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.”

Chapter Two

This was all a long time ago so I might have some of it wrong; but my memory of it is that my approaching Tommy that afternoon was part of a phase I was going through around that time—something to do with compulsively setting myself challenges—and I’d more or less forgotten all about it when Tommy stopped me a few days later.
I don’t know how it was where you were, but at Hailsham we had to have some form of medical almost every week—usually up in Room 18 at the very top of the house—with stern Nurse Trisha, or Crow Face, as we called her. That sunny morning a crowd of us was going up the central staircase to be examined by her, while another lot she’d just finished with was on its way down. So the stairwell was filled with echoing noise, and I was climbing the steps head down, just following the heels of the person in front, when a voice near me went: “Kath!”
Tommy, who was in the stream coming down, had stopped dead on the stairs with a big open smile that immediately irritated me. A few years earlier maybe, if we ran into someone we were pleased to see, we’d put on that sort of look. But we were thirteen by then, and this was a boy running into a girl in a really public situation. I felt like saying: “Tommy, why don’t you grow up?” But I stopped myself, and said instead: “Tommy, you’re holding everyone up. And so am I.”

Alina Roxana Fati (Chirila)

Kazuo Ishiguro
 

Partea Intai

Capitolul Unu

Ma numesc Kathy H. Am treizeci si unu de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de peste unsprezece ani. Stiu ca pare destul de mult, dar mi s-a cerut de fapt sa mai continui inca opt luni, pana la sfarsitul acestui an. Asta inseamna exact doisprezece ani. Acum stiu ca faptul ca sunt ingrijitoare de atata timp nu se datoreaza neaparat calitatilor extraordinare pe care ei cred ca le posed. Exista ingrijitori foarte buni la serviciile carora s-a renuntat dupa doar doi sau trei ani. Si cunosc cel putin un ingrijitor care a continuat timp de paisprezece ani, in ciuda faptului ca ocupa locul degeaba. Asa ca nu incerc sa ma laud. Dar stiu sigur ca sunt mutumiti de treaba pe care o fac si, treptat, am inceput sa fiu si eu. Donatorii mei au avut mereu tendinta de a se comporta mai bine decat era de asteptat. Perioadele lor de recuperare au fost extrem de scurte, si aproape nici unul dintre ei nu a fost catalogat drept "agitat", nici macar inainte de a patra donatie. Bine, poate chiar ma laud un pic acum. Dar inseamna foarte mult pentru mine sa imi fac treaba bine, mai ales partea in care trebuie sa-mi ajut donatorii sa ramana "calmi". Mi-am dezvoltat un fel de instinct in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa stau langa ei si sa le ofer alinare si stiu si cand sa-i las singuri: cand sa ascult tot ce au de spus si cand sa ridic din umeri si sa le spun sa nu mai insire atatea prostii.

