucram ca ingrijitoare. M-a uimit reactia lui cand am pomenit de Hailsham. Tocmai iesise din a treia donare. Nu mersese prea bine si probabil ca stia ca n-o sa supravietuiasca. De-abia mai putea respira, dar s-a uitat la mine si a spus:
- Hailsahm, pun pariu c-a fost un loc minunat.
Apoi, a doua zi dimineata, in timp ce faceam conversatie ca sa-i distrag atentia de la tot ce i se intampla si l-am intrebat unde crescuse el, a spus ceva despre un loc din Dosret si expresia chipului sau vanat si umflat s-a schimbat intr-o grimasa cu totul noua. Si mi-am dat seama in acel moment cu cata disperare nu voia sa-si aminteasca. In schimb, voia sa-i povestesc despre Hailsham.
Asa ca, in urmatoarele cinci, sase zile, i-am spus tot ce voia sa afle, in timp ce el ma asculta intins pe spate, conectat la aparate, cu umbra unui zambet zbatandu-se sa iasa la suprafata. Ma intreba despre lucruri importante si despre nimicuri. Despre gardienii nostri, despre cum aveam fiecare propriile cufere de colectie sub paturi, despre fotbal, despre tot felul de sporturi, despre cararea de afara, care inconjura casa micuta, cu toate colturile si crapaturile ei, despre iazul cu rate, despre mancare, despre cum se vedea campul din Camera de Arta intr-o dimineata cetoasa. Uneori ma punea sa-i repet unele lucruri iar si iar, lucruri pe care i le spusesem cu doar o zi in urma. Ma intreba de ele de parca nu i le-as fi spus niciodata: „Aveati un pavilion pentru sporturi?” „Care gardian era preferatul tau?”. La inceput am crezut ca era doar efectul medicamentelor, apoi insa mi-am dat seama ca avea mintea destul de limpede. Ce voia el de fapt era nu doar sa auda despre Hailsham, ci sa-si aminteasca Hailsham-ul ca si cum ar fi fost propria lui copilarie. Stia ca era aproape de capatul ciclului si asta facea: ma punea sa-i descriu lucrurile in asa fel incat sa i se intipareasca in minte in speranta ca poate, in acele nopti de nesomn, cand zacea ametit de medicamente, chinuit de dureri si epuizare, linia o sa se stearga intre amintirile mele si ale lui. Atunci am inteles, am inteles cu adevarat, cat de norocosi fuseseram – Tommy, Ruth, eu si toti ceilalti din grupul nostru.

Acum, cand ma plimb prin tara, inca mai vad lucruri care-mi amintesc de Hailsham. Poate ca trec pe langa un camp invaluit in ceata sau vad un departare un colt dintr-o casa mare atunci cand cobor o vale, sau chiar un palc de plopi aranjati intr-un anume fel pe-un deal, si-mi spun: „Poate ca asta e! L-am gasit! Asta este Hailsham!” Apoi imi dau seama ca este imposibil si trec mai departe in timp ce gandurile mi se pierd aiurea. Mai ales pavilioanele! Le vad prin toata tara, la marginea terenurilor de joaca, cladiri mici si albe din prefabricate cu un sir de ferestre montate nefiresc de sus, aproape ascunse sub stresini. Cred ca s-au construit o multime de astfel de cladiri prin anii ’50 sau ’60, cand a fost ridicata probabil si a noastra. Daca trec pe langa cate una, ma uit dupa ea cat pot de mult si mi-e ca intr-o zi o sa izbesc masina in vreun pom dac-o tin tot asa, dar nu ma pot abtine. Nu demult, eram pe un drum drept si pustiu in Worchestershire si am vazut una langa un teren de crichet; semana atat de mult cu casa noastra din Hailsham, incat am intors chiar masina si m-am dus sa ma mai uit odata.
Ne placea tare mult pavilionul de sport, poate pentru ca ne amintea de acele casute dragalase pe care le vedeam mereu in cartile cu poze, cand eram copii. Mi-aduc aminte cand eram la Juniori si ne rugam de gardieni sa tina urmatoarea lectie in pavilion si nu in camera obisnuita. Apoi, cand am ajuns la Seniori 2 – la varsta de doisprezece spre treisprezece ani – pavilionul devenise un loc in care sa te-ascunzi cu prietenii cei mai buni, atunci cand voiai sa scapi de restul Hailsham-ului.
