The Unconsoled (66 page)

Your son has considerable gifts and, whatever else occurs tonight, I feel sure his performance will prove a sensation.'

'Why, you really think so? But the fact remains, sir, that Stephan here, he… he…' Hoffman appeared to become confused, and with a quick laugh slapped his son on the back. 'Well then, Stephan, it seems you might have something for us.'

'I hope so, Father. But Mother's still in the foyer. Perhaps she's waiting for
you
. I mean, it's always awkward, a woman sitting by herself at an occasion like this. Perhaps that's all it is. As soon as you go in and take your seat, she might come and join you. It's just that I have to go on very soon now.'

'Very well, Stephan, I'll see to it. Don't worry. Now you get back to your dressing room and get yourself ready. Mr Ryder and I have just a few things to deal with first.'

Although Stephan still looked unhappy, we left him and continued on our way.

'I should warn you, Mr Hoffman,' I said when we had gone a little further down the corridor. 'You may find Mr Brodsky has adopted a somewhat hostile attitude towards… well, towards yourself.'

'Towards me?' Hoffman looked surprised.

'That's to say, when I saw him just now, he was expressing a certain annoyance with you. He seemed to have some sort of grievance. I thought I ought just to let you know.'

Hoffman mumbled something I could not hear. Then, as the corridor continued its gradual curve, what was obviously Brodsky's dressing room - a small crowd was loitering outside it -appeared ahead of us. The hotel manager slowed down, then stopped altogether.

'Mr Ryder, I've been thinking over what Stephan just said. On second thoughts, I think I'd better go and see to my wife. Make sure she's all right. After all, the nerves on a night like this, you understand.'

'Of course.'

'Then you'll forgive me. I wonder, sir, if I could ask you just to check that all is well with Mr Brodsky over there. I myself, yes, really' - he looked at his watch - 'it's time I was taking my seat. Stephan's quite right.'

Hoffman gave a short laugh and hurried off in the direction from which we had come.

I waited until he was out of sight, then walked towards the gathering around Brodsky's doorway. Some people seemed to be standing there out of simple curiosity, while others were conducting heated arguments in subdued tones. The grey-haired surgeon was hovering close to the door, emphasising something to an orchestra member, repeatedly waving his hand in an exasperated manner towards the interior of the dressing room. The door itself, I was surprised to see, was wide open, and as I approached it the little tailor I had seen earlier popped his head out, shouting: 'Mr Brodsky wants a pair of scissors. A large pair of scissors!' Someone went hurrying off and the tailor disappeared again inside. I pushed my way through the crowd and looked into the room.

Brodsky was sitting with his back to the doorway, studying himself in his dressing mirror. He was now wearing a dinner jacket, both shoulders of which the tailor was pinching and tugging. He had on also a dress shirt, but as yet no bow tie.

'Ah, Ryder,' he said, seeing my reflection. 'Come in, come in. You know, it's a long time since I've worn clothes like these.'

He sounded much calmer than when I had last encountered him and I was reminded of the commanding air he had displayed in the cemetery that moment he had appeared in front of the mourners.

'Now, Mr Brodsky,' the tailor said, straightening himself, and for a few moments the two of them considered the jacket in the mirror. Then Brodsky shook his head.

'No, no. A little tighter still,' he said. 'Here and here. Too much material.'

'It won't take a moment, Mr Brodsky.' The tailor hurriedly took off the jacket and, giving me a quick bow as he passed, disappeared out of the door.

Brodsky went on looking at his reflection, fingering thoughtfully his winged collar. Then he picked up a comb and made some adjustments to his hair - which I noticed had been rubbed with a shiny lotion.

'How are you feeling now?' I asked, moving closer to him.

'Good,' he said slowly, continuing to attend to his hair. 'I feel good now.'

'And your leg? You're sure you can perform with such a severe injury?'

'My leg, it's nothing.' He put down his comb and considered the effect. 'It wasn't so bad as it looked. I'm fine now.'

As Brodsky said this, I could see in the mirror the surgeon -who had all the time remained near the doorway - take a step into the room with the look of someone no longer able to contain himself. But before the latter could say anything, Brodsky shouted at the mirror with some ferocity:

'I'm fine now! The wound is nothing!'

