A high reedy voice somewhere nearby said: ‘Maybe she’ll go for Brodsky.’
This provoked the largest burst of laughter yet.
‘It’s perfectly possible,’ the voice went on in a mock-hurt tone. ‘All right, he’s old, but she’s no longer so young. And who else is there here in her league?’ Again there was much laughter, spurring the speaker on. ‘In fact, Brodsky’s the best course for her. I’d recommend it to her. Anything else and all the resentment the town now feels towards Christoff will stay with her. But if she becomes Brodsky’s mistress, or even Brodsky’s wife, ah, by far the best way to obliterate her connection with Christoff. And it means she can just carry on in her … her present position.’
By this point there was laughter all around us, with people even three rows in front turning and displaying their mirth. Next to me, Pedersen cleared his throat.
‘Gentlemen, please,’ he said. ‘I’m disappointed. What will Mr Ryder make of all this? You’re still thinking of Mr Brodsky – Mr Brodsky, please – you’re still thinking of him in the old way. You’re making yourselves look foolish. Mr Brodsky is no longer a figure of fun. Whatever one thinks of Mr Schmidt’s proposition about Mrs Christoff, Mr Brodsky is not in any case an amusing option …’
‘It’s good of you to have come here, Mr Ryder,’ Theo cut in. ‘But it’s too late. Things have just reached a point here, it’s just too late …’
‘That’s rubbish, Theo,’ Pedersen said. ‘We’re at a turning point, an important turning point. Mr Ryder has come here to tell us that. Haven’t you, sir?’
‘Yes …’
‘It’s too late. We’ve lost it. Why don’t we resign ourselves to being just another cold, lonely city? Other cities have. At least we’ll be moving with the tide. The soul of this town, it’s not sick, Mr Ryder, it’s dead. It’s too late now. Ten years ago, perhaps. There was still a chance then. But not now. Mr Pedersen’ – the drunken man pointed limply at my companion – ‘you, sir. It was you and Mr Thomas. And Mr Stika. All you good gentlemen. You all prevaricated …’
‘Let’s not have this again, Theo,’ the freckled man broke in. ‘Mr Pedersen’s right. It’s not quite yet time for such resignation. We’ve found Brodsky – Mr Brodsky – and for all we know he may be …’
‘Brodsky, Brodsky. It’s too late. We’re done for now. Let’s just be a cold modern city and be done with it.’
I felt Pedersen’s hand on my arm. ‘Mr Ryder, I’m very sorry …’
‘You prevaricated, sir! Seventeen years. Seventeen years, Christoff’s been left to get on with things unchallenged. And what do you offer us now? Brodsky! Mr Ryder, it’s too late.’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ Pedersen said to me, ‘you’ve had to listen to such talk.’
Someone behind us said: ‘Theo, you’re just drunk and depressed. Tomorrow morning you’ll have to search out Mr Ryder and apologise to him.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m interested to hear all sides of the discussion …’
‘But this is no side at all!’ Pedersen protested. ‘I assure you, Mr Ryder, Theo’s sentiments are not in the least typical of what people here are now feeling. Everywhere, in the streets, in the trams, I sense a tremendous feeling, a feeling of optimism.’
This brought a general murmur of agreement.
‘Don’t believe it, Mr Ryder,’ Theo said, grasping my sleeve. ‘You’re here on a fool’s errand. Let’s take a quick poll here in this cinema. Let’s ask a few of the people here …’
‘Mr Ryder,’ Pedersen said quickly, ‘I’m going to go home, turn in for the night. It’s a wonderful film, but I’ve seen it a number of times already. And you yourself, sir, you must be getting tired.’
‘Actually, I’m very tired indeed. I might leave with you, if I may.’ Then, turning, I said to the others: ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I think I’ll now return to my hotel.’
‘But Mr Ryder,’ the freckled man said, concern in his voice, ‘please don’t go just yet. You must stay at least until the astronaut dismantles HAL.’
‘Mr Ryder,’ a voice said from further down the row, ‘perhaps you’d care to take over my hand here. I’ve had enough of this game for tonight. And it’s always so hard to see the cards in this sort of light. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.’
‘You’re very kind, but really I must go.’
I was about to exchange good nights, but Pedersen was already on his feet and starting to edge his way out. I followed on behind him, giving a few waves back to the company as I went.
