The Unconsoled (26 page)

The tram rattled away leaving the three of us standing in open countryside surrounded by windswept fields. I found the breeze refreshing and for a few moments stood watching the tram disappear across the fields into the horizon.

'Mr Ryder, this way if you please.'

The journalist and Pedro were waiting a few paces away. I went up to them and we began to make our way across the grassy field. Now and then powerful gusts of wind tugged at our clothes and sent ripples across the grass. Eventually we reached the foot of a hill where we paused to recover our breath.

'It's just a short way up here,' the journalist said, pointing up the hill.

After the struggle we had had walking through the long grass I was glad to see there was a dirt path leading us up the hill.

'Well,' I said, 'I don't have much time, so perhaps we'd better be on our way.'

'Of course, Mr Ryder.'

The journalist led the way up the path which climbed steeply in zig-zags. I managed to keep up with him, following just a step or two behind. Pedro, perhaps slowed down by his bags, quickly fell behind altogether. As we climbed, I found myself thinking about Fiona, about how I had let her down the previous night, and it struck me that for all the assurance with which I had so far conducted myself on this present visit, for all I had so far achieved, my handling of certain matters - at least by my own standards - left something to be desired. Quite aside from the embarrassment I had caused Fiona, with my parents' arrival in the town now so imminent, it was vexing in the extreme that I had let slip such an opportunity to discuss their many complicated needs with the people in whose care they were to be entrusted. As my breath came harder, I could feel returning to me an intense sense of irritation with Sophie for the confusion she had brought into my affairs. Surely it was not too much to ask that, at such crucially important points in my life as this, she somehow contained her chaos to herself. All sorts of words I suddenly wished to say to her began filling my head and, had I not been short of breath, I might well have started to mutter them out loud.

After the path had turned three or four corners, we stopped to rest. Raising my gaze, I saw we now commanded a sweeping view over the surrounding countryside. There was field after field stretching into the distance. Only far on the horizon was there something that looked like a huddle of farm buildings.

'A splendid view,' the journalist said, panting and clawing his hair back off his face. 'It's so exhilarating to come up here. The fresh air will set us up well for the rest of the day. Well, better not waste time, pleasant as this all is.' He laughed cheerfully, then began to walk again.

As before I kept up closely with him, while Pedro lagged behind. Then at one point, as we were struggling up a particularly steep section, Pedro called out something from below. I thought he was appealing to us to slow down, but the journalist did not break his step, simply shouting over his shoulder against a blast of wind: 'What did you say?'

I could hear Pedro struggling to gain a few paces. Then I heard him shout:

'I said, we seem to have got the shit convinced. I think he's going to go along with it.'

'Well,' the journalist shouted back, 'he's co-operated so far, but you can never take these types for granted. So keep up the flattery. He's come this far up and he seems quite happy about it. But then I don't think the fool even knows the significance of the building.'

'What do we tell him if he asks?' Pedro shouted. 'He's bound to ask.'

'Just change the subject. Ask him to alter his pose. Any talk about his appearance is bound to deflect him. If he keeps asking, well, we'll have to tell him in the end, but by then we'll have a whole lot of pictures and there'll be nothing the shit can do.'

'I'll be glad when this is all over,' Pedro said, his breath coming even harder now. 'God, the way he keeps stroking his hands together makes my flesh creep.'

'We're almost there now. We've been doing fine, now let's not blow it at the last moment.'

'Excuse me,' I said interrupting, 'but I need to stop for a second.'

'Of course, Mr Ryder, how inconsiderate of me,' the journalist said and we came to a halt. 'I myself am a marathon runner,' he went on, 'and so have an unnatural advantage. But I must say, sir, you seem extremely fit indeed. And for a man of your age -I only know your age from my notes here, I'd never have guessed it otherwise - really, you've completely outpaced poor Pedro.' Then he shouted to Pedro as the latter caught up with us: 'Come on, slowcoach. Mr Ryder's laughing at you.'

'It's not fair,' Pedro said smiling. 'Mr Ryder's so gifted, and then on top of it all, to be blessed with such athleticism. Some of us aren't so lucky.'

