There was by now quite a hubbub building behind me. One voice in particular was asking angrily: ‘Otto, where’s that cheese?’ Eventually a packet of peppermints was handed to the thick-set man. The latter glared angrily back at the gathering, then turned to present the cake and the peppermints to his sister.
‘Really, you’re most kind,’ I said, ‘but I only came because …’
‘Mr Ryder,’ the widow said, her voice now tense with emotion, ‘it seems this is all we can offer you. I don’t know what Hermann would have said, to be disgraced like this on this of all days. But here we are, I can only apologise. Look, this is all, this is all we can offer, all the hospitality we can offer.’
The voices behind me, which had quietened as the widow had started to speak, now broke into numerous arguments. I could hear someone shouting: ‘I didn’t! I didn’t say anything of the sort!’
Then the white-haired gentleman who earlier had been holding the widow at the graveside stepped forward and bowed to me.
‘Mr Ryder,’ he said, ‘forgive us for the shabby way we are returning this great compliment. You find us, as you can see, woefully unprepared. I can assure you, nevertheless, that each of us here is profoundly grateful. Please, accept the refreshments, inadequate though they are.’
‘Mr Ryder, here, please sit down.’ The widow was brushing with a handkerchief the surface of a flat marble tomb adjacent to her husband’s grave. ‘Please.’
I could now see a retreat was out of the question. I moved apologetically towards the tomb the widow had cleaned for me, saying: ‘Well, you’re all very kind.’
As soon as I sat down on the pale marble, the mourners seemed all to step forward and gather around me.
‘Please,’ I heard the widow say again. She was standing above me tearing at the cellophane containing the cake. When she had finally got it open, she handed me the cake, wrapper and all. I thanked her and began to eat. It was some sort of fruit cake and I had to make an effort to prevent it crumbling in my hands. It was, moreover, a somewhat generous slice and not something I could devour in a few quick mouthfuls. As I went on eating I had the feeling the mourners were steadily edging closer around me, though when I looked up at them, I saw they were all standing quite still, their eyes lowered respectfully. There was silence for some time, and then the thick-set man coughed and said:
‘It’s been a very pleasant day.’
‘Yes, very pleasant,’ I replied, though my mouth was full. ‘Very pleasant indeed.’
Then the elderly white-haired gentleman took a step forward and said: ‘There are some wonderful walks around our city, Mr Ryder. Just a little way out of the centre, some splendid rural walks. If you find yourself with a spare hour, I’d be very happy to take you on one of them.’
‘Mr Ryder, won’t you have a peppermint?’
The widow was holding the opened packet close to my face. I thanked her and put a peppermint in my mouth even though I knew it would go oddly with the cake.
‘And as for the city itself,’ the white-haired gentleman was saying. ‘If you have any interest in medieval architecture, there are a number of houses that would be of immense fascination. Particularly in the Old Town. I’d be very happy to show you around.’
‘Really,’ I said, ‘you’re very kind.’
I carried on eating, wishing now to finish the cake as quickly as possible. There was another silence and then the widow sighed and said:
‘It’s turned out very nice.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the weather has been marvellous here ever since my arrival.’
This was met by a general murmur of approval all round, some people even laughing politely as though I had made a witticism. I forced what remained of the cake into my mouth and brushed the crumbs from my hands.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘you’ve all been so kind. But now, please, go on with the ceremony.’
‘Another peppermint, Mr Ryder. It’s all we can offer.’ The widow again thrust the packet towards my face.
It was then that the realisation suddenly dawned on me that at this precise moment the widow was feeling the most intense hatred towards me. Indeed, it occurred to me that, polite though they all were, virtually everyone else present – the thick-set man included – was bitterly resenting my presence. Curiously, just as this thought flashed through my head, a voice from the back said, not loudly but quite distinctly:
‘Why’s he so special anyway? This is Hermann’s time.’
There was an uneasy rumble of voices and at least two shocked whispers of: ‘Who said that?’ The white-haired gentleman coughed, then said:
‘The canals are also very beautiful to walk beside.’
‘What’s so special about him anyway? Interrupting everything.’
‘Shut up, you fool!’ someone retorted. ‘A fine time to disgrace us all.’
A number of voices growled support for this last utterance, but now a second voice had started to shout something aggressively.
‘Mr Ryder, please.’ The widow was again thrusting the peppermints at me.
‘No, really …’
‘Please. Take another.’
A furious exchange involving four or five people started at the back of the crowd. A voice was shouting: ‘He’ll take us too far. The Sattler monument, that’s going too far.’
Then more and more people were starting to shout at each other, and I could sense a full-scale row about to erupt.
‘Mr Ryder’ – the thick-set man was bending down to me – ‘please ignore them. They’ve always disgraced the family. Always. We’re ashamed of them. Oh yes, we’re ashamed. Please don’t double our shame by listening.’
‘But surely …’ I began to stand up, but felt something push me down again. I then saw the widow had a hand grasped around my shoulder.
‘Please relax, Mr Ryder,’ she said sharply. ‘Please finish your refreshments.’
There were now arguments raging everywhere and towards the back some people seemed to be jostling one another. The widow was continuing to hold me down by the shoulder, looking at the crowd with an expression of proud defiance.
‘I don’t care, I don’t care,’ a voice was shouting. ‘We’re better off the way we are!’
There was more jostling, and then a fat young man pushed his way out to the front. His face was very round and at this moment he was clearly worked up. He glared at me, then shouted:
‘It’s all very well your coming here like this. Standing in front of the Sattler monument! Smiling like that! Then you’ll move on. It’s not that simple for those of us who have to live here. The Sattler monument!’
The round-faced young man did not look like someone accustomed to making bold utterances and there seemed no doubting the sincerity of his emotions. I felt a little taken aback and for a moment found myself unable to respond. Then, as the round-faced young man began another volley of accusations, I felt something inside me give way. It occurred to me that I had somehow, unaccountably, made a miscalculation the previous day in choosing to be photographed in front of the Sattler monument. At the time, certainly, it had seemed the most telling way of sending out an appropriate signal to the citizens of this city. I had, of course, been all too aware of the pros and cons involved – I could recall how at breakfast that morning I had sat carefully weighing these up – but I now saw the possibility that there was even more to the business of the Sattler monument than I had supposed.
Encouraged by the round-faced young man, a few more people had begun to shout in my direction. Others were trying to restrain them, though not with the urgency one might have expected. Then, amidst all the shouting, I became aware of a new voice, speaking gently just behind my shoulder. It was a male voice, cultured and calm, which struck me as vaguely familiar.
‘Mr Ryder,’ it was saying. ‘Mr Ryder. The concert hall. You really ought to be on your way. They’re waiting for you there. Really, you must allow yourself plenty of time to inspect the facilities and conditions …’
&n
bsp; Then the voice was drowned out as another particularly noisy exchange erupted in front of me. The round-faced young man pointed at me and began to say something over and over.
Then quite suddenly a hush descended over the crowd. At first I thought the mourners had finally calmed down and were waiting for me to speak. But then I noticed that the round-faced young man – indeed, everyone – was staring at a spot somewhere above my head. It was a few seconds before it occurred to me to twist round, and then I saw that Brodsky had stepped up onto a tomb and was standing directly over me.
It was perhaps simply the angle at which I was looking up at him – he was leaning forward slightly so that I could see against a vast background of sky much of the underside of his jaw – but there was something strikingly commanding about him. He seemed to loom above us like a huge statue, his open hands poised in the air. In fact, he was surveying the gathering before him in much the way I imagined he would an orchestra in the seconds before he began to conduct. Something about him suggested a strange authority over the very emotions which had just been running riot in front of him – that he could cause them to rise and fall as he pleased. For a little while longer, the silence continued. Then a solitary voice shouted:
‘What do you want? You old drunk!’
Perhaps the person had intended this cry to set off another round of shouting. As it was, no one showed any sign of having heard it.
‘You old drunk!’ the person tried again, but already the conviction was evaporating from his voice.
Then there was silence as all eyes stared up at Brodsky. After what seemed an inordinate length of time, Brodsky said:
‘If that’s what you want to call me, fine. We’ll see. We’ll see who I am. In these days, weeks, months to come. We’ll see if that’s all I am.’
He had spoken unhurriedly, with a calm power that did nothing to undermine his initial impact. The mourners went on staring up at him, seemingly spellbound. Then Brodsky said tenderly:
‘Someone you loved has died. This is a precious moment.’
I felt the ends of his raincoat brush the back of my head, and I realised he was extending a hand down towards the widow.
‘This is a precious time. Come. Caress your wound now. It will be there for the rest of your life. But caress it now, while it’s raw and bleeding. Come.’
Brodsky stepped off the tomb, his hand still extended to the widow. She took it with a dreamy look, and then Brodsky placed his other hand behind her and began gently to lead her back to the edge of the open grave.
‘Come,’ I could hear him saying quietly. ‘Come now.’
They moved slowly through the fallen leaves until she was once again at the graveside looking down at the coffin. Then, as the widow began once more to sob, Brodsky withdrew carefully and took a step away from her. By this time there were many others weeping again, and I could see that in no time things would be as they had been prior to my arrival. For the moment, in any case, all attention had turned from me and I decided to take the opportunity to slip away.
I rose to my feet quietly and had managed to make my way past several graves when I heard someone walking close behind me. A voice said:
‘Indeed, Mr Ryder, it’s high time you got to the concert hall. One never can tell what adjustments might be called for.’
Turning, I recognised Pedersen, the elderly councillor I had met in the cinema on my first evening. I realised, furthermore, that it had been his voice I had heard speaking softly behind my shoulder earlier on.
‘Ah, Mr Pedersen,’ I said as he fell in step beside me. ‘I’m rather glad you reminded me about the concert hall. With feelings running so high back there, I must confess, I’d started to lose track of the time.’
‘Indeed and so had I,’ Pedersen said with a small laugh. ‘And I too have a meeting to get to. Hardly of comparable importance, but nevertheless, it has to do with this evening.’
We came to the grassy path running through the middle of the cemetery and both paused.
‘Perhaps you might assist me, Mr Pedersen,’ I said, looking about me. ‘I’ve arranged for a car to take me to the concert hall, it should be waiting for me. It’s just that I’m not certain how to get back down to the road.’
‘I’ll be pleased to show you, Mr Ryder. Please follow me.’
We began to walk again, away from the hill down which I had come with Brodsky. The sun was now setting over the valley and the shadows cast by the gravestones had noticeably lengthened. As we walked on, I sensed on at least two occasions that Pedersen was about to speak, but then he seemed to change his mind. In the end, I said to him matter-of-factly:
‘Some of those people just now. They seemed extremely exercised. I mean, about those photographs of me in the newspaper.’
‘Well you see, sir,’ Pedersen said with a sigh, ‘it’s the Sattler monument. Max Sattler has today as strong a hold on people’s emotions as he ever did.’
‘I suppose you too have some views. I mean, about those photographs in front of the Sattler monument.’
Pedersen smiled awkwardly and avoided my gaze. ‘How can I explain it?’ he said eventually. ‘It’s so hard for an outsider to understand. Even an expert like yourself. It’s not at all clear why Max Sattler – why that whole episode in the city’s history – has come to mean so much to people here. On paper, it hardly amounts to anything very significant. And yes, it all happened almost a century ago. But you see, Mr Ryder, as you’ve no doubt discovered, Sattler has gained a place in the imaginations of citizens here. His role, if you like, has become mythical. Sometimes he’s feared, sometimes he’s abhorred. And at other times, his memory is worshipped. How can I explain it? Let me put it to you like this. There’s a certain man I know, a good friend. Getting on in years now, but he’s not had a bad life. He’s well respected here, still plays an active role in civic affairs. Not a bad life at all. But this man, every now and then, he looks back over this life he’s led and wonders if he didn’t perhaps let certain things slip by. He wonders how things might have been if he’d been, well, a little less timid. A little less timid and a little more passionate.’
Pedersen gave a small laugh. The path had now curved round and I could see up ahead the dark iron gateway of the cemetery.
‘Then he might, you know, start to think back,’ Pedersen went on. ‘Back to some pivotal point somewhere in his youth, before he became so set in his ways. He might recall, let us say, a moment when some woman tried to seduce him. Of course, he didn’t allow it, he was much too proper. Or perhaps it was cowardice. Perhaps he was too young, who knows? He wonders if he’d taken another path then, if he’d been just a little more confident about … about love and passion. You know how it is, Mr Ryder. You know the way old men dream sometimes, wondering how it would have been if some key moment had gone another way. Well it can also be like that for a town, for a community. Every now and then, it looks back, looks back at its history and asks itself: “What if? What might we have become by now if we’d only …” Ah, if we’d only what, Mr Ryder? Allowed Max Sattler to take us where he wished? Would we now be something else altogether? Would we be today a city like Antwerp? Like Stuttgart? I honestly don’t think so, Mr Ryder. There are, you see, certain things about this town, certain things that are so embedded. They will never change, not in five, six, seven generations. Sattler, in practical terms, was an irrelevance. Just a man with wild dreams. He would never have changed anything fundamentally. It’s just the same as with this friend of mine. He’s the way he is. No experience, however crucial, would have changed that for him. Now, Mr Ryder, here we are. If you go down these steps, you’ll find yourself back on the road.’
We had passed through the tall iron gates of the cemetery and were now standing in a large, carefully landscaped garden. Pedersen was pointing towards a hedge on my left behind which I could see some stone steps commencing a curving descent. I hesitated a moment, then said:
‘Mr Pedersen, you’ve been exceedingly polite. But let me
assure you, whenever the possibility arises that I’ve made an error of judgement, I’m not one to turn and hide from it. In any case, sir, this is something a person in my position has to come to terms with. That’s to say, during the course of any one day I’ll be called upon to make many important decisions, and the truth is, the most I can do is to weigh up the evidence available at the time as best I can and forge on. Sometimes, inevitably, yes, I’ll be guilty of a miscalculation. How could it be otherwise? This is something I’ve long come to terms with. And as you can see, when such a thing occurs, my only concern is how I might make good the error at the first opportunity. So please, feel free to speak frankly. If it’s your view that I’ve made a mistake in posing in front of the Sattler monument, then please say so.’
Pedersen looked uncomfortable. He gazed back towards a mausoleum in the distance, then said: ‘Well, Mr Ryder, this is simply my opinion.’
‘I’d be very keen to hear it, sir.’
‘Well, since you ask. Yes, sir. To be frank, I was rather disappointed when I saw the newspaper this morning. In my opinion, sir, as I’ve just explained, it’s simply not in this city’s nature to embrace the extremes of Sattler. He holds an attraction for certain people precisely because he’s so distant, a piece of local myth. Reintroduce him as a serious prospect … then frankly, sir, people here will panic. They will recoil. They will suddenly find themselves clinging to what they know, never mind what misery it has already brought them. You asked my view, sir. I feel that the introducing of Max Sattler into these discussions has seriously undermined the possibility of progress. But of course there is still tonight. In the end, it will all hinge on what happens tonight. On what you will say. And on what Mr Brodsky will show us. And as you point out, there’s no one more adept than yourself at recovering lost ground.’ For a moment he appeared to be pondering something quietly to himself. Then he shook his head gravely. ‘Mr Ryder, the best thing you can do now, sir, is to get to the concert hall. Tonight, everything must go according to plan.’
‘Yes, yes, you’re quite right,’ I said. ‘I’m sure my car’s at this moment waiting to take me there. Mr Pedersen, I’m grateful to you for your frankness.’