The Unconsoled (14 page)

'Last year, it was a nice sunny autumn, just like this. It went on and on. People were sitting out on the pavements drinking coffee right into November. Then suddenly, virtually overnight, it got so cold. It could easily be like that again this year. You never know, do you?'

'No, I suppose not.' By this time, of course, I had realised she was again talking about the coat.

'But it's not so urgent yet,' she murmured.

When I next glanced at her, she appeared to be watching the film again. I too turned back to the screen, but then after a few seconds certain fragments of memory began to come back to me there in the darkness of the cinema and my attention once more drifted from the film.

I found myself recalling quite vividly a certain occasion when I had been sitting in an uncomfortable, perhaps dirty armchair. It was probably the morning, a dull grey one, and I had been holding a newspaper in front of me. Boris had been lying on his front on the carpet nearby, drawing on a sketch pad with a wax crayon. From the little boy's age - he was still very small -I supposed this to be a memory deriving from six or seven years ago, though what room we had been in, in which house, I could not remember. A door to a neighbouring room had been left ajar through which several female voices could be heard chattering away.

For some time I had gone on reading my newspaper on the uncomfortable armchair, until something about Boris - some subtle change in his demeanour or his posture - had made me glance down at him. Then in an instant I had seen the situation before me. Boris had managed to draw on his sheet a perfectly recognisable 'Superman'. He had been attempting to do just such a thing for weeks, but for all our encouragement had been unable to produce even a vague likeness. But now, perhaps owing to that mixture of fluke and genuine breakthrough so often experienced in childhood, he had suddenly succeeded. The sketch was not quite finished - the mouth and eyes needed completing - but for all that I had been able to see at once the huge triumph it represented for him. In fact I would have said something to him had I not noticed at that moment the way he was leaning forward in a state of great tension, his crayon held over the paper. He was, I had realised, hesitating whether to go on to refine his drawing at the risk of ruining it. I had been able to sense acutely his dilemma and had felt a temptation to say out loud: 'Boris, stop. That's enough. Stop there and show everyone what you've achieved. Show me, then show your mother, and then all those people talking now in the next room. What does it matter if it's not completely finished? Everyone will be astonished and so proud of you. Stop now before you lose it all.' But I had not said anything, continuing instead to watch him from around the edge of my newspaper. Finally Boris had made up his mind and begun to apply a few more touches with great care. Then, growing more confident, he had bent right forward and started to use the crayon with some recklessness. A moment later he had stopped abruptly, staring silently at his sheet. Then - and I could even now recall the anguish mounting within me - I had watched him attempting to salvage his picture, applying more and more crayon. Finally his face had fallen and, dropping the crayon onto the paper, he had risen and left the room without a word.

This whole episode had affected me to a surprising degree, and I had still been in the process of composing my emotions when Sophie's voice had said somewhere close by:

'You've no idea, have you?'

I had lowered my paper, startled by the bitterness of her tone, to find her standing in the room staring at me. Then she had said:

'You've no idea, what that was like for me, watching what happened then. It'll never be like that for you. Look at you, just reading the newspaper.' Then she had lowered her voice, making it gather even more intensity. 'That's the difference! He's not your own. Whatever you say, it makes a difference. You'll never feel towards him like a real father. Look at you! You've no idea what I went through just then.'

With that she had turned and disappeared out of the room.

It had occurred to me to follow her through into the next room, visitors or no visitors, and bring her back for a talk. But in the end I had decided in favour of waiting where I was for her return. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sophie had come back into the room, but something in her manner had prevented me from speaking and she had gone out again. In fact, although during the following half-hour Sophie had entered and left the room several more times, for all my resolve to make my feelings known to her, I had remained silent. Eventually, after a certain point, I had realised any chance to broach the topic without looking ridiculous had passed, and I had returned to my newspaper with a strong sense of hurt and frustration.

'Excuse me,' I heard a voice say behind me and a hand touched my shoulder. Turning, I saw a man in the row behind leaning forward and studying me carefully.

