The Voyage

by Murray Bail

  Remember the difficulties of conversations, the inequality of them, each person is wanting to impress the other, slipping into a more attentive persona, hoping for the other to think well of them, the nodding and the quickly responding laugh, seeking approval, seeking agreement, cutting of the cloth, hoping to talk them around, the shifting of the other one’s position, a conversation can never be neutral, stable, innocent. Frank Delage had the tendency to go quiet, or become over-accommodating, or else lose track or speak humorously, inevitably coming across as reckless or foolish, characteristics which can be attractive, but in business become an immediate disadvantage, in Europe especially. How could someone like him have designed and built in all its intricacy a concert grand in a choice of timbers—in Sydney, Australia? Delage tried to be carefree in conversation. By the fourth or fifth day in Vienna he retreated from talking, or talking earnestly, which was usually how he ended up talking about the Delage piano, the one subject he could handle with real authority. Of course in Vienna it was not possible to avoid conversations, he was forced to describe the workings of his piano to anyone who would listen, beginning with Amalia von Schalla on the footpath, elegant woman, all in the hope of converting someone, anyone, he could hear himself saying the same things and cluttering the sentences with factual information, how else to describe the advantages of his piano which were as clear as daylight to him, as a consequence Delage began talking more to himself, at the table or on the street, his lips moving. And yet Amalia and her daughter, Elisabeth, landlocked women, didn’t seem to mind. After the cognac, von Schalla, who was talking about how artistic types were inept when it came to promoting themselves, suddenly stood up, the contemporary composer Hildebrand followed, Delage joined them, the two women remained seated at the table, a discarded mother and daughter, it happens, clamming up is in our family, Delage’s sister reminded him when she didn’t have anything else to say, Delage looked from one woman to the other, at least he made the effort, they each motioned him on. Down the hall, von Schalla unlocked the door to his room. “We can have our talk here.” There was a desk, books in a glass cabinet, Persian carpets, heavy curtains. On the walls were women painted by Egon Schiele, naked and spread-eagled, as well as erotic studies by other artists, all kinds, not suitable for public viewing, prints by Utamaro, and cabinets of French postcards, mixed with American photographs, some of recognizable film stars completely naked. Photographers can hardly be included as artists. It is truer to say that, having reduced the significance of art, photographers are the enemy of art. “My wife disapproves. She of course doesn’t enjoy coming here. I consider it healthy.” He poured them all another cognac. The composer remained studying the photographs. “I want you, over there, to listen. And you, kindly explain to our composer friend the merits of your piano. You did say it had advantages over the competing products?” Yes, he did. And in an almost offhand manner Delage listed them. Following the music critic’s suggestion he emphasized the piano’s new sound, some would say an austere, unforgiving sound. Such a sound could match the intolerant ambitions of contemporary music, Delage repeated verbatim. Here von Schalla interrupted, and appeared to change the subject. “How many pianos do you make in a given year? And their cost to make is? How much do they sell for? Think about this. Pianos look all the same—or am I missing something? They’re black.” “They’re not all black.” He waved away Delage’s objections. “Make yours different. Give it a name. What about your famous bird, the kookaburra? Have the bird big in gold leaf above the keyboard. It would become like the three-pointed star.” Hildebrand had returned to examining the photographs, humming a tune as he went from one to the other, it could take all night and the next, there were dozens of naked women in different poses from different cultures, Hildebrand needed an event or a scene of some kind before he could even consider the first note, Beethoven took from the weather and pastures, or the life of an emperor, in Australia contemporary composers are always on the alert for subjects to illustrate, bushranger stories are a favorite source, and deserted settlements being overrun by nature, the melancholy of it, wherever possible imitating with strings the shimmering heat and sounds of insects. Von Schalla had to speak sharply to get Hildebrand back into the conversation. The master businessman was renowned for his quick movements in negotiations, it was what he did every day of the week. Bringing together the piano manufacturer and a local composer, although important to the visitor from Sydney, was by his standards a minor matter. He was doing it to keep his wife happy. And this Delage in his ill-fitting suit had probably saved his life. It was all about mutual benefit, von Schalla had pointed out. After listening without so much as