The Unconsoled (24 page)

Boris shrugged, his attention fixed on the waitress, now in the process of extricating an elaborate confection from out of the display cabinet.

12

When I came back out into the courtyard, I could not see the longhaired journalist anywhere. I strolled among the parasols for a while, peering at the faces of the people sitting at the tables. When I had gone once round the courtyard, I stopped to consider the possibility that the journalist had changed his mind and gone away. But this seemed extraordinary, and I looked around me once more. There were various people reading newspapers over their coffees. An old man was talking to the pigeons around his feet. Then I heard someone mention my name and, turning, saw the journalist sitting at a table directly behind me. He was in deep conversation with a squat, swarthy man whom I took to be the photographer. Letting out an exclamation I went up to them, but curiously the two men continued their discussion without looking up at me. Even when I drew up the remaining chair and sat down, the journalist - who was in mid-sentence - gave me no more than a cursory glance. Then, turning back to the swarthy photographer, he continued:

'So don't give him any hints about the significance of the building. You'll just have to make up some arty justification, some reason why he has to be constantly in front of it.'

'No problem,' the photographer said nodding. 'No problem.'

'But don't push him too much. That seems to be where Schulz went wrong in Vienna last month. And remember, like all these types, he's very vain. So pretend to be a big fan of his. Tell him the paper had no idea when they sent you, but you happen to be a really huge fan. That'll get him. But don't mention the Sattler monument until we've developed a rapport.'

'Okay, okay' The photographer was still nodding. 'But I kind of thought this would have been fixed up by now. I thought you'd have got him to agree already.'

'I was going to try and fix it on the phone, but then Schulz warned me what a difficult shit the guy is.' As he said this, the journalist turned to me and gave me a polite smile. The photographer, following his companion's gaze, gave me a distracted nod, then the two of them returned to their discussion.

'The trouble with Schulz,' the journalist said, 'is he never flatters them enough. And he's got that manner, like he's really impatient, even when he's not. With these types, you just have to keep up the flattery. So all the time you snap, keep shouting "
great"
. Keep exclaiming. Don't stop feeding his ego.'

'Okay, okay. No problem.'

'So I'll start in with…' The journalist gave a weary sigh. 'I'll start talking about his performance in Vienna or something like that. I've got some notes on it here, I'll bluff my way. But let's not waste too much time. After a few minutes, you make out you've had this inspiration about going out to the Sattler monument. I'll make out I'm a bit annoyed at first, but then end up admitting it's a brilliant idea.'

'Okay, okay.'

'You're sure now. Let's have no mistakes. Remember he's a touchy bastard.'

'I understand.'

'Anything starts to go wrong, just say something flattering.'

'Fine, fine.'

The two men nodded to each other. Then the journalist took a deep breath, clapped his hands together and turned to face me, brightening suddenly as he did so.

'Ah, Mr Ryder, here you are! It's so good of you to give us some of your precious time. And the young man, he's enjoying himself in there, I trust?'

'Yes, yes. He's ordered a very large piece of cheesecake.'

Both men laughed pleasantly. The swarthy photographer grinned and said:

'Cheesecake. Yeah, that's my favourite. From when I was a little kid.'

'Oh, Mr Ryder, this is Pedro.'

The photographer smiled and held out his hand eagerly. 'Very pleased to meet you, sir. This is a real break for me, I tell you. I was put on this assignment only this morning. When I got up, all I had to look forward to was another shoot in the council chambers. Then I get this call while I'm having my shower. Do you want to do it? they ask. Do I want to do it? The man's been my hero since I was a kid, I tell them. Do I want to do it? Jesus, I'll do it for nothing. I'll pay
you
to do it, I tell them. Just tell me where to go. I swear I've never been this excited over an assignment.'

'To be frank, Mr Ryder,' the journalist said, 'the photographer who was with me last night at the hotel, well, after we'd been waiting a few hours he started to get a little impatient. Naturally I was quite angry with him. "You don't seem to realise," I said to him. "If Mr Ryder has been delayed, it's bound to be by the most important sorts of engagements. If he's good enough to consent to give us some of his time and we need to wait a little, then wait we shall." I tell you, sir, I got quite angry with him. And when I got back I told the editor it just wasn't good enough. "Find me another photographer for the morning," I demanded. "I want someone who fully appreciates Mr Ryder's position and shows him the appropriate gratitude." Yes, I suppose I got quite worked up about it. Anyway, we've got Pedro now, who turns out to be almost as big a fan of yours as I am.'

