The Unconsoled (20 page)

I made my way through the crowd until eventually I managed to see Brodsky being led across the room. The Countess was supporting one arm, Hoffman the other, and four or five others were fluttering anxiously nearby. Brodsky, evidently oblivious of his attendants, was gazing darkly up at the room's ornate ceiling. He was taller, more upright than I had expected, though at this moment he was carrying himself with such stiffness - and at an oddly sloping angle - that from a distance it seemed his entourage were rolling him along on castors. He was unshaven, but not outrageously so, and his dinner jacket was slightly askew as though it had been put on him by someone else. His features, though coarsened and aged, had a trace left about them of the debonair.

For an instant I thought they were leading him to me, but then realised they were heading for the adjoining dining room. A waiter standing at the threshold ushered through Brodsky and his attendants and as they disappeared another hush fell on the room. Before long, the guests resumed their talking again, but I could sense a new tension in the air.

I noticed at this point a solitary upright chair left against a wall and it occurred to me that a fresh vantage point might better enable me to assess the prevailing mood and decide on the most appropriate sort of talk to give at dinner. I thus walked over, seated myself and for several minutes sat watching the room.

The guests were still laughing and talking, but there was no doubt the underlying tension was increasing. In view of this, and in view of the fact that someone else would be speaking specifically about the dog, it seemed wise that I make my talk as light-hearted as was reasonable. In the end I decided the best thing might be to recount some amusing behind-the-scenes anecdotes concerning a series of mishaps that had beset my last Italian tour. I had told these stories in public often enough to be quite confident of their ability to defuse tensions and felt sure they would be much appreciated in the present circumstances.

I was testing out to myself a few possible opening lines when I noticed the crowd had thinned considerably. Only then did I realise people were steadily going through into the dining room and rose to my feet.

A few people smiled vaguely at me as I joined the procession into dinner, but no one spoke to me. I did not really mind this, since I was still trying to shape in my mind a really captivating opening statement. As I moved closer to the dining-room doors, I found myself undecided between two possibilities. The first was: 'My name over the years has tended to be associated with certain qualities. A meticulous attention to detail. Precision in performance. The tight control of dynamics.' This mock-pompous start could then be rapidly undercut by the hilarious revelations of what had actually occurred in Rome. The alternative was to strike a more obviously farcical note from the start: 'Collapsing curtain rails. Poisoned rodents. Misprinted score sheets. Few of you, I trust, would readily associate my name with such phenomena.' Both openings had their pros and cons and in the end I decided against making a final choice until I had gained a better sense of the mood over dinner.

I entered the dining room, people talking excitedly all around me. Immediately I was struck by its vastness. Even with the present company - well over a hundred -I could see why it had been necessary to illuminate only one part of the room. A generous number of round tables had been laid with white tablecloths and silver, but there seemed to be just as many others, bare and without seating, disappearing in rows into the darkness on the far side. Many guests were already seated and the overall picture - the gleam of the ladies' jewellery, the crisp whiteness of the waiters' jackets, the backdrop of black dinner suits and the darkness beyond - was not unimpressive. I was surveying the scene from just inside the doorway, taking the opportunity to straighten my dressing gown, when the Countess appeared at my side. She began to lead me by the arm, much as she had done earlier, saying:

'Mr Ryder, we've placed you at this table over here where you won't be quite so conspicuous. We don't want people spotting you and spoiling the surprise! But don't worry, once we announce your presence and you stand up, you'll be perfectly visible and audible to everyone.'

Although the table she led me to was in a corner, I could not see why it was particularly more discreet than any of the others. She seated me, then, saying something with a laugh -I could not hear her in the hubbub - hurried away.

I found I was sitting with four others - one middle-aged couple, another slightly younger - who all smiled routinely towards me before resuming their conversation. The husband of the older couple was explaining why their son wished to continue living in the United States, and then the conversation moved on to the couple's various other children. Occasionally one or the other of them remembered to include me in a nominal sort of way - by looking in my direction or, if a joke was made, by smiling at me. But none of them addressed me directly and I soon gave up trying to follow.

