The Unconsoled (59 page)

I went to the window and pulled back the curtain. I found myself looking down on a narrow back yard taken up by several large dustbins. A light left on somewhere was dimly illuminating the yard, but I noticed too that the sky was no longer entirely dark and the fear went through me again that dawn was approaching. Letting go of the curtain, I began to make my way out of the room, bitterly regretting having ever taken up the café proprietor's offer of a place to rest.

I stepped into the small connecting room where earlier I had seen merchandise piled against the walls. The room was now in utter blackness and I twice bumped into hard objects as I groped about for a doorway. Eventually I came out into the main section of the café where not so long ago we had all danced and sung with so much good feeling. A little light was coming in from the windows facing the square and I could make out the jumbled shapes of chairs piled on top of tables. I made my way past them, and reaching the main doors looked out through the glass panels.

Nothing was stirring outside. The solitary street lamp at the centre of the empty square accounted for the light coming into the café, but I noticed again how the sky appeared to carry the first hints of morning. As I went on gazing out at the square, I found myself becoming increasingly angry. I could now see how I had allowed too many things to distract me from my central priorities - to the extent that I had now slept through a substantial part of this most crucial of evenings in my life. Then my anger became mingled with a sense of despair and for a while I felt close to tears.

But then, as I continued to look at the night sky, I began to wonder if I had imagined the signs of dawn breaking. Indeed, now that I studied it more carefully, I saw the sky was still very dark, and the thought struck me that it was still relatively early and that I had begun to panic quite needlessly. For all I knew, it was still possible to arrive at the concert hall in time to witness much of the evening's events, and certainly to make my own contribution.

I had all the while been absent-mindedly rattling the doors. I now noticed the system of bolts and, unlatching each in turn, wandered out into the square.

The air felt wonderfully refreshing after the stuffiness of the café, and had I not been so short of time I would have strolled about the square for a few moments to clear my head. As it was, I set off purposefully in search of the concert hall.

For the next several minutes I hurried through the empty streets, past the closed cafés and shops, without once catching sight of the domed roof. The Old Town under the street lamps had a distinct charm about it, but the longer I went on walking the harder it became to suppress a sense of panic. I had expected, not unreasonably, to encounter a few taxis cruising the night; at the least a few people, perhaps drifting out of some late-night establishment, from whom I could get directions. But apart from some stray cats I appeared to be the only thing awake for miles around.

I crossed a tram line, then found myself walking along the embankment of a canal. There was a chilly wind blowing across the water and, with still no sign of the concert hall, I could not avoid the feeling that I was getting myself thoroughly lost. I had decided to try a turning a little way in front of me - a narrow street going off at a fine angle - when I heard footsteps and saw a woman emerge from out of it.

I had grown so accustomed to the idea of the streets being completely deserted that I stopped in my tracks at the sight of her. My surprise had been compounded, moreover, by the fact that she was dressed in a flowing evening gown. The woman for her part had also stopped, but she seemed then to recognise me and with a smile started towards me again. As she stepped further into the lamplight, I saw she was in her late forties, perhaps even her early fifties. She was slightly plump, but carried herself with considerable grace.

'Good evening, madam,' I said. 'I wonder if you might help me. I was looking for the concert hall. Am I going in the right direction?'

The woman had now come right up to me. Smiling again, she said:

'No, actually it's over that way. I've just come from it. I was walking to take the air, but I'll gladly guide you back there, Mr Ryder. If you don't object, that is.'

'It would be a great pleasure, madam. But I don't want to cut short your walk.'

'No, no. I've already been walking for nearly an hour. It's time I got back. I should really have waited and arrived with all the other guests. But I had this foolish notion I should be there through all the preparations, just in case I was needed. Of course, there's nothing for me to do. Mr Ryder, please excuse me, I've not introduced myself. I'm Christine Hoffman. My husband is the manager of your hotel.'

'I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs Hoffman. Your husband has told me a great deal about you.'

I regretted this remark as soon as it had left my mouth. I glanced quickly at Mrs Hoffman, but could no longer see her face clearly in the light.

'It's this way, Mr Ryder,' she said. 'It's not far.'

The sleeves of her evening dress billowed as we started to walk. I coughed and said:

'May I take it, from what you say, Mrs Hoffman, that proceedings are not yet fully under way at the concert hall? That the guests and so on, they've not yet all arrived?'

'The guests? Oh no. I shouldn't imagine any guests will arrive for at least another hour.'

'Ah. Fine.'

We continued at an easy pace along the canal, both of us turning from time to time to gaze at the reflection of the lamps in the water.

'I was wondering, Mr Ryder,' she said eventually, 'if my husband, when he spoke about me, if he left you with the impression that I was… a rather cold person. I wonder if he left you with that impression.'

I gave a short laugh. "The overwhelming impression he left me with, Mrs Hoffman, was that he's extremely devoted to you.'

She continued to walk in silence and I was not sure she had registered my reply. After a while she said:

'When I was young, Mr Ryder, no one would ever have thought to describe me in such a way. As a cold person. Certainly when I was a child, I was anything but cold. Even now, I can't think of myself like that.'

I mumbled something vaguely diplomatic. Then, as we turned away from the canal into a narrow side-street, I saw at last the domed roof of the concert hall illuminated against the night sky.

'Even these days,' Mrs Hoffman said beside me, 'early in the morning, I have these dreams. Always early in the morning. The dreams are always about… about tenderness. Nothing much happens in them, they're usually no more than little fragments. I might be watching my son, Stephan, for instance. Watching him play in the garden. We were very close once, Mr Ryder, when he was small. I'd comfort him, share his little triumphs with him. We were so close when he was small. Or sometimes a dream might be about my husband. The other morning, I dreamt my husband and I were unpacking a suitcase together. We were in some bedroom and we were unpacking it onto the bed. We might have been in an hotel room abroad or perhaps we were at home. In any case, we were unpacking this suitcase together and there was this… this comfortable feeling between us. There we were, performing this task together. He'd take something out, then I'd take something out. Talking all the time, about nothing special, just exchanging conversation while we unpacked. It was only the morning before last, I had this dream. Then I woke up and I lay there looking at the dawn through the curtains, feeling very happy. I said to myself, it might soon
really
be like that. Later that very day, even, we would make a moment just like that one. We wouldn't necessarily unpack a suitcase, of course. But something, we'd do something later in the day, there'd be
some
chance. I fell asleep again, telling myself this, feeling very happy. Then the morning came. It's an odd thing, Mr Ryder, it happens like this every time. As soon as the day starts, this other thing, this
force
, it comes and takes over. And whatever I do, everything between us just goes another way, not the way I want it. I fight against it, Mr Ryder, but over the years I've steadily lost ground. It's something that's… that's happening to me. My husband tries very hard, tries to help me, but it's no use. By the time I go down to breakfast, all the things I felt in the dream, they've long since gone.'

Some parked cars on the pavement obliged us to walk in single file and Mrs Hoffman moved a few steps ahead of me. When I drew up alongside her again, I asked:

'What do you suppose it is? This force you talk of?'

She laughed suddenly. 'I didn't mean it to sound quite so supernatural, Mr Ryder. Of course, the obvious answer would be that it's all to do with Mr Christoff. That's what I believed for some time. Certainly, that's what my husband believes, I know. Like many people in this city I thought it simply a matter of replacing Mr Christoff in our affections with someone more substantial. But lately I'm not at all sure. I'm coming to believe it might be to do with me. A sort of illness I have. It might even be part of the ageing process. After all, we get older and parts of us start to die. Perhaps we start to die emotionally too. Do you think that's possible, Mr Ryder? I do fear it, I do fear that might be the truth of it. That we shall see off Mr Christoff, only to find, in my particular case at least, that nothing has changed.'

We turned another corner. The pavements were very narrow and we moved into the centre of the street. I had the impression she was waiting for my response, and said eventually:

'Mrs Hoffman, in my opinion, whatever the facts about the ageing process, I would say it's essential for you to keep up your spirits. To not give in to this… whatever it is.'

Mrs Hoffman looked up at the night sky and walked on for a while without replying. Then she said: "These lovely dreams in the early morning. When the day starts and none of it happens, I often blame myself bitterly. But I assure you, I haven't given up yet, Mr Ryder. If I gave up, there'd be very little left in my life. I refuse just yet to let go of my dreams. I still want one day a warm and close family. But it's not just that, Mr Ryder. You see, I may be quite silly in believing this, perhaps you can tell me if I am. But one day, you see, I hope to catch it out, this whatever it is. I hope to catch it out and then it won't matter, all these years it's been steadily working on me, they'll all be wiped away. I have this feeling, that all it will take will be one moment, even a
tiny
moment, provided it's the correct one. Like a cord suddenly snapping and a thick curtain dropping to the floor to reveal a whole new world, a world full of sunlight and warmth. Mr Ryder, you look utterly incredulous. Am I completely mad to believe this? That despite all these years, just one moment, the right moment, will change it all?'

What she had taken for incredulity had been nothing of the sort. Rather, while she had been speaking, I had remembered about Stephan's forthcoming recital and no doubt my excitement had made itself obvious. I now said, perhaps a little eagerly:

'Mrs Hoffman, I don't wish to raise any false hopes. But it's possible, just possible, you'll experience something very soon, something that might well be such a moment, exactly of the sort you talk of. It's just possible you'll encounter such a moment in the very near future. Something that will surprise you, force you to re-assess everything and see everything in a better, fresher light. Something that will indeed wipe away all these bad years. I don't wish to raise false hopes, I'm merely saying it's possible. Such a moment might even occur tonight, so it's essential you keep up your spirits.'

I stopped myself, the thought striking me that I was tempting fate. After all, although I had been impressed by the snatch of Stephan's playing I had caught, for all I knew the young man was perfectly capable of crumbling under pressure. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I regretted having intimated as much as I had. When I looked at Mrs Hoffman, however, I noticed my words had neither surprised nor excited her. After a few moments she said:

'When you found me wandering these streets just now, Mr Ryder, I wasn't simply taking the air as I pretended. I was trying to prepare myself. Because the possibility you mention, it naturally did occur to me. A night like tonight. Yes, many things are possible. So I was preparing myself. And I don't mind confessing to you, I am at this moment a little frightened. Because you see, just occasionally in the past, such moments have come and I've not been strong enough to seize them. Who knows how many more such chances there will be? So you see, Mr Ryder, I was doing my best to prepare myself. Ah, here we are. This is the rear of the building. This entrance will take you into the kitchens. I'll show you to the performers' entrance. I won't come in myself just yet. I think I need to take a little more air.'

'I'm very glad to have met you, Mrs Hoffman. It's kind of you to have shown me here at such a time for you. I do hope everything goes well for you tonight.'

'Thank you, Mr Ryder. And you too, you have a lot to think about, I'm sure. It's been delightful to meet you.'

29

As Mrs Hoffman disappeared into the night, I turned and hurried towards the doorway she had indicated. I did so telling myself that I should heed fully the lesson of the false alarm I had just experienced; that it was imperative I did not let anything further deflect me from the crucial tasks in front of me. In fact, at this moment, on the point at last of entering the concert hall building, everything seemed suddenly very simple to me. The fact of the matter was that finally, after all these years, I was about to perform once more before my parents. The priority above all else, then, was to ensure that my performance was the richest, the most overwhelming of which I was capable. By comparison, even the question-and-answer session was a secondary consideration. All the setbacks, all the chaos of the preceding days would prove to have been of no consequence whatsoever provided I could now achieve, on this evening, my one central objective.

The broad white door was dimly illuminated from above by a single night light. I had to lean my weight on it before it would open and I entered the building with a slight stumble.