Pedersen was clearly upset by what had taken place, for when we reached the aisle he continued walking silently with his head down. As we left the auditorium, I threw a last glance towards the screen and saw Clint Eastwood preparing for the dismantling of HAL, carefully checking over his giant screwdriver.
The night outside – its deathly hush, the chill, the thickening mist – was such a contrast to the warm hubbub in the cinema that we both paused on the pavement as though to regain our bearings.
‘Mr Ryder, I don’t know what to say,’ Pedersen said. ‘Theo’s an excellent fellow, but sometimes after a big dinner …’ He shook his head despondently.
‘Let’s not worry. Hard-working people need to unwind. I very much enjoyed the evening.’
‘I feel thoroughly ashamed …’
‘Please. Let’s forget it. Really, I enjoyed myself.’
We began to walk, our footsteps echoing in the empty street. For a time, Pedersen maintained a preoccupied silence. Then he said:
‘You must believe me, sir. We’ve never underestimated the difficulties of introducing such an idea to our community. I mean, this idea of Mr Brodsky. I can assure you we’ve gone about everything with considerable caution.’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s so.’
‘At the start we took great care to whom we even mentioned the idea. It was vital that only those most likely to be sympathetic should hear of it during the earlier stages. Then, via these persons, we allowed the thing to seep out slowly to the public at large. That way we ensured that the whole notion was presented in the most positive light. At the same time, we took other measures. For instance, we gave a series of dinners in Mr Brodsky’s honour to which we invited carefully chosen guests from our higher ranks. At first these dinners were small and virtually secret, but gradually we have been able to spread our net wider and wider, gaining more and more support for our position. At any important public event, too, we’ve made sure Mr Brodsky has been seen amidst the dignitaries. When the Peking Ballet came here, for instance, we had him seated in the same box as Mr and Mrs Weiss. Then of course, at the personal level, we’ve all made a point when referring to him of employing only the most respectful tones. We’ve been working hard at it now for two years, and by and large we’ve been very satisfied. The general picture of him has definitely been changing. So much so that we judged it time to take this vital step. That’s why it was so discouraging just now. Those gentlemen in there, they’re the very ones who should be setting an example. If they revert to such an attitude each time they unwind a little, how can we ever expect the people at large …’ He trailed off and shook his head again. ‘I feel let down. On my behalf and on yours, Mr Ryder.’
He became silent again. After we had not spoken for a while, I said with a sigh:
‘Public opinion is never easy to shift.’
Pedersen remained silent for a few more steps, then said: ‘You have to consider our starting point. When you look at it that way, when you consider our starting point, then I think you’ll see we have made considerable progress. You must understand, sir, Mr Brodsky’s been living here with us now for a long time, and in all those years no one had heard him talk about, let alone play, any music. Yes, we’d all vaguely known he’d once been a conductor in his old country. But you see, because we never saw anything of that side of him, we never thought of him like that. In fact, to be frank, until recently, Mr Brodsky was really only ever noticed when he got very drunk a
nd went staggering about the town shouting. The rest of the time he was just this recluse who lived with his dog up by the north highway. Well, that’s not quite true, he was also seen regularly at the library. Two or three mornings a week he’d come into the library, take his usual seat beneath the windows and tie his dog to the table leg. It’s against the rules, to bring the dog in, but the librarians long ago decided it was the simplest thing, just to let him bring it in. Far simpler than starting a fight with Mr Brodsky. So you sometimes saw him there, his dog at his feet, thumbing through his pile of books – always these same turgid-looking volumes of history. And if anyone in the room started even the briefest of whispered exchanges, even merely greeted someone, he’d stand up and bellow at the culprit. Theoretically, of course, he was in the right. But then we’ve never been so strict about silence in our library. People like to talk a little when they meet, after all, as in any other public place. And when you think that Mr Brodsky was himself breaking the rules bringing his dog in, it’s not surprising there was this notion that his behaviour was unreasonable. But then just every once in a while, on certain mornings, a particular mood would descend on him. He’d be there reading at the table and then this forlorn look would come over him. You’d notice him sitting there, staring off into space, sometimes with tears welling in his eyes. Once that happened, people would know it was all right to talk. Usually someone would test the water first. And if Mr Brodsky made no response, then very quickly the whole room would start talking. Sometimes – people are so perverse! – the library becomes much noisier on such occasions than at any time when Mr Brodsky is absent. I remember one morning going in to return a book and the place sounded like a railway station. I had virtually to shout to make myself heard at the issue desk. And there was Mr Brodsky, very still in the middle of it all, in a world of his own. I must say he was a sad sight. The morning light made him look rather feeble. There was a droplet on the end of his nose, his eyes seemed so far away and he’d quite forgotten the page he was holding. And it occurred to me it was a little cruel, the way the atmosphere had turned. It was as though they were taking advantage of him, though I’m not quite sure in what sense. But you see, another morning, he’d have been quite capable of silencing the lot of them in an instant. Well anyway, Mr Ryder, what I’m trying to say is that for many years that’s who Mr Brodsky was to us. I suppose it’s too much to expect people to change completely their view of him in such a relatively short time. Considerable progress has been made, but as you saw just now …’ Again, exasperation seemed to overtake him. ‘But they should know better,’ he muttered to himself.
We came to a halt at a crossroad. The fog had got much thicker and I had lost my bearings. Pedersen glanced around, then began to walk again, leading me down a narrow street with rows of cars parked on the pavements.
‘I’ll see you to your hotel, Mr Ryder. I might as well go home this way as any other. The hotel is to your satisfaction, I trust?’
‘Oh yes, it’s fine.’
‘Mr Hoffman runs a fine establishment. He’s an excellent manager and an excellent fellow all round. Of course, as you know, it’s Mr Hoffman we have to thank for Mr Brodsky’s, er, recovery.’
‘Ah yes, of course.’
For a little while the cars on the pavement obliged us to walk in single file. Then we drifted out into the middle of the street, and when I drew up alongside him I saw that Pedersen’s mood had lightened. He smiled and said:
‘I understand you’re going to the Countess’s house tomorrow to listen to those records. Our mayor, Mr von Winterstein, I know he intends to join you there. He’s very keen to take you aside and talk matters over with you. But the main thing, of course, is those records. Extraordinary!’
‘Yes. I’m very much looking forward to it all.’
‘The Countess is a remarkable lady. Time and again she’s demonstrated a dimension to her thinking that puts the rest of us to shame. I’ve asked her more than once what on earth gave her the idea in the first place. “A hunch,” she always says. “I woke up one morning with this hunch.” What a lady! It could have been no easy task, obtaining those gramophone records. But she managed, using a specialist dealer in Berlin. Of course the rest of us knew nothing of it at the time, and I dare say if we had we’d have just laughed at the whole idea. And then she summoned us one evening to her residence. Just two years ago last month, a very pleasant, sunny evening. So there we all were, eleven of us, gathered in her drawing room, none of us knowing quite what to expect. She served us refreshments, then almost immediately began to address us. We had fretted long enough, she said. It was time we acted. Time we admitted how misguided we had been and took some positive steps to repair the damage as best we could. Otherwise our grandchildren, their children after them, would never forgive us. Well, none of this was new, we’d been repeating such sentiments to each other for months by that point and we all just nodded, made the usual noises. But then the Countess continued. As far as Mr Christoff was concerned, she said, little further action was necessary. He was now thoroughly discredited in every walk of life throughout the city. But that in itself was hardly sufficient to put into reverse the spiral of misery gaining ever greater momentum at the heart of our community. We had somehow to build a new mood, a new era. We all nodded to this, but again, Mr Ryder, these were sentiments we had exchanged many times before. I believe Mr von Winterstein even said as much, though in the most courteous sort of way. This was when the Countess started to reveal just what was in her mind. The solution, she declared, had quite possibly been in our midst the whole time. She proceeded to explain herself further and, well, at first, naturally, we could hardly believe our ears. Mr Brodsky? Of the library and the drunken walks? Was she seriously talking about Mr Brodsky? Had it been anyone other than the Countess, I’m sure we’d have fallen about laughing. But the Countess, I remember, remained very sure of herself. She suggested we all make ourselves comfortable, she had some music for us to listen to. To listen to very carefully. Then she began to play those records to us, one after the other. We sat there and listened, the sun going down outside. The recording quality was poor. The Countess’s stereogram, you’ll see tomorrow, it’s a somewhat dated affair. But none of this mattered. Within minutes the music had cast a spell over us all, had lulled us into a deeply tranquil mood. Some of us had tears in our eyes. We realised we were listening to something we had so sorely missed over the years. Suddenly it seemed more incomprehensible than ever that we should have come to celebrate someone like Mr Christoff. Here we were, listening to true music again. The work of a conductor not only immensely gifted, but who shared our values. Then the music stopped, we stood up and stretched our legs – we’d been listening for well over three hours – and then, well, the idea of Mr Brodsky – Mr Brodsky! – seemed as absurd as ever. The recordings were very old, we pointed out. And Mr Brodsky for reasons best known to himself had abandoned