Pavilionul era suficient de mare cat sa adaposteasca doua grupuri separate, fara ca acestea sa se deranjeze unul pe celalalt – vara, incapea si un al treilea grup, pe veranda. Dar ideal era ca locul sa fie doar al tau si al prietenilor tai, asa ca apareau adesea impunsaturi si certuri. Gardienii ne spuneau intotdeauna sa ne comportam civilizat, insa realitatea era ca trebuia sa ai cateva personalitati puternice in grupul tau ca sa ai sansa de a castiga pavilionul in timpul pauzelor sau perioadelor libere. Nici eu nu eram chiar stearsa, dar cred acum ca, faptul ca ajungeam acolo atat de des, era, in cea mai mare parte, meritul lui Ruth.
De obicei, ne raspandeam pe scaune si banci – eram cinci, sase daca venea si Jenny B – si ne puneam pe barfit. Era un gen de conversatie pe care n-o puteai avea decat ascuns in pavilion; puteam vorbi despre ceva ce ne ingrijora, sau puteam ajunge sa radem isteric, sau izbucneam in crize de furie. In principal, era un mod de a te destinde o vreme impreuna cu prietenii apropiati.
In acea dupa-amiaza la care ma gandesc acum, stateam in picioare pe banci si taburete, ingramadindu-ne in jurul ferestrelor inalte. De acolo vedeam clar Terenul de Joaca de Nord, unde vreo doisprezece baieti din anul nostru si de la Seniori 3 se adunasera sa joace fotbal. Soarele stralucea puternic, dar sigur plouase ceva mai devreme, fiindca-mi amintesc ca soarele sclipea pe suprafata innoroita a ierbii.
Cineva spuse ca n-ar trebui sa privim atat de evident, dar abia daca ne-am retras o idee. Apoi Ruth zise:
- Nu banuieste nimic. Uitati-va la el. Nu banuieste absolut nimic.
Cand a spus asta, m-am uitat la ea, cautand un semn de dezaprobare fata de ceea ce intentionau baietii sa-i faca lui Tommy. In clipa urmatoare insa, Ruth rase scurt si spuse:
- Idiotul!
Si mi-am dat seama ca, pentru Ruth si restul fetelor, ce alegeau baietii sa faca, indiferent ce-ar fi fost, era ceva destul de indepartat; nu se punea problema ca noi sa acceptam sau nu comportamentul lor. Eram adunate la fereastra in acel moment nu pentru ca ne-ar fi incantat perspectiva de a-l vedea din nou pe Tommy umilit de ceilalti , ci fiindca aflasem de acest ultim complot si eram oarecum curioase sa vedem cum o sa decurga. In acele zile, nu cred ca ceea ce-si faceau baietii intre ei depasea cu mult situatia la care eram martori. Pentru Ruth, pentru celelalte, problema era extrem de detasata si cred ca sunt toate sansele sa fi fost la fel si pentru mine.
Sau poate ca-mi amintesc gresit. Poate chiar si atunci, cand l-am vazut pe Tommy alergand pe terenul ala, cu chipul radiindu-i de incantarea de a fi din nou acceptat de ceilalti, gata sa joace jocul la care excela cu desavarsire, poate am simtit totusi o oarecare strangere de inima. Imi amintesc ca am observat ca Tommy purta tricoul polo bleu pe care il cumparase la reducere, cu o luna in urma – cel de care era atat de mandru! Mi-aduc aminte ca mi-am spus: „E tare prost ca joaca fotbal in tricoul asta! O sa-l strice, si cum o sa se simta atunci?” Cu voce tare, am spus fara sa ma adresez cuiva anume:
- O sa fie bolnav de suparare daca-si strica tricoul asta!
De data asta, Ruth m-a auzit dar probabil ca a crezut ca era vreo gluma, fiindca a ras, desi nu chiar din toata inima, si a avut grija sa faca si ea o poanta.