a nod, unlike Delage, who realized he had been nodding too much, the composer agreed to give the Delage piano a hearing, Hildebrand, who Delage noticed was perspiring, said he would travel alone out to the warehouse, it would take only a few minutes to make a decision. “I will need to test the sound, I do not make use of just any sound,” he smiled at von Schalla. Only then would he have it delivered to his studio at Pötzleinsdorf. It was agreed, all three were shaking their hands as Elisabeth walked in. Delage made a move to stop her, concerned with what she could not avoid seeing on the walls, but Elisabeth came over to him, her father and Hildebrand went on talking, obviously she knew of the existence of the collection; later she told Delage such collections were common in the nineteenth century, not only amongst the Hungarian and Austrian gentry, the English formed collections of erotica too, something you would not expect of them, or perhaps that’s precisely what the English would be expected to do, Delage smiling at her free use of “connoisseur,” and went on smiling at language in general. Her father’s collection of erotica was one of the finest in private hands, connoisseurs from all over the world came to the house to see it, she said, her father enjoyed observing their excitement and envy; as she came forward, Delage without saying anything put on an expression of agreement. It was his first success in Europe, a beginning, it could well lead to something significant, it was now in the hands of the contemporary composer Hildebrand to compose something on the Delage piano. A pale-brownish line above the blue-green was the first sign of land, and birds came near the ship, the line barely visible remained solid against the liquid foreground, the English couple no longer argued, at least for a few days, the sisters from Melbourne joined the others at the rail, the German officers were more talkative too, there was a general lightheartedness on the ship, only the Dutchman seemed uninterested, turning his back on land. The surfaces of the Romance constantly felt unstable, the land ahead would be firm. The captain who had taken to speaking to Elisabeth in German said they would dock in Fremantle the following evening. Although there was no certainty the contemporary composer in the three-piece suit would take to the sound of his piano, Frank Delage nevertheless was grateful. The trip had not been entirely in vain. “Great oaks from little acorns grow.” And without Amalia’s interest, the possible association with the composer would not have happened, he wanted to thank her, she was waiting in her room, Elisabeth instead took him in the opposite direction, even though his thoughts were with Amalia waiting for him, he followed Elisabeth down the other end of the hall, antlers, ancestral clocks, portraits, weapons, Elisabeth leading him, to her room. She had a carefree manner, tossing her scarf which floated over an armchair. Elisabeth’s room was just as spacious as her mother’s. The scattered arrangement of impressions, as if the entire space was a collage, had an instinctive modernity, different from her mother’s deliberate style. Delage recognized a Bechstein grand. Near it was a painting of overlapping American flags, further along a golden woman in a bath, by the door a drawing or a print of a rhinoceros—more objects and others for him to take into account. On the floor in an impatient pile were a few illustrated books. Delage lifted the lid of the piano. “It’s out of tune.” “I have not played for at least a year. I’ve lost interest.” She stood near him. She had studied art history, and for that reason had lost interest in art as well. Universities have
a horror of aesthetics, tutors can more readily discuss the political situation of the time, historical influences such as class or the discoveries in science, or the misfortunes of race and gender, which undoubtedly lie behind the brushstrokes of every painting, even if the painter was unaware of it, much easier for tutors and students to handle facts, people cling on to loose bits of timber during a shipwreck, avoid confusion, decisions on aesthetics being far more difficult than enumerating facts, impossible for some. “I’ve decided to concentrate more on persons. What do you think about that?” Looking up, Elisabeth’s face was pale in shadow, a face smoothed by candlelight. Delage began to wonder whether he should be alone with her. He had told her mother, Amalia, he wanted to see her in her room, she would be waiting for him. It is difficult to decide between what is nearby, and what is more obscurely outside, how to remain loyal to one, or to the other. And many thoughts he resisted, until slowly he came around. Sitting at the piano would take his mind off, or turn his thoughts back to his piano, not this one, beyond to Sydney, to the factory which made the new piano, everybody working there he knew by their first names, he made a point of greeting them whenever he walked through, a lighthearted one to the Slovakian bookkeeper, they were relying on him, entire families depended on his business acumen, whether or not he could sell even one Delage grand