by Murray Bail
And as von Schalla led him away from the table, Delage glanced at Amalia, her daughter opposite, pale women seated, Amalia folded her napkin once again, then folded her hands, Elisabeth looking up at Delage, an expression of calm. Here von Schalla’s breast-pocket handkerchief resembled two or three protruding white envelopes, containing checks, dark suit obviously tailored in London buttoned up, as always, it made him appear alert, ready to spring with unconventional rapidity—he’d leap in behind a dozy management and onto the share registry when least expected, spreading apprehension in boardrooms across all of Europe. So far Delage had had nothing but friendliness from von Schalla. The blue-eyed Austrian would have placed a grateful hand on his shoulder, if only he had been tall enough, he had the greatest respect for inventors, “as a sub-species,” his words. “If it were not for brains like you, we would still be up in the trees.” With bankers he showed no mercy when it came to using them, their skill, such as it was, consisted of nothing more than allowing money to pass through their hands, each time peeling off a percentage, the caution, the lack of invention, it can be seen too in the novel these days, which no longer stands as invention, more and more an author’s reaction to nearby events, a display of true feeling. And when the world was busily inventing things with moving parts, for the convenience of everybody else, there were large numbers of Frank Delage types bent over drawing boards and work benches, but now that most things had long been invented and were running like clockwork, the restlessly inventing type had become rare, in Europe there were hardly any left at all. Von Schalla regarded Delage not as a businessman from Sydney, but a visiting-inventor from the Southern Hemisphere, a practical man who had possibly saved him from choking to death, he would never forget that, although Delage had not given it another thought, an inventor was accustomed to using his hands, in all circumstances. “I have something for our visitor to see,” Amalia stood up. Von Schalla gave a slight bow. “You are in demand.” “Ten o’clock tomorrow,” Elisabeth whispered as she brushed past, “I’ll collect you at the hotel.” In Vienna, Delage had been doing more observing than talking, in the dining room of the Schalla house there was much to take in, moments to comprehend, the impressions waiting to be classified, often conflicting, he was not accustomed to having the many different layers before him; and when he did say something, he felt no awkwardness with Amalia, or her daughter, or with the multinational businessman, Konrad von Schalla. In fact, when Delage spoke it came out in a series of abrupt rushes, almost careless in his deployment of words. He was following Amalia down the corridor, the businessman von Schalla at his side. The scratches and scuff marks on the skirting boards displayed, on the surface, a casual attitude to property, old money demanding satisfaction in appearances, relaxed in the details, as long as the comfort was there. “Be decisive, but not hasty. Always leave yourself room,” came the businessman’s advice, which could apply to situations other than selling pianos. In every village and town in Europe, ambitious entrepreneurs would have given anything to spend five minutes at the feet of Konrad von Schalla, and here he was giving a master class in coldness, business acumen in general, to Frank Delage, not from Austria, Australia, close in product-name but entirely different, Australia being far beyond the horizon, an invisible country of no consequence, Delage, who hadn’t sought von Schalla’s business advice, listened to what he had to say about women, or rather, Amalia. It was doubtful, by the way, that Delage could read sheet-music. They were following Amalia. “My wife was always shapely,” he said. “I always liked the look of her. Whether she has ever felt the same way about me I am not sure.” “Have you asked her?” “What?” Von Schalla paused at the door. “Where do you get these impractical ideas from? A small area in the back of your brain, allocated to ‘hopeless and impractical ideas’—or what? Excuse me.” He said something in German to his wife, waiting at her door. “Men of short size have a clearer view of women,” as if talking to himself, taking a key from his coat pocket and opening his door, “that is my opinion. It is in the design of woman to be constantly changing their hair, dresses, perfume and shoes to give men the illusion they are always with a different woman, so keeping the man for themselves. My wife has cupboards full of dresses and shoes.” He switched on the light. “How long has your company making the pianos been in business?” In Europe, people had so many extraordinary thoughts, and didn’t mind saying them, Delage wondered whether his new piano was extraordinary at all. “I was about to show you my private art collection. Another time.” By remaining at the door, Delage indicated a loyalty to the neatly dressed businessman, whom he barely knew, if he closed his eyes he would have had trouble describing him, aside from the externals, silver hair, the small shoes, which were unimportant, now they shook hands, a loyalty different in feeling from his loyalty to Amalia, which was not loyalty at all, she had closed her door, he noticed, more a spreading attraction, made stronger by a focus difficult to avoid; it