'Bigger, bigger,' Pedro protested. 'When I got the call this morning, I just couldn't believe it. My hero's in town and I'm going to get to shoot him. Jesus, I'm going to do the best job I've ever done, that's what I said to myself while I was taking my shower. A guy like that, you have to do the best job ever. I'll take him up against the Sattler building. That's how I saw it. I could see the whole composition in my head while I was taking my shower.'

'Now, Pedro,' the journalist said, looking at him sternly, 'I doubt very much if Mr Ryder cares to go over to the Sattler building just for the sake of our photographs. All right, it's only a few minutes' drive at the most, but a few minutes is still no inconsiderable thing to a man on a tight schedule. No, Pedro, you'll just have to do the best you can here, take a few shots of Mr Ryder as we talk at this table. Okay, a pavement café, it's very clichéd, it will hardly show to good effect the unique charisma Mr Ryder carries around him. But it will just have to do. I admit, your idea of Mr Ryder against the Sattler monument, it's inspired. But he simply doesn't have the time. We'll have to be satisfied with a much more ordinary picture of him.'

Pedro punched his fist into his palm and shook his head. 'I guess that's right. But Jesus, it's tough. A chance to take the great Mr Ryder, a once-in-a-lifetime chance, and I have to make do with another café scene. That's the way life deals you a hand.' He shook his head again sadly. Then for a moment the two of them sat there looking at me.

'Well,' I said eventually, 'this building of yours. Is it literally a few minutes' drive away?'

Pedro sat up abruptly, his face lit with enthusiasm.

'You mean it? You'll pose in front of the Sattler monument? Jesus, what a break! I just knew you'd be a great guy!'

'Now wait…'

'Are you sure, Mr Ryder?' the journalist said grasping my arm. 'Are you really sure? I know you've got a heavy schedule. Why, that's really magnificent of you! And truly, it will take no more than three minutes by taxi. In fact, if you'll just wait here, sir, I'll go and hail one now. Pedro, why don't you get a few shots of Mr Ryder here anyhow while he's waiting.'

The journalist hurried off. The next moment I saw him at the edge of the pavement, leaning towards the oncoming traffic, an arm held poised in the air.

'Mr Ryder, sir. Please.'

Pedro was crouched down on one knee, squinting up at me through a camera. I arranged myself in my chair - adopting a relaxed but not overly languid posture - and put on a genial smile.

Pedro snapped the shutter a few times. Then he retreated some distance and crouched down again, this time beside an empty table, disturbing as he did so a flock of pigeons pecking away at some crumbs. I was about to re-adjust my posture, when the journalist came rushing back.

'Mr Ryder, I can't find a taxi just now, but here's a tram just arrived. Please hurry, we can jump on. Pedro, quickly, the tram.'

'But will it be as quick as a taxi?' I asked.

'Yes, yes. In fact with the traffic like this the tram will be quicker. Really, Mr Ryder, you've no need to worry. The Sattler monument is very near. In fact' - he raised his hand to shade his eyes and looked into the far distance - 'in fact, you can almost see it from here. If it weren't for that grey tower over there, we'd be able to see the Sattler monument right at this moment. That's how close we are, really. In fact, if someone of normal height - no taller than you or me - if such a person were to climb onto the roof of the Sattler building, stand up straight and hold up some pole-like object - a household mop, say - on a morning like this, we'd be able to see it quite easily above that grey tower. So you see, we'll be there in no time at all. But please, the tram, we must hurry.'

Pedro was already down at the kerb. I could see him, his heavy bag of equipment on his shoulder, trying to persuade the tram driver to wait for us. I followed the journalist out of the courtyard and clambered aboard.

