The Unconsoled (41 page)

I had started to walk again when I heard Sophie say behind me: 'No, it's this way.' I turned to find her stooping down by a small door I had not previously noticed. In fact, had I noticed it at all, I would not have assumed it to be anything more than a cupboard door, for it barely came up to my shoulder. Nevertheless, Sophie was now holding it open and Boris, with the air of someone who had done so numerous times before, stepped through it. Sophie continued to hold the door open and, after a little hesitation, I too stooped down and crept through after Boris.

I had half expected to find myself in a tunnel having to crawl on hands and knees, but in fact I was standing in another corridor. If anything it was more spacious than the one we had just left, but clearly intended only for staff. The floor was uncarpeted and there were bare pipes running along the wall. We were again in near-darkness, though a little further down, a bar of electric light was falling across the floor. We walked a short way towards the light, then Sophie stopped again and pushed a fire door by its bar. The next moment we were outside, standing in a quiet side-street.

It was a fine night with many stars visible. Glancing down the street I saw it was deserted and that all the shops were closed. As we started to walk, Sophie said lightly:

"That was a surprise, meeting Grandfather like that. Wasn't it, Boris?'

Boris did not respond. He was striding on in front of us, muttering quietly to himself.

'You must be very hungry too,' Sophie said to me. 'I just hope there'll be enough. I got so carried away cooking all these things earlier, I forgot to prepare a really substantial course. This afternoon I thought there'd be plenty, but now I think about it…'

'Don't be silly, it'll be fine,' I said. 'That's exactly what I feel like anyway. A lot of small things, one after the other. I quite understand why Boris enjoys eating like that.'

'Mother used to do it this way, when I was small. For our special evenings. Not birthdays or Christmas, we did the same as everyone else then. But for evenings we wanted to make special, just the three of us, Mother used to do it this way. Lots of delicious little things, one after the next. But then we moved, and Mother wasn't well, and so we never did it much after that. I hope I've made enough for you. You must both be so hungry.' Then suddenly she added: 'I'm sorry. I wasn't very impressive tonight, was I?'

I saw her again, standing alone helplessly in the middle of the throng, and I reached out and placed my arm around her. She responded by drawing herself close against me, and for the next few minutes we walked like that, not talking, through a series of deserted side-streets. At one point Boris fell in step beside us to ask:

'Can I eat sitting on the sofa tonight?'

Sophie thought for a moment, then said: 'Yes, all right. For this meal, yes, all right.'

Boris walked alongside us for several more paces, then asked: 'Can I lie on the floor and eat?'

Sophie laughed. 'Just tonight, Boris. Tomorrow morning, at breakfast, you have to sit at the table again.'

This seemed to please Boris and he ran on ahead with some enthusiasm.

Eventually we came to a halt in front of a door squeezed between a barber's shop and a bakery. The street was a narrow one, made narrower by the many cars parked up on the pavement. As Sophie sorted through her keys, I glanced up and saw there were four more storeys above the shops. Some of the windows had lights on and I could hear faintly a television.

I followed the pair of them up two flights of stairs. As Sophie unlocked the front entrance the thought struck me that I was perhaps expected to behave as though familiar with the apartment. On the other hand, it was equally possible I was expected to behave like a guest. As we stepped inside, I decided to observe carefully Sophie's manner and take my cue from that. As it happened, no sooner had she closed the door behind us than Sophie announced she would have to turn on the oven and vanished further into the apartment. Boris, for his part, threw off his jacket and went running off making a noise like a police siren.

Left standing in the entrance hall, I took the opportunity to take a good look at my surroundings. There could be little doubt both Sophie and Boris expected me to know my way around, and certainly, the longer I stood gazing at the choice of half-open doors facing me, the dingy yellow wallpaper with its faint floral pattern, the exposed piping climbing from floor to ceiling behind the coat stand, I could feel some memory of this entrance hall gradually returning to me.

After a few minutes I went through into the living room. Although there were a number of features I did not recognise -the pair of old sunken armchairs to either side of the disused fireplace were undoubtedly recent acquisitions - my impression was that I could remember this room more clearly than I had the entrance hall. The large oval dining table pushed against the wall, the second door leading through to the kitchen, the dark shapeless sofa, the tired orange carpet were all distinctly familiar. The overhanging light - a single bulb covered by a chintz shade - was casting a shadowy pattern all around so that I could not be sure the wallpaper was not here and there developing damp patches. Boris was lying in the middle of the floor and rolled over onto his back as I came further into the room.

