At this point Jakob Kanitz had become covered in confusion. He had remained standing there on the platform for several more seconds, not speaking, a huge embarrassment steadily engulfing him. Some residue of his earlier emotion had caused him to give one last glare to those assembled, then he had turned sheepishly and stepped down.
But this clumsy appeal had had an immediate impact. Even before Jakob Kanitz had finished speaking, a low assenting murmur had started up and more than one person had pushed reproachfully the shoulder of the young councillor - by this point shamefacedly shuffling his feet. Jakob Kanitz's departure from the stage had been followed by a few seconds of awkward silence. Then, steadily, conversation had broken out around the room, with everywhere people discussing in serious but calm tones what should be done once Brodsky arrived. Before long a consensus had emerged to the effect that Jakob Kanitz had got it more or less right. The task was to strike the correct balance between the sorrowful and the jovial. The atmosphere would have to be carefully monitored at all times by each and every person present. A feeling of resolution had gone around the room, and then, in time, people had begun gradually to relax, until eventually they were smiling, chatting, greeting one another in gracious, urbane tones, all as though the unseemly episodes of the last half-hour had not taken place. It had been somewhere around this point - no more than twenty minutes after Jakob Kanitz had finished speaking - that Hoffman and I had arrived. No wonder then that I should have detected something odd beneath the layer of refined merriment.
I was still turning over all that had happened prior to our arrival when I caught sight of Stephan on the other side of the room, talking to an elderly lady. Next to me, the Countess seemed still to be engrossed in her conversation with the two bejewelled women, and so, muttering an excuse under my breath, I drifted away from them. As I came towards him, Stephan saw me and smiled.
'Ah, Mr Ryder. So you've arrived. I wonder if I might introduce you to Miss Collins.'
I then recognised the thin old lady to whose apartment we had driven earlier in the night. She was dressed simply but elegantly in a long black dress. She smiled and held out her hand as we exchanged greetings. I was about to make further polite conversation with her when Stephan leaned forward and said quietly:
'I've been such a fool, Mr Ryder. Frankly I don't know what's for the best. Miss Collins has been very kind as usual, but I'd like also your opinion on it all.'
'You mean… about Mr Brodsky's dog?'
'Oh. No, no, that's all awful, I realise that. But we were just discussing something else altogether. I really would appreciate your advice. In fact, Miss Collins was just now suggesting I seek you out, wasn't that so, Miss Collins? You see, I hate to be a bore about this, but there's been a complication. I mean, about my performance on Thursday night. God, I've been such a fool! As I told you, Mr Ryder, I've been preparing Jean-Louis La Roche's
Dahlia
, but I never told Father about it. Not until tonight, that is. I'd been thinking I'd keep it a surprise for him, he so loves La Roche. What's more, Father would never dream I was capable of mastering such a difficult piece, and so I thought it would be a tremendous surprise for him on both counts. But then just recently, with the big night so near now, I'd been thinking it wasn't practical to keep it a secret any more. For one thing, it's all got to be printed on the official programme, there's going to be a copy next to each napkin, Father's been agonising over the design, trying to decide about the embossments, the illustration on the back, everything. I realised a few days ago I'd have to tell him, but I still wanted it to be something of a surprise, so I was waiting for the right sort of moment to come along. Well, earlier on, just after I dropped you and Boris off, I went into his office to put back the car keys, and there he was on the floor, going through a pile of papers. On his hands and knees, all the papers round him on the carpet, nothing unusual about it, Father often works like that. It's quite a small office, and his desk takes up a lot of the space anyway, so I had to tiptoe around everything to put the keys back. He asked me how everything was, then before I'd said anything seemed to become engrossed in his papers again. Well, for some reason, just as I was leaving, I caught sight of him on the carpet like that and I suddenly felt it would be the right moment to tell him. It was just an impulse. So I said to him, quite casually: "By the way, Father, I'm going to play La Roche's
Dahlia