Oricum, nu ma laud. Cunosc ingrijitori care lucreaza acum si care sunt la fel de buni ca mine si nu se bucura nici pe jumatate de aprecierea de care ma bucur eu. Daca esti unul dintre ei, iti inteleg nemultumirea fata de locul unde stau, fata de masina mea si, mai presus de toate, fata de faptul ca pot sa mi-i aleg pe cei de care sa am grija. Si mai sunt si o fosta studenta la Hailsham, ceea ce este suficient cateodata pentru a starni invidie. Kathy H., spun ei, poate sa aleaga, si-i alege intotdeauna pe-ai ei: persoane de la Hailsham sau unul din alte locuri privilegiate ca acesta. Nu-i de mirare ca se bucura de un succes atat de mare. Am auzit-o de atatea ori, incat sunt sigura ca o s-o mai aud si-n continuare si este posibil sa existe un graunte de adevar in asta. Dar nu sunt prima careia i s-a permis sa aleaga, si ma indoiesc ca voi fi si ultima. Si, in orice caz, am avut si eu partea mea de ingrijit donatori veniti de prin toate partile. Nu uitati ca in momentul in care voi termina, voi fi facut asta de doisprezece ani, si doar in ultimii sase ani m-au lasat sa aleg.
Si de ce n-ar face-o? Ingrijitorii nu sunt roboti. Incerci sa faci tot ce poti pentru fiecare donator, dar, intr-un final, obosesti. Rabdarea si energia ta au si ele limitele lor. Asa ca, desigur, atunci cand ai ocazia sa alegi, ii alegi pe-ai tai. E normal. N-as fi putut sa rezist niciodata atat cat am facut-o, daca ar fi incetat sa-mi pese in orice clipa de donatorii mei. Si oricum, daca n-as fi putut niciodata sa aleg, cum as fi putut sa ma apropii din nou de Ruth si Tommy dupa toti acesti ani?
Dar zilele astea, desigur, au ramas din ce in ce mai putini donatori de care imi amintesc, asa ca, practic, nu am avut prea mult de ales. Cum spuneam, munca devine mult mai dificila atunci cand nu exista acea legatura stransa intre tine si donator, si, desi voi simti lipsa meseriei de ingrijitor, mi se pare aproape firesc ca totul sa se termine la sfarsitul acestui an.
In mod cu totul intamplator, Ruth a fost doar al treilea sau al patrulea donator pe care mi s-a dat voie sa-l aleg. In momentul respectiv avea deja un ingrijitor, si-mi aduc aminte ca mi-a trebuit ceva curaj pentru a cere sa o ingrijesc eu. Dar, in cele din urma, m-am descurcat, si, in clipa in care am vazut-o, la acel centru de recuperare din Dover, toate neintelegerile noastre - chiar daca nu au disparut - nu au mai parut nici pe departe la fel de importante ca altele: cum ar fi faptul ca am crescut impreuna la Hailsham si ca stiam si ne aminteam de lucruri de care nimeni altcineva nu stia sau isi amintea. Cred ca de atunci am inceput sa caut printre donatori oameni din trecutul meu, si, de cate ori puteam, persoane de la Hailsham.
Au existat momente de-a lungul timpului, in care am incercat sa nu ma mai gandesc la Hailsham, in care imi spuneam ca n-ar trebui sa privesc atat de mult inspre trecut. Dar, apoi, a venit un moment in care pur si simplu am incetat sa mai opun rezistenta. A fost legat de un anume donator pe care l-am avut odata, in cel de-al treilea an ca ingrijitoare; de reactia lui cand am pomenit ca vin de la Hailsham. Tocmai trecuse de cea de-a treia donatie, care nu decursese foarte bine, si, probabil, stia ca nu va supravietui. Abia mai putea respira, dar s-a uitat spre mine si mi-a spus:
-Hailsham. Pun pariu ca era un loc frumos.
Apoi, in dimineatza urmatoare, cand faceam conversatie ca sa-i distrag atentia de la situatia in care se afla si l-am intrebat unde a crescut, mi-a spus ceva de un loc in Dorset, iar fata sa s-a schimonosit din spatele umflaturilor intr-un fel nou de grimasa. Si atunci mi-am dat seama cu cata disperare nu voia sa-si aminteasca de asta. In schimb, voia sa afle mai multe despre Hailsham.
Asa ca urmatoarele cinci sau sase zile i-am spus tot ce vroia sa stie, si el statea acolo, conectat la aparate, cu un zambet bland mijindu-i pe fata. Ma intreba despre una, despre alta. Despre paznici, despre cum aveam fiecare sub pat cate un cufar cu obiecte de colectie, despre fotbal, oina, despre mica poteca ce ducea in afara cladirii principale, pe langa toate vagaunile si nisele sale, despre elesteu, mancare, despre panorama pe care o aveam din Sala de Arte spre camp in diminetile cetoase. Uneori ma punea sa repet ce ii spuneam, iar si iar; lucruri despre care ii povestisem doar cu o zi inainte, ma intreba de parca nu ii spusesem niciodata. “Aveati o sala de sport?” “Care custode era preferatul tau?” La inceput am crezut ca e din cauza medicamentelor, dar apoi mi-am dat seama ca avea mintea destul de limpede. Vroia nu doar sa auda vorbindu-i-se despre Hailsham, ci sa isi aminteasca de Hailsham, ca si cum ar fi facut parte din copilaria sa. Stia ca sfarsitul ii era aproape, asa ca ma punea sa ii descriu diverse lucruri ca sa le poata absorbi, pentru ca granite dintre amintirile mele si ale lui sa se estompeze in noptile albe pline de medicamente, durere si extenuare. Atunci am inteles cu adevarat cat de norocosi eram – Tommy, Ruth si cu mine, noi toti.

