The Unconsoled (52 page)

The next morning he had woken early and prepared breakfast for them both. She had come down at her usual time and they had greeted each other not unpleasantly. He had started to express his regret about what had happened, but she had stopped him, saying they had both been astonishingly childish. They had then continued their breakfast, both clearly relieved the dispute was behind them. And yet for the rest of that day, for several of the days that had followed, something cold had remained in their lives. And when in the months to come, after the periods of silence between them had grown in both duration and frequency, and he had paused to puzzle over their origins, he had found himself returning to that spring day, to the morning that had started so promisingly for them sitting side by side in the wet grass.

It was while he had been lost in such memories that I had finally arrived at the hut and begun to play. For the first several bars, Brodsky had gone on staring emptily into the distance. Then, with a sigh, he had brought his mind back to the task in hand and had picked up his spade. He had tested the ground with its edge, but then had gone no further, perhaps deciding the mood of the music was not yet what he required. Only when I had started upon the slow melancholy of the third movement had Brodsky commenced his digging. The ground was soft and had given him little trouble. He had then dragged the body of the dog across the tall grass and into the grave with little fuss, not feeling the temptation even to turn back the bed sheet for a last look. He had actually started to shovel some earth back when something, perhaps the sadness of the music drifting through the air to him, had finally made him pause. Then, straightening, he had allowed himself a few quiet moments looking down at the half-filled grave. Only as I had approached the end of the third movement had Brodsky retrieved his spade and recommenced his shovelling.

As I concluded the third movement, I could hear Brodsky still hard at work and decided I would forget the final movement - it was hardly suitable for the proceedings - and simply recommence the third once more. This, I felt, was the least I could do for Brodsky after having kept him waiting. The shovelling went on for a little longer, then came to a stop with almost half of the movement left to play. This would suit Brodsky well enough, I supposed, giving him a little more time to stand over the grave with his thoughts, and I found myself lending a greater emphasis to the elegiac nuances than I had previously.

When I had come once more to the end of the movement, I remained sitting quietly at the piano for several minutes before rising to stretch my limbs in the confined space. The afternoon sunshine was now filling the hut, and I could hear crickets in the grass nearby. After a little while, it occurred to me I should go out and say at least a few words to Brodsky.

When I pushed open the door and looked out, I was surprised to see how low the sun had sunk over the road below. A few steps through the grass brought me to the footpath again and I climbed the remaining distance to the peak of the hill. I was then able to see how on the other side the ground descended more gradually down into a pleasant valley. Brodsky was standing over the grave under a cluster of thin trees a short way below me.

He did not turn as I came down to him, but he said quietly, not taking his eyes from the grave: 'Mr Ryder, thank you. That was very beautiful. I'm grateful, very grateful.'

I muttered something and stopped in the grass a respectful distance from the grave. Brodsky went on looking downwards for a while, then said:

'Just an old animal. But I wanted the best music. I'm very grateful.'

'Not at all, Mr Brodsky. It's my pleasure.'

He gave a sigh and glanced towards me for the first time. 'You know, I can't cry for Bruno. I tried, but I can't cry. My mind, it's full of the future. And sometimes, full of the past. I think, you know, of our old life. Let's go now, Mr Ryder. Let's leave Bruno here.' He turned and started to walk slowly down towards the valley. 'Let's leave now. Goodbye, Bruno, goodbye. You were a good friend, but just a dog. Let's leave him, Mr Ryder. Come, walk with me. Let's leave him. It was good you played for him. The very best music. But I can't cry now. She'll be coming soon. It won't be long now. Please, let's walk.'

I looked again down at the valley before us and now noticed it was entirely covered with gravestones. It occurred to me then that we were walking towards the very cemetery where Brodsky had arranged to meet Miss Collins. Indeed, as I fell in step alongside him, I heard Brodsky say:

'Per Gustavsson's tomb. We're meeting there. No special reason. She said she knew the grave, that's all. I'll wait there, I don't mind waiting a little.'

We had been walking through the rough grass, but now we came to a footpath, and as we made our way further down the hillslope I found I could make out the cemetery more and more clearly. It was a tranquil, secluded setting. The gravestones were set out in orderly rows across the bed of the valley, with some making their way up the grass slopes on either side. Even at this moment, I noticed, a burial was taking place; I could make out the dark figures of the bereaved party, perhaps thirty people in all, gathered in the sunshine over to our left.

'I do hope it goes well,' I said. 'I mean, of course, your meeting with Miss Collins.'

Brodsky shook his head. 'This morning, I felt good. I thought if we only talked, things could come right again. But now, I don't know. Maybe that man, your friend at her apartment this morning, maybe he's right. Maybe she can never forgive me now. Maybe I went too far and she'll never forgive me.'

'I'm sure there's no need to be so pessimistic,' I said. 'Whatever happened, it's all in the past now. If the two of you could just…'

'All these years, Mr Ryder,' he said. 'Deep down. I never really accepted it, what they said about me back then. I never believed I was just this… this nobody. Maybe with my head, yes, I accepted what they said. But in my heart, no, I never believed it. Not for a minute, in all these years. I could always hear it, I could hear the music. So I knew I was better, better than they said. And for a little while after we came here, she knew it too, I know she did. But then, well, she began to doubt it, who can blame her? I don't blame her for going away. No, I don't. But I
do
blame her, I
do
blame her for not having done better. Oh yes, she should have done better! I made her hate me, can you imagine what that cost me? I gave her her freedom and what does she do? Nothing. Not even leave this town, just waste her time. On these
people
, these weak, useless people she talks to all day. If I'd known that was all she would do! A painful thing, Mr Ryder, to push away someone you love. You think I'd have done it? You think I'd have turned myself into this creature if that was all she was going to do? These weak, unhappy people she talks to! Once she had the highest goals. She was going to do great things. That's how it was. And look, she wasted it all. Didn't even leave this town. Do you wonder that I shouted at her from time to time? If that's all she was going to do, why didn't she say so back then? Does she think it's a joke, a big joke, being a drunken beggar? People think, okay, he's drunk, he doesn't care about anything. That's not true. Sometimes everything gets clear, very clear, and then… do you know how awful it is then, Mr Ryder? She never took it, the chance I gave her. Never even left the city. Just talk, talk, these weak people. I shouted at her, can you blame me? She deserved it, everything I said, every piece of filthy abuse, she deserved it…'

'Mr Brodsky, please, please. This is hardly the way to prepare yourself for this most important encounter…'

'Does she think I enjoyed it? That I did it for fun? I didn't have to do it. Look, you see, when I want to stop the drink, I can. Does she think I did it for a joke?'

'Mr Brodsky, I don't wish to intrude. But surely the time has come to put such thoughts away for ever. Surely all these differences, misunderstandings, it's time they were forgotten. You must try and make the best of what's left of your lives. Please, try and calm yourself. It won't do to meet with Miss Collins like this, you're sure to regret it later. In fact, Mr Brodsky, if I may say so, you've been quite correct so far in emphasising to her the future. Your idea of an animal is, in my view, a very good one. I really think you should continue to pursue that idea and others like it. There's really no reason to go over the past again. And of course there's every hope for the future now. For my part, I intend to do what I can tonight to see that you're accepted by the people of this city…'

'Ah yes, Mr Ryder!' His mood seemed suddenly to change. 'Yes, yes, yes. Tonight, yes, tonight I intend… I intend to be magnificent!'

'That's more the spirit, Mr Brodsky.'

'Tonight, I won't compromise, not at all. Yes, all right, they hounded me, I gave up, we ran away, came to this place. But in my heart I never gave up completely. I knew I'd never had a proper chance. And now, at last, tonight… I've waited a long time, I won't compromise. This orchestra, they won't believe it, the way I'll stretch them. Mr Ryder, I'm grateful to you. You've been an inspiration. Until this morning I was afraid. Afraid of tonight, afraid what will happen. I'd better be careful, that's what I thought. Hoffman, all of them, go carefully, slowly, that's what they said. Take it slowly at the beginning, they said. Win them over little by little. But this morning, I saw your photograph. In the paper, the Sattler monument. I said that's it, that's it! All the way, take it all the way! Hold back nothing! This orchestra, they won't believe it! And these people, this city, they won't believe it either. Yes, take it all the way! She'll see it then. She'll see me again, she'll see who I really am, who I was all along! The Sattler monument, that's it!'

By this time the ground had levelled and we were walking along the grassy central path of the cemetery. I became aware of some movement behind us and, glancing over my shoulder, saw one of the mourners from the funeral running towards us, signalling with some urgency. As he came nearer, I saw he was a dark, thick-set man of around fifty.

'Mr Ryder, this is a real honour,' he said breathlessly as I turned to him. 'I'm the brother of the widow. She'd be so delighted if you'd join us.'

Looking where he was indicating, I saw we were now quite close to the funeral. Indeed, I could even catch in the breeze the sounds of forlorn sobbing.

'This way, please,' the man said.

'But surely, at such a private moment…'

'No, no, please. My sister, everyone, they'd be so honoured. Please, this way.'

Somewhat reluctantly I began to follow. The ground became more marshy as we made our way through the gravestones. I was unable at first to see the widow amidst the rows of dark hunched-over backs, but as we came up to the gathering I spotted her at the front, bowed over the unfilled grave. Her distress seemed so immense, she looked perfectly capable of throwing herself onto the coffin. Perhaps because of this possibility, an old white-haired gentleman was holding her tightly by the arm and shoulder. Behind her, the great majority were sobbing in what appeared to be genuine grief, but even so, the widow's anguished moans remained clearly distinguishable - slow, exhausted, yet shockingly full-chested cries such as might emerge from a victim of prolonged torture. The sound made me want to turn away, but the thick-set man was now gesturing for me to make my way to the front. When I did not move, he whispered none too quietly:

'Mr Ryder, please.'

This caused a few mourners to turn and look at us.

'Mr Ryder, this way.'

The thick-set man took my arm and we began to make our way through the crowd. As we did so, a number of faces turned to me and I heard at least two voices murmur: 'It's Mr Ryder.' By the time we had emerged at the front, much of the sobbing had abated and I could feel many pairs of eyes focused on my back. I adopted a posture of quiet respect, painfully aware that I was dressed in a casual light green jacket with not even a tie. My shirt, moreover, had a breezy orange and yellow pattern. I quickly buttoned the jacket while the thick-set man tried to attract the widow's attention.

'Eva,' he was saying gently. 'Eva.'

Although the white-haired gentleman turned to look at us, the widow gave no sign of having heard. She remained lost in her anguish, her cries falling rhythmically over the grave. Her brother glanced back at me with obvious embarrassment.

'Please,' I whispered, beginning to retreat, 'I'll offer my condolences a little later.'

'No, no, Mr Ryder, please. Just one moment.' The thick-set man now placed a hand on his sister's shoulder and said again, this time with distinct impatience: 'Eva. Eva.'

The widow straightened and finally, controlling her sobs, turned to face us.

'Eva,' her brother said. 'Mr Ryder is here.'

'Mr Ryder?'

'My deepest sympathies, madam,' I said lowering my head solemnly.

The widow continued to stare at me.

'Eva!' her brother hissed.

The widow started, looked at her brother, then at me again.

'Mr Ryder,' she said in a surprisingly composed voice, 'this is truly an honour. Hermann' - she gestured towards the grave -'is a great admirer of yours.' Then suddenly she was overcome by sobs once more.

'Eva!'

'Madam,' I said quickly, 'I came here merely to express my deepest sympathies. I really am very sorry. But please, madam, everyone, let me now leave you to your grief…'

'Mr Ryder,' the widow said, and I saw she had composed herself again. 'This is an honour indeed. I'm sure everyone here would join me in saying that we are greatly, profoundly flattered.'

A chorus of assenting murmurs rose up behind me.

'Mr Ryder,' the widow went on, 'how are you enjoying your stay in our town? I do hope you've found one or two things at least to fascinate you.'

'I'm enjoying myself very much. Everyone here has been so kind. A delightful community. I'm very sorry about… about the death.'

'Perhaps you'd care for some refreshments. Some tea or coffee perhaps?'