‘Mr Hoffman,’ I said, my impatience overtaking me, ‘if you feel happy having left Mr Brodsky drinking whisky, well, that’s your business. I’m not at all sure it was such a good decision, but then you know the situation much better than I do. In any case, may I remind you that I am myself in need of assistance at this moment? As I explained to you, I need a car as soon as possible. This really is a matter of some urgency, Mr Hoffman.’
‘Ah yes, a car.’ Hoffman looked about thoughtfully. ‘The simplest thing, Mr Ryder, might be if you borrowed my car. It is parked outside that fire door just there.’ He pointed a little further down the corridor. ‘Now, where are the keys? Ah, here you are. The steering is slightly tilted to the left. I’ve been meaning to get it adjusted but things have been so busy. Please, make whatever use of it you will. I won’t be needing it again until morning.’
30
I brought Hoffman’s large black car out of the parking area and onto a twisting road shrouded on both sides by fir trees. This was clearly not the usual route out of the grounds. The road was pitted, unlit, and too narrow for two vehicles to pass without slowing. I drove cautiously, peering into the dark, expecting at any moment an obstacle or sharp bend. Then the road straightened and the headlights showed me I was driving through a forest. I picked up speed and for a few minutes travelled on through darkness. Then I caught sight of something bright through the trees to my left and, slowing down again, realised I was looking at the front of the concert hall, grandly illuminated against the night.
The building was now some way away and I was viewing it at an angle, but I could make out much of its impressive façade. There were rows of dignified stone columns to either side of the central arch, and tall windows reaching towards the vast domed roof. I wondered if the guests had started to arrive and, stopping the car altogether, lowered my window for a clearer view. But even when I raised myself in my seat, the trees prevented me from seeing anything of the building at ground level.
Then, as I continued to gaze towards the concert hall, the possibility struck me that at that very moment my parents were themselves on the point of arriving. I suddenly remembered with great vividness Hoffman’s description of their horse-drawn carriage emerging out of the darkness into the admiring gaze of the crowd. In fact, just at that moment, as I continued to lean out of the window, I had the distinct impression I could hear somewhere not so far away the sound of their carriage going by. I switched off the engine and listened again, leaning my head out further. Then I got out of the car altogether and stood there in the night, listening intently.
The wind was moving in the trees. Then I heard once more the faint noises I had before: the beat of hooves, a rhythmic jingling, the rattle of a wooden vehicle. Then the sounds faded behind the rustling of the trees. I went on listening for a little while longer, but could hear nothing more. Eventually I turned and got back into the car.
I had felt quite calm – almost tranquil – while standing out in the road, but once I started the car again I was seized by a powerful mixture of frustration, panic and anger. My parents were at that moment arriving, and yet here I was, my preparations far from completed, even now driving away from the concert hall in pursuit of some other matter altogether. I could not understand how I had allowed such a thing to come to pass, and I travelled on through the forest, my anger mounting, resolving to get finished whatever I had now to do at the first opportunity and return to the concert hall as quickly as possible. But then the further thought occurred to me that I did not really know how to reach Sophie’s apartment or even if this forest road was taking me in the correct direction. A sense of futility began to come over me, but I sped on none the less, staring at the forest unfolding before me in the headlights.
Then suddenly I became aware of two figures standing waving up ahead of me. They were directly in my path and, though they moved aside as I came nearer, they continued to signal with urgency. Slowing down, I saw that a group of five or six people had set up camp on the roadside around a small portable stove. My first notion was that these were vagrants, but then I saw a middle-aged woman in smart clothes and a grey-haired man in a suit leaning down to my window. Behind them, the others – who had been sitting around the stove on what appeared to be upturned crates – were now rising and coming towards the car. They were all, I noticed, holding tin camping mugs.
As I lowered the window, the woman peered in at me, saying:
‘Oh, we’re so glad you came along. You see, we were just locked in debate and we couldn’t come to any sort of agreement. That’s always the trouble, isn’t it? We can never agree about anything when there’s action needed.’
‘But certainly,’ the grey-haired man in the suit said solemnly, ‘we need to come to some conclusion soon.’
But before either of them had said anything else, I saw that the figure who had come up behind them and was now leaning down looking at me was that of Geoffrey Saunders, my old schoolmate. Recognising me, he pushed his way in front and tapped the door of the car.
‘Ah, I was wondering when I’d see you again,’ he said. ‘To be perfectly honest, I’d been getting a bit cross about it. You know, you not coming by for your cup of tea. And when you’d said and all. Still, I suppose now’s not the time to go into it. But all the same, it’s a bit cheeky of you, old chap. Never mind. You’d better come on out of there.’ With that, he opened the car door and stood aside. I was about to protest, but he continued: ‘Better come and get a cup of coffee. Then you can join in with the discussion we’re having.’
‘Quite frankly, Saunders,’ I said, ‘this isn’t the best time for me.’
