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.”

Elena Dumitrascu

Kazuo Ishiguro
 

Numele meu este Kathy H. Am 31 de ani si sunt ingrijitoare de mai bine de 11 ani. Stiu ca suna mult, dar ei chiar vor sa mai continui timp de 8 luni, pana la sfarsitul anului. Asta ar face aproape 12 ani batuti pe muchie. Stiu ca nu sunt ingrijitoare de atata timp pentru ca ma considera foarte buna la ce fac. Exista ingrijitoare foarte bune, carora le-au spus sa se opreasca dupa numai doi sau trei ani. Si-mi aduc aminte de o ingirjitoare care a facut munca asta toti cei 14 ani, desi era pur si simplu inutila, asa ca nu incerc sa ma laud. Dar stiu sigur ca au fost multumiti de munca mea si, in mare, si eu am fost la fel. Donatorii mei s-au descurcat mereu mult mai bine decat m-am asteptat. Recuperarea lor a fost, adesea, una impresionanta si aproape niciunul dintre ei n-a fost etichetat drept "turbulent", chiar si inainte de a patra donare. Bine, poate ca acum ma laud putin, dar asta inseamna mult pentru mine, sa pot sa-mi fac meseria bine, mai ales partea legata de "calmul' donatorilor mei. Mi-am dezvoltat un fel de al saselea simt in preajma donatorilor. Stiu cand sa stau acolo si sa-i linistesc, cand sa-i las singuri, cand sa ascult tot ceea ce au de spus si cand sa ridic, pur si simplu, din umeri si sa le spun sa-si revina.
Oricum, nu-mi asum cine-stie-ce merite. Cunosc ingrijitoare care activeaza acum si care sunt la fel de bune, dar nu primesc aceeasi apreciere. Daca esti una dintre ele, inteleg de ce te-ar putea nemultumi patul meu, masina mea si, mai presus de toate, faptul ca am posibilitatea de a alege de cine sa am grija. Sunt si o fosta eleva de la Hailsham, ceea ce, uneori, e suficient ca sa starneasca antipatia cuiva. "Kathy H.", spun ei, "poate mereu sa-si aleaga pe cine doreste si intotdeauna ii alege pe cei ca ea, oameni de la Hailsham sau de la alta proprietate privilegiata. Nu-i de mirare ca are asa un dosar bun.". Am auzit-o de multe ori, probabil ca tu ai auzit-o chiar mai des si poate ca exista o farama de adevar aici. Dar nu sunt prima careia i se permite sa aleaga si ma indoiesc ca voi fi ultima. Oricum, am avut si eu partea mea de donatori, crescuti pe te miri unde. Tine minte ca, in ziua cand voi termina, voi fi facut asta timp de 12 ani, din care numai sase m-au lasat sa-mi aleg pacientii.
Si de ce n-ar face-o ? Ingrijitoarele nu sunt masinarii. Te straduiesti sa faci tot ce e mai bun pentru donatorul tau, dar, la urma urmei, te epuizeaza. Rabdarea si energia ta nu sunt infinite. Asa ca, daca ai ocazia sa alegi, sigur ca-i vei alege pe cei ca tine. E normal. N-as fi putut in ruptul capului sa continui meseria asta atata timp, daca as fi incetat vreo clipa sa-mi pese de donatorii mei. Si daca n-as fi inceput sa aleg intre ei, cum as mai fi putut vreodata sa ii regasesc pe Ruth si Tommy, dupa atatia ani de zile ?
Sigur ca, astazi, sunt din ce in ce mai putini donatori care imi raman in minte, asa ca, in practica, nici n-am ales de atat de multe ori. Dupa cum am mai spus, munca devine mult mai dificila, cand pierzi legatura aceea profunda cu donatorul si, desi imi va lipsi sa fiu ingrijitoare, mi se pare o optiune buna sa inchiei la sfarsitul anului.
Accidental, Ruth a fost cel de-al treilea sau al patrulea donator pe care l-am putut alege. I se numise deja o ingirjitoare si imi aduc aminte ca a fost putin suparata pe mine. Dar, intr-un final, am reusit si in clipa in care am revazut-o, la centrul de recuperare din Dover, toate conflictele noastre—desi nu au disparut cu totul—nu au parut sa mai conteze nici cat negru sub unghie, in comparatie cu celelalte lucruri: faptul ca am crescut impreuna la Hailsham sau ca stiam si ne aminteam lucruri pe care altii nu le cunosteau. Cred ca de atunci am incercat sa-mi aleg donatori din trecutul meu si, oricand am reusit, oameni de la Hailsham.
De-a lungul timpului, au existat momente cand am incercat sa uit de Hailsham, clipe in care mi-am spus ca n-ar trebui sa privesc atata in urma. Dar apoi a venit momentul cand, pur si simplu, am incetat sa ma mai opun. A avut legatura cu un anume donator pe care l-am avut odata, in cel de-al treilea an de cariera; a fost vorba despre reactia lui, cand i-am spus ca sunt din Hailsham. Tocmai terminase a treia donare; nu mersese bine si cred ca stia ca nu va supravietui. Abia putea sa respire, dar s-a uitat la mine si mi-a spus: "Hailsham. Cred ca trebuie sa fi fost un loc minunat". In dimineata urmatoare, cand faceam conversatie, ca sa-i iau gandul de la alte lucruri, l-am intrebat unde a crescut el; mi-a spus despre un loc din Dorset si chipul sau, de sub umflaturi, a facut o noua grimasa. Mi-am dat seama, atunci, ca nu voia cu niciun chip sa-si aduca aminte de asta. In schimb, voia sa auda despre Hailsham.