included her daughter as well, Elisabeth, a woman displaying a younger sort of patience, almost a form of mockery, she had her own room down the other end of the house, perhaps on another floor. Since the invention of central heating, families have become dispersed, even in small houses. On the green sofa, Delage leaned forward and examined his palms, thinking it would interrupt the momentum taking him toward her, almost touching already, Amalia von Schalla, by transferring the attention to him, specifically a part of him, possibly his hands. When he came in she was seated, as if granting an audience; she patted a place beside her, which he took. He felt at ease going forward and sitting alongside, but immediately began looking at his hands. Amalia bent over and looked at them too. “They are not the hands of a pianist, I am told.” He held his stumpy fingers up to the light and seemed to agree. “I’ve come to a dead end with the piano,” not quite changing the subject. Instead of taking an interest, she suddenly stood up, it was to her advantage, some women are better seated, Amalia better standing, straight-backed, poise producing a certain distance. Without moving, she appeared to be doing a slow dance. Delage got to his feet too. “Did he show you his collection? I wish he would not.” Delage shook his head. “I didn’t go in.” Standing near Amalia, he became unsure, not wanting to stumble, his sister would have had a theory on that, she had a theory for anything he did or didn’t do, she read a lot of women’s magazines, perhaps for this purpose, he could hear her flipping the pages even when she was on the phone to him. The hand he placed on her hip moved, after a pause, to her breast, or almost, stopped, he didn’t want to take advantage. It was hardly the moment to bring the subject back to himself, to the simple fact of his disappointing piano. In Amalia, he saw a brief affinity to the Steinways, Bechsteins, Bösendorfers gathering dust in silent rooms in Vienna, their lids closed, like Europe itself, a place hardly able to breathe, a matter of raising the glossy black lids, waiting to release sounds. At least Amalia had made an attempt, in private she was demonstrating to herself an alternative. The walls were white, the geometry in the paintings suggested a modern moment, as of now, which happened to match or be in tune with the new sound of his piano. With just a few days to go in Vienna, he had to chalk up some success, yet instead of making valuable contacts, seeking introductions, using the phone, here he was merging in warmth with the aristocratic woman who alone had tried to help him, with little to show. If only those back in the factory could see him now. We always regret what is possible, what is nearby. Coming to Vienna had been the right decision, it was either Vienna or Berlin, in Vienna the limitations of Europe as musical fortress were immediately apparent, his own limitations as well. “The piano is getting too narrow for me,” was a line picked up by Delage, underlined. His straightforwardness, which may have been an advantage in the design and precision manufacture of a piano, left him in Vienna at a disadvantage. In a matter of days he saw himself as a more complex person, complexity, something he had not considered before, the complexities spreading from Amalia von Schalla, and her daughter, who was never far away, Elisabeth, his attractio
n to them, had in turn made him more complex, a man modified, just a little, which was enough; either that or he had never noticed or considered his complexities back at the home or at the factory, amongst people he could greet by name, putting up with his sister, she was different, she was his sister, his daily life in Sydney. The intricate situations in Vienna had become unavoidable, he had to take them into account, attractions were stronger than information or the difficulties of manufacturing or selling, Amalia seemed to be telling him, which in turn made him a more complex person. Not a cloud, and the green-blue sea glittering, the trails of white forming across the water, more or less parallel to one another, before dissolving. And the great depth of the ocean, always apparent. The ship continued pushing across the surface, a path of creamy-white in its wake, which was almost immediately erased, leaving no sign—an easy mockery of the ship’s mighty engines and propellers. The sun on the small deck was bright enough for Delage to put on his sunglasses, the pale Dutchman in floppy khaki shorts squinted without, hardly anyone on the streets of Europe wore sunglasses, at least not in Vienna, Delage had noticed, in Sydney on the streets, even in the depths of winter, hardly a person was without their sunglasses. “I have loved maps,” the Dutchman said. “‘Loved’ itself is a nuisance word. It is not a comfortable word. Nobody uses it with comfort. I can say I have loved looking at maps more than I loved looking at my wife. The fine lines and names on maps, most of all charts, where the fathoms are indicated with figures and colors, make you pleased to be human.” Delage leaned over the rail listening to the pale Dutchman, the Englishman behind managed to secure his green seat in the sun, unconcerned his face was turning red, his wife had a floral towel over her head. The sisters had a habit of arriving late. It added to their invalid quality, everybody made way for them. The melancholy of the forsaken sister was having a stooping effect on the younger, attentive sister who had never married, and had not the slightest interest in marriage, she never thought about it, it never crossed her mind, not anymore, she told Elisabeth, I prefer being alone, she said more than once, the thought of living with somebody and taking their needs into account, it was altogether too difficult, aside from being unnecessary, she was happy with her own company and of other similar women, the 1930s apartment building in Elwood, Melbourne, where she lived had many single women, they did things together, such as having a coffee or small dinner parties, going to concerts, pottery classes. “Is she serious thinking that—I mean, about men?” Delage asked. “If it makes her feel better, then it is alright,” said Elisabeth, who took little interest in other women. The attentive sister seemed to be a contented woman, she arranged her loyalties, looking after her disconsolate sister, more contented than the Englishwoman whose head was covered in a towel, who often appeared to be smiling to herself, alongside her husband, at the same time completely ignoring her husband, letting him get sunburned, they had become too familiar with one another. Now the sisters faced the sun, closing their eyes, allowing the warmth to soften their thoughts, the older, forsaken one undoing the top buttons of her blouse to extend the tan, after first rubbing cream into her feet and throat, the buttons on Amalia’s pleated, high-collar blouse he found to be imitation buttons, decoration only, on her back well-hidden by the Italian pleating, which gave the impression of vertical stripes, was a tiny zipper of unexpected elegance. For Elisabeth, it was too hot on the small deck, she went back to the cabin, favoring an Austrian complexion over acquiring a tan, Delage remaining at the rail with the Dutchman. “Tell me something we don’t already know,” said the Englishman from under his hat, his eyes closed. “Where I grew up in South Australia, the houses had corrugated iron roofs,” Delage said, when nobody else said anything. “And ours was the same red as this, on the deck here.” “I love an iron roof on a house. I wish I grew up with an iron roof,” the older sister spoke for the first time. “Especially when it rains,” she went on, which made them all look at her. “There are no flies on a moving ship,” the Englishman observed, who could not imagine a corrugated iron roof, or why anyone would want to live under one, a factory or a warehouse, yes, not on a house, his eyes closed. “In Holland the thatch continues to flourish, I believe.” The Romance never stopped moving, day and night going forward, the steady vibration of the engines underfoot, so much distance to cover, so much deep water in the world, it was a wonder there could be any danger to rainfall or fish stocks, according to the captain. An albatross had landed on top of a container. In the morning it was still there, large, clumsy, on the following day too. Every effort was made to save the great bird. It was all they could talk about. The captain slowed the ship, still it couldn’t take off. On the small deck they gathered, Elisabeth too, the Dutchman taking the closest interest. “Of course, the albatross mustn’t die on a ship.” One of the crew had the idea of crawling out, wearing industrial gloves. All watched as he reached it, there was a struggle, the bird was struggling and snapping at his face and arms. “Careful,” the Dutchman said. The man got to his feet and threw the big bird up in the air—it dipped, working its wings, before flying off. The steel ship was warm to touch, in places hot. With nothing else available beyond the ship, only ocean, they lost the use of days, Thursday, Saturday, Monday, it hardly mattered, the feeling was one of being transported. By the fourth week they were well down the western side of Australia, although no sign of land, only iron-ore carriers going in the other direction, Delage increasingly wondered how Elisabeth would react to the place, all the more difficult for it being far away. Before she woke, Delage was up and making his way down the many layers of steps, almost to the waterline, where he could walk along the edge of the ship, a gangway with rail, holding on to the rail, the beginning of another day, the air cold, the empty ocean was like the day itself, one hundred and seventy paces, by his count, to where it (thick steel) tapered into the bow. Some mornings Delage went along and back twice. At this very end or front of the moving ship there was no wind, or sight of water, it was still, a neutral zone. Introducing his piano to Europe had not been a waste of time, or a difficult financial loss, on the contrary, something had come out of it, nothing is ever wasted, not entirely. It had left Delage an altered person, he was faintly aware, the normal version of himself was modified by his short time in Vienna, by Amalia, her daughter now on the ship, his reactions to them, separately and together, the reception of his piano, each had their effect on him; Konrad von Schalla too had been an influence. By the time he had left or fled Vienna, he was a modified person. The Dutchman had been drawn to the silent bow of the ship, more and more he sat there alone, thick chains and lines coiled nearby, as if he was smoking, only he wasn’t smoking. Sometimes he didn’t see Delage, which suggested he wanted to be left alone. The Dutchman didn’t believe a grown person could change very much—only at small doses at the edges, hard to detect, especially to the person themselves. “I would go for a walk with you along the length of the ship, if there was room. If we were in the country we would walk, and I would talk. There would be the birds—sounds of birds. And don’t they sound better than piano music? When we step ashore, you and I will go for our walk.” Delage couldn’t recall ever going on a long walk with a man, conversing over a range of subjects as they strode out, pointing with a gnarled stick to a flower or a butterfly, the Australian countryside actively discouraged walking of any kind, except as an endurance test, the example set by the early explorers who mostly died of thirst or exhaustion, some were speared, the difficulty being the heat, also the insects, the drooping khaki trees and bushes hardly help, above all the absence of paths and the reassurance of a distant spire. Europe is crisscrossed with meandering paths equipped with gates, stiles and signage for the convenience of walkers, it is impossible to go behind a bush in England without being disturbed by a walker or a pair of walkers, wearing stout tan shoes, in rude good health, taking up a path, as if they owned the land. In the von Schalla limousine, Elisabeth took him to the outskirts of Vienna, not far from the city center, where it became immedi
ately rural, dense green, only a distant cement or chemical plant disturbing the scene, dark trees, small rivers. “Austria is not all ‘heavy brick,’ as you like to say,” Elisabeth said, in a picnic voice. “Look, there’s a cow!”—Delage joining in. But he wondered why he was there, he should be selling the virtues of his piano, it had become urgent to make some headway with his piano in Europe, even if he no longer knew where to turn, his chances increasingly looking slim. Having missed the Romance in Hamburg, he somehow had to catch it at La Spezia later in the week. “Our mother has invited a young composer tonight. She has arranged it for you.” “Does she want me there?” Elisabeth looked at him, her mother was renowned for helping artistic people, but this man could not be called artistic, he was separate, from another place. While they sat on a rug near a tree, the chauffeur wandered off to smoke a cigarette, she opened a cardboard box of small savories; she had chocolates and held up an apple for each. Afterwards, Amalia lay with her head on his lap, he felt it necessary to rest his hand on her head, to hold it with its blond hair in place, she had closed her eyes, allowing him to look down on her face. Even when closed, her eyes appeared wide apart, quite a broad forehead. By hardly moving, though keeping a faint smile, she encouraged him to notice the rest of her body, the shape he could make out or begin to imagine beneath her dress; Delage became patient, with weak sun in his eyes, a picnic scene out of any number of French films, when he should have been working, instead of doing nothing but sitting with a woman and wondering what there was about him that could be of interest to her, Elisabeth, only daughter of the von Schallas, Austrian, a question so elusive he left it, it is always easier to draw a blank. Never had he thought so much about himself, a subject he generally touched upon before avoiding. She was eight or ten years younger than him, at least. “Mother’s chosen composer might suit the sound of your piano,” came her voice, eyes still closed. “Remember our critic suggested that? My mother makes situations into projects.” Elisabeth sighed and did something her mother had done, she took his hand, placed it on her breast, rounder than he expected, young, alive. “I only have a few days left. I have to get down to business re my piano.” She wasn’t listening. “I can help you.” “I don’t think so. This piano is a technical object. You need to know what makes it different inside.” At this Elisabeth sat up, which released his hand, the one with the watch on it pointing to the time. “It does not matter how it works inside. It is the sound that matters—the pleasure it gives.” To show agreement, he touched her chin. The chauffeur had his hands in his pockets, looking the other way. “He’s one of my mother’s rescues,” Elisabeth whispered in the car. He had played principal trumpet at the Vienna Philharmonic, but a few years ago had been caught in an avalanche while cross-country skiing, a pastime which strengthened his lungs for the trumpet playing, just about everybody in Austria has been caught in an avalanche, but he was buried for twenty minutes in this one, he was lucky to be found at all, let alone alive, pulled out purple with his mouth filled with snow, he could barely puff on a cigarette now, blowing a trumpet was out of the question, Delage could hear the labored breathing from the back, occasionally he glimpsed his mournful mustache. “It is not as if my mother likes the trumpet. It is not contemplative enough for her. It is the sort of instrument your father would play, she said to me.” “A good woman,” said Delage, who hardly knew her. “Do you think so?” her daughter replied. Delage had not heard of an avalanche ever taking place in Australia. They had driven further into the green countryside, Delage relaxed with her, Elisabeth, along the narrow roads, exceptionally neat villages, cleanliness seen as a force for conformity, always the church spire, they approached