The Unconsoled (7 page)

She had had Boris in a hug while saying this, but now she suddenly released him, turned and began to walk again. The abruptness with which she did so caught me by surprise - for I had myself become steadily lulled by her words and had for a moment closed my eyes. Boris too looked bewildered, and by the time I had taken his hand his mother was once more several paces in front.

I was keen not to let her get too far ahead again, but just at that moment I became conscious of footsteps coming down behind us and I could not help lingering a second to look back up the alley. Just as I did so, the person entered the pool of light cast by the lower lamp and I saw that it was someone I knew. His name was Geoffrey Saunders and he had been in my year at school in England. I had not seen him since schooldays, so was naturally struck by how much he had aged. Even allowing for the unflattering effects of the lamplight and the cold drizzle, he looked overwhelmingly down-at-heel. He was wearing a raincoat that seemed to have lost its ability to fasten and which he was now clutching together at the front as he walked. I was not at all sure I wished to acknowledge him, but then, as Boris and I set off once more, Geoffrey Saunders fell in step alongside us.

'Hello, old chap,' he said. 'Thought it was you. Rotten evening it's turned out to be.'

'Yes, miserable,' I said. 'And earlier it was so pleasant.'

The alley had brought us out onto a dark deserted road. There was a strong breeze and the city seemed far away.

'Your boy?' Geoffrey Saunders asked, nodding towards Boris. Then, before I could reply, he continued: 'Nice boy. Well done. Looks very bright. Myself I never married. Always thought I would, but time's just slipped away and now I suppose I never shall. To be honest, I suppose there's more to it than that. But I don't want to bore you with all the rotten luck I've had over the years. I've had some good things happen too. Still. Well done. Nice boy.'

Geoffrey Saunders leaned forward and gave Boris a salute. Boris, either too upset or too preoccupied, gave no response.

The road was now leading us downhill. As we walked through the darkness, I recalled how at school Geoffrey Saunders had been the golden boy of our year, always distinguishing himself both academically and on the sports field. His was the example forever being used to rebuke the rest of us for lack of effort, and it was widely reckoned that he would in time become school captain. He never did so, I recalled, owing to some crisis that had obliged him to leave the school suddenly during our fifth year.

'I read in the papers you were coming,' he was saying to me. 'I've been expecting to hear from you. You know, to tell me when you'll be popping round. I went and bought some cakes from the bakery so that I had something to offer you along with a cup of tea. After all, my digs may be rather dreary, what with my being single and all, but I still expect people to come and visit sometimes and I feel quite capable of looking after them well. So when I heard you were coming, I immediately popped out and bought a selection of tea cakes. That was the day before yesterday. Yesterday, I thought they were still presentable, though the icing had got a bit on the tough side. But today, when you still hadn't called, I threw them away. Pride, I suppose. I mean, you've been so successful, and I don't want you going away thinking I'm leading this miserable existence in small rented rooms with only stale cakes to offer a visitor. So I went to the bakery and got some fresh cakes. And I tidied my room up a bit. But you didn't call.

Well, I suppose I can't blame you. I say' - he leaned forward again and looked at Boris - 'are you all right there? You sound completely puffed out.'

Boris, who indeed was struggling again, gave no sign of having heard.

'Better slow down for the little slowcoach,' Geoffrey Saunders said. 'It's just that I was a little unlucky in love at one stage. A lot of people in this town assume I'm homosexual. Just because I live alone in a rented room. I minded that at first, but I don't any more. All right, they mistake me for a homosexual. So what? As it happens, my needs are met by women. You know, the sort you pay. Perfectly adequate for me, and I'd say some of them are quite decent people. All the same, after a while, you start to despise them and they start to despise you. Can't help it. I know most of the whores in this town. I don't mean I've slept with them all. Not by any means! But they know me and I know them. I'm on nodding terms with a lot of them. You probably think I lead a miserable existence. I don't. It's just a matter of how you look at things. Occasionally friends come to visit me. I'm quite capable of entertaining them over a cup of tea. I do it quite well and they often say afterwards how much they enjoyed popping round.'

The road had been descending steeply for a while, but it now levelled, and we found ourselves in what appeared to be an abandoned farmyard. All about us in the moonlight there loomed the dark shapes of barns and outhouses. Sophie was continuing to lead the way, but she was now some distance in front and often I would glimpse her figure only as it disappeared around the edge of some broken building.

Fortunately Geoffrey Saunders seemed to know his way well, navigating a route through the dark with barely a thought. As I followed close behind him, a certain memory came back to me from our schooldays, of a crisp winter's morning in England, with an overcast sky and frost on the ground. I had been fourteen or fifteen and had been standing outside a pub with Geoffrey Saunders somewhere deep in the Worcestershire countryside. We had been paired together to mark a cross-country run, our task being simply to point the runners, as they emerged out of the mist, in the correct direction across a nearby field. I had been unusually upset that morning, and after fifteen minutes or so of our standing there together staring quietly into the fog, in spite of my best efforts, I had burst into tears. I had not known Geoffrey Saunders well at that point, though like everyone else I had always been keen to make a good impression on him. I had thus been quite mortified and my initial impression, once I had finally brought my emotions under control, had been that he was ignoring me with the utmost contempt. But then Geoffrey Saunders had begun to speak, at first without looking in my direction, then eventually turning to me. I could not now bring to mind just what it was he had said on that foggy morning, but I could recall well enough the impact his words had had. For one thing, even in my state of self-pity, I had been able to recognise the remarkable generosity he was displaying, and had felt a profound gratitude. It was also at that moment I had first realised, with a distinct chill, that there was another side to the school golden boy - some deeply vulnerable dimension that would ensure he would never live up to the expectations that had been placed on him. As we continued to walk together through the dark, I tried once more to remember just what he had said that morning, but to no avail.

With the ground levelling, Boris seemed to recover a little breath and he had once more begun to whisper. Now, perhaps encouraged by a sense that we were about to reach our destination, he found the energy to kick a stone in his path, exclaiming out loud as he did so: 'Number Nine!' The stone skipped across the rough ground and landed in water somewhere in the darkness.

'That's a bit more like it,' Geoffrey Saunders said to Boris. 'Is that your position? Number Nine?'

When Boris failed to answer, I said quickly: 'Oh no, it's just his favourite footballer.'

'Oh yes? I watch a lot of football. On the television, that is.' He leaned forward to Boris again. 'Which number nine is that?'

'Oh, it's just his favourite player,' I said again.

'As far as centre forwards go,' Geoffrey Saunders went on, 'I rather like that Dutchman, plays for Milan. He's quite something.'

I was about to say something further to explain about Number Nine, but at that moment we came to a halt. I saw then that we were standing at the edge of a vast grassy field. Just how large it was, I could not ascertain, but I guessed it extended far beyond what could be seen by the moon. As we stood there, a harsh wind swept across the grass and on into the darkness.

'We appear to be lost,' I said to Geoffrey Saunders. 'Do you know your way around here?'

'Oh yes. I live not so far from here. Unfortunately I can't ask you in just now because I'm very tired and have to go to sleep. But I'll be ready to welcome you tomorrow. Let's say any time after nine o'clock.'

I looked across the field into the blackness.

'To be frank, we're in a little trouble just now,' I said. 'You see, we were on our way to the apartment of that woman we were following earlier. Now we've got ourselves rather lost and I've no idea what her address is. She said something about living near a medieval chapel.'

'The medieval chapel? That's in the city centre.'

'Ah. Can we get to it by going across there?' I pointed over the field.

'Oh no, there's nothing that way. Nothing but emptiness. Only person living out there is that Brodsky fellow.'

'Brodsky,' I said. 'Hmm. I heard him practising in the hotel today. You all seem to know about this Brodsky here in this town.'

Geoffrey Saunders gave me a glance that made me suspect I had said something foolish.

'Well, he's been living here for years and years. Why shouldn't we know about him?'

'Yes, yes, of course.'

'A bit hard to believe the crazy old fellow's got it in him to conduct an orchestra. But I'm prepared to wait and see. Things can't very well get much worse. And if
you
start saying Brodsky's the thing, well, who am I to argue?'