Asa ca in urmatoarele cinci-sase zile, i-am spus tot ce voia sa stie si el zacea acolo, intins, conectat la aparate, cu un zambet abia intrezarindu-i-se pe fata. Ma intreba cate-n luna si-n stele. Despre supraveghetorii nostri, despre cum ne tineam fiecare cuferele cu lucruri personale sub paturi, despre fotbal, despre ronduri, despre poteca ingusta care inconjura cladirea principala, pe langa toate ungherele si crapaturile zidurilor, despre iazul ratelor, despre mancare si despre privelistea campurilor, in diminetile cetoase, vazuta din atelierul de pictura. Uneori ma punea sa repet aceleasi lucruri la infinit, lucruri pe care i le spusesem chiar in ziua anterioara, despre care intreba de ca si cum nu le mai auzise vreodata. "Aveati un pavilion sportiv?". "Care supraveghetor iti placea cel mai mult?". Initial, am crezut ca e doar din cauza medicamentelor, dar apoi mi-am dat seama ca era destul de lucid. El nu voia doar sa auda despre Hailsham, ci sa si-l aminteasca, de ca si cum ar fi facut parte din propria sa copilarie. Stia ca i se apropie sfarsitul, asa ca asta facea, ma punea sa ii descriu lucrurile ca sa i se intipareasca in minte, astfel incat, in noptile acelea albe, cu toate medicamentele si epuizarea, granita dintre amintirile mele si ale lui sa se estompeze. Atunci am inteles, pentru prima oara, cu adevarat, cat de norocosi fuseseram- eu, Tommy, Ruth si toti celilalti.
Conducand acum prin tara, inca vad lucruri care imi vor aminti mereu de Hailsham. Cand trec pe langa un camp incetosat sau cand vad putin dintr-o cladire spatioasa in departare, coborand intr-o vale ori niste plopi aranjati intr-un fel anume, pe un deal, ma gandesc: “Poate ca asta e! L-am gasit ! E chiar Hailsham!”. Apoi imi dau seama ca e imposibil sa fie asa si plec mai departe, gandurile zburandu-mi la alte lucruri. E vorba mai ales de pavilioanele acelea. Le vad peste tot, intr-un colt indepartat al terenurilor de joc, cladiri scunde, prefabricate, cu un rand de ferestre neobisnuit de sus, aliniate aproape de streasina. Cred ca au construit un lot intreg de astfel de cladiri, in anii 50-60, cand probabil ca a fost si a noastra ridicata. Daca trec pe langa o astfel de cladire, continui sa ma uit la ea cat de mult pot; intr-o zi, mi-as putea lovi masina de ceva, tot facand-o, dar eu nu ma opresc. Nu de mult, treceam pe un drum pustiu din Worchestershire si am vazut una, langa un teren de cricket, care semana enorm de mult cu a noastra, de la Hailsham. Am intors chiar masina, ca sa ma mai uit o data la ea.
Noua ne placea mult sala noastra de sport, poate pentru ca ne amintea de casutele acelea dragalase din albume, din copilaria noastra. Imi amintesc de noi in clasele primare, rugandu-ne de supraveghetori sa tina ora in pavilion, in loc de sala obisnuita de clasa. Cand am trecut de primii ani de gimnaziu – cand aveam 12 ani si mergem pe 13- sala devenise locul de ascuzis, cu cei mai buni prieteni, cand voiam sa scapam de restul oamenilor de la Hailsham.
Sala era destul de incapatoare pentru doua grupuri separate, fara sa se deranjeze unul pe celalalt – vara, un al treilea grup putea sta pe veranda. Sigur ca ideal ar fi fost ca tu si prietenii tai sa aveti locul doar pentru voi, asa ca ne luam adesea la harta din cauza asta. Supraveghetorii ne spuneau mereu sa ne comportam civilizat, dar, de fapt, trebuia sa ai niste personalitati foarte puternice in grupul tau, ca sa poti avea o sansa sa ocupi sala in timpul unei pauze sau a unei ferestre in orar. Nu eram nici eu tocmai cea care sa taca din gura, dar cred ca, in principal, datorita lui Ruth intram noi acolo atat de des.
De obicei, ne imprastiam pe scaune si banci- eram cinci, sase, daca venea si Jenny B.- si barfeam pe cinste. Era un gen de discutie care nu putea avea loc decat daca eram ascunse in pavilion; discutam lucruri care ne ingrijorau sau radeam in hohote ori raspandeam ropote de furie. In principal, era o modalitate de a te destinde, cu prietenii tai cei mai apropiati.
In acea dupa-amiza la care ma gandesc acum, stateam cocotate pe banci si scaune, ingramadindu-ne la ferestrele inalte. Asa puteam sa vedem bine terenul de joc din nord, unde vreo 12 baieti din anul nostru si din anii mai mari de gimanziu se adunasera sa joace fotbal. Soarele stralucea puternic, dar probabil ca plouase mai devreme, pentru ca imi amintesc sclipirea razelor, pe firele noroioase de iarba.