'I've decided to try an experiment,' he declared, as much to the ceiling as to me. 'I'm going to keep my neck like this.'

I looked down and saw that he had shortened his neck so that his chin was squeezed into his collar bone.

'I see. And for how long are you going to do that?'

'At least twenty-four hours.'

'Very good, Boris.'

I stepped over him and went through into the kitchen. This was a long narrow room and once again unmistakably familiar. The grimy walls, the traces of cobweb near the cornicing, the dilapidated laundry equipment all tugged naggingly at my memory. Sophie had put on an apron and was kneeling down arranging something inside the oven. She looked up as I came in, made some remark about the food, pointed inside the oven and laughed cheerfully. I too gave a laugh, then, casting one more look about the kitchen, turned and went back into the living room.

Boris was still lying on the floor and as I entered he immediately shortened his neck again. I paid him no attention and sat down on the sofa. There was a newspaper on the carpet nearby and I picked it up thinking it might be the one containing the pictures of me. It was in fact several days old, but I decided to peruse it anyway. As I read through the front story - the man von Winterstein was being interviewed about plans to conserve the Old Town - Boris continued to lie there on the carpet, not speaking, emitting occasionally some little robot-like noise. Whenever I stole a glance at him, I saw his neck was still shortened and decided to say nothing to him until he at least stopped this ridiculous game. Whether he was shortening his neck each time he guessed I was about to look at him, or whether he had it in a permanently contracted state, I could not tell and quickly ceased to care. 'Let him just lie there then,' I thought to myself and went on reading.

Eventually, after twenty minutes or so, Sophie came in with a platter laden with food. I could see vol-au-vents, savoury parcels, pies, all hand-sized and much of it intricate. Sophie laid the platter down on the dining table.

'You're very quiet,' she said looking about the room. 'Come on, let's enjoy ourselves now. Boris, look! And there's another plate like this to come. All your favourites! Now, why don't you choose a board game for us to play while I go and get the rest.'

As soon as Sophie disappeared back into the kitchen, Boris leapt to his feet, went to the table and stuffed a pie into his mouth. I was tempted to point out that his neck had returned to normal, but in the end went on reading the newspaper without speaking. Boris made his siren noise again and, moving rapidly across the room, stopped in front of a tall cupboard in the far corner. I remembered this was the cupboard inside which all the board games were kept, the broad flat boxes piled precariously on top of other toys and household items. Boris went on looking at the cupboard for a moment, then suddenly flung open the door.

'Which one are we going to play?' he asked.

I pretended not to hear and went on reading. I could see him at the edge of my vision, first turning towards me, then, as the realisation dawned on him that I would not reply, turning back to the cupboard. For some time, he stood there contemplating his pile of board games, now and then reaching out to finger the edge of one or another box.

Sophie returned with more food. As she set about arranging the table, Boris went over to her and I could hear the two of them arguing quietly.

'You said I could eat on the floor,' Boris was maintaining.

Then after a while, he slumped down in front of me on the carpet again, placing a heaped plate beside him.

I rose to my feet and went to the table. Sophie hovered about me anxiously as I took a plate and regarded the choice.

'It looks quite magnificent,' I said, as I served myself.

Returning to my sofa, I saw that, by putting my plate down on a cushion beside me, I would be able to eat and continue to read my newspaper at the same time. I had decided earlier to examine the newspaper very carefully, scrutinising even the adverts for local businesses, and I now continued with this project, reaching over occasionally to my plate without taking my eyes off the newsprint.

Meanwhile Sophie had sat down on the floor near Boris, from time to time asking him a question - about how he liked a particular meat tart, or about some schoolfriend. But whenever she tried to start a conversation in this way, Boris had his mouth too full to reply with anything more than a grunt. Then Sophie said: 'Well, Boris, did you decide which game you wanted?'

I could sense Boris's gaze turning to me. Then he said quietly:

'I don't mind which one we play.'