on Thursday night. I thought you'd like to know." I didn't say it in any special way, I just told him and waited to see his reaction. Well, he put aside the document he was reading, but he kept gazing at the carpet in front of him. Then a smile came over his face and he said something like: "Ah yes,
Dahlia
," and for a few seconds he looked very happy. He didn't look up, he was still on his hands and knees, but he looked very happy. Then he closed his eyes and started to hum the opening of the adagio, he started to hum it there on the floor, moving his head in time. He seemed so happy and tranquil, Mr Ryder, at that point I was congratulating myself. Then he opened his eyes and smiled dreamily up at me and said: "Yes, it's beautiful. I've never understood why your mother despises it so." As I was just telling Miss Collins, I thought at first I'd misheard him. But then he said it again. "Your mother despises it so much. Yes, as you know, she's come to despise La Roche's later work so intensely these days. She won't let me play his recordings anywhere in the house, not even with the headphones on." Then he must have noticed how flabbergasted and upset I was. Because - typical Father! - he started straight away trying to make me feel better. "I should have asked you a long time ago," he kept saying. "It's all my fault." Then he suddenly slapped his forehead like he'd just remembered something else and said: "Really, Stephan, I've let you
both
down. I thought at the time I was doing the right thing, not interfering, but I see now I've let you both down." And when I asked what he meant, he explained how Mother's been looking forward all this time to hearing me play Kazan's
Glass Passions
. Apparently she'd let Father know some time ago this was what she wanted, and well, Mother would assume Father would arrange it all. But you see, Father saw my side to it. He's very sensitive about such things. He realised that a musician - even an amateur like me - would want to make his own decision about such an important performance. So he'd not said anything to me, fully intending to explain it all to Mother when a chance came along. But then of course - well, I suppose I'd better explain it a bit more, Mr Ryder. You see, when I say Mother let Father know about the Kazan, I don't mean she actually
told
him. It's a little hard to explain to an outsider. The way it works is that Mother would somehow, you know, somehow just
let it be known
to Father without ever directly mentioning it. She'll do it through signals, which to him would be very clear. I'm not sure precisely what she did this time. Perhaps he'd come home and found her listening to
Glass Passions
on the stereo. Well, since she very rarely puts anything on the stereo, that would be a pretty obvious sign. Or perhaps Father had come to bed after his bath and found her reading a book in bed on Kazan, I don't know, it's just the way things have always been done between them. Well, as you can see, it's not as though Father could have suddenly said: "No, Stephan's got to make his own choice." Father was waiting, trying to find a suitable way of conveying his reply. And of course he wasn't to know that, of all pieces, I was preparing La Roche's
Dahlia
. God, I've been so stupid! I had no idea Mother hated it so! Well, he told me how things stood, and when I asked him what he considered the best course, he thought about it and said I ought to carry on with what I'd prepared, it was too late to change it now. "Mother wouldn't blame you," he kept saying. "She wouldn't blame you for a moment. She'll blame me and quite rightly." Poor Father, he was trying so hard to comfort me, but I could see how distressed he was getting about it all. After a while he was looking at a spot on the carpet - he was still on the floor but by this time all crouched up, like he was doing a press-up - he was looking at the carpet and I could hear him muttering things to himself. "I'll be able to take it. I'll be able to take it. I've lived through worse. I'll be able to take it." He seemed to have forgotten I was there, so in the end I just left, just quietly closed the door behind me. And since then - well, Mr Ryder, I've not been thinking about much else all evening. To be frank, I'm at a bit of a loss. So little time left. And Glass
Passions
is such a difficult piece, how can I possibly have it ready? In fact, if I had to be honest, I'd say that piece is still a little beyond my ability, even if I had the whole year to prepare it.'
The young man came to a halt with a troubled sigh. When after a few moments neither he nor Miss Collins had spoken, I concluded he was waiting for my opinion. So I said:
'Of course, this is none of my business, you must decide for yourself. But my own feeling is that at this late stage you should just stick with what you've prepared…'
'Yes, I suppose you would say that, Mr Ryder.'
