The Unconsoled (10 page)

They had gone through to the dining room where the hotel manager had laid out the first course. The meal had started quietly. Then his father - a little abruptly, Stephan had thought -had commenced to tell an amusing anecdote concerning a group of Italian guests at the hotel. When he had finished, the hotel manager had urged Stephan to recount a story of his own, and when Stephan had started somewhat uncertainly his father had proceeded to support him with exaggerated laughter. So they had gone on, Stephan and his father taking turns to tell amusing stories and supporting each other with hearty responses. The tactic seemed to work, for eventually - Stephan could hardly believe it - his mother too had started to laugh for prolonged spells. The meal itself, moreover, had been prepared with the fanatical attention to detail characteristic of the hotel manager and was an astounding piece of cuisine. The wine was clearly something very special and by the time they were mid-way through the main course - an exquisite concoction of goose and wild berries - the mood of the evening had become one of genuine gaiety. Then the hotel manager, his face pink with the wine and laughter, had leaned over and said:

'Stephan, tell us again about that youth hostel you stayed in. You know, that one in the woods in Burgundy.'

For a second Stephan had been horrified. How could his father, who had conducted everything thus far so faultlessly, make such an obvious misjudgement? The story he was referring to involved extensive references to the hostel's lavatory arrangements and was clearly unsuitable to put before his mother. Yet as he had hesitated, his father had given him a wink as though to say: 'Yes, yes, trust me, this will work. She'll love the story, it'll be a success.' Gravely doubtful though he was, Stephan's faith in his father had been such as to make him embark on the anecdote. He had not got far, however, before the thought ran through his mind that what had so far been a miraculously successful evening was about to come down in tatters around them. Nevertheless, egged on by his father's guffaws, he had continued, and then heard to his amazement his mother's open laughter. Looking up across the table, he had seen her shaking her head helplessly. Then, somewhere towards the end of his story, amidst all the laughter, Stephan had caught his mother giving his father a look of fondness. It was just a brief look, but there had been no mistaking it. The hotel manager, despite the tears of laughter in his eyes, had not missed it either, and turning to his son had given another wink, this time with an air of triumph. At that moment the young man had felt something very powerful rising in his breast. But before he had had the time clearly to identify it, his father had said to him:

'Now Stephan, before the sweet course we must rest. Why don't you play something for your mother on her birthday?' With this the hotel manager had waved towards the upright piano by the wall.

That gesture - that casual wave towards the dining-room upright - was one Stephan was to recall again and again over the years. And each time he did so something of the sickening chill he had felt at that moment would come back to him. At first he had looked at his father in disbelief, but the latter had simply gone on smiling contentedly, holding his hand out towards the piano.

'Come on, Stephan. Something your mother would like. A little Bach, perhaps. Or something contemporary. Kazan maybe. Or Mullery.'

The young man, forcing his gaze round to include his mother, had seen her face, softened by laughter along unfamiliar lines, smiling at him. She had then turned to the hotel manager rather than to Stephan and said: 'Yes, dear, I think Mullery would be just the thing. That would be splendid.'

'Come on, Stephan,' the hotel manager had said jovially. "This is your mother's birthday, after all. Don't disappoint her.'

An idea had flashed through Stephan's mind - an idea rejected the very next instant - that his parents were conspiring together against him. Certainly from the way they were gazing at him - so full of proud anticipation - it was as though they had no memory at all of the anguished history surrounding his piano playing. In any case, the protest he had started to formulate had faded in his mouth, and he had risen to his feet as though it were someone else doing so.

The piano's position against the wall was such that, when Stephan had sat down at it, he had been able to see at the edge of his vision the figures of his parents, their elbows upon the table, each leaning slightly towards the other. After a moment he had actually turned and glanced directly towards them, aware as he did so that he had wanted to see them like that one last time -sitting together as though bound by an uncomplicated happiness. He had then turned back to the piano, overwhelmed by the certainty that the evening was about to fall. Curiously he had realised he was no longer at all surprised by the latest turn of events, that in fact he had been waiting for it all along and that it had brought with it a sense of relief.