piano into Europe, now for the first time he could report he had made progress, began playing the Bechstein, as if that would solve anything. He was immediately repelled by its complacent old sound, as Elisabeth came and sat on him, legs apart, her back to the keyboard, Delage reduced to playing one hand, making mistakes, another, he was only playing scales on the Bechstein, more mistakes, deliberate wrong notes, comically, he was hoping, to suggest his incomprehension, Elisabeth had her hands around his neck, as Delage played louder, but tuneless, comically he hoped. It happened as they left the Mediterranean too, she hitched her skirt over him, as if he was hers. Through the Malaccas, past Sumatra, all through the Java Sea, sunsets became a performance, the fiery spread made them cry out. Clouds along the bottom of the sky became heat affected, bar-radiator red aglow, the Englishman exclaimed, recalling his digs in Clapham, the pink of lipsticks or cockatoos (puffy gray at the edges), while further south it was less humid, and clouds on the horizon took on a streaked honey yellow, shooting out glittering lines, such an immense statement of day ending, the heat-stained sky fading to blue-black, darkness, stars. Elisabeth had never experienced anything like it. In the Alps, sunset color would appear at the ends of valleys, which had snow on either side like stage curtains, but half-hidden, the sunsets diminished by the bulk of mountains, the peaks, and the mass of snow. If Elisabeth was late, Delage would rush down the steps and get her up for a viewing on the small deck. Nothing can be learned from a sunset, unless the colors exuberantly produced by nature throw into doubt notions of what is, or not, kitsch.

  He had almost missed the Romance at La Spezia, the great black funnel had been smoking, the gangway was being winched up from the wharf, crew stood about fore and aft ready to release the lines, Delage arrived in a taxi, the driver sounding the horn mercilessly, the Italian instinct for melodrama, it drove fast along the wharf to the middle of the ship, and stopped. In fact, his entire time in Vienna had not followed a logical path, it had been hasty, improvised, irrational, either he was waiting or he was running late, unsure of what he should do next, realizing more confusion than what can be retained, it was a condensed version of his life in Sydney, how too many things happened without his intention, he needed support, a presence alongside, something his sister had been nudging him toward, not that her life was anything to go by, the door behind opened, Delage facing the piano couldn’t turn his head. Elisabeth stirred, or adjusted on his lap. “My father. Was he looking for you?” Unhurried, she put on her clothes, “He should not burst in like that.” With his hand near her neck, he felt her warmth. “I said I’d see your mother.” It was not a matter of fleeing, there was no reason to feel awkward or confused, he was accustomed to women of Elisabeth’s generation being at ease in this and other situations. “Disappointments lead to accusations,” “It is necessary to be skeptical,” “Why do the contraltos show rotten taste in blue sheath dresses?” these were thoughts that had caught Delage’s eye; he’d forgotten where he’d come across the first two, the third was his own, hardly a thought at all, an observation, of little or no value he’d be the first to admit, at the few recitals where his piano was being used he couldn’t believe his eyes. He liked to settle and be thoughtful, it was how one morning on a train he had visualized the new mechanical movements of the Delage piano. After Elisabeth’s father had burst in on them, he felt positively lighthearted making his way to Amalia’s room, anticipating her face, tilted manner, Elisabeth said she would be at his hotel at ten, brushing his arm as he went. Further along, the door opened and von Schalla came out of his room. “I was interested to have your opinion of my collection. And what did you make of our composer?” Lowering his voice, “You might consider returning to your hotel.” “I wanted to say thanks to her—Amalia, I’m talking about.” Delage’s brevity was local, a national characteristic, it had no flow, it couldn’t wander around a subject, finding the beneficial level. “I can convey your apologies. She’ll understand. It’s up to you, of course.” “Are you quite sure about that?” Delage went on looking at von Schalla, who didn’t bother answering. It could have been part of the general oldness of things, Vienna exerted such a feeling, people in heavy coats moving slowly, which was why he remained half-blocked by von Schalla in the long hall, over his shoulder he could see the door to Amalia’s room where she was said to be waiting, the husband had not prevented him but advised against, enough for one night, his opinion, not standing in his way, only half-blocking. In the hall one of the light bulbs had blown. He wondered if von Schalla had noticed. After all, he was a man who never looked tired. Delage hesitated, he didn’t know why. Pianos were not the only things that were complex. Still wide awake, he sat on the bed and thought of calling the factory, nine