Apoi am vazut ca baietii nu-si mai pasau mingia si se adunasera toti intr-un grup in mijlocul noroiului; piepturile li se ridicau si coborau usor, asteptand sa inceapa alegerile de echipe. Au aparut doi capitani dintre cei de la Seniori 3, desi toata lumea stia ca Tommy juca mai bine decat oricare dintre baietii din anul ala. Au dat cu banul ca sa hotarasca cine alege primul, apoi castigatorul a privit lung spre grup.
- Uitati-va la el! a spus cineva in spatele meu. E ferm convins ca o sa fie ales primul. Uitati-va numai la el!
Intr-adevar, Tommy avea ceva comic in acea clipa, ceva care te facea sa-ti spui – ei, da! daca-i asa de tampit, merita ce o sa i se-ntample. Baietii se prefaceau toti ca nu baga-n seama procesul de alegere a jucatorilor, se faceau ca nu le pasa in ce echipa intra si in ce ordine. Cativa discutau incet intre ei, altii isi legau din nou sireturile, altii isi priveau doar picioarele cu care batatoreau noroiul. Dar Tommy il privea nerabdator pe baiatul de la Seniori 3, de parca si-ar fi auzit deja numele strigat.
Laura isi continua maimutareala tot timpul cat dura alegerea echipelor, imitand tot felul de expresii care apareau pe chipul lui Tommy: de entuziasm stralucitor la inceput, de ingrijorare nedumerita dupa ce patru baieti fusesera alesi si nu-si auzise inca numele strigat, de panica indurerata cand incepu sa-si dea seama ce se petrecea de fapt. Totusi, eu n-o mai urmaream pe Laura, fiindca ma uitam la Tommy; imi dadeam seama ce face doar pentru ca celelalte radeau si-o incurajau sa continue. Apoi, cand Tommy ramase singurul care nu fusese ales si toti baietii incepura sa rada pe infundate, am auzit-o pe Ruth spunand:
- Acum incepe! Stati asa! Sapte secunde. Sapte, sase, cinci...
Nu apuca sa termine. Tommy izbucni in urlete cutremuratoare si baietii, razand acum pe fata, o luara la fuga spre Terenul de Joaca de Sud. Tommy facu cateva salturi in urma lor – era greu de spus daca-i alerga instinctiv, de furie, sau daca-l cuprinsese panica la gandul de fi lasat in urma. In orice caz, se opri curand si ramase in mijlocul terenului, uitandu-se dupa ei, rosu la fata. Apoi incepu sa strige si sa tipe, intr-un amestec fara sens de injuraturi si insulte.
Vazuseram toate deja de multe ori crizele lui Tommy, asa ca ne-am dat jos de pe scaune si ne-am imprastiat prin incapere. Am incercat sa incepem o discutie despre altceva, insa Tommy aparea iar si iar in fundal si, desi la inceput ne-am dat doar ochii peste cap si-am incercat sa-l ignoram, in cele din urma – probabil dupa vreo zece minute de cand ne daduseram jos – eram toate stranse din nou la ferestre.
Ceilalti baieti nu se mai vedeau acum deloc si Tommy nu mai incerca sa-si indrepte comentariile in vreo directie anume. Spunea doar verzi si-uscate, dand aiurea din maini si din picioare, amenintand cu pumnii cerul, vantul, postul cel mai apropiat de pe gard. Laura sugera ca poate „repeta un rol din Shakespeare”. Altcineva atrase atentia asupra faptului ca, ori de cate ori striga ceva, isi ridica un picior intr-o parte, „ca un caine care face pipi!” De fapt, observasem si eu respectiva miscare de picior, dar ce ma mirase pe mine era faptul ca, de fiecare data cand il izbea din nou de pamant, stropi mari de noroi zburau in jurul gambelor lui. M-am gandit din nou la tricoul lui, la care tinea atata, dar era mult prea departe ca sa-mi pot da seama daca il stropise cu mult noroi.
- Cred ca este putin cam crud, spuse Ruth, felul in care-si bat mereu joc de el. Dar e numai vina lui. Daca ar invata sa-si tina cumpatul, l-ar lasa in pace.
- Ba tot i-ar cauta pricina, zise Hannah. Si Graham K. are un temperament la fel de urat, dar toti se poarta cu el mai cu manusi din cauza asta. De Tommy se iau pur si simplu pentru ca-i un parazit.
