The Unconsoled Read Online Free PDF

please, there's nothing to worry about.'
    The corridor eventually turned a corner after which it grew much brighter. In fact this section of it had windows all along one side causing pools of sunlight to form on the floor. Only when we had gone some way along this section did Hoffman let go of me. As we slowed to a leisurely pace, the manager gave a laugh to cover his embarrassment.
    "The atrium is just here, sir. Essentially it's a bar, but it's comfortable and you will be served coffee and whatever else you desire. Please, this way.'
    We turned off the corridor and went under an arch.
    'This annexe,' Hoffman said, leading me in, 'was completed three years ago. We call it the atrium and we're rather proud of it. It was designed for us by Antonio Zanotto.'
    We came into a bright spacious hall. Owing to the glass ceiling high above us there was something of the feeling of stepping out into a courtyard. The floor was a vast expanse of white tiles, at the centre of which, dominating everything, was a fountain - a tangle of nymph-like figures in marble gushing water with some force. In fact it struck me the water pressure was quite excessive; one could hardly look across to any part of the atrium without having to peer through the fine mist hovering in the air. Even so, I managed quickly to ascertain that each corner of the atrium had its own bar, with its separate collection of high-stools, easy chairs and tables. Waiters in white uniforms were criss-crossing the floor and there appeared to be a fair number of guests spread about the place - though such was the feeling of space one hardly noticed them.
    I could see the manager watching me with a smug expression, waiting for me to express approval of our surroundings. At that moment, however, the need for coffee came over me so strongly that I simply turned away and made for the nearest of the bars.
    I had already seated myself on a high-stool, my elbows up on the bar counter, when the manager caught up with me. He snapped his fingers at the barman, who was in any case coming to serve me, saying: 'Mr Ryder would like a pot of coffee.
    Kenyan!' Then, turning back to me, he said: I would enjoy nothing better just now than to join you, Mr Ryder. Converse in a leisurely way about music and the arts. Unfortunately there are a number of things I must do which I cannot possibly delay further. I wonder, sir, if you'd be so good as to excuse me?'
    Although I insisted he had been more than kind, he spent several more minutes taking his leave of me. Then at last he glanced at his watch, let out an exclamation and hurried off.
    Left alone, I must quickly have drifted off into my own thoughts, for I did not notice the barman return. He must have done so, however, for I was soon drinking coffee, staring at the mirrored wall behind the bar - in which I could see not only my own reflection but much of the room behind me. After a while, for some reason, I found myself re-playing in my head key moments from a football match I had attended many years earlier - an encounter between Germany and Holland. I adjusted my posture on the high-stool -I could see I was hunching excessively - and tried recalling the names of the players in the Dutch team that year. Rep, Krol, Haan, Neeskens. After several minutes I had succeeded in remembering all but two of the players, but these last two names remained just beyond the rim of my recall. As I tried to remember, the sound of the fountain behind me, which at first I had found quite soothing, began to annoy me. It seemed that if only it would stop, my memory would unlock and I would finally remember the names.
    I was still trying to remember when a voice said behind me:
    'Excuse me, it's Mr Ryder, isn't it?'
    I turned to find a fresh-faced young man in his early twenties. When I greeted him, he came up eagerly to the bar.
    'I do hope I'm not intruding,' he said. 'But when I saw you just now I simply had to come over and say how excited I am you're here. You see,