in the morning Sydney time, to see how they were going, he had nothing much to add to what they already knew. Alternatively, he could phone his sister, a thought he immediately dismissed. She would get into a flap at being called from Vienna, she would jump to the conclusion something had happened, an accident, he was stretched out struggling for breath in an unknown hospital—why else would he call? And it happened to be that Vienna stood at the very top of the places she wanted to visit, she had never been overseas, aside from New Zealand, more than ever she believed she could no longer travel alone, not to a distant country, even England, where there would be no problems with language, but the direction of streets, the small change and the weather would be unfamiliar, she had been suggesting to her brother they should take a holiday together, not to Bali or Thailand, or anywhere in Malaysia, not to a humid country, even though she lived in Brisbane, Queensland, a city with the worst humidity imaginable, in February virtually unlivable, such an inhospitable place encourages the short cut, informality, reminiscences of the most basic kind, where cashew nuts and peanuts are eaten by the handful before meals, it was Europe she had in mind, starting off with Vienna. Early each morning one of the crew used a high-pressure hose to remove salt from the small deck and other areas, something Delage and the Dutchman enjoyed watching, without saying a word. In Perth, when he did phone the factory, the Slovakian bookkeeper, who had taken to answering the phones, said his sister had been on the phone every other day for news of him, “warts and all,” as she reported it. People trust each other on the slightest acquaintance. And so the small everyday movements of the world are allowed to continue. To have the future of the factory in the hands of a virtually unknown Viennese composer who wore an absurd blue suit, too light in color, just as Hildebrand’s hair was too long for a lanky man, the three-piece suit and hair certainly missed the mark, the lanky composer nevertheless had barely acknowledged him, perhaps sensing a rival for Amalia von Schalla’s well-known generosity;
Delage intended to ask Amalia for her frank opinion of Hildebrand, when he thanked her for going to the trouble of securing the composer, except, after some hesitation, Delage had returned to his hotel. He was not sleeping well. Naturally he had concerns about his business. The cost of this trip exceeded the profit of an entire Delage grand piano. The strong ship was moving forward, the liquid surface resisted, fur resisting the crawl of an insect, still the ship advanced, the flat coastline of Australia disappearing, reappearing along one side. “The fresh air is doing her the world of good,” the Melbourne sister reported. “Her appetite has returned. My sister is a natural cook. You should see her kitchen—the copper pans, the table settings. Men are always leaving women who are brilliant cooks, as well as women who are not cooks, who, in fact, don’t like cooking at all. I don’t think they know what they want. How long is it you two have been together?” On the small deck, Elisabeth often found herself caught with one of the sisters, or both, which she didn’t mind, the situation between sisters she found endlessly interesting. To Delage’s surprise, she had never shown sympathy for the older, discarded sister who enjoyed the cooking. Whenever he returned from being somewhere on the ship with the Dutchman, Elisabeth wanted to hear what they had been talking about, or rather, what the Dutchman had to say, he doing most of the talking. The days were clear and hot, they hardly varied. Some days Delage answered, “Nothing. We didn’t say a word.” Elisabeth threw her arms up to the sky, “You spend hours together, and you say nothing?” “I was waiting for him to say something, he was waiting for me. Yesterday a seagull shat on his head. He said it was bad luck—what most other people would call ‘auspicious.’” Soon afterward the Dutchman said he had heard through a “third party” his wife, or ex-wife, was no longer in Europe, but in Perth, staying with a friend she had first met at a poetry festival. “In the 1970s, her friend was crossing a bridge in Amsterdam and collided with an Australian tourist, a garage-door salesman, and fell off her bicycle—and followed him to the Great South Land. The marriage didn’t last. She stayed on in Perth because of the children. How would she get along there? When I met her, she had on an apron-dress like a milkmaid, normally seen only in Switzerland. I don’t think she ever approved of me. You can imagine what they would have been talking about.” Delage wondered whether it was a good idea meeting her. “My wife knew I was on the ship. It looks to me as if she wants to come back. I’ll see her. Of course I will. I’m going to have to choose my words carefully.” As they approached Fremantle, the Dutchman was out on the small deck early, where he stayed all day, Delage pointed to the dangers of sunstroke, he would not have experienced such a sun in Europe, it was a matter of wearing a hat at all times, however the Dutchman waved