Mergand prin tara, inca vad locuri care imi aduc aminte de Hailsham. Trec pe langa un camp cetos, sau vad o casa mare in timp ce cobor o vale, chiar o anumita dispunere a plopilor pe un deal, si ma gandesc: “Poate asta este! Am gasit! Aici este cu adevarat Hailsham!” Apoi imi dau seama ca nu e posibil si imi continui drumul, gandurile fugindu-mi in alta parte. Sunt mai ales acele pavilioane pe care le vad prin toata tara, in partea indepartata a terenurilor de joaca, cladiri mici si albe din materiale prefabricate cu un rand de ferestre asezate curios de sus, ascunse aproape sub stresini. Cred ca cele mai multe au fost ridicate in anii ’50 si ’60, probabil ca atunci a fost construit si al nostru. Daca trec pe langa unul, il privesc cat se poate de mult, incat intr-o zi s-ar putea sa intru cu masina in ceva, dar tot continui s-o fac. Nu cu mult timp in urma, mergeam printr-o zona mai aerisita din Worcestershire cand am vazut un pavilion langa un teren de cricket care semana atat de mult cu al nostrum din Hailsham, incat am intors masina si m-am intors ca sa ma uit mai bine.
Ne iubeam pavilionul, poate pentru ca ne aducea aminte de casutele acelea dragute pe care toti le vedeam in cartile cu imagini cand eram mici. Imi amintesc de vremea cand eram in primul an si ne rugam de custode sa facem urmatoarea ora in pavilion in loc de sala obisnuita. Apoi, pe cand eram in anul doi – cand aveam doisprezece-treisprezece ani – pavilionul devenise locul perfect unde te puteai ascunde cu prietenii cei mai buni atunci cand vroiai sa scapi de ceilalti.
Pavilionul era destul de mare pentru a adaposti doua grupuri fara ca acestea sa se deranjeze unul pe celalalt – vara, un al treilea grup putea sta afar ape veranda. Dar ideal era sa staid oar cu prietenii tai, asa ca deseori se foloseau diverse tertipuri si se ajungea la discutii. Custozii ne invatau mereu sa fim civilizati, dar adevarul e ca in realitate era nevoie de cateva personalitati puternice in grup pentru a obtine pavilionul in timpul liber. Nu eram nici eu o fire prea slaba, dar cred ca de fapt datorita lui Ruth intram acolo atat de des.

De obicei ne imprastiam pe scaune si banci – eram cinci-sau sase daca venea si Jenny B. – si stateam la taclale. Erau discutii care puteau avea loc doar cand ne ascundeam in pavilion; puteam discuta ceva ce ne ingrijora, sau puteam sfarsi prin a izbucni in ras nebun sau prin a ne manifesta furia. In cele mai multe cazuri, era un mod de a te relaxa alaturi de prietenii apropiati.


In dupa-amiaza aceea la care ma gandesc acum, stateam in picioare pe scaune si banci, ingramadindu-ne la ferestrele inalte care ne ofereau o vedere clara spre terenul de joaca din Nord, unde vreo doisprezece baieti din anul nostru si din anul doi se adunasera sa joace fotbal. Soarele stralucea puternic dar trebuie sa fi plouat mai devreme pentru ca imi aduc aminte cum soarele licarea pe suprafata noroioasa a ierbii.

