AN ARTIST OF THE FLOATING WORLD by Kazuo Ishiguro

Author:Kazuo Ishiguro [Ishiguro, Kazuo]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-07-29T03:51:52+00:00

It had not, in the end, been a difficult task to discover Kuroda’s whereabouts. The art professor at Uemachi College, once I had assured him of my good intentions, had given me not only the address, but an account of what had been happening to my former pupil over these past years. Kuroda, it seemed, had not fared at all badly since his release at the end of the war. Such are the ways of this world that his years in prison gave him strong credentials, and certain groups had made a point of welcoming him and seeing to his needs. He had thus experienced little difficulty finding work — mainly small tutoring jobs — or the materials to recommence his own painting. Then, towards the early part of last summer, he had been given the post of art teacher at Uemachi College.

Now, it may seem somewhat perverse of me to say so, but I was pleased — and indeed rather proud — to hear Kuroda’s career was progressing well. But then it is only natural after all that his former teacher should continue to take pride in such things, even if circumstances have caused teacher and pupil to become estranged.

Kuroda did not live in a good quarter. I walked for some time through little alleys filled with dilapidated lodging houses before coming to a concrete square resembling the forecourt of a factory. Indeed, across the square, I could see some trucks had been parked, and farther on, behind a mesh fence, a bulldozer was churning up the ground. I recall I was standing watching the bulldozer for some moments before realizing the large new building above me was in fact Kuroda’s apartment block.

I climbed to the second floor, where two small boys were riding a tricycle up and down the corridor, and searched out Kuroda’s door. My first ring was not answered, but I was by then firmly resolved to go ahead with the encounter and rang again.

A fresh-faced young man of around twenty opened the door.

‘I’m very sorry’ — he spoke very earnestly — ‘but Mr Kuroda isn’t home at present. I wonder, sir, are you perhaps a work associate?’

‘In a manner of speaking. There were a few matters I wished to discuss with Mr Kuroda.’

‘In that case, perhaps you’d be so good as to come in and wait. I’m sure Mr Kuroda will not be gone long, and he would very much regret it if he were to miss you.’

‘But I don’t wish to put you to any bother.’

‘Not at all, sir. Please, please come in.’

The apartment was small, and like many of these modern affairs, had no entryway as such, the tatami starting a little way inside the front door with only a shallow step up. There was a tidy look to the place, and a number of paintings and hangings adorned the walls. Plenty of sunlight came into the apartment through the large windows, which I could see opened on to a narrow balcony. The noise of the bulldozer could be heard coming from outside.

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