away the advice, he held on to the rail and breathed in deeply, a land with a clear optimistic smell, according to his nostrils. It is the future, I like it, he said several times. Apparently he could smell the red soil, dust and dry grass of Western Australia, which was visible on the horizon only through binoculars. “Leaving a wife is like a killing,” he went on to tell Delage. “Usually it is not deserved. By any measure it is not a good feeling. A marriage,” he said to Delage, “should never be based on one subject.” Delage waited for Elisabeth’s reaction. “If you remember,” Elisabeth in their cabin, “it was she who left him. Or am I mistaken here?” “It’s probably complicated,” Delage said. “There are many things we don’t know. He has become cheerful, which has to be good.” Whenever she touched his cheek and smiled, he knew she was allowing a lack of understanding. They were encircled by shared aspects of themselves, a short radius, “radius” an attractive word, a contemplative word, “a tad,” “robust” (as in “discussion”), and “clam chowder,” all ridiculous words, not as contemplative as the wonderful “radius,” the English-speaking world and the world in general would be better off without them. “Grinned” and “grinning” could also go. Ever since her visit to the hotel at ten the following morning, Elisabeth was liquid, warm, all attention. From ten in the morning until the following day they had stayed in his room, Elisabeth’s surrendering softness had given Delage experience of Amalia, Elisabeth having aspects of her mother, being part of her and grown beyond, landlocked women, Elisabeth too had an oblique manner, she also accepted the world around her as hers—her way of looking down, or sideways at others, or not looking at all. Delage could see the effect of his personality, when normally he couldn’t. They, Elisabeth, her mother, Amalia von Schalla, had not been the reason for traveling to Vienna, he had never heard of them before, had not known of the existence of the Schalla family, there were obviously many people or situations like them, a particular mother and daughter, in Europe especially; they were occupying more of his thoughts than the piano, Elisabeth in particular, her clothes tangled amongst his shirt, dark trousers and socks on the floor, his thoughts, and her mother three streets from the hotel, if that, waiting at attractive arm’s length in a room, a woman who always appeared to be waiting, not a café- or a parks-and-garden-woman, a room-woman, waiting in a room, her own. As the significance or the mystery of it unfolded, the problems presented by the perpetual piano, which had filled his mind leaving space for little else, the more he thought about it the less he actually thought about it, receded. Unannounced, Amalia von Schalla was at the door. “You are here? Thank you very much.” She was wearing a small spinach-colored hat and veil, not for her daughter. “Tell him I wish to speak to him. Preferably now. If not, tonight.” “He has to rush off tomorrow to catch a boat.” “Tell him, if you wouldn’t mind.” Delage was drying his hair. “What was all that about?” “Nothing really,” Elisabeth said. Generally speaking, by the way, actually, as a matter of fact, these could be banished, or at least their usage reduced, along with meanwhile, back at the ranch. Observations about the weather, the enunciation of past, present, future temperatures, a specialty of uncertain women, could go the way of thus, see you anon. These automatic weather concerns have little meaning, other than acting as conversation fillers. “Looks like rain”—what does that mean? Konrad von Schalla was a man not known for taking an interest in the weather, good or bad, it was all the same to him, a matter of getting the clothing right, especially the shoes, that was all. It became one less thing to think about. The one time he almost said something about the weather was to lump the unreliability of economic forecasters in with the equally hapless weather forecasters. If he had listened to the so-called experts in the economic forecasting business he would have fallen by the wayside years ago, he said to Delage. As if to challenge von Schalla’s indifference, Delage was caught out in a downpour in the middle of Opernring on his way to the Schallas’ apartments on Argentinierstrasse. He arrived drying his face with a handkerchief, the bottom half of his trousers and shoes saturated. “Vienna is full of surprises,” he intended to open with, unaware of von Schalla’s horror of even the most innocent reference to weather, it was Amalia, Elisabeth’s mother, he had come to see, he should have gone to her room the night before (or the night before that?), even now he should have gone first to her, instead he was following von Schalla to the larger of the rooms, which served as his office. Facing him across the small desk, Delage saw again his extreme neatness. Every woven fiber in his English suit, shirt and tie was pressed into service, his small black shoes buffed, hair combed, trimmed nails, small patient hands. The neatness drew attention to itself. Delage kept noting the details of it, a neatness which kept him and anybody else at a manageable distance, the way extreme neatness of dress is put forward as a standard by pontiffs, the British royal family, army officers. Seated at his undersize desk he spoke without taking his eyes from Delage, one or two of his fingers moving slightly. “There is so much ordinariness in the world, I am surprised there is not more irritation, even in private. I do not see how anybody with ambitions can be pleased with what is around them. Wherever you look there is something to correct possible optimism. The great majority of men and women are satisfied merely to get by, they don’t mind being ordinary,” he s
aid. “It is the majority that makes the cities and towns ugly, a small minority keeps trying to raise the level. The creators and the destroyers. I think it is something we can agree on,” he gave a short smile. “It is the same story in every society, every country, the same situation—the weight of the majority brings with it a lowering. No doubt more in your Australia, it being new. I am told things are very plain there—otherwise, what are you doing here?” Everybody in Europe had an opinion or a disappointment. The disappointment led to the other. Most of von Schalla’s complaints were familiar, which allowed Delage to nod a little, enough, the moment they became unreasonable he turned to Elisabeth, naked, waiting at the hotel, the daughter of this man holding forth across. And what a luxury that was. “Then there are the women, our wives and our daughters, who have become restless. They require distractions, moving about, they never stay in the one spot. They are free to do anything now, and it is encouraged by the modern transport system. The clothes they wear are designed for moving freely.” Elisabeth arrived at the hotel in khaki trousers, a quilted jacket, flat ochre-red shoes with blue laces. “If my wife is not attending a concert, she is at the theater, if not the theater she is at a public lecture of some kind—usually a subject she has not until then shown an interest in. The theater world, and I include the music world, those opinionated people flapping about on stage, pulling faces, shouting, or looking mournful. They beg us to look at them. As if we need to be entertained. At least my daughter seeks her entertainments elsewhere.” Delage glanced at his watch. He began to move. “Only a fool would get it into their head to begin over again, and remanufacture an instrument that has already been manufactured, centuries ago, then expect Europe, which is stuffed full of pianos, where the piano was invented, to welcome your new piano with wide-open arms. I am sorry, it is not possible. At the same time,” using his harsh voice, “it is impressive. I would have to say, yes.” Already Delage had been thinking how to report the conversation to Elisabeth, she would want to hear every bit of it, including nuances, in turn she would be amazed at his meandering and missed detail, he could never recall a conversation properly, unlike his sister, who had an unshakable memory when it came to it, Elisabeth too, he had not failed to notice, was strong on conversational details. “And there is always the temptation to let it all slip,” von Schalla had said, “become one with the sloppy plumber, the house painter leaving the mess, the second-rate architect, God knows there are too many of them, the pianist who misses the notes. The list goes on. Or you can stay above.” Delage was no longer sure where he stood, what he had achieved. He wasn’t sure whether it was necessary to say anything. “I would have liked you to see my piano. Even if you are not musical.” “Who told you that?” von Schalla said sharply. Then gave a discreet cough, “Good luck with your endeavors. I don’t know what more we can do.” “‘Endeavors.’ There’s a word you don’t hear anymore. You’ve been kind to me—hospitable. I would like to thank you,” shaking hands. And he meant it, one part of his life completed, as he went down the corridor to Amalia von Schalla’s room, where she stood in the middle of the room, almost as tall as he was, made taller by what was a hostess gown, a long gray coat, large buttons. “I was waylaid by your husband. I am leaving in the morning.” “Then it was nice of you to call. I feel privileged.” She turned away. “I do have something to tell you. In your absence the composer has agreed to make use of your piano. It has been delivered. He sees possibilities, he said, although the color makes him sick.” “Thank you.” “You have a courageous piano,” she said loudly, “but you do not know how to behave.” “‘A courageous piano?’” Delage snorted happily at the English. Amalia swung around, “What have I done to you? Why are you doing this?” Delage took a step forward, wary of the slap. “I should have come here last night,” he touched her elbow. “I am sorry. I should have. I wanted to. And I have to go tomorrow.” He tugged at her coat, which opened. Wherever possible, Amalia von Schalla converted her dissatisfactions into musical appreciation, and other creative endeavors. Music softened her. And she saw how her name, money and recommendations made a difference, Vienna had the normal population of desperately seeking artists and fragile