'It
is
Mr Ryder, isn't it? My goodness, it is. Please forgive me, I've been sitting here all this time, I didn't recognise you in this poor light. I'm Karl Pedersen. I'd been so looking forward to meeting you at the reception this morning. But of course unforeseeable circumstances prevented you from attending. How opportune I should now meet you like this.'

The man had white hair, glasses and a kindly face. I adjusted my posture slightly.

'Ah yes, Mr Pedersen. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance. It was, as you say, all very unfortunate this morning. I too had been greatly looking forward to, er, to meeting you all.'

'As it happens, Mr Ryder, there are several other councillors here now in this cinema, all of whom were most sorry to miss you this morning.' He looked about in the darkness. 'If I can just ascertain where they're sitting, I'd like to take you over to meet at least one or two of them.' Twisting round, he craned his neck to search the rows behind him. 'Unfortunately, just now I can't see anyone…'

'Of course I'd be very pleased to meet your colleagues. But it's rather late now, and if they're enjoying the film, perhaps we should leave it to another time. There are bound to be many more opportunities.'

'I can't see anyone just now,' the man said, turning back to me.

'What a pity. I know they're in this cinema somewhere. In any case, sir, as a member of the civic council, may I say how pleased and honoured we all are by your visit?'

'You're very kind.'

'Mr Brodsky has by all accounts made very good progress at the concert hall this afternoon. Three or four hours solid rehearsing.'

'Yes, I heard. It's splendid.'

'I wonder, sir, if you managed today to visit our concert hall.'

'The concert hall? Well, no. Unfortunately I've not yet had the chance…'

'Of course. You had a long journey coming here. Well, there's still plenty of time. I'm sure you'll be impressed by our concert hall, Mr Ryder. It really is a beautiful old building, and whatever else we've let deteriorate in this city, no one can accuse us of neglecting our concert hall. A very beautiful old building, and set in the most splendid surroundings too. That's to say, in Liebmann Park. You'll see what I mean, Mr Ryder. A pleasant walk through the trees, and then you come to the clearing - and there! The concert hall! You'll see for yourself, sir. An ideal place for the community to gather, away from the bustle of the streets. I remember when I was a boy, there was a city orchestra in those days, and the first Sunday of each month everyone would gather in that clearing before the concert. I can remember all the various families arriving, everyone smartly dressed, more and more people arriving through the trees and greeting one another. And we children, we'd be running everywhere. In the autumn we had a game, a special game. We'd rush around gathering up all the fallen leaves we could see, bring them up to the gardener's shed and pile them up against the side. There was a particular plank, about this high on the wall of the shed, it had a stain on it. What we told each other was that we had to collect enough leaves so that the pile reached up to that stain before the adults started to file into the building. If we didn't, the whole city was going to explode into a million pieces, some such thing. So there we all were, rushing back and forth, our arms full of wet leaves! It's easy for someone of my age to become nostalgic, Mr Ryder, but there's no doubt about it, this was a very happy community once. There were large happy families here. And real lasting friendships.

People treated one another with warmth and affection. We had a splendid community here once. For many many years. I'll be seventy-six next birthday, so I can vouch personally for that.'

Pedersen fell silent for a moment. He continued to lean forward, his arm on the back of my seat, and when I glanced at him I noticed his eyes were not on the screen but somewhere far away. Meanwhile, we were approaching that section of the film in which the astronauts first suspect the motives of the computer, HAL, central to every aspect of life aboard the spaceship. Clint Eastwood was stalking the claustrophobic corridors with a terse expression and a long-barrelled gun. I was just starting to become engrossed when Pedersen began to talk again.