For a few seconds, Stephan had gone on sitting without playing, trying desperately to shake off the effects of the wine and to run through in his mind the piece he was about to attempt. For one giddying moment he saw the possibility - it had after all been an evening of remarkable things - that he would somehow perform at a level never before attained, and that he would finish to find his parents smiling, applauding and exchanging with each other looks of deep affection. But no sooner had he commenced the opening bar of Mullery's
Epicycloid
, he had realised the utter impossibility of any such scenario.

He had played on nevertheless. For a long time - throughout most of the first movement - the figures at the edge of his vision had remained very still. Then he had seen his mother lean back slightly in her chair and bring a hand up to her chin. Several bars later, his father had turned his gaze away from Stephan, placed both hands on his lap and had bowed his head forward so that he appeared to be studying a spot on the table before him.

Meanwhile the piece had gone on and on, and though the young man had felt tempted several times to abandon it, to stop altogether had somehow seemed the most dreadful option of all. So he had continued, and when at last the piece had finished, Stephan had sat staring at the keyboard for several moments before working up the courage to look round at the scene awaiting him.

Neither of his parents was looking at him. His father's head had now become so bowed the forehead was almost touching the table surface. His mother was looking in the other direction across the room, wearing the frosty expression Stephan was so familiar with and which, astonishingly, had been absent until that point in the evening.

Stephan had needed only a second to appraise this scene. Then he had got up and returned quickly to the dining table, as though by doing so the minutes since his leaving it could be expunged. For a little while, the three of them had continued to sit silently. Finally his mother had risen saying:

'It's been a very nice evening. Thank you, both of you. But I'm feeling tired now and I think I ought to go up to bed.'

At first the hotel manager had seemed not to have heard. But as Stephan's mother had moved towards the door, he had raised his head and said very quietly: 'The cake, my dear. The cake. It's… it's something rather special.'

'You're very kind, but really, I've had so much already to eat. I must get some sleep now.'

'Of course, of course.' The hotel manager had stared down at the table again with an air of resignation. But then, as Stephan's mother was about to pass through the door, the hotel manager had suddenly straightened and said loudly: 'At least, my dear, come and look at it. Just look at it. As I say, it's something special.'

His mother had hesitated, then said: 'Very well. Show it to me quickly. Then I really must sleep. It's the wine perhaps, but I feel extremely tired now.'

On hearing this, the hotel manager had started to his feet and the next instant had ushered his wife out of the dining room.

The young man had listened to his parents' footsteps going towards the kitchen, then, after no more than a minute, returning along the corridor and climbing the staircase. For some time after that Stephan had remained seated at the table. Various small noises had come from above but he had been unable to hear any voices. In the end it had occurred to him that his best course would simply be to drive back through the night to his digs. Certainly his presence at breakfast would hardly help his father on the slow, huge task of rebuilding his mother's good humour.

He had left the dining room intending to slip out of the house unnoticed, but out in the hallway he had encountered his father descending the staircase. The hotel manager had put his finger to his lips, saying:

'We must speak quietly. Your mother's just gone to bed.'

Stephan had informed his father of his intention to return to Heidelberg, to which the hotel manager had said: 'What a pity. Your mother and I thought you'd be able to stay longer. But as you say, you have lectures in the morning. I'll explain to your mother, she's sure to understand.'

'And Mother,' Stephan had said. 'I hope she enjoyed the evening.'

His father had smiled, but for a brief moment before he did so Stephan had seen a look of profound desolation cross his face.

'Oh yes. I know she did. Oh yes. She was so glad you could take a break from your studies and come all this way. I know she was hoping you would stay a few days, but don't worry. I'll explain it to her.'