Vienna in a wide circle, and entered at a different point from where they had started. “I’m going to stand under a shower, and work out what to do with my life.” What had been meant as mildly humorous, even if it did contain deadpan questions of hope, Elisabeth took seriously. She moved to reassure him. “Your life is full of interest! You have plenty ahead. And you have your health.” At such unexpected optimism he gave one of his snort-laughs, which suggested above all affection. “Afterwards, we might have one of your so-called coffees, or something stronger.” Frank Delage had an alert, shining quality, never downcast, there was always hope; it was what people found appealing in him. And Elisabeth had made him chirpy. She didn’t have a career, she had no commercial or artistic ambitions. She was free. In the hotel he took off his clothes, and stood under the shower, as promised, soap in his eyes, and went over the possibilities. If the composer at dinner took no interest in the Delage piano, he’d finish with Vienna, explaining it to Amalia, and Elisabeth, it was time to go. There was no alternative. “I’m not here to enjoy myself.” When he opened his eyes, he saw in the steam Elisabeth in her short dress, seated on the edge of the bath, watching him. “I’ve always wanted to do this.” With the large towel she set about drying him, his shoulders, back and stomach, down to his knees, returning to his hair, all of which Delage allowed. Amalia herself opened the door expecting the contemporary composer, who had been recommended, she had only met him once or twice, in everyday life his timing was as random as his compositions, either he would arrive early or late, never on time, usually late, making an entrance with a kind of psychological crescendo long after everybody else had arrived and was waiting, the entrance of the soloist, not always dressed properly for the occasion, the hostesses were constantly put off-balance, but as a young composer it was allowed, artists too could arrive late in paint-splattered boots and trousers, the artist and composer can walk on water across most of Europe, when, opening the door Amalia saw, instead of the composer, her daughter with Delage, she looked from one to the other and saw the familiarity between them, helped by the two espressos at the nearby Schwarzenberg, Delage touching her arm as they went past. “At least somebody is here on time,” she said to her husband in the small dining room. Another hour passed before the contemporary composer Paul Hildebrand arrived, by which time they were seated and eating. “We’re not waiting for him any longer,” von Schalla had said. In business, punctuality was assumed. “The artist has the fond feeling they have privileges. Where does that come from? In any other field, their behavior would be regarded as infantile.” It allowed Delage to talk to him, always talk cautiously to a businessman, they’re not partial to exaggeration, avoiding Amalia’s indifference, she seemed distracted, the lateness of the contemporary composer had not been helpful, the evening had been arranged for the sole benefit of Delage, this visitor from Sydney, he was looking at her while talking to her husband. The composer Paul Hildebrand turned out to be tall, wearing a three-piece, pale-blue suit, and a necktie showing ferns, although there was not a single fern in all of Austria. He had combed-back hair, similar to Franz Liszt in the well-known photograph, the one with his cheek leaning against his hand, or rather, the tips of his fingers. Hildebrand was aware of his presence, he used it to promote his gifts. Certain authors (for example) disguise their self-absorption by perfecting in speech and dress an ostentatious modesty, others practice an extreme attentiveness. Both can be seen at book signings, writers’ festivals, and in interviews, or when they’re approached by strangers on the street. People meeting Hildebrand had no idea he was pathologically unpunctual. “No doubt you have already eaten, Mr. Hildebrand,” von Schalla wiping his lips with the napkin. “And this is excellent beef.” But Hildebrand who had not eaten was another elongated man who had a large appetite. “What sort of music do you write?” von Schalla went on, “I don’t believe I have heard any.” “The sound made by instruments—it’s artificial. I add natural sounds. I also put silence to work. I make performance.” Von Schalla nodded, his wife looking on. With his knife, he pointed, “Richard Strauss ate at this table holding the fork you have there in your hand.” Hildebrand looked down at it. “Ach!” He threw it down, Strauss’ fork, it bounced off the plate, splashing stroganoff over the front of his three-piece suit, quite a performance, for he continued eating the strips of beef and sm
all onions using his fingers, leaving the fork on the floor. Delage had never seen anything like it, but then he had never met a contemporary composer before. “Richard Strauss was a very great composer. Behave yourself!” Amalia moved and sat next to him. “Mr. Delage here has come a long way. He is from Australia. He has designed and built a new piano. It has a wonderful new sound you might be interested in. I am bringing you together—two gifted men.” Hildebrand had an impassive face, but managed to give Delage a cold glance, he had finished eating, said nothing to Delage or Amalia, waiting instead for the cheeses or the cognac, the way a concert pianist stares at the keyboard or up at the ceiling before beginning to play. “At least listen to what he has to say,” she touched his arm. Von Schalla gave a pessimistic cough and stood up from the table, down in the Southern Hemisphere his only daughter was certainly old enough to do whatever she wanted, she was trying to shave Delage, against his protests, after a brief struggle at the mirror she had snatched his brush and razor, because she wanted to, she especially enjoyed carefully applying the lather, her playful actions made her appear younger, a sign of happiness also. And yet when he seized the shaving brush and went to lather her chin, Elisabeth put her hands up, cried out and shook her head, a slap of lather would make her into a bearded woman. Returning to her calm manner, she stood beside him as he finished shaving, pointing to the bits he had missed, made difficult by the bumping of the ship. Delage rinsed the brush. More than once his sister on the phone from Brisbane said how she envied men, by pulling faces every day shaving, their faces didn’t age so rapidly, she’d picked it up in one of the magazines she flipped through, information Delage had been on the verge of sharing with Elisabeth, as he shaved, but decided against. Elisabeth had few responsibilities, she could recline on the small deck or on Delage’s bed, reading, or glancing about in an interested manner, a woman accustomed to leisure. Alone, she could dream herself into a mermaid state, an especially shapely one, patient, compliant, without the coldness and the slipperiness, on a ship that went on day after day, the voyage never-ending. It was something Delage did not have a hope of imagining. And she had time to consider him, his easygoing acceptance of their situation; and she wondered if there was more. She didn’t mind Delage spending hours on the small deck with the Dutchman, where she noticed for much of the time they had their elbows on the rail, in the midst of the waves, without actually saying anything. When he returned she would be waiting. To be on board a ship with a foreign man, a minor manufacturer from Sydney, his description, she hardly knew him, leaving behind her own familiar country, family, faces, the many local architectural and agricultural details, for an unknown desolate country far away, it had the aura of being taken, just like piracy in the old times. The raider manages to escape with his plunder. At first the captive struggles—she wants to scratch his eyes out. She is horrified, at the same time aware of having been chosen. Before long she becomes attracted to him, apparently it was not uncommon, an attraction made stronger by the circumstances. A mixed marriage has an undertone of piracy, the woman taken from her usual surroundings, taken into the unknown. All that was missing with Delage was the black beard and the weapon. And he was almost tall, without a perspiring forehead. He sat beside Elisabeth. “What are you going to do with me when you arrive?” He looked thoughtful, not at all fierce. “I’m thinking of putting you in a glass case in Hyde Park, with the sign ‘Madwoman from Vienna.’ I haven’t quite decided on the words. I’ll probably need your date of birth.” “I am serious!” She was about to stand, instead she looked at him closely. Deflecting a question came easily, it was second nature to him, although it made him appear careless, another careless man, she knew he was not, a deflector but not a careless man, she had seen him do it before, it was a matter of waiting and choosing a better time. At this stage, Elisabeth wanted to discuss the near future, what she could expect from the New World. Whenever they had their elbows on the rail on the small deck, the Dutchman spoke about his wife, Delage said, how he had not paid attention or enough attention, under the same roof but living in a parallel manner, the Dutchman said several times, “parallel manner,” her face and changing body, or her posture as she went about doing things, or what they had once done together, appeared before him, whether he wanted to be reminded or not. Often he wondered what she would be doing at a precise moment. Now that he had removed himself from Amsterdam there was room for her in the small city. It would be like the blinds being raised in the house. She could breathe. He was unlikely to return to Amsterdam. “She would not want to see me there, or anywhere.” After thirty-seven years she preferred not to think about him anymore, let alone see him, even at a distance. If someone mentioned his name, she didn’t appreciate it. “Since my wife has left me I can remember some things in perfect detail,” his elbows on the rail. There had been three birds sitting on the stern passing through the Malaccas, bigger than pigeons, and a smaller gray one fidgeted more than the others. Every afternoon the English couple were heard arguing, before appearing on the small deck as a neat, composed couple, as if nothing had happened. “In our time together, my wife and I never raised our voices,” the Dutchman told Delage. He went on to say he was being saved by sensations, at regular and not so regular intervals he would see or hear something, an unexpected thought that didn’t seem to relate to anything, a forgotten memory, there were speculations, a possibility might come forward, which managed to hold his attention at different times for hours on end. The world consisted of thoughts and reactions to thoughts.