‘Oh, do come on, old chap.’ There was a hint of annoyance in his voice. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking quite a lot about you since we met the other night. Remembering about our schooldays and all that. This morning, for instance, I woke up thinking about that time, you probably don’t remember it, that time the two of us were marking a cross-country run for some younger boys. Must have been the lower sixth, I suppose. You probably don’t remember, but I was thinking about it, this morning, lying in bed. We were standing waiting outside this pub opposite this big field and you were awfully upset about something. Come on out, old chap, I can’t speak to you like this.’ He was continuing to usher me impatiently. ‘That’s it, that’s better.’ He grasped my elbow with his free hand – he was holding his tin cup in the other – as I came reluctantly out of the car. ‘Yes, I was thinking about that day. One of those foggy October mornings you always get in England. There we were, standing around, waiting for these third-years to come puffing their way out of the mist, and I remember you kept saying: “It’s all right for you, it’s all very well for you” and being awfully miserable. So in the end I said to you: “Look, it’s not just you, old chap. You’re not the only one in the world with worries.” And I started telling you about that time when I was seven or eight, when we’d gone on one of our family holidays, my parents, my little brother and I. We’d gone to one of those English seaside resorts, Bournemouth, some place like that. Perhaps it was the Isle of Wight. The weather was fine and all that, but you know, something wasn’t right, we just weren’t getting on. Common enough on family holidays, of course, but I didn’t know that then, I was only seven or eight. Anyway it just wasn’t working out and one afternoon Father just stormed off. I mean just out of the blue. We’d been looking at something on the seafront and my mother was in the middle of pointing out something to us and suddenly, off he went. Didn’t shout or anything, just walked off. We didn’t know what to do, so we just started following him, Mother, little Christopher and I, we followed him. Not close up, always thirty yards or so behind, just enough so we could still see him. And Father kept walking. All along the seafront, up the path with the cliffs, past the beach huts and all the people sunbathing. Then he went towards the town, past the tennis courts and through the shopping areas. We must have followed him for over an hour. And after a while we started to make a sort of game of it. We’
d say: “Look, he’s not angry any more. He’s just playing about!” Or we’d say: “He’s got his head like that on purpose. Look at that!” and laugh and laugh. And if you looked carefully, you could believe he was doing a funny walk. Christopher, he was only little, I told him that, I told him Father was doing the walk just to be funny and Christopher laughed and laughed, like it was all a great game. And Mother too, she was laughing, saying: “Oh your father, boys!” and laughing some more. And we kept on walking like that, and I was the only one, you see, even though I was only seven or eight, I was the only one who knew Father wasn’t really doing it for a joke. That he hadn’t got over it at all and was perhaps getting angrier and angrier because we were following him. Because perhaps he wanted to sit down on a bench or go into a café somewhere, but couldn’t because of us. You remember all this? I told it all to you that day. And I looked at Mother at one point because I wanted it all to stop, and that was when I realised. I realised she’d convinced herself, convinced herself utterly that Father was doing it all for fun. And little Christopher, he was all the time wanting to run up. You know, run right up behind Father. And I had to keep making excuses, laughing all the time, saying: “No, that’s not allowed. That’s not part of the game. We’ve got to keep a long way back or it won’t work.” But Mother, you see, she was saying: “Oh yes! Why don’t you go and pull his shirt and see if you can get back before he catches you!” And I had to keep saying, because I was the only one, you realise, I was the only one, I had to keep saying: “No, no, let’s wait. Stay back, stay back.” He looked funny, my father. He had an odd sort of gait when you looked at him like that from a distance. Look, old chap, why don’t you sit down? You look completely exhausted and very worried. Just sit down here and help us decide.’
Geoffrey Saunders was indicating an upturned orange crate near the camping stove. I felt indeed very tired and decided that whatever tasks lay before me, I would accomplish them better after a brief pause and a sip of coffee. I seated myself, aware as I did so that my knees were shaking and that I was lowering myself onto the crate in the most unsteady way. People gathered around me sympathetically. Someone was holding out a cup of coffee, while someone else had placed a hand on my back, saying: ‘Just relax. Just take it easy.’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said and, taking the coffee, gulped it greedily despite its being very hot.
The grey-haired man in the suit now crouched down in front of me and, looking into my face, said very gently: ‘We’re going to have to come to a decision. You’re going to have to help us.’
‘A decision?’
‘Yes. About Mr Brodsky.’
‘Ah yes.’ I drank a little more from the tin cup. ‘Yes, I know. I realise it’s all down to me now.’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ the grey-haired man said.
I looked at him again. He was a reassuring figure with a kindly, calm manner. But just at this moment, I could see, he was very serious.
‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say it was all down to you. It’s just that, given the situation, we each of us have to take some responsibility. My own opinion, as I’ve made clear, is that it should come off.’
‘Come off?’
The grey-haired man nodded gravely. I then saw the stethoscope round his neck and realised he was a doctor of some sort.
The Unconsoled Page 50