We stood looking out over the view, recovering our breath. Then the journalist said:

'We're very nearly there now. Let's keep going. After all, Mr Ryder has a busy day ahead.'

The last part of the journey was the most arduous. The path grew ever steeper and frequently disintegrated into muddy puddles. Ahead of me the journalist continued on steadily, though I could see he was now bent forward with the effort. As I staggered on after him, my head began to fill again with things I wished to say to Sophie. 'Do you realise?' I caught myself muttering through clenched teeth in time to my steps. 'Do you realise?' Somehow the sentence never got any further, but with each step, either in my head or under my breath, I repeated this line over and over until the words themselves began to fuel my irritation.

The path at last levelled off and I could see a white building at the peak of the hill. The journalist and I stumbled towards it and the next moment we were leaning against its wall, panting away. After a while Pedro joined us, wheezing frantically. He collapsed against the wall, sagging down onto his knees, and I feared for a second he was about to have a seizure. But even as he continued to wheeze and pant, he began to unzip his bag. He pulled out a camera, then a lens. At this point the effort seemed to overwhelm him and, putting an arm to the wall, he buried his head in its crook and went on gasping for air.

When at last I felt reasonably recovered, I moved a few steps away from the building in order to get a view of it. A gust of wind almost flattened me back against the wall, but eventually I reached a spot from which I found myself looking at a tall cylinder of white brickwork, windowless apart from a single vertical slit near the top. It was as though a single turret had been removed from a medieval castle and transplanted here on top of the hill.

'Mr Ryder, whenever you're ready, sir.'

The journalist and Pedro had taken up a position some ten metres from the building. Pedro, now evidently recovered, had set up his tripod and was peering through his viewfinder.

'Right up against the wall, if you will, Mr Ryder,' the journalist called.

I made my way back up to the building. 'Gentlemen,' I said, raising my voice above the wind, 'before we begin, I'd like you just to explain to me the precise nature of this setting we've chosen.'

'Mr Ryder, please,' Pedro called, waving his hand in the air. 'Stand right back against the wall. Perhaps an arm against it. Like this.' He held his elbow out to the wind.

I stepped closer to the wall and did as requested. Pedro proceeded to take a number of photographs, occasionally shifting his tripod or changing his lens. All the while, the journalist remained close by, peering over Pedro's shoulder and conferring with him.

'Gentlemen,' I said after a time, 'surely it's not unreasonable of me to ask…'

'Mr Ryder, please,' Pedro said, jumping up from behind the camera. 'Your tie!'

My tie had blown over my shoulder. I corrected it, taking the opportunity also to re-arrange my hair.

'Mr Ryder,' Pedro called, 'if we could please have some with your hand raised like this. Yes, yes! As though you're ushering someone towards the building. Yes, that's perfect, perfect. But please, smile proudly. Very proud, as though the building is your baby. Yes, that's perfect. Yes, you look magnificent.'

I obeyed the instructions as best I could, though the powerful gusts made it difficult to maintain a suitably genial expression on my face.

Then after a time I became aware of a figure standing over to my left. I gained an impression of a man in a dark coat huddling close to the wall, but at that moment I was having to hold a pose and could only see him at the edge of my vision. Pedro continued to shout instructions through the wind - to move my chin a fraction to one side, to smile more broadly - and some time seemed to pass before I was free to turn and look at the figure. When I finally did so, the man - he was tall and stick-like, with a bald head and bony features - started immediately to come towards me. He was holding his raincoat tightly to himself, but as he approached he held out his hand.

'Mr Ryder, how do you do? It's an honour to meet you.'

'Ah yes,' I said, studying him. 'I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr… er…?'

The stick-like man looked taken aback. Then he said: 'Christoff. I am Christoff.'

'Ah, Mr Christoff.' A particularly strong blast obliged us to brace ourselves for a few seconds, allowing me to recover somewhat. 'Ah yes, Mr Christoff. Of course. I've heard a great deal about you.'