As he had driven along the deserted highways that night, Stephan had turned over every aspect of the evening's events -just as he was to do again and again over the following years. The anguish he felt each time he recalled that occasion had gradually diminished with time, but now the steady approach of Thursday night had brought back many of the old terrors, causing him yet again, as we drove on through the rainy night, to be transported back to that painful evening of several years ago.

I felt sorry for the young man and broke the silence by saying to him:

'I realise it's none of my business, and I hope this doesn't sound rude, but I do think you've been treated rather unfairly by your parents over the matter of your piano playing. My advice to you would be to try and enjoy your playing as much as you can, drawing satisfaction and meaning from it regardless of them.'

The young man considered this for several moments. Then he said:

'I'm grateful to you, Mr Ryder, for giving my position thought and all that. But actually - well, to be quite blunt about it -I don't think you really understand. I can see how to an outsider my mother's behaviour that night might look a little, well, a little inconsiderate. But that would be doing her an injustice and I'd really hate for you to go away with such an impression. You see, you've got to understand the whole background to this matter. For one thing, you see, from when I was four I had Mrs Tilkowski as my piano teacher. I suppose there's no reason why that would mean much to you, Mr Ryder, but you have to understand, Mrs Tilkowski is a very revered figure in this city, certainly not just
any
piano teacher. Her services aren't for sale in the usual way -though of course she takes fees like anyone else. That's to say, she's very serious about what she does and will only take children of the city's artistic and intellectual elite. For instance, Paulo Rozario, the surrealist painter, lived here for a time and Mrs Tilkowski taught both his daughters. And Professor Diegelmann's children. The Countess's nieces too. She chooses her pupils very carefully, and so you see I was very fortunate to get her, particularly since in those days Father didn't have the sort of standing in the community he has today. But I suppose my parents were as dedicated to the arts then as they are now. All through my childhood I remember them talking about artists and musicians and how important it was that such people were supported. Mother stays at home most of the time now, but in those days she was much more outgoing. If a musician, say, or an orchestra came through the town, she'd always make a point of going along to lend her support. She'd not only attend the performance, she'd always try and go to the dressing room afterwards to give her praise personally. Even if a performer had done badly, she'd still go to his dressing room afterwards to give a little encouragement and a few gentle hints. In fact she'd often invite musicians to visit our house, or else offer to take them on a tour around the city. Usually their schedules were much too full to take up her offers, but, as no doubt you can vouch yourself, such invitations are always very uplifting to any performer. As for my father, he was extremely busy, but I remember he too used to do his best. Certainly, if there was a reception held in honour of some visiting celebrity, he'd always make a point of accompanying Mother to it, no matter how busy he was, so that he could play his part in welcoming the visitor. So you see, Mr Ryder, as far back as I can remember, my parents have been very cultured people who appreciated the importance of the arts in our society, and I'm sure that's why Mrs Tilkowski finally agreed to take me on as a pupil. I can see now it must have been a real triumph for my parents at the time, particularly for Mother, who'd gone about all the arrangements. There I was, having lessons from Mrs Tilkowski alongside Mr Rozario's and Professor Diegelmann's children! They must have been so proud. And for the first few years I did very well, I really did, so much so that Mrs Tilkowski once called me one of the most promising pupils she'd ever had. Things really went well until… well, until when I was ten years old.'

The young man suddenly went silent, perhaps regretting having talked so freely. But I could see another part of him was eager to carry on with his revelations, and so I asked:

'What happened when you were ten?'

'Well, I'm ashamed to admit this, and to you of all people, Mr Ryder. But when I was ten, well, I just stopped practising. I'd turn up at Mrs Tilkowski's not having practised my passages at all. And when she asked why I hadn't, I'd just not speak. This is awfully embarrassing, it's like someone else I'm talking about, and I just wish by some magic it could be. But that's the truth, there you are, that's how I behaved. And after a few weeks of this, there was nothing for it but for Mrs Tilkowski to inform my parents that if things didn't change, she could no longer carry on with me. I later found out Mother lost her temper a little and shouted at Mrs Tilkowski. Anyway it all ended rather badly.'