Cineva a spus ca n-ar trebui sa ne uitam asa, fara perdea, dar noi abia daca ne-am clintit din loc. Apoi Ruth a zis: "Nu banuieste nimic. Uitati-va la el. Chiar nu banuieste nimic.
Cand a spus-o, m-am uitat la ea, cautand vreun semn de dezaprobare, in legatura cu ceea ce aveau sa-i faca baietii lui Tommy. Dar in clipa imediat urmatoare, Ruth a ras scurt si a continuat: "Idiotul!".
Mi-am dat seama ca, pentru Ruth si pentru restul, indiferent ce faceau baietii, nu ne implica pe noi; nu conta daca ne dadeam noi acordul sau nu. Noi ne adunaseram la ferestre in clipa aceea nu pentru ca ne bucuram la gandul ca Tommy va fi umilit inca o data, ci pentru ca auzisem despre acest complot recent si eram vag interesate de cum se va desfasura. In vremurile acelea, cred ca nici baietii nu erau mai implicati decat noi. Ruth si restul erau foarte detasate de situatie si cred ca si eu eram la fel.

Sau poate ca-mi amintesc gresit. Poate ca si atunci, cand l-am vazut pe Tommy alergand spre campul ala, cu o placere nedisimulata ca fusese acceptat din nou in grup, pe punctul de a juca jocul la care excela, poate ca am simtit o impunsatura dureroasa in suflet. Ceea ce imi amintesc sigur e ca am observat ca Tommy purta camasa albastru deschis de polo, pe care o cumparase la reduceri, luna trecuta- cea de care era atat de mandru. Imi aduc aminte ca m-am gandit: "E chiar fraier ca joaca fotbal imbracat asa. O sa o distruga si cum o sa se simta dupa aceea?". Am spus cu voce tare, nimanui anume: "Tommy poarta camasa lui preferata de polo.".
Nu cred ca m-a auzit cineva, pentru ca radeau cu totii de Laura- bufonul grupului nostru- imitand expresiile de pe fata lui Tommy care alerga, facea cu mana, tipa si placa adversarii. Restul baietilor alergau in acel mod intentionat lenes, pentru incalzire, dar Tommy, in avantul lui, parea ca atinsese deja viteza maxima. Am spus, mai tare, de data asta: "O sa se amarasca asa de tare daca isi distruge camasa aia!". Ruth m-a auzit atunci, dar probabil a presupus ca o spuneam in gluma, pentru ca a ras ezitant, apoi a facut si ea o remarca rautacioasa.