I could not think what I might say to this. In any case, Geoffrey Saunders suddenly turned away from the field, saying:

'No, no, the city's over that way. I can direct you if you like.'

'We'd be very grateful,' I said as a chilly gust blew against us.

'Well now.' Geoffrey Saunders fell into thought for a moment. Then he said: 'To be honest, you'd be best off getting a bus. To walk from here would take a good half-hour or so. Perhaps the woman persuaded you her apartment was close by. Well, they always do that. It's one of their tricks. You should never believe them. But it's no problem if you take a bus. I'll show you where you can pick one up.'

'We'd be very grateful,' I said again. 'Boris is getting cold. I hope this bus stop isn't far.'

'Oh, very near. Just follow me, old man.'

Geoffrey Saunders turned and led us back towards the abandoned farmyard. I sensed, however, that we were not retracing our footsteps and, sure enough, before long we found ourselves walking down a narrow street in what seemed a less than affluent suburb. Small terraced houses stood in rows on either side. Here and there I could see lights in windows, but for the most part the occupants appeared to have turned in for the night.

'It's all right,' I said quietly to Boris, who I sensed was close to exhaustion. 'We'll be at the apartment now very soon. Your mother will have everything ready for us by the time we turn up.'

We walked on for a while past more rows of houses. Then Boris began to mutter again:

'Number Nine… It's Number Nine…'

'Look, which number nine is this?' Geoffrey Saunders said, turning to him. 'You mean that Dutchman, don't you?'

'Number Nine's the best player so far in history,' Boris said.

'Yes, but which number nine do you mean?' Geoffrey Saunders's voice had now gained an edge of impatience. What's his name? Which is his team?'

'Boris just likes to call him…'

'Once he scored seventeen goals in the last ten minutes!' Boris said.

'Oh nonsense.' Geoffrey Saunders seemed genuinely annoyed. 'I thought you were being serious. You're talking nonsense.'

'He did!' Boris shouted. 'It was a world record!'

'Quite!' I joined in. 'A world record!' Then, recovering my composure somewhat, I gave a laugh. 'That's to say, well, it's bound to be, isn't it.' I smiled appealingly at Geoffrey Saunders, but he ignored me.

'But who are you talking about? Do you mean that Dutchman? Anyway, young man, you've got to realise, scoring goals isn't everything. The defenders are just as important. The
really
great players are often defenders.'

'Number Nine's the best player so far in history!' Boris said again. 'When he's on form, no defence can stop him!'

'That's right,' I said. 'Number Nine's without doubt the world's finest. Midfield, up front, everything. He does everything. Really.'

'You're talking nonsense, old man. Neither of you knows what you're talking about.'

'We know perfectly well.' By this time I was getting quite angry with Geoffrey Saunders. 'In fact, what we're saying is universally acknowledged. When Number Nine's on form, really on form, the commentator shouts "goal" the moment he gets the ball, no matter where on the pitch…'

'Oh my goodness.' Geoffrey Saunders turned away in disgust. 'If that's the sort of rubbish you fill your boy's brain with, God help him.'

'Now look here…' I put my face right up to his ear and spoke in an angry whisper. 'Look here, can't you understand…'

'It's rubbish, old man. You're filling the boy's head with rubbish…'

'But he's young, just a small boy. Can't you understand…'

'No reason to fill his head with rubbish. Besides, he doesn't look as young as all that. In my view, a boy his age, he should be making a proper contribution to things by now. Starting to pull his weight a bit. He should be learning about wallpapering, say, or tiling. Not all this nonsense about fantastical footballers…'

'Look, you idiot, just be quiet! Be quiet!'

'A boy his age, it's high time he was pulling his weight…'

'He's my boy, I'll say when it's time for him to…'

'Wallpapering, tiling, something like that. To my mind, that's the sort of thing…'

'Look, what do you know about it? What do you know, a miserable, lonely bachelor? What do you know about it?'

I pushed his shoulder roughly. Geoffrey Saunders became suddenly crestfallen. He shuffled a few paces on ahead of us, where he continued walking with his head slightly bowed, still clutching the front of his raincoat.