The Unconsoled (71 page)

I expected people to rush to his aid, but the gasp that greeted his fall faded into an embarrassed silence. And then, as Brodsky continued to lie there face down on the floor, not moving, a low hubbub started up again throughout the auditorium. Finally, one of the violinists put aside his instrument and made towards Brodsky. A number of others - stage-hands, musicans - soon followed his lead, but there remained something hesitant about the way they closed in around the prone figure, as though they expected to disapprove thoroughly of what they discovered.

I came to my senses around this point -I had been hesitating, unsure what impact my revealing myself would have - and hurried onto the stage to join Brodsky's helpers. As I approached, the violinist let out a cry and, dropping down onto his knees, began to examine Brodsky with a new urgency. Then he looked up at us and said in a horrified whisper: 'My God, he's lost a leg! It's a wonder he took this long to pass out!'

There were gasps of surprise and the dozen or so of us who had gathered around exchanged looks. For some reason, there was a distinct feeling that news of the missing leg must not be allowed to get out and we drew closer together to keep out the audience's gaze. Those nearest to Brodsky were conferring in low voices about whether to carry him off the stage. Then someone signalled and the curtain began to close. It quickly became clear that Brodsky was lying directly in the line of the curtain, and several arms reached out and half dragged him away from the front of the stage just as the curtain came across.

The movement had the effect of reviving Brodsky a little, and when the violinist turned him onto his back he opened his eyes and looked searchingly from face to face. Then he said, in a voice that sounded more sleepy than anything else:

'Where is she? Why isn't she holding me?'

There were more looks exchanged. Then someone whispered:

'Miss Collins. He must mean Miss Collins.'

No sooner had these words been uttered than there was a gentle cough behind us and we turned to find Miss Collins standing just inside the curtain. She still seemed very composed and was gazing towards us with a look of polite concern. Only the way her hands were clasped in front of her, slightly higher on her chest than might be expected, indicated any turmoil within.

'Where is she?' Brodsky asked again in his sleepy voice. Then suddenly he began softly to sing to himself.

The violinist looked up at us. 'Is he drunk? He certainly smells of drink.'

Brodsky ceased singing, then said again, his eyes now closing: 'Where is she? Why doesn't she come?'

This time Miss Collins answered, not loudly, but very clearly from the curtain: 'I'm here, Leo.'

She had spoken in a tone approaching tenderness, but when a gangway immediately formed for her she did not move. The sight of the figure on the floor, however, finally brought signs of distress to her face. Brodsky, his eyes still closed, began to hum again.

Then he opened his eyes and looked about himself carefully. His gaze went first to the curtain - perhaps in search of the audience - then, finding it closed, examined again the faces staring down at him. Finally he looked towards Miss Collins.

'Let's embrace,' he said. 'Let's show the world. The curtain…' With some effort, he raised himself a little and called out: 'Get ready to open the curtain again!' Then he said softly to Miss Collins: 'Come and hold me. Embrace me. Then let them open the curtain. We'll let the world see.' He slowly lowered himself again until he was lying flat on his back. 'Come on,' he murmured.

Miss Collins seemed on the verge of speaking, but then changed her mind. She glanced towards the curtain, a look of fear coming into her eyes.

'Let them see it,' Brodsky said. 'Let them see we were together at the end. That we loved each other all our lives. Let's show them. When the curtains open, let them see it.'

Miss Collins went on staring at Brodsky, then finally began to walk towards him. People moved away discreetly, some going so far as to turn their gazes in the other direction. She stopped before she had quite reached him and said in a voice that trembled a little:

'We can hold hands if you like.'

'No, no. This is the finish. Let's embrace properly. Let them see.'

Miss Collins hesitated for a second, then went right up to him and knelt down. Her eyes, I could see, had filled with tears.

'My love,' Brodsky said softly. 'Hold me again. My wound's so painful now.'

Suddenly Miss Collins withdrew the hand she had started to extend and rose to her feet. She stared down coldly at Brodsky, then walked back briskly towards the curtain.

Brodsky seemed not to notice her retreat. He was now staring up at the ceiling, his arms spread open as though he expected Miss Collins to come descending from above.

'Where are you?' he said. 'Let them see it. When they open the curtain. Let them see we were together at the end. Where are you?'

'I won't come, Leo. Wherever you're going now, you'll have to go by yourself.'

Brodsky must have registered her new tone, for although he continued to gaze up at the ceiling his arms fell to his sides.

'Your wound,' Miss Collins said quietly. 'Always your wound.' Then her face contorted into ugliness. 'Oh, how I hate you! How I hate you for wasting my life! I shall never, never forgive you! Your wound, your silly little wound! That's your real love, Leo, that wound, the one true love of your life! I know how it will be, even if we tried, even if we managed to build something all over again. The music too, that would be no different. Even if they'd accepted you tonight, even if you became celebrated in this town, you'd destroy it all, you'd destroy everything, pull it all down around you just as you did before. And all because of that wound. Me, the music, we're neither of us anything more to you than mistresses you seek consolation from. You'll always go back to your one real love. To that wound! And you know what makes me so angry? Leo, are you listening to me? Your wound, it's nothing special, nothing special at all. In this town alone, I know there are many people with far worse. And yet they carry on, every one of them, with far greater courage than you ever did. They go on with their lives. They become something worthwhile. But you, Leo, look at you. Always tending your wound. Are you listening? Listen to me, I want you to hear every word of it! That wound's all you have now. I tried to give you everything once, but you weren't interested and you shan't have me a second time. How you wasted my life! How I hate you! Can you hear me, Leo? Look at you! What's to become of you now? Well, I'll tell you. You're going somewhere horrible now. Somewhere dark and lonely, and I won't come with you. Go on your own! Go on your own with that silly little wound!'

Brodsky had been waving a hand slowly in the air. Now, as she paused, he said:

'I might be… I might be a conductor again. The music just now, before I fell. It was good. You heard it? I might be a conductor again…'

'Leo, are you listening to me? You'll never be a
proper
conductor. You never were, even back then. You'll never be able to serve the people of this city, even if they wanted you to. Because you care nothing for their lives. That's the truth of it. Your music will only ever be about that silly little wound, it will never be anything more than that, it'll never be anything profound, anything of any value to anyone else. At least I, in my small way, I can say I did what I could. That I did my best to help the unhappy people here. But you, look at you. You've only ever cared about that wound. That's why even back then you were never a
real
musician. And you'll never become one now. Leo, are you listening to me? I want you to hear this. You'll never be anything more than a charlatan. A cowardly, irresponsible fraud…'

Suddenly a stout man with a red face burst through the curtain.

'Your ironing board, Mr Brodsky!' he announced cheerfully, holding the object up before him. Then, sensing the atmosphere, he shrank back.

Miss Collins stared at the newcomer, then, casting a last glance towards Brodsky, ran out through the gap in the curtain.

Brodsky's face was still turned up to the ceiling but now his eyes had closed again. Pushing myself forward, I knelt down beside him and listened to his heartbeat.

'Our sailors,' he murmured. 'Our sailors. Our drunken sailors. Where are they now? Where are you? Where are you?'

'It's me,' I said. 'Ryder. Mr Brodsky, we must get you some help very quickly.'

'Ryder.' He opened his eyes and gazed up at me. 'Ryder. Maybe it's true. What she says.'

'Don't worry yourself, Mr Brodsky. Your music was magnificent. Particularly the first two movements…'

'No, no, Ryder. I didn't mean all that. That hardly matters now. I meant the other thing she said. About me going alone. To some dark, lonely place. Maybe that's true.' Suddenly he raised his head off the floor and stared into my eyes. 'I don't want to go, Ryder,' he said in a whisper. 'I don't want to go.'

'Mr Brodsky, I'll try and bring her back. As I say, the first two movements in particular displayed enormous innovation. I'm sure she can be reasoned with. Please excuse me, I won't be a moment.'

Freeing my arm from his grip, I hurried out through the curtain.

35

I was surprised to find the auditorium quite transformed. The house lights had come back on and to all practical intents there was no longer an audience. As much as two-thirds of the guests had left, and of those remaining most were standing about talking in the aisles. I did not dwell long on this scene, however, having caught sight of Miss Collins making her way up the central aisle towards the exit. Stepping down off the stage, I hurried after her through the crowds and came within calling distance just as she was reaching the exit.

'Miss Collins! Just a moment, please!'

She turned and, spotting me, fixed me with a hard stare. Somewhat taken aback, I stopped in my tracks half-way up the aisle. Suddenly I could feel draining away all my resolve to catch up and speak with her, and for some reason found myself looking down awkwardly at my feet. When eventually I raised my head again, I saw that she had gone.

I went on standing there a little while longer, wondering if I had been foolish to let her go so easily. But then gradually I found my attention being drawn by the various conversations taking place around me. In particular there was a group standing to my right - six or seven quite elderly people - and I could hear one of the men saying:

'According to Mrs Schuster, the fellow hasn't been sober for one day during this whole business. Now how can we be asked to respect a man like that, however talented? What sort of example is he for our children? No, no, it's all been allowed to go too far.'

'At the Countess's dinner,' a woman said, 'almost certainly he was drunk then. It was only by very clever work they managed to hide it.'

'Excuse me,' I said breaking in, 'but you know nothing of this matter. I can assure you you're quite badly informed.'

I fully expected my presence alone to stun them into silence.

But they glanced at me pleasantly - as though I had merely asked if they minded my joining them - then returned to their conversation.

'No one wants to start praising Christoff again,' the first man said. 'But that rendition just now. As you say, it did border on the tasteless.'

'It bordered on the immoral. That's it. It bordered on the immoral.'

'Excuse me,' I said, interrupting this time more forcefully. 'But I happened to listen very carefully to what Mr Brodsky managed to do before his collapse and my own assessment differs from yours. In my view, he achieved something challenging, fresh, indeed something very close to the inner heart of the piece.'

I gave them all a frosty stare. They looked at me pleasantly again, some of them laughing politely as if I had made a joke. Then the first man said:

'No one's defending Christoff. We've all seen through him now. But when you listen to something like that just now, it does put things in perspective for you.'

'Apparently,' another man said, 'Brodsky believes Max Sattler had it right. Yes. He's actually been going round saying it for much of the day. No doubt he was talking in a drunken stupor, but since the man's always drunk that's as close as we'll get to his thoughts. Max Sattler. That explains a lot about what we just heard.'

'Christoff at least had a sense of structure. Some system you could get hold of.'

'Gentlemen,' I shouted at them, 'you disgust me!'

They did not even turn to look at me and I moved away from them angrily.

As I made my way back down the aisle, everyone around me seemed to be discussing what they had just witnessed. I noticed many were talking out of the sheer need to talk out an experience, in the way they might have done after a fire or an accident. As I reached the front of the auditorium, I saw two women crying and a third comforting them, saying: 'It's all right, it's all finished now. All finished now.' An aroma of coffee was pervading this section of the hall and a number of people were clutching cups and saucers, drinking as though to steady themselves.

Just then it occurred to me I should return to the upper level to see how Gustav was getting on, and, pushing my way through the throng, I left the auditorium via an emergency exit.

I found myself in a hushed, empty corridor. Like the one upstairs, it curved gradually, but this corridor was clearly intended to be used by guests. The carpeting was generous, the lights subdued and warm. Along the wall were paintings framed in gold leaf. I had not expected the corridor to be so deserted and for a moment stood hesitating about which way to go. Then, when I started to walk, I heard a voice call behind me:

'Mr Ryder!'

I turned to see Hoffman further down the corridor waving his arm. He called me again, but for some reason remained glued to his spot, so that in the end I was obliged to retrace my steps.

'Mr Hoffman,' I said as I came towards him. 'It's most unfortunate what has happened.'

'A disaster. An unmitigated disaster.'

'It's really most unfortunate. But Mr Hoffman, you mustn't get too down-hearted. You've done all you could to make the evening a success. And if I may point out, I have yet to make my appearance. I assure you I'll do whatever is in my power to bring the evening back under control. In fact, sir, I was wondering if we might not do away with the question-and-answer session in its original format. My suggestion would be that I simply give a speech, something apt, taking into account what has occurred. I might for instance say a few words suggesting we keep in our hearts the meaning of the extraordinary performance Mr Brodsky was in the midst of giving before he was taken ill, and that we should endeavour to be true to the spirit of that performance, something of that sort. Naturally I will keep the whole thing short. I might then perhaps dedicate my own recital to Mr Brodsky or else to his memory, depending on his condition by that point…'