music a long time ago. And besides, he had his … his problems. One could hardly call him the same person. We were soon all shaking our heads. But then the Countess spoke up again. We were approaching crisis point. We had to keep an open mind. We had to seek out Mr Brodsky, talk with him, ascertain the present state of his powers. None of us needed reminding, surely, of the urgency of the situation. Each of us could recount dozens of sad cases. Of lives blighted by loneliness. Of families despairing of ever rediscovering the happiness they’d once taken for granted. It was at this point that Mr Hoffman, the manager of your hotel, suddenly cleared his throat and declared that he would see to Mr Brodsky. He would take it upon himself – he said this all very solemnly, he actually stood up to do so – he would take it upon himself to assess the situation, and if there was any hope at all of rehabilitating Mr Brodsky, then he, Mr Hoffman, would take personal charge. If we would entrust him with this task, he would vow to us not to let the community down. That was, as I say, just over two years ago. Since then we’ve watched with astonishment the dedication with which Mr Hoffman has gone about fulfilling h
is promise. The progress, if not always smooth, has been remarkable overall. And now Mr Brodsky is, well, he has been brought to his present condition. So much so that we felt we should wait no longer to take the crucial step. After all, we can only go so far simply presenting Mr Brodsky in a better light. At some point, the people of this town have to judge with their own eyes and ears. Well, so far, every indication is that we have not been over-ambitious. Mr Brodsky has been rehearsing regularly, and by all accounts has won fully the respect of the orchestra. It may be a great many years since he last gave a public performance, but it seems little has been lost. That passion, that fine vision we encountered in the Countess’s drawing room that evening, it’s all been waiting somewhere deep inside and is now steadily re-awakening. Yes, we have every confidence he will do us all proud come Thursday night. Meanwhile, for our part, we have done everything in our power to ensure the success of the evening. The Stuttgart Nagel Foundation Orchestra, as you know, if not of the very highest rank, is very well respected. Its services do not come cheaply. Nevertheless, there was hardly a dissenting voice over our hiring them for this most important of occasions, nor about the period involved. At first, two weeks’ rehearsal time had been envisaged, but in the end, with full support from the Finance Committee, we stretched it to three weeks. Three weeks’ board and hospitality for a visiting orchestra, on top of fees, you can see, sir, it is no small undertaking. But there was hardly a whisper of opposition. Each council member has now come to understand the importance of Thursday night. Everyone sees that Mr Brodsky must be given every chance. For all that’ – Pedersen suddenly heaved a sigh – ‘for all that, as you saw yourself this very evening, old ingrained ideas are hard to erase. This is precisely why your help, Mr Ryder, your agreeing to come to our humble city may prove absolutely crucial to us. The people will listen to you in a way they would never listen to one of us. In fact, sir, I can tell you, the mood in this town has altered simply at the news of your arrival. There’s the greatest anticipation building up around what you’ll tell us on Thursday night. In the trams, in the cafés, people are talking of virtually nothing else. Of course, I don’t know precisely what you’ve prepared for us. Perhaps you’ve taken care not to paint too rosy a picture. Perhaps you’ll warn us of the hard work that lies ahead for each one of us if we’re ever to re-discover the happiness we once had. You’ll be very right to give us such warnings. But I know too how skilfully you’ll appeal to the positive, public-spirited part of your listener. One thing in any case is certain. When you finish speaking, no one in this city will ever again look at Mr Brodsky and see the shabby old drunk they once did. Ah, I can see you looking concerned, Mr Ryder. Please don’t worry. We may look like a backwater town, but there are certain sorts of occasions at which we excel. Mr Hoffman in particular has been working hard to structure a truly magnificent evening. Rest assured, sir, every citizen of any standing will attend. And as for Mr Brodsky himself, as I say, I’m sure he won’t let us down. He’ll surpass everyone’s expectations, I’m certain of it.’