The Unconsoled

  Gustav was now mimicking enormous effort – much as the bearded porter had done earlier when he had first caught the cardboard box. Boris watched, pride welling inside him, turning occasionally from his grandfather to look at the admiring faces of the spectators pressing in around him. Even the gypsy musicians were now jockeying for a better view, employing the vigorous movement of their bowing elbows as a covert means to jostle. One fiddler had by this method made his way right to the front, so that he was now playing his violin leaning right over the table, his waist pressed against its edge.

  Then Gustav again began to shuffle his feet. The weight of the two suitcases, particularly the one filled with the chopping boards which he did not attempt to hoist onto his shoulder – surely a physical impossibility – meant his steps now had only a nominal spring to them, but it was impressive nevertheless and the crowd became ecstatic. ‘Good old Gustav!’ the cries were going up again, and Boris too, unfamiliar though he was with this way of addressing his grandfather, called out at the top of his voice: ‘Good old Gustav! Good old Gustav!’

  Again the old porter appeared to hear Boris’s voice above the rest and although this time he did not turn and acknowledge the little boy – he was pretending to be much too concerned with his suitcases to do such a thing – a fresh jauntiness entered his movements. He started again to rotate slowly and his back lost the last hint of a slouch. For a moment Gustav looked magnificent, poised like a statue on the table top, one suitcase on his shoulder, the other at his hip, rotating to the clapping and the music. Then he appeared to stumble, but recovered almost immediately, and the crowd gave an ‘ooh!’ and more laughter at this little variation.

  Then Boris became aware of some commotion behind him and saw that the two waiters were back, once more fussing with something on the floor, pushing back people around them to make room for their work. Both men were on their knees and were grappling with what looked like a large golfing bag. Their manner was cross and impatient – perhaps they were annoyed at the way the people pressing around them seemed forever to bump their knees into them. Boris glanced back at his grandfather, and then, when he looked again behind him, saw one of the waiters holding open the mouth of the bag as though something large was about to be slid into it. Sure enough, the other waiter emerged through the crowd, walking backwards, pushing people aside brusquely, dragging some object along the floor. Squeezing a little way back into the crowd, Boris saw that the object was a piece of machinery. It was hard to get a view – people’s legs were in the way – but the object was an old engine of some kind, either from a motor bike or perhaps a speedboat. The two waiters were working hard to get it into the golfing bag, pulling at the already taut material, tugging at the zipper. Looking up again, Boris saw that his grandfather was still in full control of the two suitcases, showing no sign of needing to stop. The crowd, in any case, had no intention of letting him do so yet. And then there was a movement around him and the two waiters had heaved the golfing bag up onto the table.

  There was for a moment a rise in the hubbub as word of the bag’s arrival passed from the front to those further back. Gustav did not notice the golfing bag immediately because his eyes were for the moment tightly shut in concentration, but soon enough the urgings of the crowd made him look around. His gaze fixed on the golfing bag and for a second Gustav looked very serious. Then he smiled and continued to rotate slowly. Then as before, though with nothing like the ease, he slid the lighter of the suitcases off his shoulder and down his arm. As it fell, Gustav, with a supreme effort, managed to push up his arm so that the suitcase was hoisted up towards the crowd. Being much heavier than the empty box, it could hardly describe a neat arc, and it bounced on the table top before falling into the arms of the porters at the front. The first suitcase, like the box earlier, vanished into the crowd, and all eyes were again fixed on Gustav. The chanting of his name started up again and the old man looked carefully at the golfing bag near his feet. The momentary relief of carrying only the one object – albeit the suitcase filled with chopping boards – seemed to give him new energy. He pulled a long face and shook his head doubtfully at the golfing bag, prompting the crowd to urge him on all the more. ‘Come on, Gustav, you show them!’ Boris could hear the porter next to him shouting.

  Gustav then began to raise the heavy suitcase up to the shoulder on which earlier he had held the lighter one. He did this with deliberation, his eyes closed, crouched down on one knee, then slowly straightening. His legs quivered once or twice, and then he stood steady, the suitcase safely on his shoulder, his free arm outstretched towards the golfing bag. Suddenly a fear went through Boris and he shouted: ‘No!’ but this was drowned out in the chanting and the laughter, the ‘oohs’ and sighs of the crowd around him.

  ‘Come on, Gustav!’ the porter next to him was shouting. ‘Show them what you can do! You show them!’

  ‘No! No! Grandfather! Grandfather!’

  ‘Good old Gustav!’ voices were shouting. ‘Come on! Show them what you can do!’

  ‘Grandfather! Grandfather!’ Boris was now stretching his arms out across the table to catch his grandfather’s attention, but Gustav’s face remained grim with concentration, staring with enormous intensity at the strap of the golfing bag lying on the table surface. Then the elderly porter began to lower himself again, his whole body trembling under the weight of the suitcase on his shoulder, his hand grasping prematurely for the strap still some distance below him. There was a new tension in the room, a feeling perhaps that Gustav was at last attempting a feat that stretched even his abilities. The atmosphere, for all that, remained festive, the chanting of his name celebratory.