'You don't mind?' Sophie sounded incredulous. There was a lengthy pause, then she said: 'All right then. If you really don't care, I'll choose one.' I heard her rising to her feet. 'I'm going to choose one now.'

This strategy appeared to win Boris over for a moment. Getting up with some excitement, he followed his mother to the cupboard and I could hear the two of them conferring in front of the stack of boxes, their voices lowered as though in deference to the fact that I was reading. Eventually they came back and sat down on the floor again.

'Come on, let's set this out now,' Sophie said. 'We could start playing while we're eating.'

When I next glanced down at them, the board had been opened out and Boris was positioning the cards and plastic counters with some enthusiasm. I was thus surprised when a few minutes later I became aware of Sophie saying:

'What's the matter? You said you wanted this one.'

'I did.'

'Then what's the matter, Boris?'

There was a pause before Boris said: 'I'm too tired. Like Papa.'

Sophie gave a sigh. Then suddenly she said in a brighter voice:

'Boris, there's something Papa's bought for you.'

I could not resist peering round the edge of the newspaper, and as I did so Sophie threw me a conspiratorial smile.

'Can I give it to him now?' she asked me.

I had no idea what she was talking about and returned a puzzled look, but she rose to her feet and left the room. She returned almost immediately, holding up the tattered handyman's manual I had bought at the cinema the previous night. Boris, forgetting his supposed tiredness, leapt to his feet, but Sophie teasingly held the book away from him.

'Papa and I went out together last night,' she said. 'It was a wonderful evening and, in the middle of it all, he remembered you and he bought this for you. You've never had anything like this before, have you, Boris?'

'Don't tell him it's anything so marvellous,' I said from behind the newspaper. 'It's just an old manual.'

'It was very kind of Papa, wasn't it?'

I stole another peek. Sophie had now let Boris take the book and he had dropped to his knees to examine it.

'It's great,' he murmured, going through it. 'This is really great.' He paused at a page and stared at it. 'It shows you how to do everything.'

He turned over some more pages and as he did so the book gave a sharp crack and fell apart into two sections. Boris carried on turning the pages as though nothing had happened. Sophie, who had started to reach down, stopped on seeing Boris's reaction and straightened again.

'It shows you everything,' Boris said. 'It's really good.'

I had the distinct impression he was trying to address me. I went on reading, and a few seconds later I heard Sophie say softly: 'I'll get some sellotape. That's all it needs.'

I heard Sophie leave the room and carried on reading. I could see, at the corner of my eye, Boris still turning the pages. After a little while, he looked up at me and said:

'There's a special sort of brush you can get for putting up wallpaper.'

I continued to read. Eventually Sophie came wandering back in.

'It's odd, I can't find the sellotape anywhere,' she was mumbling.

'This book's great,' Boris said to her. 'It shows you how to do everything.'

'It's odd. Perhaps we finished it.' Sophie went back through into the kitchen.

I had a faint recollection of various rolls of adhesive tape being kept in the same cupboard as the board games, inside one of the small drawers near the bottom right-hand corner. I was thinking about putting down my newspaper and going over to conduct a search, but then Sophie came back into the room again.

'Never mind,' she said. 'I'll buy some tape in the morning and we'll mend the book then. Now come on, Boris, let's get started with the game or we'll never finish before bed.'

Boris did not reply. I could hear him down on the carpet, still turning pages.

'Well, if you're not going to play,' Sophie said, 'I'll just start on my own.'

There came the sound of a dice being rattled in its beaker. As I continued through my newspaper, I could not help feeling a little sorry for Sophie about the way the evening was turning out. But then, she could hardly have expected to introduce the level of chaos she had done without our having to pay some sort of price. Moreover, it was not even as though she had particularly excelled herself with the cooking. She had not thought to provide, for instance, any sardines on little triangles of toast, or any cheese and sausage kebabs. She had not made an omelette of any sort, or any cheese-stuffed potatoes, or fish cakes. Neither were there any stuffed peppers. Nor those little cubes of bread with anchovy paste on them, nor those pieces of cucumber sliced lengthways, not even wedges of hard-boiled egg with the zig-zag edges. And for afterwards, she had made no plum slices, no buttercream fingers, not even a strawberry Swiss roll.