'I have to be honest. I can't help feeling a little sorry for
him
. Mr Christoff, I mean. Yes, odd as this may sound to you, I feel
sorry
for him. I've said as much to a few colleagues and they've just thought, oh, the old fellow's going soft, who can feel an ounce of pity for that charlatan? But, you see, I have a better memory of it than most. I remember what happened at the time Mr Christoff first arrived in this city. Of course I feel as angry as any of my colleagues about him. But, you see, I know well enough that at the start, right at the start of it, it wasn't Mr Christoff that pushed himself forward. No, no, it was… well, it was us. That's to say, people like myself, I don't deny it, I was in a position of influence. We encouraged him. We celebrated him, flattered him, made it clear we looked to him for enlightenment and initiative. At least some of the responsibility for what happened lies with us. My younger colleagues, they perhaps weren't around so much in those early years. They only know Mr Christoff as this dominant figure around which so much revolved. They forget that he never asked to be put in such a position. Oh yes, I remember very well Mr Christoff first arriving in this city. He was a fairly young man then, on his own, very unassuming, modest even. If no one had encouraged him, I'm sure he'd have been happy to melt into the background, give the odd recital at a private function, nothing more. But it was the timing, Mr Ryder. The timing was unfortunate. Just when Mr Christoff turned up in our city, we were going through, well, a sort of hiatus. Mr Bernd, the painter, and Mr Vollmoller, a very fine composer, both of whom had for so long been at the helm of our cultural life here, they'd both died within months of each other and there was a certain feeling… well, a kind of
unsettled
feeling. We were all very sad at the passing of two such fine men, but I suppose everyone felt too that now there was a chance for a change. A chance for something new and fresh. Inevitably, happy as we'd all been, after so many years of those two gentlemen being at the centre of everything, certain frustrations had built up. So you can imagine, when word got around that the stranger lodging at Mrs Roth's was a professional cellist and one who'd performed with the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra, and on several occasions under Kazimierz Studzinski, well, there was not a little excitement. I remember personally having much to do with the welcoming of Mr Christoff. I remember, you see, how it was, and also how unassuming he was at first. Now, with hindsight, I'd even say he was lacking in confidence. Most likely he'd had a few setbacks prior to coming here. But we fussed over him, pressed him for his views on everything, yes, that's how it all started. I remember personally helping to persuade him about that first recital. He was genuinely reluctant. And in any case, that first recital was originally to be just a small affair, to take place at the Countess's house. It was only two days before the date, when it became clear how many people were determined to attend, that the Countess was forced to move the venue to the Holtmann Gallery. From then on, Mr Christoff's recitals - we demanded at least one every six months - they were held at the concert hall, and they became our great talking points, year in, year out. But he was reluctant at the beginning. Not just that first time. For the first few years, we had to keep persuading him. Then naturally the acclaim, the applause, the flattery, they did their work, and soon enough Mr Christoff was putting himself and his ideas about. "I've flowered here," he was heard to say a lot around that time. "I've flowered since coming here." My point, you see, sir, was that it was
we
who pushed
him
. I do feel sorry for him now - though I dare say I'm probably the only person in this city who does. As you've noticed, there's a lot of anger directed at him. I'm realistic enough about the situation, Mr Ryder. One has to be ruthless. Our city is close to crisis. There's widespread misery. We have to start putting things right somewhere and we might as well start at the centre. We have to be ruthless, and as sorry as I feel for him, I can see there's nothing else for it. He and everything he has come to represent must now be put away in some dark corner of our history.'

Although I had continued to sit slightly turned towards him, thus making it clear I had not stopped listening, my attention had been drawn back to the movie. Clint Eastwood was talking into a microphone to his wife back on earth and tears were flowing down his face. I realised we were coming close to the famous scene in which Yul Brynner comes into the room and tests Eastwood's speed on the draw by clapping his hands in front of him.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but how long ago was it Mr Christoff came to this town?'

I had asked this without a great deal of thought, at least half my attention on the screen. In fact I went on watching the movie for another two or three minutes before realising that behind me Pedersen was hanging his head in an attitude of profound shame. Sensing that my gaze had returned to him, he looked up and said: