The Unconsoled (6 page)

We left the square and began to make our way through the small cobbled streets of the district. Boris seemed to know the way well, often running a few paces ahead in his impatience. Then at one point, he fell in step beside me again and asked:

'Do you know Grandfather?'

'Yes, I told you. We're good friends.'

'Grandfather's very strong. He's one of the strongest men in the town.'

'Is that so?'

'He's a good fighter. He was a soldier once. He's old, but he's still a better fighter than most people. Street thugs don't realise that sometimes, then they get a nasty surprise.' Boris made a sudden lunging movement as he walked. 'Before they know it, Grandfather's got them on the ground.'

'Really? That's interesting, Boris.'

Just at that moment, as we continued through the little cobbled streets, I found myself remembering more of the argument I had had with Sophie. It had taken place perhaps a week or so ago, and I had been in a hotel room somewhere, listening to her voice at the other end of the line shouting:

'How much longer can they expect you to carry on like this? Neither of us is so young any more! You've done your share now! Let somebody else do it all now!'

'Look,' I had been saying to her, my voice still calm, 'the fact is, people need me. I arrive in a place and more often than not find terrible problems. Deep-seated, seemingly intractable problems, and people are so grateful I've come.'

'But how much longer can you go on doing this for people? And for us, I mean for me and you and Boris, time's slipping away. Before you know it, Boris will be grown up. No one can expect you to keep on like this. And all these people, why can't they sort out their own problems? It might do them some good!'

'You've no idea!' I had broken in, now angry. 'You don't know what you're saying! Some of these places I visit, the people don't know a thing. They don't understand the first thing about modern music and if you leave them to themselves, it's obvious, they'll just get deeper and deeper into trouble. I'm needed, why can't you see that? I'm needed out here! You don't know what you're talking about!' And it was then I had shouted at her: 'Such a small world! You live in such a small world!'

We had come to a small playground encircled by railings. It was empty of people and I thought it had a rather melancholy atmosphere about it. Boris though led us enthusiastically through the little gate.

'Look, this is easy!' he said, and went running off towards the climbing frame.

For a while, Sophie and I stood in the fading light watching his figure climb higher and higher. Then she said quietly:

'You know, it's funny. When I was listening to that Mr Mayer, the way he was describing the living room of the house, I kept getting these pictures in my mind, of the apartment we lived in when I was small. All the time he was talking, I kept getting these pictures. Our old living room. And Mother and Papa, the way they were then. It's probably nothing like that. I'm not really expecting it to be. I'll get there tomorrow and I'll find it's completely different. But it made me hopeful. You know, a sort of omen.' She gave a small laugh, then touched my shoulder. 'You're looking so glum.'

'Am I? I'm sorry. It's all this travelling. I suppose I'm rather tired.'

Boris had reached the top of the climbing frame, but the light had grown so dim he was barely more than a silhouette against the sky. He gave us a shout, then, gripping the top rung, somersaulted his body around it.

'He's so proud of being able to do that,' Sophie said. Then she called out: 'Boris, it's too dark now. Come on down.'

'It's easy. It's easier in the dark.'

'Come on down now.'

'It's all this travelling,' I said. 'Hotel room after hotel room. Never seeing anyone you know. It's been very tiring. And even now, here in this city, there's so much pressure on me. The people here. Obviously they're expecting a lot of me. I mean, it's obvious…'

'Look,' Sophie broke in gently, placing a hand on my arm, 'why don't we forget about it all for now? There'll be plenty of time for us to talk it over later. We're all tired. Come back with us to the apartment. It's only a few minutes' walk from here, just past the medieval chapel. I'm sure we could all do with a nice supper and a chance to put our feet up.'

She had spoken softly, her mouth close to my ear so that I could feel her breath. My earlier weariness came over me again and the idea of relaxing in the warmth of her apartment - perhaps lazing about with Boris on the carpet while Sophie prepared our meal -seemed suddenly highly enticing. So much so that for a brief moment I might even have closed my eyes and stood there smiling dreamily. In any case I was brought out of my reverie by Boris's return.

'It's easy to do it in the dark,' he said.

I saw then that Boris looked cold and somewhat shaken. All his earlier energy had evaporated and it occurred to me the performance he had just put on had required large resources on his part.

'We're all going back to the apartment now,' I said. 'We'll have something nice to eat there.'

'Come on,' Sophie said, setting off. 'Time's getting on.'

A fine drizzle had started to fall and now that the sun had set, the air was much chillier. Boris took my hand again and we followed Sophie out of the swing park into a deserted back street.

4

It was clear we had now left behind the Old Town. The dingy brick walls that towered up on either side were windowless and appeared to be the backs of warehouses. As we made our way along the street, Sophie kept up a purposeful pace and before long I could sense Boris having difficulty keeping up. But when I asked him: 'Are we going too fast?' he looked at me with a furious expression.

'I can go much faster!' he shouted and broke into a trot, tugging at my hand. But almost straight away he slowed down again with a hurt look on his face. After a while, despite my maintaining an easy pace, I could hear his breath coming with a struggle. He then started to whisper to himself. I did not pay much attention at first, assuming he was simply trying to keep up his spirits. But then I heard him whisper:

'Number Nine… It's Number Nine…'

I glanced at him with curiosity. He looked wet and cold, and it occurred to me I should keep him conversing.

'This Number Nine,' I said. 'Is he a footballer?'

'The top footballer in the world.'

'Number Nine. Yes, of course.'

Up ahead of us, Sophie's figure vanished around a corner and Boris's grip on my hand tightened. I had not until this moment appreciated how far in front we had allowed his mother to get, and though we increased our pace, it seemed to take an inordinate time for us to reach the corner ourselves. Once we finally turned it, I saw to my annoyance that Sophie had gained even further on us.

We went past more dirty brick walls, some with extensive damp patches. The paving was uneven and I could see before us puddles glinting under the street lighting.

'Don't worry,' I said to Boris. 'We're nearly there now.'

Boris was continuing to whisper to himself, repeating in time with his short breaths: 'Number Nine… Number Nine…'

From the first, Boris's mentions of 'Number Nine' had rung some distant bell for me. Now as I listened to his whispering, I recalled that 'Number Nine' was not in fact a real footballer, but one of Boris's miniature players from his table-football game. The footballers, moulded in alabaster and each one weighted at the base, could be made with flicks of the finger to dribble, pass and shoot a tiny plastic ball. The game was intended for two people each controlling a team, but Boris only ever played on his own, spending hours lying on his front orchestrating matches full of dramatic reversals and nail-biting comebacks. He possessed six full teams, as well as miniature goals with authentic netting and a green felt cloth that opened out to form the pitch. Boris despised the manufacturers' assumption that he would enjoy pretending the teams were 'real' ones, such as Ajax Amsterdam or AC Milan, and had given the teams his own names. The individual players, however - though Boris had come to know each one's strengths and weaknesses intimately - he had never named, preferring to call them simply by their shirt numbers. Perhaps because he was not aware of the significance of shirt numbers in football - or perhaps it was just another wilful quirk of his imagination - a player's number bore no relation to where Boris placed him in the team formation. Thus, the Number Ten of one team might be a legendary central defender, the Number Two a promising young winger.

'Number Nine' belonged to Boris's very favourite team, and was by far the most gifted of the players. However, for all his immense skill, Number Nine was a highly moody personality. His position in the team was somewhere in midfield, but often, for long stretches of a match, he would sulk in some obscure part of the pitch, apparently oblivious of the fact that his team was losing badly. Sometimes, Number Nine would continue in this lethargic manner for over an hour, so that his team would go four, five, six goals down, and the commentator - for indeed there was a commentator - would say in a mystified voice: 'Number Nine so far just hasn't found his form. I don't quite know what's wrong.' Then, perhaps with twenty minutes remaining, Number Nine would finally give a glimpse of his true ability, pulling back a goal for his side with some fine piece of skill. "That's more like it!' the commentator would exclaim. 'At last, Number Nine shows what he can do!' From that moment on, Number Nine's form would grow steadily stronger, until before long he would be scoring one goal after another, and the opposing team would be concentrating entirely on preventing at virtually any cost Number Nine receiving the ball. But sooner or later he would, and then, no matter how many opponents stood between him and the goalmouth, he would manage to find a way through to score. Soon the inevitability of the outcome once he had received the ball was such that the commentator would say: 'It's a goal,' in tones of resigned admiration, not when the ball actually went into the net, but at the moment Number Nine first gained possession - even if this occurred deep within his own half. The spectators too - there were spectators - would commence their roar of triumph as soon as they saw Number Nine get the ball, the roar continuing intensely and evenly as Number Nine wove his way gracefully through his opponents, struck the ball past the goalkeeper, and turned to receive the adulation of his grateful team-mates.

As I was remembering all this, a vague recollection came into my head that some problem had recently arisen concerning Number Nine, and I interrupted Boris's whispering by asking:

'How is Number Nine these days? On good form?'

Boris walked a few steps in silence, then said: 'We left the box behind.'

'The box?'

'Number Nine came off his base. Quite a few of them do that, it's easy to fix. I put Number Nine in a special box and I was going to fix him once Mother got the right kind of glue. I put him in the box, it was a special one, so I wouldn't forget where he was. But we left him behind.'

'I see. You mean, you left him where you used to live.'

'Mother forgot to pack him. But she said we could go back soon. To the old apartment and he'd be there. I can fix him, we've got the right sort of glue now. I've got a bit saved up.'

'I see.'

'Mother says it'll be all right, she's going to see about everything. Make sure the new people don't throw him away by mistake. She said we'd go back soon.'

I had the distinct impression Boris was hinting at something, and when he fell silent again, I said to him:

'Boris, if you wanted, I could take you back. Yes, we could go back together, the two of us. Back to the old apartment and fetch Number Nine. We can do it soon. Perhaps even tomorrow if I find a spare moment. Then as you say, you've got the glue. He'll be back to his best in no time. So don't worry. We'll do that very soon.'

Sophie's figure once again disappeared from our view, this time so abruptly I thought she must have gone into a doorway. Boris tugged at my hand and we both hurried on towards the spot where she had vanished.

We soon discovered that Sophie had in fact turned down a side-alley, whose entrance was little more than a crack in the wall. It descended steeply and appeared so narrow it did not seem possible to go down it without scraping an elbow along one or the other of the rough walls to either side. The darkness was broken only by two street lamps, one half-way down, the other at the very bottom.

Boris gripped my hand as we began our descent, and soon his breath was coming with difficulty again. After a while I noticed that Sophie had already reached the bottom of the alley, but she seemed at last to have become aware of our plight, and was standing beneath the lower lamp, gazing back up at us with a vaguely concerned expression. When we finally joined her, I said angrily:

'Look, can't you see we've been having trouble keeping up with you? It's been a tiring day, both for me and for Boris.'

Sophie smiled dreamily. Then, putting an arm around Boris's shoulder, she drew the little boy close to her. 'Don't worry,' she said to him softly. 'I know it's a little unpleasant here and that it's got cold and rainy. But never mind, very soon now we'll be at the apartment. It'll be very warm, we'll see to that. Warm enough so that we can all just go around in T-shirts if we want. And there are those big new armchairs you can curl up in. A little boy like you could get lost in chairs like that. And you could look at your books, or watch one of the videos. Or if you like, we could bring down some board games from the cupboard. I could bring them all down for you, and you and Mr Ryder could play whichever one you wanted. You could put the big red cushions on the carpet and spread the game out on the floor. And all the time, I'll be cooking our evening meal and preparing the table in the corner. In fact, instead of one large dish, I think I might make a selection of small things. Little meatballs, tiny cheese flans, a few little cakes. Don't worry, I'll remember all your favourites and I'll lay it all out on the table. Then we can sit down and eat, and then afterwards all three of us can go on with the board game. Of course, if you didn't feel like playing any more, we wouldn't have to go on. Perhaps you'll want to talk with Mr Ryder about football. Then, only when you're really tired, you can go off to bed. I know your new room's very small, but it's very snug, you said so yourself. You're sure to sleep very soundly tonight. You'll have forgotten all about this cold unpleasant walk by then. In fact you'll forget all about it the moment you go in through the door and you feel the nice warm heating. So don't get discouraged. It's only a little way to go now.'