Apoi incepura toate sa vorbeasca in acelasi timp, despre cum Tommy nici macar nu incercase vreodata sa fie creativ, despre cum nu participase cu absolut nimic la Schimbul de Primavara. Adevarul fie spus, presupun ca, la momentul respectiv, fiecare dintre noi isi dorea in secret sa vina un gardian din casa si sa-l ia de-acolo. Si, desi nu fuseseram in niciun fel implicate in aceasta ultima conspiratie impotriva lui Tommy, ne ocupaseram totusi locurile in primul rand si incepeam sa ne simtim vinovate. Dar nu se zarea niciun gardian asa ca am cautat mai departe motive pentru care Tommy merita tot ce i se intampla. Apoi, cand Ruth s-a uitat la ceas si a spus ca, desi mai aveam timp, ar fi trebuit sa ne intoarcem la casa principala, nimeni nu s-a impotrivit.
Tommy era inca agitat in clipa in care am iesit din pavilion. Casa era in partea stanga si, de vreme ce Tommy statea in campul din fata, nu exista niciun motiv pentru care sa trecem pe langa el. In orice caz, era cu spatele la noi si nu paru sa ne inregistreze in vreun fel prezenta. Cu toate astea, in timp ce prietenele mele o luara pe langa marginea terenului, eu m-am indreptat spre el. Stiam ca treaba asta o sa le nedumereasca pe celelalte, dar am mers mai departe – chiar si cand am auzit-o pe Ruth soptindu-mi poruncitor sa ma intorc.
Presupun ca Tommy nu era obisnuit sa fie deranjat in timpul crizelor de furie, fiindca primul lui raspuns cand m-a vazut langa el a fost sa ma priveasca lung pret de-o clipa, dupa care a continuat ca mai inainte. Intr-adevar, parca ar fi exersat un rol din Shakespeare iar eu as fi aparut pe scena in mijlocul interpretarii lui. Chiar si cand am spus: „Tommy, tricoul tau frumos! O sa il strici!” nu paru sa ma fi auzit.
Asa ca am intins o mana si i-am pus-o pe brat. Dupa aceea, ceilalti au zis ca a facut-o dinadins, dar eu sunt destul de sigura ca n-a fost cu intentie. Inca-si mai agita bratele in toate directiile si nu avea de unde sa stie ca o sa intind mana spre el. In orice caz, cand a ridicat pumnul in sus, mi-a dat mana la o parte si m-a lovit intr-o parte a fetei. Nu m-a durut deloc, dar am scos un strigat – la fel si majoritatea fetelor din spatele meu.
Abia in acea clipa Tommy paru, in sfarsit, sa devina constient de prezenta mea, a celorlalte, de el insusi, de faptul ca era in acel camp, comportandu-se asa cum se comportase, si m-a privit cu o expresie usor stupida:
- Tommy, am spus destul de aspru. Ti-ai umplut tricoul de noroi.
- Si ce daca? mormai el.
Dar, chiar in timp ce rostea aceste cuvinte, isi cobori privirea si observa petele maronii si abia isi stapani un strigat de alarmare. Apoi am vazut expresia de surprindere de pe chipul lui; era mirat sa constate ca stiam ce sentimente nutreste pentru tricoul polo.
- Nu trebuie sa-ti faci griji, am spus, inainte ca tacerea sa devina umilitoare pentru el. O sa iasa. Daca nu reusesti sa-l cureti singur, du-i-l domnisoarei Jody.
Continua sa-si examineze tricoul, apoi spuse morocanos:
- Oricum, nu te priveste pe tine.
Paru sa regrete pe data ultima remarca si-mi arunca o privire rusinata, ca si cand s-ar fi asteptat sa spun ceva ca sa-l fac sa se simta mai bine. Dar incepusem sa ma satur de ifosele lui, mai ales ca fetele se uitau la noi – si, din cate stiam eu, poate si multi altii, de la ferestrele casei principale. Asa ca m-am intors ridicand din umeri si m-am dus inapoi la prietenele mele.
Ruth m-a luat de dupa umeri in timp ce ne indepartam.
- Cel putin, l-ai facut sa se potoleasca, zise ea. Esti bine? Ce animal turbat!