performers, most she kept at a distance, she had happened upon Frank Delage in the music shop and listened to him outside on the street. He was saying, “First, I have to get to La Spezia. I have to get there in a hurry.” It was a geographical way of expressing regret, in a roundabout way acknowledging her presence, if she would allow it, but either it had missed the mark or she was somewhere else, her face had tilted away then up, she was abrupt, and he was conscious of her daughter, Elisabeth, her shadowy whiteness enormous above him, her easy way of talking. Her mother was not easy, she had assumed a confused coldness. “After he listened to your piano, the composer agreed it had a fresh sound. Already an idea has come to him, Hildebrand said. He’ll be doing it quickly. I hope our efforts have you satisfied.” She went on to say a small concert hall that promoted contemporary works had already been booked. “You could perhaps stay for it. I am sure you can find plenty in Vienna to occupy yourself.” She looked at him. “Perhaps you are not interested, now that you have what you wanted.” Without waiting, she said in a strange voice, “I am my daughter.” If Delage had been about to say something, he stopped. Still facing him, she bared a breast, and held it for him, almost an offering, he couldn’t be certain, her face had turned gaunt, high-cheek beauty, at a glance Delage saw nothing there of her daughter, unless the eyes and cheeks. The room was insistently modern, the breast put forward didn’t seem out of place, on the contrary, the clean furniture, bold colors, paintings and photographs encouraged such a live presentation. Delage was unable to decide what to do, what was required, if anything was required, in the morning early he was leaving Vienna. It was not possible to stay, it would be difficult to leave. “What I am thinking—” “Please go.” Without moving, she kept her breast bare, its shape filling her hand. “I think you should go now.” Decisiveness, the ability to think on your feet, blind faith, personal hygiene, volubility were just a few of the requirements for a successful piano manufacturer, especially one operating from a political, industrial and musical outpost, Sydney, anybody on the factory floor would vouch for F. D. having each of these qualities, plus a few more, optimism, stamina, irritability, although his sister and the Slovakian bookkeeper were more realistic. Qualities which had been necessary for a piano manufacturer were not necessarily useful in everyday life. For at least twenty seconds Delage stood, unsure what to say, words which would express more than gratitude, it was not something she was interested in, she existed above gratitude, at least an appreciation of her beauty, her face and hands, her perfect breast still exposed, praise he had withheld when he should have given it, but could hardly now, from the moment they met she had held his interest, he could have told her that, he had no idea who she was then, without her presence Vienna would have been a cold, difficult place. If it had been Berlin, this could not have happened. It was through Amalia von Schalla he was allowed into the Schalla house, and so he entered Europe, their daughter waiting back at the hotel. Of all people he didn’t want to disappoint Amalia, let alone make her unhappy, although there was little chance of that. Lack of consideration could well have appeared as lack of interest, it was never meant, a possibility nevertheless, moving to the door while twisting the top half of his body toward her, she in the middle of the room, at the door Delage paused, and once in the hall stood outside the door, one hand on the handle, how he was left feeling, and obviously looked, foolish. It was a retreat, it could only be temporary. A retreat was unnecessary. He was about to reenter, she could well have been waiting, expecting him, it would not be surprising, although it still may not have been what she wanted, not at all, his hand went forward, knuckles raised to knock. From along the corridor a voice called out, “Before you are leaving, I have something further to say.” Different people fit differently in different rooms. The Schalla apartments were large and high-ceilinged, the corri
dor as interminable as any Delage had come across, anywhere, the large rooms and the corridor dwarfed von Schalla, already a short figure, who nevertheless moved about in the large spaces with ease, as if he belonged to them, his wife, Amalia, restless, uncomfortable, different. Von Schalla was coming toward him—meeting him halfway. “I don’t know if my wife has told you, I have bought the piano for her.” He was looking carefully at Delage. “My wife seemed very pleased when I told her. Who knows what she’ll do with it. It has a rarity value. There cannot be many examples of the Delage piano in Europe. She could build a museum around it?” This was sudden, too sudden, not at all what he, Delage, wanted. It had been done without his knowledge, behind his back, as it were, for a reason, unless both von Schalla and Amalia wanted to surprise him. He couldn’t imagine them working together. Delage managed to say, “No,” which von Schalla