The surgeon retreated back to the threshold, but from there continued to stare angrily at Brodsky's back.

'But Mr Brodsky,' I said quietly, 'you've lost a limb. That can never be a trivial matter.'

'I lost a limb, it's true.' Brodsky was attending again to his hair. 'But that was years ago, Ryder. Many years ago. When I was a child perhaps. It was all so long ago, I don't quite remember. That fool of a doctor, he didn't realise. I was all caught in that bicycle, but it was just the artificial leg, the one that was trapped. The fool didn't even realise it. Calls himself a surgeon! All my life, it feels like it, Ryder, I've been without that leg. How long ago was it now? You start to forget, once you get to this sort of age. You don't even mind it any more. It gets to be like an old friend, a wound. Of course, it troubles you from time to time, but I've lived with it so long. It must have happened when I was a child. A railway accident, maybe. In the Ukraine somewhere. In the snow maybe. Who knows? It doesn't matter now. It feels like it's been this way all my life. Just one leg. It's not so bad. You get by. That fool of a doctor. He sawed off the wooden leg. Yes, there was blood, it's bleeding still, I need scissors for it, Ryder. I've sent out for scissors. No, no, not for the wound. The trouser leg, I mean this trouser leg here. How can I conduct with this trouser leg flapping empty like this? But that idiot of a doctor, that hospital intern, he cut off the wooden one, so what can I do now? I have to' - he mimicked with his fingers scissors cutting across the material just above the knee - 'I have to do something. Make it as elegant as possible. That fool, not only does he ruin my wooden leg, he grazes the stump. It's years since the wound's bled like this. What an idiot, with his face so serious. A very important man he thinks himself, and he saws off my wooden leg. Cuts the end of my stump. No wonder it keeps bleeding. Blood everywhere. But I lost it years ago. A long time ago, that's how it feels now. I've had a lifetime to get used to it. But now the idiot with his saw, it's bleeding again.' He looked down and rubbed something into the floor with his shoe. 'I've sent out for scissors. I have to look my best, Ryder. I'm not a vain man. I don't do this because I'm vain. But a man must look decent at a time like this. She'll see me tonight, she'll remember tonight through all the years we've got left. And this orchestra, it's a good orchestra. Here, let me show you.' He reached forward and held a baton up to the light. 'A good baton. There's a particular feel, you can tell. It makes a difference, you know. For me, the point is always important. The point must be just so.' He stared at the baton. 'It's been a long time, but I'm not afraid. I'll show them all tonight. And I won't compromise. I'll take it the whole way. Like you say, Ryder. Max Sattler. But what an idiot, that man! That fool! That hospital janitor!'

These last words Brodsky shouted with some relish into the mirror and I saw the surgeon - who had been looking on from the doorway with an expression of astonishment - retreat sheepishly out of view.

With the surgeon finally gone, Brodsky for the first time displayed signs of strain. He closed his eyes and leaned over to one side in his chair, breathing heavily. But then, the next moment, a man burst into the room proffering a pair of scissors.

'Ah, at last,' Brodsky said, taking them. Then, once the man had left, he placed the scissors on the shelf in front of the mirror and began to stand up. He used the back of his chair to hoist himself up, then stretched a hand towards the ironing board leaning against the wall near the mirror. I moved forward to assist him, but with surprising agility he reached the ironing board unaided and tucked it under his arm.

'You see,' he said, gazing down sadly at the empty trouser leg. 'I have to do something here.'

'Would you like me to call back the tailor?'

'No, no. That man, he won't know what to do. I'll do it myself.'

Brodsky went on looking down at the empty trouser leg. As I watched him, I remembered the various other pressing matters awaiting my attention. In particular, I needed to return to Sophie and Boris, and to find out the latest on Gustav's condition. It was even possible some crucial decision concerning Gustav had been deferred pending my return. I gave a cough and said: 'If you don't mind, Mr Brodsky, I have to be getting along.' Brodsky was still gazing down at his trouser leg. 'It will be magnificent tonight, Ryder,' he said quietly. 'She'll see. She'll see at last.'

33

The scene outside Gustav's dressing room had not changed greatly in the time I had been away. The porters had perhaps moved further away from the doorway and were now huddled in murmured conference on the other side of the corridor. Sophie, however, was standing much as I had last seen her, the package folded over her arms, gazing at the slightly open door. Noticing my approach, one of the porters came towards me and said in a low voice:

'He's still holding out well, sir. But Josef's gone to fetch the doctor now. We decided we couldn't leave it any longer.'

I nodded, then asked quietly, glancing towards Sophie: 'Hasn't she gone in at all?'

'Not yet, sir. Though I'm sure Miss Sophie will do so very shortly.'

We both regarded her a moment.

'And Boris?' I asked.

'Oh, he's been in a few times, sir.'

'A few times?'

'Oh yes. He's in there just now.'

I nodded again, then went up to Sophie. She had been unaware of my return and gave a start as I touched her gently on the shoulder. Then she laughed and said:

'He's in there. Papa.'

'Yes.'

She adjusted her position a little, leaning to one side as though trying to improve her view through the doorway.

'Aren't you going to give him the coat?' I asked.

Sophie looked down at it, then said: 'Oh yes. Yes, yes. I was just going to…' She trailed off and again leaned to one side. Then she called out:

'Boris? Boris! Come out a minute.'

After a few seconds Boris emerged looking very collected and closed the door carefully behind him.

'Well?' Sophie asked.

Boris gave me a quick glance. Then, turning to his mother, he said:

'Grandfather says he's sorry. He said to say he's sorry.'

'Is that all? That's all he said?'

For an instant, uncertainty crossed the little boy's face. Then he said reassuringly: 'I'll go back in. He'll say more.'

'But is that all he said to you just now? That he's sorry?'

'Don't worry. I'll go back in.'

'Just a minute.' Sophie began to tear the wrapping off the overcoat. 'Take this in to your grandfather. Give it to him. See if it fits him properly. Tell him I can always adjust a few things.'

She let the torn wrapping fall to the floor and held up a dark brown overcoat. Boris took it without fuss and went back into the dressing room. Perhaps on account of the coat - it sat very bulkily in the little boy's arms - Boris left the door half open behind him and soon a murmur of voices came out into the corridor. Sophie did not move from her spot, but I could see her straining to catch some words. Behind us the porters were still keeping a respectful distance, but I could see they too were now looking anxiously at the door.

Several moments passed, then Boris came out again.

'Grandfather says thank you,' he said to Sophie. 'He's very happy now. He says he's very happy.'

'Is that all he said?'

'He said he's happy. He wasn't comfortable before, but now the coat's come, he says it means a lot to him.' Boris glanced behind him, then back at his mother. 'He says he's very happy with the coat.'

'That's all he said? Nothing about… nothing about if it fits him? If he likes the colour?'

Because I was watching Sophie at this point, I did not see precisely what it was Boris did next. My impression was that he did nothing remarkable, simply pausing a little while he thought of a response to his mother's query. But Sophie suddenly shouted:

'Why are you doing that?'

The little boy stared in bewilderment.

'Why are you doing that? You know what I mean. Like this!

Like this!' She grabbed Boris by the shoulder and began to shake him violently. 'Just like his grandfather!' she said, turning to me. 'He copies it!' Then to the porters, who were all looking on in alarm: 'His grandfather! That's where he gets it from. You see the way he does that with his shoulder? So smug, so self-satisfied. You see it? Exactly like his grandfather!' She glared at Boris and continued to shake him. 'Oh, so you think you're so grand, do you? Do you?'

Boris pulled himself free and staggered back a few steps.

'Did you see it?' Sophie asked me. 'The way he always does that. It's just like his grandfather.'

Boris took a few more steps away from us. Then, reaching down, he picked off the floor the black doctor's bag he had brought with him and held it up defensively in front of his chest. I thought he was about to burst into tears, but at the last moment he managed to control himself.

'Don't worry…' he began, then stopped. He hoisted the black bag higher in front of his chest. 'Don't worry. I'll… I'll…' He gave up and looked about him. The door to the neighbouring room was only a short way behind him and the little boy turned quickly and disappeared through it, slamming it shut after him.

'Are you mad?' I said to Sophie. 'He's upset enough as it is.'

Sophie remained silent for a moment. Then she gave a sigh and walked over to the door through which Boris had disappeared. She knocked, then went in.