Cineva a spus ca nu ar trebui sa privim atat de ostentativ, dar abia daca s-a intors cineva. Apoi Ruth a spus: “Nu banuieste nimic. Uitati-va la el. Chiar nu banuieste nimic.”
Cand a zis asta, m-am uitat la ea si am cautat semne de dezaprobare referitoare la ce aveau de gand baietii sa ii faca lui Tommy. Dar in momentul urmator Ruth a ras si a spus: “Prostul!”
Si mi-am dat seama ca pentru Ruth si ceilalti, orice hotarasera baietii sa faca era destul de departe de noi; nu conta daca eram de accord sau nu. Ne adunaseram langa ferestre in acel moment nu pentru ca savuram ideea de a-l vedea pe Tommy umilit din nou, ci pentru ca aflasem de recentul complot si eram oarecum curiosi sa vedem cum se desfasoara. Pe vremea aceea, nu cred ca lucrurile care se intamplau intre baieti mergeau mai departe de atat. Pentru Ruth si ceilalti era ceva detasat, si cred ca la fel era si pentru mine.
Sau poate ma inseala memoria. Poate chiar atunci, cand l-am vazut pe Tommy dand buzna pe teren, cu bucuria sincera pe fata ca fusese acceptat din nou in echipa si putea participa in jocul la care era atat de bun, poate am simtit un mic junghi de durere. Ce-mi amintesc e ca am observat ca Tommy purta tricoul albastru deschis pe care si-l cumparase de la reduceri cu o luna in urma – cel de care era atat de mandru. Mi-am spus: “E chiar fraier ca joaca fotbal imbracat asa. O sa-l strice, si apoi cum o sa se simta?” Si am zis tare, catre nimeni in mod special: “Tommy poarta tricoul preferat.”
Nu cred ca m-a auzit cineva, pentru ca toti radeau de Laura – clovnul grupului – mimand una cate una expresiile care apareau pe fata lui Tommy in timp ce alerga, facea semne cu mana, striga, placa. Ceilalti baieti se miscau pe teren intr-un mod languros, ca atunci cand isi faceau incalzirea, dar Tommy, in entuziasmul lui, mergea déjà foarte repede. Am spus, de data asta mai tare: “O sa fie distrus daca-si strica tricoul asta”. De data asta m-a auzit Ruth, dar trebuie sa fi crezut ca glumesc, pentru ca a ras sovaielnic si apoi a facut si ea o remarca usturatoare.


Apoi baietii s-au oprit din batut mingea si stateau gramada in noroi, piepturile ridicandu-se si coborandu-se usor, in timp ce asteptau sa fie alese echipele. Cei doi capitani erau din anul trei, desi toti stiau ca Tommy juca mai bine decat oricine din acel an. Au dat cu banul pentru cine sa inceapa, si cel care a castigat s-a uitat lung la grup.

“Priviti-l,” a spus cineva din spatele meu. “E sigur ca va fi ales primul. Uitati-va la el!”

Era ceva comic la Tommy in acel moment, ceva care te facea sa gandesti: ei bine, daca e atat de prost, atunci chiar merita ce va urma. Ceilalti baieti se faceau ca ignora modul in care sa facea selectarea, de parca nu le pasa in ce ordine intra. Unii vorbeau incet intre ei, altii isi legau sireturile, altii se uitau lung in jos in timp ce loveau noroiul. Dar Tommy se uita nerabdator la baiatul din anul trei, ca si cum ii fusese déjà spus numele.

Laura si-a continuat spectacolul in tot timpul selectarii echipelor, mimand toate expresiile de pe fata lui Tommy: inflacarare la inceput, ingrijorare si nedumerire atunci cand se facusera déjà patru alegeri si el nu fusese numit inca, disperarea si panica atunci cand si-a dat seama ce se intampla de fapt. Nu m-am uitat in continuare la Laura pentru ca il priveam pe Tommy; stiam doar ce face pentru ca ceilalti radeau si o incurajau. Apoi, cand Tommy a ramas singur si toti baietii au inceput sa chicoteasca, am auzit-o pe Ruth spunand:
“Incepe. Tineti-va bine. Sapte secunde. Sapte, sase, cinci…”
N-a reusit sa termine. Tommy a inceput sa urle si baietii, care acum radeau din toata inima, au inceput sa alerge spre terenul din Sud. Tommy i-a urmat cativa pasi – era greu de zis daca ii urmarea cu furie sau daca era ingrozit de ideea de a fi lasat in urma. In orice caz, curand s-a oprit si statea acolo, privindu-i aspru, fata fiindu-i stacojie de furie. Apoi a inceput sa strige un amestec fara inteles de injuraturi si insulte.

Ii stiam toti crizele de furie, asa ca ne-am dat jos de pe scaune si ne-am imprastiat prin camera. Am incercat sa incepem o conversatie despre altceva, dar Tommy continua sa se manifeste pe fundal, asa ca desi la inceput incercam sa il ignoram, intr-un final - probabil cam la zece minute dupa ce ne-am mutat – eram iar toti la ferestre.


Ceilalti baieti nu se mai vedeau, si Tommy nu mai incerca sa se adreseze cuiva anume, ci pur si simplu urla, dand din maini si picioare catre cer, catre vant, catre cel mai apropiat stalp de gard. Laura a zis ca poate “facea doar repetitii pentru Shakespeare”. Altcineva a remarcat cum, de fiecare data cand tipa, ridica un picior ca un “caine care face pipi”. De fapt, si eu observasem aceasta miscare, dar ce mi-a atras atentia a fost ce de fiecare data cand punea piciorul iar jos, stropi de noroi ii sareau pe picioare. M-am gandit iarasi la tricoul lui valoros, dar era prea departe ca sa vad daca l-a murdarit mult.


“Cred ca e cam dur”, a zis Ruth, “modul in care il epuizeaza. Dar e vina lui. Daca ar invata sa fie mai nepasator, l-ar lasa in pace.”