It was Miss Collins who had broken in. There was an unexpected cynicism in her tone which made me stop and turn to her. The old lady was looking at me in a knowing, slightly superior manner. 'No doubt,' she went on, 'you'd call it - what? - ah yes, "artistic integrity".'
'It's not so much that, Miss Collins,' I said. 'It's just that from a practical viewpoint, I'd think it rather too late at this stage…'
'But how do you know it's too late, Mr Ryder?' she interrupted again. 'You know very little about Stephan's abilities. To say nothing of the deeper implications of his current predicament. Why do you take it upon yourself to pronounce like this, as though you're blessed with some extra sense the rest of us lack?'
I had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable since Miss Collins's initial intervention, and while she was saying this I had found myself turning away in an effort to avoid her gaze. I could not think of any obvious retort to her questions and after a moment, deciding it best to cut short the encounter, I gave a small laugh and drifted off into the crowd.
For the next several minutes I found myself wandering aimlessly around the room. As earlier, people sometimes turned as I went by, but no one seemed to recognise me. At one point I saw Pedersen, the man I had met in the cinema, laughing with a few other guests and thought I would go over to him. But before I could do so I felt something touch my elbow and turned to find Hoffman beside me.
'I'm sorry I had to leave you for a moment. I hope you're being well looked after. What a situation!'
The hotel manager was breathing heavily, his face covered in perspiration.
'Oh yes, I've been enjoying myself.'
'I'm sorry, I had to leave the room to take a phone call. But now they're on their way, definitely, they're on their way. Mr Brodsky will be here any minute. My goodness!' He glanced around, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. "This guest list was ill-judged. I warned them. Some of these people here!' He shook his head. 'What a situation!'
'But at least Mr Brodsky is on his way…'
'Oh yes, yes. I must say, Mr Ryder, I'm so relieved you're with us tonight. Just when we need you. By and large, I see no reason to change your speech too much on account of the, er, the circumstances. Perhaps a mention or two of the tragedy wouldn't go amiss, but we'll organise someone else to say a few words about the dog, so really, there's no need for you to deviate from what you've prepared. The only thing - ha ha! - your address shouldn't be too long. But of course, you're the last person to…' He trailed off with a small laugh. Then he was looking around the room again. 'Some of these people,' he said again. 'Very ill-judged. I warned them.'
Hoffman went on casting his gaze around the room, and I was thus able for a moment to turn my mind to the matter of the speech the hotel manager had mentioned. After a while, I said:
'Mr Hoffman, in view of the circumstances we now find ourselves in, I feel a little uncertain about when precisely I should get up and…'
'Ah, quite, quite. How sensitive of you. As you say, if you just stood up at the usual point, one never knows what might be… yes, yes, how far-sighted of you. I shall be sitting next to Mr Brodsky, and so perhaps you might leave it to me to assess when the best moment would be. Perhaps you'd be good enough to wait for me to signal to you. My goodness, Mr Ryder, it's so reassuring to have someone like you with us at a time like this.'
'I'm only too pleased to be of help.'
A noise on the other side of the room caused Hoffman to turn away abruptly. He craned his neck to see across the room, though it seemed obvious nothing of significance had occurred. I gave a cough to regain his attention.
'Mr Hoffman, there's just one other small matter. I was just wondering' -I indicated my dressing gown -
I
thought I might change into something a little more formal. I wondered if it was possible to borrow some clothes. Nothing special.'
Hoffman glanced distractedly at my attire, then almost immediately looked away again, saying absent-mindedly: 'Oh, don't worry, Mr Ryder. We're not at all stuffy here.'
He was craning his neck once more to see across the room. It seemed to me clear he had not taken on board at all my problem and I was about to raise the matter again when there was a flurry of activity near the entrance. Hoffman started, then turned to me with a ghastly smile. 'He's here!' he whispered, touched me on the shoulder and hurried off.
A hush fell across the room, and for a few seconds everyone was looking towards the door. I too tried to see what was going on, but found my view hopelessly obstructed. Then suddenly, as though remembering their resolve, people all around me were resuming their conversations in tones of controlled gaiety.