'Mr Ryder,' Christoff said, leaning towards me, 'may I say straight away how grateful I am to you for agreeing to attend this lunch. I knew what a civilised person you were and so wasn't in the least surprised when you responded positively. I knew, you see, you were the sort at least to give us a fair hearing. The sort that would be actually keen to hear our side of things. No, I wasn't surprised at all, but I remain immensely grateful. Well now' - he looked at his watch - 'we're a little late, but no matter. The traffic shouldn't be so bad. Please, this way.'

I followed Christoff around to the back of the white building. Here the wind was less strong and a mass of piping spilling out of the brickwork was emitting a low humming noise. Christoff continued to lead the way towards a spot on the rim of the hill marked by two wooden posts. I pictured a steep drop beyond the posts, but on reaching them I looked down to see a long flight of rickety stone steps leading dizzyingly down the hillside. Far below, the staircase met a paved road where I could make out the shape of a black car waiting, presumably, for us.

'After you, Mr Ryder,' Christoff said. 'Please, descend at your own pace. There's no hurry.'

However, I noticed he glanced anxiously again at his watch.

'I'm very sorry we're late,' I said. 'Those photographs took a little longer than I expected.'

'Please don't worry, Mr Ryder. I'm sure we'll get there in good time. Please, after you.'

I felt a little giddy negotiating the first steps. There was no banister on either side and I was obliged to concentrate hard through fear that I would miss a step and fall right the way down the hillside. But thankfully the wind was less troublesome and after a while I found myself growing more confident - it was not so different from descending any other staircase - to the extent that I occasionally took my eyes off my feet altogether to survey the panoramic view before us.

The sky was still overcast, but the sun was beginning to break through the clouds. The road on which the car was waiting, I could now see, was built into a plateau. Beyond it the hill continued its descent down through a mass of tree-tops. Further below yet I could see fields stretching off in all directions into the distance. Faintly visible on the horizon was the skyline of the city.

Christoff remained directly behind me. For the first few minutes, perhaps noticing my nervousness about the descent, he refrained from conversing. But once I had built up my rhythm, he sighed and said:

'Those woods, Mr Ryder. Down there to your right. Those are the Werdenberger Woods. Many of the wealthier people in this town, they like to have a chalet down there. The Werdenberger Woods are very pleasant. Only a short drive to the city, and yet one feels so far from everything. Once we're in the car and we drive down the mountainside, you'll see the chalets. Some are perched right on the edge of sheer drops. The views must be stunning. Rosa would have loved one of those chalets. In fact we had a particular one in mind, I'll point it out to you as we drive down. One of the more modest ones, but very attractive just the same. The present owner hardly uses it, no more than two or three weeks in the year. If I'd made a good offer, he'd certainly have given it serious consideration. But there's no point thinking about all that now. That's all finished with.'

He fell silent for a few moments. Then his voice started again behind me.

'It's nothing grand. Rosa and I have never even seen inside it. But we've driven past it so many times, we can imagine what it would be like. It sits out on this little promontory, there's a sheer drop, oh, you'd get the feeling of being suspended high in the sky. You'd see clouds from every window as you walked from room to room. Rosa would have loved it. We used to drive past, slow the car right down, sometimes even stop and sit there imagining it, how it would be inside, picturing it room by room. Well, as I say, that's all in the past now. Useless to dwell on it. In any case, Mr Ryder, you didn't agree to give us your precious time just to hear all this. Forgive me. Let us return to more important matters. You know, sir, we are all
immensely
gratified by your agreeing to come and talk with us. And what a telling contrast to these people, these men who claim to lead this community! On three separate occasions we invited them to attend one of our luncheons, to come and talk over the issues just as you're about to do. But they wouldn't entertain it. Not for a second! Far too proud, all of them. Von Winterstein, the Countess, von Braun, all of them. It's because they're uncertain, you see. In their hearts they know they don't understand anything, so they refuse to come and have a proper discussion with us. Three times we've invited them, and each time the bluntest of refusals. But it would have been futile anyway. They wouldn't have understood the half of what we are saying.'

I became silent again. I felt I should make some comment, but it struck me I could only make myself audible by shouting back over my shoulder and I was not prepared to risk taking my eyes off the steps. For the next few minutes, then, we continued our descent in silence, Christoff's breathing becoming increasingly laboured behind me. Then I heard him say: