by Murray Bail
Once in the Red Sea where the heat and humidity gave Elisabeth a rash, nobody could recall the unfortunate pilot’s face, he struck his head, the Dutchman had heard, only his white cotton shirt, wet hair, Elisabeth, at least ten years younger, stayed in the cabin, Delage doing his best lying on the bed to answer questions about his family, she showed little interest in the enormous, mostly vacant country she would soon be seeing, had no idea what she was letting herself in for. “I would not describe your time in Vienna as a failure. How could you possibly think it?” Yet she listened with only vague curiosity whenever he talked about the design of the Delage piano, and showed even less interest in, let alone concern for, his lack of success establishing it in Europe, as if career and income were of no importance. He was affable, yet dissatisfied. The sea looked warm, an oily slop. “It is definitely a different color,” the Englishman leaning over the side, “possibly red.” A habit of making appraisals had left the top of his face in a constant state of blinking, while the rest remained stationary, a man whose wife in the plastic chair hardly said a word, round, rosy, not keen on moving, especially in this heat. Hot meals still came to the table, heaps of carbohydrates, the requirement of seamen, Elisabeth pushing the plate away. The number of women in the British Empire who fainted in the heat would run into the thousands. “How the Romans managed without ice and soda water,” the Dutchman said, reaching out for another serve, “is very impressive.” He began talking about his wife, her tiredness, his wife became more and more tired. “It was a tiredness in general,” he said, talking to no one in particular, “my wife began to move about slowly. She spoke more slowly. I was forced to wait. I did a lot of waiting. She wanted her tiredness to register. One day she said in a voice I could hardly hear she couldn’t do up the buttons on her blouse. And before long our marriage became tired. Naturally I didn’t think my wife had the strength to leave our marriage. I wish my wife hadn’t left me, or I hadn’t left her—whatever it was. We could have entered old age together, when I too would have been tired. It was the final period we might have shared.” Plenty of people are in a state of irritation, every other person is unhappy about something. It is held in check. People learn to smile over nothing. Away from land the Dutchman found less to be irritated by, there was less detail, everything and everybody in his little country had been all too visible, even though his wife was nowhere to be seen, it had been easy on land to be irritated, there was always something, wherever he turned there was something not working, always something or somebody to react against. Either the world as he saw it was unsatisfactory, a mess, or he had become dislodged. He listened when Delage eventually told him about his piano. It had been left behind in Europe, in Vienna, “the musical center of the world.” They had been having conversations, just the two of them, Delage doing most of the listening, the other man made him more thoughtful, he felt it, an unusual feeling—it didn’t happen every day. Delage had always been drawn to people with clear ideas, he didn’t mind standing alongside, some of what the Dutchman said was worth putting in his notebook. “If I hadn’t been on board this ship,” he said to Elisabeth, “I would not have met this interesting man.” He waited for her to say, “There was me too,” but she turned away slightly, a habit he had grown to like.
Ahead, behind and on either side, all water, a red-painted deck about six paces square, a long table dominated by an unnecessarily ornate candelabrum positioned in the center, the table so long the four sat at one end, von Schalla at the head, as required, Amalia and daughter facing Delage at the sides. “Elisabeth was good enough to show me the sights. There were so many it took the whole day.” He looked at Konrad von Schalla, “Have you seen the place where Mozart lived?” Amalia wanted to hear what he thought of the rooms of the great composers, but her husband cut her off, “Tell me about your country. What has it given the world?” Delage had to think about that one, advances in agriculture and the Delage piano came to mind, he twisted his mouth to indicate he was thinking, someone’s foot under the table began pressing against his, blurring any answers he may have had. “No composers, painters, novelists?” Amalia encouraged. “Not that I’m aware of,” Delage shaking his head. Von Schalla went on eating the fish. “Our contribution,” Delage still frowning, “has been in small areas, such as being relaxed, swimming in the sea—we grow strong teeth.” Von Schalla threw his head back. “No products?”—he let out a laugh, and couldn’t stop laughing. He pitched forward in a fit of coughing, which at first appeared to be a continuation of the laughing, but he clutched at his throat, his eyes bulging. He was turning dark red. Delage quickly tried thumping him between the shoulder blades. “A bone’s got stuck in his throat. Relax!” he shouted, “keep still.” Amalia and daughter looking on had their arms folded. It rained, stopped, rained again—pelting the ship as it passed through. When it stopped the clouds remained in place, filling the sky, ready to rain again, dark restless clouds, which darkened the air and sea. At intervals the ship crashed into a bigger wave, shuddering and creaking the plates. The entire ship awash, dribbling water, it ran down the windows of Delage’s cabin. Off the Horn of Africa expect the weather to be foul, the captain telling them in passing. It’s invariably rough in the Bay of Biscay too. Instead of bringing Delage and Elisabeth closer, the rain along with the noise and the poor light made them separate, keeping to themselves; Elisabeth lay without moving, not saying a word, she couldn’t eat. There was nothing he could do. A few weeks remained before they would step ashore on the west coast of Australia, which has a history of visitors setting foot on the place and immediately wanting to turn around, a reaction which continues to this day, one of the disadvantages of living too close to warm blue water and mineral-bearing rocks, the number of concert grands in the entire state could be counted on one hand, Delage knew, Perth, sandy, sunlit capital, had developed a fragile, megalomaniac view of itself, the way local fishermen everywhere claim to have the best fish in the world, a visitor such as Elisabeth from the middle of Europe would quickly notice. Laugh aloud at even miniature forms of nationalism, the Dutchman had said. From Perth they could stay on the ship, take a few more days to reach modest Adelaide, or Melbourne, then fly to Sydney, he hadn’t decided which, it depended on Elisabeth, he realized, he was interested in pleasing her, something else he realized. It was awkward returning empty-handed, having achieved virtually nothing in Europe, at least in a business sense, returning instead with a young woman from Vienna, and a slight change in personality, enough to take everybody by surprise, his sister in Brisbane most of all, she’d be on the first plane to give this Elisabeth, odd spelling, blond, she would have to be, on the surface representing good news, the once-over. As she went on sleeping, or lying still with her eyes shut, Delage could look down at her face, and remain looking, if he wanted to, Elisabeth unaware, or happy for him to gaze at every part, which took on the contours of a landscape, it happens when examining a sleeping face for any length of time, looking up from the chin especially, bare and hilly, smooth landscape. The first time he had seen her, Delage noticed her skin before anything else, she had her mother’s fine skin. Other similarities were less visible. Elisabeth’s mother was not like a mother at all, far from an ordinary mother, at least not one Delage had come across before, it didn’t appear as if she’d ever carried a child, in Elisabeth’s presence she was indifferent, she took more notice of Delage than her own daughter. They hardly looked at each other, Elisabeth could do whatever she liked. Whenever Delage looked at Elisabeth, he thought of her mother, which was something he should try to stop. She had high cheekbones and a snub or tilted nose, which uplifted her face, unlike Elisabeth, who had a conventional, slightly large nose. It had taken several days for Amalia von Schalla to reach a comfortable smile, possibly a normal smile, it was almost imperceptible, out of politeness rather than reacting to anything funny he had said, before she thought better of it. By being strict with herself, Amalia had acquired a visual advantage; it was something else Delage could try to understand.
Of the different smiles which appear in the world at any given moment, many have no meaning, the reflex or shopkeeper’s smile, the half-smile, the quarter-smile, and smaller, the foolish smile, we smile to ourselves when there’s nobody to see, the one of recognition sent across a distance (a street) is almost spontaneous, in regular use is the short-distance smile to narrow a social gap, a proven conversation aid, no more than that. So much insincerity around the smile, so much sincerity. It is also true, as the statisticians point out, that women smile more readily, especially being photographed, Amalia being an exception. “Speed was the essence. At other times it is not,” von Schalla said in a hoarse voice. “First decide when to move, and then at what speed. It applies when you buy, and if you have something to sell. You did well.” Delage was standing with his hands in his pockets, von Schalla stretched out on the bed in perfectly pressed English pajamas, his head supported by square pillows; with flat edges like padded envelopes, the same as in his hotel, these are continental pillows; they slept in separate rooms, Delage noted. Von Schalla went on to say he had never been partial to fish, unlike women who insist on eating fish three times a week for the good of their figures, there would inevitably be a problem with a stray bone, which was just another reason to be “more interested in meat and Austrian sausage.” He’d had a scare. He was left with a sparrow’s complexion. “You sprang into action,” von Schalla was commending. “Decisive. Would I have done the same?” Exceptionally compact in a well-cut suit, he was diminished in pajamas. Again, so many dark objects in every direction, even here, a bedroom. “I’m all over the place at the moment,” Delage told Amalia—meaning his life. Too many objects around him, too many unexpected things happening. On the opposite wall was an important portrait of a man wearing a high military collar and a cold smile, steel engravings of old Vienna, two marble obelisks on the mantelpiece, ornate clock, pieces of pewter serving no purpose, gold-and-crimson chairs, dressing gown over another, pair of black shoes, desk on delicate legs, briefcase (wide open), a door ajar revealing a bathroom. Von Schalla pointed, “On top of the desk there, hand me those drawings. Thank you. These are Egon Schiele drawings.” He handed them back to Delage, about a dozen, nudes of the same scrawny woman, hollow cheeks, legs wide apart. “I want you to choose one. Take it.” Nothing was said for a few minutes, Delage didn’t like the look of the drawings. “I see you hesitating. It is wise to take care. Some years ago a man came to this house to see me. As he waited downstairs a young woman arrived from a hospital. She was agitated. The man said, ‘Let me see.’ She thought: who is this? How impertinent. But she handed him the X-rays of herself, of her body, not knowing who he was. He examined the images of her. I am told he said, ‘You should relax. You are not relaxed.’ The young woman was Amalia, about to be my wife. She didn’t know she had been disloyal. The man worked in our stables, shoveling manure, as his father had done before him. These people are mostly stupid. He turned out to have a few brains. I put him through medical school. On occasion I am happy to be generous. Sometimes it suits me, or it does not. He lives a short distance away, on Theobaldgasse. I receive excellent medical service, as you would have observed.”
It was complicated enough in Vienna without Delage having to hear a story that had nothing to do with him or pianos, even if every story told is interesting in its own way, a story of little apparent consequence possesses its own momentum, its own permanence, however slight, von Schalla turned at Delage’s hesitation and was looking at him. “Take a drawing by our Schiele. I insist.” Often when Delage was due to see somebody he would think ahead to what to say and how to speak, his first words, his middle words, be prepared for the effect they might have, although nothing had prepared him for Konrad von Schalla, of the von Schalla dynasty, stretched out on the bed, thin, pint-sized, back all the way to the Dark Ages, subtle and insistent, these layerings of old Europe, be careful, unembarrassed in pajamas, which indicated a natural arrogance, now bearing gifts. “I have been meaning to ask—do you happen to know the Steinway agent in Vienna? Would he, by any chance, be sabotaging my efforts?” The doors remained closed, he wanted to say, so much for free trade, no wonder the place was grinding to a halt; and he saw it would be all too easy to slip into von Schalla’s debt. “Sabotage?” von Schalla turned the word over several times. “I hardly think so. It would not be necessary for Steinway.” He went on thinking about the question. “What I would say is, should you need assistance, stay away from your embassy. They will do harm, and no good. There is not a commercial mind there. Mediocre people like nothing better than to work in the embassies. Their most accomplished skills are pouring cocktails and stamping passports.” In a distracted way she allowed him to place his hand on her hip, Amalia, in her rooms, austere stylish furniture and walls matching her. If the paintings and furnishings said she was modern, she wouldn’t mind, Delage assumed, he moved his hand to the small of her back, kept it there, waiting for a sign, encouragement in the form of a lean, a stillness, not necessarily a word. “He asked if I would dine here tomorrow night.” “But of course. You saved his life, I saw it myself. And what did you say?” “It would make three evenings in a row, I said.” She turned, dropping his hand, “What does that have to do with it? Elisabeth would like you here, that I know. If there are other sights you would like to see during the day, she will take you. There are palaces outside the city.” Delage began pacing, “I haven’t done a thing. I need to see people, and the right people. And soon. I don’t know what’s been happening. I have made no headway. Berlin would have been a better bet. At least I have some serious introductions for Berlin.” Aside from inventing and manufacturing a new piano, he was not expert at anything else, nothing he could think of, certainly not the job of salesman selling a concert grand to, of all places, musical Europe, he’d do better in Taiwan or parts of the Middle East, even then he wouldn’t be comfortable. In his teens, Delage was prone to stammer because of talking and talking, his thoughts getting ahead of his words, until it went. One day he stammered, the next day did not. Traces remained until he embarked on piano design and construction, which required very little talking. She took his hand, “The poor man, our music critic, who you saw giving the talk. You can introduce your wonderful new piano to him. I will arrange it for tomorrow.” Such sympathy was at odds with her appearance, it was something else he could not understand, kindness, attentiveness, sympathy were qualities to be found in women, their defining qualities for him, in recent times becoming scarce. The ordinariness of people, of everyday events, had resulted in an ordinary world; it had reduced him to ordinariness, Delage, he could feel it, as he left Europe. His sister in Brisbane would say he was not ordinary enough, he was too extraordinary, which allowed only a small space for the ordinary others to approach and be close, all our family are extraordinary, she was fond of saying, we are different, meaning herself, leaving little room for someone to fit with her. In the face of the most formidable obstacles he had produced a grand piano at such a distance from the ordinary it attracted little interest from the majority. Approaching the Malaccas it was so hot Elisabeth went about naked, strolling as if the cabin was a large bathroom, bending over, happy for him to watch, then she was on the bed, legs apart, at the most awkward angles, aware of her body, it became a drop of water bulging from a tap, a move from him and it would disintegrate. “Tell me again about your meeting with the music critic,” she asked. “How did he react to your piano?” Lying on her stomach, her bare legs waving about in the air, Elisabeth was safe, the metal of the ship surrounding her, while he remained, tolerant, she didn’t need to fully listen to his answer. The Dutchman had not appeared for meals, Delage knocked on his door, he was not ill, “thank you for the inquiry,” he was rearranging his life beginning with his room, the cabin, it was taking longer than he thought, he said, it had become essential to clear his mind. There must be as few obstacles to thought as possible. Among his plans of beginning afresh was settling in Australia, at least have an open mind on the idea, he could
easily be repelled by the place, as the early Dutch explorers had been, he would never have thought of going to Australia if it hadn’t been for the small library of rare exploration books he was delivering, he would give Australia serious consideration once he had stepped ashore, Perth was a possibility, nothing would be excluded, not even the interior where he assumed there would be small towns, these days you can set up a bookshop in a tin shed, perhaps one specializing in voyages and exploration, as long as there was electricity. “Only stupid people are amazed,” the Dutchman said, a quote interesting enough for Delage to think of people, beginning with himself, who were amazed, and later he wrote it down. Being on the ship as it goes along, Delage said to Elisabeth, we’re going with the general flow, it’s the way we live. There were pauses when nothing much happened, the surprises, occasional discomforts, going forward whether they wanted to just then or not. It’s not necessarily a good feeling. After Elisabeth had rested her chin on her hand with interest, Delage then said the same thing to the sisters, who could only talk about the collapse of the elder sister’s marriage, she was never going to be the same, she was an altered woman, the younger one doing her best to be patient and sympathetic, “cut adrift” was her description, a nautical term, when they took meals together the elder one looking quite unwell, at the same time, determined, all those years had been wasted years, her first reaction, the younger one smiling and shining, a kind person, so much so that when the Englishman’s wife turned her sympathy onto the pair, it was not needed (politely ignored).