But then, as the waiters began to serve the soup, I noticed that their conversation had become sparse and distracted. Finally, somewhere during the main course, my companions seemed to drop all pretences and began to discuss the real matter preoccupying them. Casting barely disguised glances towards where Brodsky was seated, they exchanged speculations in lowered tones concerning the old man's present condition. At one point the younger of the women said:

'Surely, somebody should go up there and tell him how sorry we feel. We should all be going up there. No one seems to have said a word to him yet. Look, the people with him, they're hardly talking to him. Perhaps
we
should go up, we should start it off.

Then everyone else might follow. Perhaps everyone's waiting, just like us.'

The others hastened to reassure her that our hosts had everything under control, that in any case Brodsky looked to be very well, but then the next minute they also were looking uneasily across the room.

Naturally I too had been taking the opportunity to observe Brodsky quite carefully. He had been placed at a table a little larger than the rest. Hoffman was to one side of him, the Countess on the other. The rest of his company comprised a ring of solemn grey-haired men. The way these latter seemed continuously to be conferring under their breaths gave the table a conspiratorial air hardly helpful to the general atmosphere. As for Brodsky himself, he was showing no obvious sign of drunkenness and was eating steadily, if without enthusiasm. He nevertheless seemed to have retreated into a world of his own. For much of the main course, Hoffman had an arm behind Brodsky's back and appeared constantly to be murmuring into his ear, but the old man went on staring gloomily into space without responding. Once when the Countess touched his arm and said something, he again failed to reply.

Then towards the end of dessert - the food, if not spectacular, had been satisfying - I saw Hoffman making his way across the floor past the hurrying waiters and realised he was coming towards me. Arriving, he bent down and said in my ear:

'Mr Brodsky seems to wish to say a few words, but quite frankly - ha ha! - we've been trying to persuade him against doing so. We believe he shouldn't be put under any extra strain tonight. So, Mr Ryder, perhaps you would be good enough to watch carefully for my signal and rise promptly as soon as I give it. Then immediately you finish speaking, the Countess will bring the formal part of the proceedings to an end. Yes, really, we think it best Mr Brodsky isn't put under any extra strain. Poor man, ha ha! This guest list, really' - he shook his head and sighed - 'thank goodness you're here, Mr Ryder.'

Before I could say anything, he was dodging through the waiters again, hurrying back to his table.

I spent the next several minutes surveying the room and weighing up the two possible openings I had prepared for my speech. I was still prevaricating when the noise in the room suddenly subsided. I then became aware that a severe-faced man who had been sitting next to the Countess had risen to his feet.

The man was quite elderly and silver-haired. He exuded authority and almost immediately there was complete silence in the room. For a few more seconds the severe-faced man simply looked at the assembled guests with an air of reprimand. Then he said in a voice at once restrained and resonant:

'Sir. When such a fine, noble companion passes away, there is little, so little others can say that does not seem empty and shallow. Nevertheless, we could not possibly let this evening go by without a few formal words on behalf of everyone in this room, to convey to you, Mr Brodsky, the deep sympathy we feel for you.' He paused while a murmur of assent went around the room. Then he continued: 'Your Bruno, sir, was not only much loved by those of us who saw him going about his business around our town. He came to achieve a status rare among human beings, let alone among our quadrupeds. That is to say, he became an emblem. Yes, sir, he came to exemplify for us certain key virtues. A fierce loyalty. A fearless passion for life. A refusal to be looked down upon. An urge to do things in one's own special way, however seemingly outlandish to the eyes of grander observers. That is to say, the very virtues that have gone to build this unique and proud community of ours over the years. Virtues, sir, which if I may venture' - his voice slowed with significance - 'we hope very soon to see flower here again in every walk of life.'

He paused and looked around once more. He continued to hold the audience in his frosty gaze for another moment, then said finally:

'Let us now, together, observe a minute's silence in memory of our departed friend.'

As he lowered his eyes, people everywhere bowed their heads and complete silence reigned once more. At one point I looked up and noticed that some of the civic leaders at Brodsky's table -perhaps in their anxiety to set a good example - had adopted ludicrously exaggerated postures of grief. One of them, for instance, was clutching his forehead in both hands. For his part, Brodsky - who had remained immobile throughout the speech, not looking up once either at the speaker or the room in general -continued to sit quite still, and there was again something odd-angled about his whole posture. It was even possible he had fallen asleep in his chair and that the function of Hoffman's arm behind his back was primarily physical.