The tram started up again as the three of us made our way down the central aisle. The carriage was crowded, making it impossible for us to sit near one another. I squeezed myself into a seat towards the back of the carriage, between a small elderly man and a matronly mother with a toddler on her lap. The seat was surprisingly comfortable and after a few moments I began rather to enjoy the journey. Opposite me were three old men reading one newspaper, held open by the man in the middle. The jogging of the tram seemed to give them difficulties and at times they tussled for command of a particular page.

We had been travelling for a while when I became aware of activity around me and saw that a ticket inspector was making her way down the aisle. It occurred to me then that my companions must have purchased my ticket for me - I certainly had not acquired one on boarding. When I next glanced over my shoulder I saw that the ticket inspector, a petite woman whose ugly black uniform could not entirely disguise her attractive figure, had all but reached our part of the carriage. All around me, people were producing their tickets and passes. Suppressing a sense of panic, I set about formulating something to say that would sound at once dignified and convincing.

Then the ticket inspector was looming above us and my neighbours all proffered their tickets. While she was still in the process of clipping them, I announced firmly:

'I'm without a ticket, but in my case there are special circumstances which, if you'll allow me, I'll explain to you.'

The ticket inspector looked at me. Then she said: 'Not having a ticket is one thing. But you know, you really let me down last night.'

As soon as she said this, I recognised Fiona Roberts, a girl from my village primary school in Worcestershire with whom I had developed a special friendship around the time I was nine years old. She had lived near us, a short way along the lane in a cottage not unlike ours, and I had often wandered down to spend an afternoon playing with her, particularly during the difficult period before our departure to Manchester. I had not seen her at all since those days, and so was quite taken aback by her accusing manner.

'Ah yes,' I said. 'Last night. Yes.'

Fiona Roberts went on looking at me. Perhaps it was to do with the reproachful expression she was now wearing, but I suddenly found myself recalling an afternoon from our childhood, when the two of us had been sitting together under her parents' dining table. We had, as usual, created our 'hide-out' by hanging an assortment of blankets and curtains down over the sides of the table. That particular afternoon had been warm and sunny, but we had persisted in sitting inside our hide-out, in the stuffy heat and near-darkness. I had been saying something to Fiona, no doubt at some length and in an upset manner. More than once she had tried to interrupt, but I had continued. Then finally, when I had finished, she had said:

'That's silly. That means you'll be all on your own. You'll get lonely.'

'I don't mind that,' I had said. 'I like being lonely.'

'You're just being silly again. No one likes being lonely. I'm going to have a big family. Five children at least. And I'm going to cook them a lovely supper every evening.' Then, when I did not respond, she had said again: 'You're just being silly. No one likes being on their own.'

'I do. I like it.'

'How can you
like
being lonely?'

'I do. I just do.'

In fact, I had felt some conviction in making this assertion. For by that afternoon it had already been several months since I had commenced my 'training sessions'; indeed, that particular obsession had probably reached its peak just around that time.

My 'training sessions' had come about quite unplanned. I had been playing by myself out in the lane one grey afternoon - absorbed in some fantasy, climbing in and out of a dried-out ditch running between a row of poplars and a field - when I had suddenly felt a sense of panic and a need for the company of my parents. Our cottage had not been far away - I had been able to see the back of it across the field - and yet the feeling of panic had grown rapidly until I had been all but overcome by the urge to run home at full speed across the rough grass. But for some reason - perhaps I had quickly associated the sensation with immaturity - I had forced myself to delay my departure. There had not been any question in my mind that I would, very soon, start to run across the field. It was simply a matter of holding back that moment with an effort of will for several more seconds. The strange mixture of fear and exhilaration I had experienced as I had stood there transfixed in the dried-out ditch was one that I was to come to know well in the weeks that followed. For within days, my 'training sessions' had become a regular and important feature of my life. In time, they had acquired a certain ritual, so that as soon as I felt the earliest signs of my need to return home I would make myself go to a special spot along the lane, under a large oak tree, where I would remain standing for several minutes, fighting off my emotions. Often I would decide I had done enough, that I could now set off, only to pull myself back again, forcing myself to remain under the tree for just a few seconds more. There was no doubting the strange thrill that had accompanied the growing fear and panic of these occasions, a sensation which perhaps accounted for the somewhat compulsive hold my 'training sessions' came to have over me.