Apoi baietii n-au mai lovit mingea de la unul la celalalt, ci s-au oprit in grup, in noroi, cu piepturile palpitand usor, asteptand sa inceapa alegerea echipelor. Cei doi capitani, care facusera un pas in fata, erau din anii mai mari de gimnaziu, desi toata lumea stia ca Tommy era un jucator mai bun decat oricare din anul acela. Au dat cu banul, ca sa hotarasca cine alege primul, apoi cel care a castigat s-a uitat indelung la grup.
“Uitati-va la el.”, a spus cineva din spate. "E sigur ca el o sa fie ales primul. Uitati-va si voi la el!".
Era, intr-avedar, ceva hilar la Tommy, in clipa aceea, ceva care te facea sa te gandesti ca daca e atat de netot, merita ce i se pregateste. Ceilalti baieti se prafaceau a ignora alegerile, de ca si cum nu le-ar fi pasat in ce echipa nimereau. Unii vorbeau linistit intre ei, altii isi legau din nou sireturile, altii se uitau pur si simplu in jos, batatorind noroiul. Dar Tommy il privea nerabdator pe baiatul mai mare de la gimnaziu, de ca si cum numele ii fusese deja rostit.

Laura si-a continuat demonstratia pe tot parcursul alegerilor, imitand varietatea de expresii de pe chipul lui Tommy: nerabdarea de la inceput, ingrijorarea si nedumerirea, dupa ce nu fusese ales nici dupa primii patru strigati, suferinta si panica ce il curprinsese, cand isi daduse seama ce se intampla. Totusi, eu n-am continuat sa ma uit la Laura, pentru ca il urmaream pe Tommy. Stiam ce face, pentru ca ceilalti continuau sa rada si sa o intarate. Apoi, cand Tommy a ramas singur, iar restul baietilor au inceput sa rada pe infundate, am auzit-o pe Ruth spunand:
“Vine! Asteptati o clipa! Sapte secunde. Sapte, sase, cinci…”
N-a mai ajuns la capat. Tommy a izbucnit intr-un ropot de urlete, iar baietii, care radeau acum, fara ascunzisuri, au inceput sa alerge catre terenul de joc din sud. Tommy s-a avantat dupa ei – era greu de spus daca voia sa ii urmareasca, in furia lui ori daca se panicase doar, penru ca fusese lasat in urma. Oricum, s-a oprit la scurt timp dupa, uitandu-se lung in urma lor, rosu ca racul. Apoi a inceput sa tipe din toti rarunchii, intr-un talmes-balmes fara inteles de jigniri si injuraturi.
Asistaseram toate si alta data la crizele lui Tommy, asa ca ne-am coborat de pe scaune si ne-am imprastiat prin camera. Am incercat sa incepem o discutie pe un alt subiect, dar Tommy continua in fundal si, desi la inceput, n-am facut decat sa dam ochii peste cap si sa incercam sa il ignoram, ulterior – probabil ca la fix zece minute dupa ce ne indepartaseram – eram din nou la ferestre.
Ceilalti baieti nu se mai vedeau acum, iar Tommy nu mai incerca sa-si arunce replicile catre nimeni anume. Pur si simplu aiura, aruncandu-si mainile si picioarele catre cer, in vant, catre cel mai apropiat gard. Laura a spus ca poate "repeta din Shakespeare". Altcineva a observat cum, de fiecare data cand urla, ridica un picior de la pamant, lateral, "ca un caine care isi face nevoile". De fapt, si eu observasem aceeasi miscare a piciorului, dar ceea ce ma uimea era ca de fiecare data trantea piciorul inapoi pe pamant, stropi de noroi sarindu-i pe glezne. M-am gandit din nou la pretioasa lui camasa, dar era prea departe ca sa pot vedea daca o murdarise ori nu de noroi.
“Cred ca e putin cam dur", spuse Ruth, "felul in care ii fac farse de genul asta mereu. Dar e numai vina lui. Daca ar invata sa-si pastreze calmul, l-ar lasa in pace.".
“Tot s-ar lega de el', a spus Hannah. “Si Graham K. are un temperament la fel de violent, dar asta nu ii face decat sa fie mai atenti, in preajma lui. Se iau de Tommy pentru ca e asa un trantor".
Apoi toata lumea a inceput sa vorbeasca in acelasi timp, despre cum n-a incercat Tommy niciodata sa fie creativ, despre cum n-a dat niciodata nimic la Schimbul de Primavara. Prespun ca adevarul era, in momentul acela, ca fiecare dintre noi isi dorea in secret, sa vina un supraveghetor din casa si sa il ia de acolo. Si, desi nu avuseseram niciun fel de implicare in planul acesta recent de a-l enerva pe Tommy, ocupaseram locuri in public si incepeam sa ne simtim vinovate. Dar nu era nici urma de supraveghetor in apropiere, asa ca am continuat sa gasim motive pentru care Tommy merita ce primea. Apoi, cand Ruth s-a uitat la ceas si a spus, desi mai era timp, ca ar trebui sa ne intoarcem in cladirea principala, nimeni nu s-a opus.
Tommy continua inca, la fel de infierbantat, cand am iesit noi din pavilion. Casa era in stanga noastra si, din moment ce Tommy statea pe terenul din fata, nu era nevoie sa ne apropiem in vreun fel de el. Oricum, el se uita in cealalta directie si nu a parut sa ne observe macar. In orice caz, cand prietenele mele au pornit pe marginea terenului, eu am inceput sa ma indrept catre el. Stiam ca asta ii va nedumeri pe ceilalti, dar am continuat sa ma apropii- chiar si cand am auzit soaptele insistente ale lui Ruth, chemandu-ma inapoi.
Presupun ca Tommy nu era obisnuit sa fie intrerupt, in crizele lui, pentru ca prima reactie, cand am ajuns langa el, a fost sa ma priveasca fix pentru cateva clipe, iar apoi a continuat ca mai devreme. Intr-adevar, parea ca repeta din Shakespeare, iar eu urcasem pe scena, in mijlocul actului. Chiar si cand am spus: "Tommy, camasa ta frumoasa! O s-o distrugi!", n-a parut sa ma auda.
Asa ca am inaintat si i-am pus mana pe brat. Apoi, ceilalti au crezut ca a facut-o intentionat, dar eu eram destul de sigura ca se insala: bratele lui inca fluturau in laturi si el nu stia ca imi voi pune mana pe a lui. Oricum, cand si-a aruncat bratul in sus, mi-a dat mana la o parte si m-a lovit peste fata. Nu m-a durut deloc, dar am icnit, le fel ca mai toate fetele din spatele meu.
Abia atunci a parut Tommy ca devine constient de prezenta mea, a celorlalti, a lui, a faptului ca statea pe terenul acela, comportandu-se cum se comporta si s-a uitat la mine lung, putin prosteste.
“Tommy,” am spus, putin aspru. "Ai camasa plina de noroi.".
“Si ce?”, a bombanit el. Dar cand a spus-o, s-a uitat in jos si a observat petele maronii, abia abtinandu-se sa nu urle, alarmat. Apoi am sesizat surprinderea lui ca stiam ce simte, in legatura cu acea camasa de polo.
“Nu trebuie sa te ingrijorezi", i-am spus, pana ca tacerea instalata sa devina umilitoare pentru el. “O sa se curete. Poti si tu sa o faci, numai sa o duci la Dra. Jody".
El a continuat sa-si studieze camasa, apoi a spus, morocanos: “Oricum, nu e treaba ta.”
A parut sa regrete imediat ultima remarca facuta si s-a uitat la mine prosteste, de parca astepta sa zic ceva care sa il linisteasca. Dar eu ma saturasem deja de el, mai ales ca se uitau toate fetele la noi – si, din cate stiam eu si alti cativa, pe la ferestrele din cladirea principala. Asa ca m-am intors, radicand din umeri si m-am alaturat prietenelor mele, din nou.
Ruth si-a pus mana pe dupa umerii mei, pe masura ce ne indepartam. "Macar l-ai facut sa se mai calmeze", a spus ea. "Te simti bine? Bestia!".