  Boris searched appealingly the faces of the adults around him, then tugged at the arm of the porter next to him.

  ‘No! No! That’s enough. Grandfather’s done enough!’

  The bearded porter – for it was he – looked at the little boy with surprise, then said with a laugh: ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. Your grandfather’s magnificent. He can do this and much more. Much more. He’s magnificent.’

  ‘No! Grandfather’s done enough now!’

  But no one, not even the bearded porter – who had placed a reassuring arm around Boris’s shoulder – was listening. For Gustav was now crouched virtually down to the table, his hand only an inch or two from the strap of the golfing bag. Then he had grasped it and, with his body still crouched low, positioned the strap around his free shoulder. He tugged the strap closer to himself and then began once more the ascent to a standing position. Boris shouted and banged the table top, then at last Gustav noticed him. His grandfather had already started to straighten his legs, but he stopped and for a second the two of them stared at each other.

  ‘No.’ Boris shook his head. ‘No. Grandfather’s done enough.’

  Perhaps Gustav could not hear in all the noise, but he appeared to understand his grandson’s sentiments well enough. He nodded quickly, a reassuring smile flashed across his face, and then his eyes closed again in concentration.

  ‘No! No! Grandfather!’ Boris tugged again the bearded porter’s arm.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ the bearded porter asked, tears of laughter in his eyes. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned his attention back to Gustav, joining in more loudly than ever with the chanting.

  Gustav continued slowly to straighten himself. Once, twice, his body shook as though it might buckle. His face became strangely flushed. His jaw clenched furiously, his cheeks grew distorted, the muscles on his neck stood out. Even in the heavy din, the elderly porter’s breathing seemed audible. Yet no one other than Boris seemed to notice any of this.

  ‘Don’t worry, your grandfather’s magnificent!’ the bearded man said. ‘This is nothing! He does it every week!’

  Gustav continued to straighten more and more, the golfing bag hanging from one shoulder, the suitcase hoisted up on the other. Then at last he was standing completely straight, his face quivering but triumphant, and for the first time in ma
ny minutes the rhythmic clapping broke down into wild applause and cheering. The fiddles too broke into a slower, grander melody befitting a finale. Gustav rotated slowly, his eyes barely open, his face a contortion of pain and dignity.

  ‘That’s enough! Grandfather! Stop! Stop!’

  Gustav went on turning, determined to display his achievement to every eye in the room. Then something inside him seemed suddenly to snap. He paused abruptly, and for a second seemed to rock gently, swaying as though in a breeze. The next instant he had recovered again and was continuing with his rotation. When he had come back to exactly the position in which he had first stood upright, only then did he begin to lower the suitcase from his shoulder. He let it fall to the table with a loud slam – it was too heavy, he had judged, to throw into the crowd without risk of injury to a spectator – then pushed it with his foot until it slid off the edge of the table into the arms of his waiting colleagues.

  The crowd was now cheering and applauding, and then a section of it started to sing a song – some swaying ballad with Hungarian lyrics – along with the tune the gypsies were playing. More and more took up the song and very soon the whole room was singing. Up on the table, Gustav was lowering the golfing bag. It fell to the table with a metallic bang. This time he did not attempt to push it into the crowd, but held his arms aloft for a second – even this gesture now seemed to cost him greatly – then hastened to get down from the table. Numerous hands assisted him, and Boris watched his grandfather lower himself safely to the floor.

  The room seemed now to have become preoccupied with the singing. The ballad had a sweet nostalgic quality to it, and as they sang people everywhere were starting to link arms so they could sway along together. One of the gypsy fiddlers climbed onto the table, to be quickly joined by a second, and soon the two of them were leading the whole room, moving their bodies in time even as they played their instruments.

  Boris pushed through the crowd to where his grandfather was standing recovering his breath. Oddly, although Gustav had only a few seconds before been the focus of every gaze in the room, no one seemed now to pay much attention as grandfather and grandson embraced deeply, their eyes closed, making no attempt to hide from each other their immense relief. After what seemed a long time, Gustav smiled down at Boris, but the little boy went on holding his grandfather tightly, not opening his eyes.

  ‘Boris,’ Gustav said. ‘Boris. There’s something you must promise me.’

  The little boy gave no response other than to continue holding his grandfather.

  ‘Boris, listen. You’re a good boy. If something ever happens to me, if something ever does, you’ll have to take my place. You see, your mother and father, they’re fine people. But sometimes they find it hard. They’re not strong like you and me. So you see, if something happens to me, and I’m no longer here, you must be the strong one. You must look after your mother and father, keep the family strong, keep it together.’ Gustav released Boris from the embrace and gave him a smile. ‘You’ll promise me that, won’t you, Boris?’

  Boris appeared to give this consideration, then nodded seriously. Then, the next moment, they seemed to become engulfed by the crowd and I could no longer see them. Someone was pulling at my sleeve, imploring me to link arms and join in the singing.

