Free The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro

likes to call him…'
    'Once he scored seventeen goals in the last ten minutes!' Boris said.
    'Oh nonsense.' Geoffrey Saunders seemed genuinely annoyed. 'I thought you were being serious. You're talking nonsense.'
    'He did!' Boris shouted. 'It was a world record!'
    'Quite!' I joined in. 'A world record!' Then, recovering my composure somewhat, I gave a laugh. 'That's to say, well, it's bound to be, isn't it.' I smiled appealingly at Geoffrey Saunders, but he ignored me.
    'But who are you talking about? Do you mean that Dutchman? Anyway, young man, you've got to realise, scoring goals isn't everything. The defenders are just as important. The really great players are often defenders.'
    'Number Nine's the best player so far in history!' Boris said again. 'When he's on form, no defence can stop him!'
    'That's right,' I said. 'Number Nine's without doubt the world's finest. Midfield, up front, everything. He does everything. Really.'
    'You're talking nonsense, old man. Neither of you knows what you're talking about.'
    'We know perfectly well.' By this time I was getting quite angry with Geoffrey Saunders. 'In fact, what we're saying is universally acknowledged. When Number Nine's on form, really on form, the commentator shouts "goal" the moment he gets the ball, no matter where on the pitch…'
    'Oh my goodness.' Geoffrey Saunders turned away in disgust. 'If that's the sort of rubbish you fill your boy's brain with, God help him.'
    'Now look here…' I put my face right up to his ear and spoke in an angry whisper. 'Look here, can't you understand…'
    'It's rubbish, old man. You're filling the boy's head with rubbish…'
    'But he's young, just a small boy. Can't you understand…'
    'No reason to fill his head with rubbish. Besides, he doesn't look as young as all that. In my view, a boy his age, he should be making a proper contribution to things by now. Starting to pull his weight a bit. He should be learning about wallpapering, say, or tiling. Not all this nonsense about fantastical footballers…'
    'Look, you idiot, just be quiet! Be quiet!'
    'A boy his age, it's high time he was pulling his weight…'
    'He's my boy, I'll say when it's time for him to…'
    'Wallpapering, tiling, something like that. To my mind, that's the sort of thing…'
    'Look, what do you know about it? What do you know, a miserable, lonely bachelor? What do you know about it?'
    I pushed his shoulder roughly. Geoffrey Saunders became suddenly crestfallen. He shuffled a few paces on ahead of us, where he continued walking with his head slightly bowed, still clutching the front of his raincoat.
    'It's all right,' I said to Boris quietly. 'We'll be there soon.'
    Boris did not respond and I saw that he was staring at Geoffrey Saunders's lurching figure before us.
    As we continued to walk, my anger at my old schoolmate began to subside. Besides, I had not forgotten that we were entirely reliant on him to show us the way to our bus stop. After a few moments I drew up closer to him, wondering if we were still on talking terms. To my surprise I heard Geoffrey Saunders muttering away to himself softly:
    'Yes, yes, we'll talk over all these things when you come round for your cup of tea. We'll talk over everything, spend a nostalgic hour or two discussing schooldays and old schoolfriends. I'll have my room tidied, and we can sit on the armchairs, on either side of the fireplace. Yes, it does look rather like the sort of room one might rent in England. Or at least might have done a few years ago. That's why I took it. Reminded me of home. Anyway, we could sit on either side of the fireplace and talk about the lot. The masters, the boys, exchange news of mutual friends we're still in touch with. Ah, here we are.'
    We had emerged into what looked like a small village square. There were a few small shops - where presumably the inhabitants of this district bought their groceries - all of them closed and gridded up for the night. In the middle of the square was a patch of