At the end of the minute, the severe-faced man sat down without speaking further, creating an awkward hiatus in the proceedings. A few people began cautiously to converse again, but then there came a movement from another table and I saw that a large balding man with blotchy skin had stood up.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said in a powerful voice. Then, turning to Brodsky, he bowed slightly and muttered: 'Sir.' He looked down at his hands for a few seconds, then gazed around the room. 'As many of you will already know, it was I who found the body of our beloved friend earlier this evening. I hope then that you will indulge me for a few moments while I say a few words concerning… concerning what took place. For you see, sir' - he looked again at Brodsky - 'the fact is, I must beg your forgiveness. Let me explain myself.' The large man paused and swallowed. 'This evening, as usual, I was making my deliveries. I had almost finished by then, I had just two or three calls left to make, and I took a short cut down the alley running between the railway line and Schildstrasse. I would not normally take such a short cut, particularly after dark, but today I was earlier than usual, and as you know, there was a pleasant sunset. So I took the short cut. And there, at just about the half-way point along the alley, I saw him. Our dear friend. He had placed himself in a discreet position, virtually hidden between the lamp-post and the wooden fence. I knelt beside him to make sure that he had indeed passed on. As I did so, many thoughts went through my mind. I thought, naturally, of you, sir. Of what a great friend he had always been to you, and what a tragic loss this would be. I thought too of how much the city at large would miss Bruno, how it would join you in your hour of grieving. And let me say it, sir, I felt, for all the sorrow of the moment, that fate had handed me a privilege. Yes, sir, a privilege. It had fallen to me to transport the body of our friend to the veterinary clinic. Then, sir, for what happened next, I… I have no excuse. Just now, as Mr von Winterstein was speaking, I was sitting here tormented by indecision. Should I too stand up now and speak? In the end, as you see, I decided that yes, I would. Much better that Mr Brodsky hears it from my own lips than as gossip in the morning. Sir, I am bitterly ashamed of what took place next. I can only say that I had no intention, not in a hundred years… I can now only beg your forgiveness. I have gone over it in my head many times in the last few hours and I see now what I should have done. I should have put down my packages. You see, I was still carrying two of them, the last of my deliveries. I should have put them down. They would have been safe enough in the alley, tucked in next to the fence. And even if someone had made off with them, what of it? But for some foolish reason, some idiotic professional instinct perhaps, I did not. I did not think. That is to say, as I lifted up Bruno's body, I was still clinging to the packages. I don't know what I expected. But the fact is - you will learn of this tomorrow, so I will tell you now myself - the fact is your Bruno must have been there for some time, for his body, magnificent though it was in death, had become cold and, well, it had stiffened. Yes, sir, stiffened. Forgive me, what I have to say now may bring you distress, but… but let me continue. In order to carry my packages - how I regret it, a thousand times I've regretted it already -in order to continue carrying my packages, I hoisted Bruno high up onto my shoulder, not taking into account his stiffened condition. Only when I had gone most of the way down the alley in this manner did I hear a child's shout from somewhere and stop. Then of course the enormity of my error dawned on me. Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Brodsky, need I spell it out to you? I see I must. The fact was this. On account of our friend's stiffness, on account of the foolish way I had chosen to transport him up on my shoulder, that is to say, in a virtually upright position… Well, the point is, sir, from any of the houses in Schildstrasse the whole upper part of his body would have been visible over the top of the fence. In fact, cruelty upon cruelty, it was just that time of the evening when most households were gathered in their back rooms for their evening meals. They would have been gazing at their gardens as they ate and would have seen our noble friend gliding past, his paws thrust in front of him - ah, the indignity of it! Household after household! I have become haunted by it, sir, I can see it before me, how it must have looked. Forgive me, sir, forgive me, I could not remain sitting here a moment longer without unburdening myself of this… this testimony to my bungling nature. What a misfortune that this sorrowful privilege should have fallen to a clod such as myself! Mr Brodsky, please, I beg you to accept these hopelessly inadequate apologies for the humiliation to which I subjected your noble companion so soon after his moment of departure. And the good people of Schildstrasse, perhaps some of them are here now, they like everyone else would have been deeply fond of Bruno. To have glimpsed him for the last time in such a manner… I beg you, sir, everyone, I beg you, I beg your forgiveness.'