“Tot s-ar lua de el, a zis Hannah. “Si Graham K. este dificil, dar asta ii face tocmai sa fie mai precauti in ceea ce-l priveste. Se iau de Tommy pentru ca e un trantor”
Apoi au inceput toti sa vorbeasca despre cum Tommy nu incerca niciodata sa fie mai creativ, cum nu s-a straduit deloc in Turneul Primaverii. Cred ca de fapt in momentul acela, toti ne doream in secret sa apara un supraveghetor din casa si sa il ia de acolo. Si chiar daca nu eram implicati in planul acesta de a-l enerva pe Tommy, ocupaseram locuri in fata si acum incepeam sa ne simtim vinovati. Dar nu se vedea niciun supraveghetor, asa ca am continuat sa gasim motive pentru care Tommy merita tot ce i se intampla. Apoi, cand Ruth s-a uitat la ceas si a a zis ca desi era timp, ar fi trebuit sa ne intoarcem, nimeni nu a obiectat.
Cand am iesit din pavilion, Tommy inca se manifesta puternic. Casa era in stanga noastra, si din moment ce Tommy se afla pe teren chiar in fata, nu era nevoie sa ne apropiem de el. Oricum, statea cu spatele la noi si nu parea sa ne observe. Cu toate astea, in timp ce prietenii mei au pornit-o pe marginea terenului, eu am inceput sa ma indrept spre el. Stiam ca asta ii va soca pe ceilalti, dar mi-am continuat drumul – chiar daca am auzit-o pe Ruth soptindu-mi insistent sa ma intorc.
Cred ca Tommy nu era obisnuit sa fie deranjat in timpul crizelor sale de furie, pentru ca prima reactie cand am ajuns langa el a fost sa se holbeze la mine o secunda, dupa care a continuat. Chiar ca parca facea repetitii pentru Shakespeare si eu ajunsesem pe scena in mijlocul reprezentatiei. Chiar si cand i-am zis: “Tommy, tricoul tau frumos. O sa il distrugi”, parea ca nu m-a auzit.
Asa ca am inaintat si am pus o mana pe bratul lui. Dupa aceea, ceilalti au crezut ca a facut-o intentionat, dar eu eram sigura ca nu a fost asa. Inca dadea din maini, si nu avea de unde sa stie ca urma sa-mi iau mana. Oricum, cand a ridicat bratul, mi-a dat mie mana la o parte si m-a lovit in obraz. Nu a durut deloc, dar am icnit scurt, si la fel au facut si fetele din spatele meu.
In momentul acela a devenit Tommy constient de prezenta mea, a celorlalti, a lui insusi, si de faptul ca se afla acolo pe teren, purtandu-se asa cum o facea, si s-a holbat la mine cam prostesc.
“Tommy”, am spus, destul de aspru. “Ai noroi pe tricou”
“Si ce daca?” a bolborosit. Dar chiar cand spunea asta, s-a uitat in jos si a observat stropii maronii, dupa care s-a oprit din tipat. Apoi i-am remarcat surprinderea legata de faptul ca stiam cat ii place tricoul.
“Nu trebuie sa te ingrijorezi,” am spus, inainte ca tacerea sa il faca sa se simta umilit. “Vor iesi. Daca nu poti tu, du-l domnisoarei Jody.”
A continuat sa isi examineze tricoul, si apoi a spus morocanos ; ‘Oricum nu te priveste.’
Parea ca a regretat imediat aceasta ultima remarca si s-a uitat la mine timid, ca si cum se astepta sa ii spun ceva incurajator. Dar ma saturasem deja de el, mai ales ca fetele priveau - si, din cate stiam, si altele de la ferestrele din cladirea principala. Asa ca am ridicat din umeri si m-am intors catre prietenele mele.
Ruth mi-a pus o mana pe dupa umeri in timp ce ne indepartam. “Macar l-ai facut sa taca din gura,” a zis. “Ti-e bine? Animalul...”

Capitolul Doi

Asta s-a intamplat cu mult timp in urma, asa ca s-ar putea sa ma mai si insel; dar ce-mi aduc aminte e ca faptul ca l-am abordat pe Tommy in acea zi facea parte dintr-o etapa prin care treceam – ceva legat de provocarile pe care mi le impuneam – si uitasem, mai mult sau mai putin de asta, cand Tommy m-a oprit cateva zile mai traziu.
Nu stiu cum era la voi, dar la Hailsham trebuia sa facem o vizita medicala cam in fiecare saptamana – se intampla de obicei in Camera 18 la ultimul etaj – cu severa asistenta Trisha, sau Fata de Cioara, cum ii spuneam noi. In acea dimineata insorita, o parte din noi urcam scarile pentru a fi examinati de ea, in timp ce altii, care tocmai terminasera, coborau. Asa ca scara era plina de sunete in ecou, si eu urcam treptele uitandu-ma in jos, doar urmarind pasii celui din fata mea, cand am auzit o voce langa mine: “Kath!”

Tommy, care se afla in multimea ce cobora, s-a oprit brusc pe scari cu un zambet mare pe fata care m-a enervat imediat. Probabil ca inainte cu cativa ani, daca ne intalneam cu cineva pe care ne facea placere sa il vedem, am fi avut acea expresie. Dar aveam treisprezece ani, si acum un baiat intalnea o fata intr-un loc public. Mi-a venit sa-i spun: „Tommy, de ce nu te maturizezi odata?” Dar m-am abtinut, si i-am zis doar: „Tommy, tinem pe toata lumea-n loc.”