  Looking around me, I saw that the other fiddlers had joined the two up on the table and the entire room appeared to be revolving around them united in song. Many more people had come into the café and the room was now virtually solid with bodies. I saw too that the doors were still open to the square, and that in the darkness outside people were also swaying and singing. I linked arms with a large man – a porter as far as I could guess – and a fat woman who presumably had walked in off the square, and found myself going round the room with them on either side of me. I was not familiar with the song being sung, but then I came to realise that most people present did not know the lyrics either, or have any familiarity with the Hungarian language, and were simply singing vague approximations of what they imagined the words to be. The man and woman on either side of me, for instance, were singing quite different things, both entirely without embarrassment or hesitation. Indeed, a moment’s attention revealed they were both singing nonsense words, but this seemed to matter little, and before long I too became caught up in the atmosphere and began to sing, making up words I thought sounded vaguely Hungarian. For some reason, this worked surprisingly well – I found more and more such words pouring out of me with gratifying ease – and before long I was singing with considerable emotion.

  Eventually, perhaps twenty minutes later, I saw the crowd was at last starting to thin. I could see too the waiters sweeping up and returning tables to their original positions around the café. There was however a sizeable group of us still circling the room, arms linked together, singing passionately. The gypsies also had remained up on the table, displaying no signs of wishing to stop their playing. As I went around the room, carried along by the gentle tugs and pushes of my companions, I felt someone tapping me and looked over my shoulder to find the man I assumed was the café proprietor smiling at me. He was a lanky man and as I continued to sway along he obligingly kept up with me, adopting a crouched shuffle somewhat reminiscent of Groucho Marx.

  ‘Mr Ryder, you look very tired.’ He was shouting virtually in my ear, but I could still only just hear him above the singing. ‘And you have such a long and important evening in front of you. Please, why don’t you rest for a few minutes? We have a comfortable back room, my wife has prepared the couch with some blankets and cushions, she’s turned on the gas fire. You’ll find it very comfortable. You could just curl up and sleep for a while. The room’s small, that’s true, but it’s right at the back and very quiet. No one will come in and disturb you, we’ll make sure of that. You’ll find it very comfortable. Really, sir, I think you should take advantage of the little time you now have before the evening really begins. Please, come this way. You look so tired.’

  As much as I was enjoying the singing and the company, I realised I was indeed immensely tired and that there was much sense in his suggestion. In fact the idea of a short rest appealed to me more and more, and as the proprietor continued to shuffle after me with a smile, I began to feel a deep gratitude towards him, not only for this kind offer, but also for having provided the facilities of this wonderful café, and for his generosity towards the porters – an obviously under-appreciated group within the community. I unlinked my arms, smiling my farewells to the people on either side, and then the proprietor had placed a hand on my shoulder and was guiding me towards a door at the back of the café.

  He led me through a darkened room – I could make out stacks of merchandise piled up against the walls – and then opened another door through which a low warm light was visible.

  ‘Here,’ the proprietor said, ushering me in. ‘Just relax here on the couch. Keep this door closed, and if it gets too warm just turn the gas fire down to the lower setting. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.’

  The fire was the only source of light in the room. In the orange glow I discerned the couch, which smelt musty but not unpleasant, and then before I realised it the door had closed, leaving me alone. I climbed onto the couch, which was just long enough for me to lie down on provided I curled my knees, and pulled up the blanket the proprietor’s wife had left out for me.

  IV

  28

  I awoke with the panicky sense that I had slept far too long. In fact my first thought was that it was now morning and that I had missed the whole of the evening’s proceedings. But when I sat up on the couch I saw that apart from the glow of the gas fire everything around me was still dark.

  I went to the window and pulled back the curtain. I found myself looking down on a narrow back yard taken up by several large dustbins. A light left on somewhere was dimly illuminating the yard, but I noticed too that the sky was no longer entirely dark and the fear went through me again that dawn was approaching. Letting go of the curtain, I be
gan to make my way out of the room, bitterly regretting having ever taken up the café proprietor’s offer of a place to rest.

  I stepped into the small connecting room where earlier I had seen merchandise piled against the walls. The room was now in utter blackness and I twice bumped into hard objects as I groped about for a doorway. Eventually I came out into the main section of the café where not so long ago we had all danced and sung with so much good feeling. A little light was coming in from the windows facing the square and I could make out the jumbled shapes of chairs piled on top of tables. I made my way past them, and reaching the main doors looked out through the glass panels.

  Nothing was stirring outside. The solitary street lamp at the centre of the empty square accounted for the light coming into the café, but I noticed again how the sky appeared to carry the first hints of morning. As I went on gazing out at the square, I found myself becoming increasingly angry. I could now see how I had allowed too many things to distract me from my central priorities – to the extent that I had now slept through a substantial part of this most crucial of evenings in my life. Then my anger became mingled with a sense of despair and for a while I felt close to tears.

  But then, as I continued to look at the night sky, I began to wonder if I had imagined the signs of dawn breaking. Indeed, now that I studied it more carefully, I saw the sky was still very dark, and the thought struck me that it was still relatively early and that I had begun to panic quite needlessly. For all I knew, it was still possible to arrive at the concert hall in time to witness much of the evening’s events, and certainly to make my own contribution.

  I had all the while been absent-mindedly rattling the doors. I now noticed the system of bolts and, unlatching each in turn, wandered out into the square.