Capitolul doi

Asta se intampla acum mult timp, asa ca s-ar putea sa nu fi retinut totul corect, dar, asa cum imi amintesc eu, apropierea mea de Tommy, in dupa-amiaza aceea, facea parte dintr-o faza prin care treceam in perioada aceea- ma supuneam la continue provocari – si aproape ca uitasem de ea, cand m-a oprit Tommy, cateva zile mai tarziu.
Nu stiu cum era la voi, dar la Hailsham trebuia sa facem un fel de control medical aproape in fiecare saptamana – de obicei, in camera 18, din podul casei – cu aspra sora Trisha sau 'Fata de cioara", cum ii spuneam noi. In acea dimineata insorita, o parte dintre noi urcam scara principala, pentru a fi examinati, iar un alt grup, ce tocmai terminase, cobora, asa ca era o larma asurzitoare pe scara. Eu urcam cu privirile in jos, pe urmele celui din fata mea, cand am auzit o voce din apropiere: "Kath!".
Tommy, care facea parte din valul ce cobora, inmarmurise pe scari, cu un zamber larg, care m-a iritat instantaneu. Cu cativa ani in urma, am fi afisat expresia aceea, daca ne-am fi intalnit cu o persoana care ne placea, dar pe atunci aveam 13 ani si era vorba despre intalnirea dintre un baiat si o fata, intr-un loc cat se poate de public. Mi-a venit sa spun "Tommy, ce-ar fi sa te maturizezi ?". Dar m-am abtinut si, in schimb, am spus: "Tommy, ii tii pe toti in loc. Si tu, si eu.".