ignored. “As far as I am concerned, it is money well spent. I spoke to your factory, a woman, young by her voice. Who said she came from our part of the world? Very nice, I would say an attractive woman. Every sale was more than welcome, she said to me. She was very clear. Your factory is running short of cash. You are not in a strong position. Or don’t you know your own situation?” The Romance docked at night, the bright lights seen from a distance, Fremantle, gray-white concrete closer and primary colors stacked in rows, the ship approached almost silently, figures here and there, a car drove along the wharf parallel, its windows glittering, the illuminated wharf forming a vast semicircle of light fading into darkness beyond. Elisabeth leaned against Delage at the rail. “This is what I have gone across the world for?” “This is it,” Delage made a grand gesture. “Wait until the sun comes up.” The salt was hosed off the decks and rails, only to accumulate again by the next morning, sharp enough to leave tiny cuts on Elisabeth’s hands. Earlier, she had said, “My parents do not know I am here. On a boat going to Australia is the last place they would consider.” What? “I do not tell them where I am every minute.” South of Singapore, she whispered in his ear, “If you are a piano manufacturer, you must be very conservative.” After a quick breakfast, the Dutchman was the first to step onto Australia, the land he had heard so much about, here it was oil-stained reinforced concrete, “Terra firma,” he waved back at the others. He was setting forth, aiming for the first available barber shop, more of a waddle than an anticipatory walk, a dumpy rolling figure in sandals with Continental black socks, and holding in a paper bag the books he had finished on the voyage, true to self being absolutely essential when meeting a former wife, or the one previous, they look to console themselves by observing the worst characteristics displayed again by the man they had foolishly wasted valuable years on. There was a warm land breeze, something the English couple had never experienced before. Lifting their suitcases down the gangway, they already were arguing about the weather, a pointless argument, if ever there was, although necessary to them, she was sick to death of his certainties, she told him, not in a whisper, a hiss-shout, everybody could hear, their irritability made worse by the flies. “What sort of country is it that allows this many flies?” The sisters from Melbourne drew back from venturing into Fremantle, let alone Perth half an hour to the north, they retreated to their cabin, and remained there for the short duration. Now that they were back in their own country, the fact of their situation lay before them without distractions, a time of difficulties, of adjustment, surrounded by what was familiar. Sailors look forward to land, and immediately want to go back to sea. From the container wharf to the city center, the streets were typical of those found around ports and airports, many long sheds, service roads, trucks in line, gray tones, not many women, the center of Fremantle, which radiated from the harbor, blue-green glitter mixing it with clusters of swaying masts and red brick, Delage and Elisabeth reached by taxi. It was not long before they stopped walking, and sat outside for a coffee by the harbor. “Everybody has excellent teeth,” Elisabeth observed. Delage looked up from the newspaper. “It’s just everybody smiling.” “It does look happy and amazingly healthy,” Elisabeth said, although she didn’t look happy at all, a worried look he hadn’t seen before, Delage considered also the choices being made by the Dutchman, and wondered whether the extra sympathy he felt was a result of age. The ship was sailing in the evening. They drove through sand, past red- and gray-tiled houses, awnings and blinds fitted over the windows, all suburbs were hot, where bushes strove to reach knee high, one suburb in there called Hopeland, another Success. New suburbs attract the most appalling names in Australia. A suburb could hardly be called Failure, no one would want to bring up children there, in Methodist Adelaide they have Paradise, as if anyone would want to live in Purgatory or Hell—but why would Perth’s town-planners come up with Success? New settlements on the fringe of bare continents appear as scratches on the surface, tentative, self-conscious, ever hopeful. Signs of sand everywhere in Perth. Elisabeth and Delage wandered about, there was simply nothing to see, certainly not on foot, the hot-looking eucalypts, reflections and space. The Delage concert grand had a greater presence in Vienna than in Perth, Delage said to Elisabeth, who was subdued. There was not a single Delage piano in all of Western Australia, which was far bigger than Germany, France, Portugal and Austria combined, he pointed out. Elisabeth patted his hand to indicate understanding. The attractions of Perth were hidden, centered on family, even more than in most cities. The captain had told Elisabeth the containers unloaded were filled with tennis rackets, footballs, cricket bats, sunglasses, Italian bicycles, punching bags, Chinese beach umbrellas.