The Voyage (7 page)

then a deeper, louder sigh, all of which had nothing to do with disappointment, exhaustion, unhappiness, Elisabeth was free of such troubles. “Always sighing is no help,” written down. When he heard another sigh, Delage found himself smiling, her breast moved against his arm, he listened for her sighs, before wondering whether anyone spending time with Elisabeth would become irritated by them.

She wasn’t interested in the ship tied with lines against the wharf, it was hard to know what Elisabeth was interested in, immaculate, waiting patiently while Delage stood admiring the bulging mass of orange-painted steel, it reared out of the green water, colossal in volume, its height and length went on forever, without snapping in two. To Frank Delage, it was a marvel of welded engineering; impossible surely for anybody not to be impressed, except, that is, Elisabeth. Fat in the water, it leaked streams of water, as well as small sounds, creaking and groaning metal, humming, and slowly hissed steam, wisps of smoke coming out of somewhere; all this the piano manufacturer from Sydney found interesting. As soon as he made an observation to Elisabeth, he could hear a pedantic tone coming from his mouth and nose, better to try out exaggerated explanations. At intervals the ship let out sighs, sometimes he confused them with the sighs Elisabeth gave out, alongside him. In the beginning he had wondered whether Elisabeth’s habit came from boredom, or else tiredness, she could have been tired, lack of oxygen to the lungs; unhappiness with a mother or father, of life in general, is known to bring on sighing. Women throw themselves into various tasks with tremendous energy, then
collapse in a heap, suddenly tired: “the wreck of the Hesperus” he had heard only women say, his mother and close behind, his sister, women in the office too, the one time they don’t mind appearing gaunt. Telling Elisabeth ordinary things made her laugh, sometimes the English words didn’t fit, she had to listen carefully, it was one of the things he liked. To go ashore they took small steps down a steep gangplank, which had a rope for a railing, Elisabeth in glossy high heels, to reach the street, which had an oil-stained scrappy surface, they had to run between whirring forklifts carrying containers, warning lights flashing, men shouting, pausing for the tall grubby yellow gantry coming toward them along rails parallel to the ship. In her home city, Vienna, he had allowed Elisabeth to lead him about, here she turned to him for knowledge of the ship, the docks, the dangers, his second or third experience of the activities of docks. “See how she looked at me? I don’t think that woman likes me.” Delage hadn’t noticed, not necessarily disagreeing, said, “Don’t you find when sisters are together it’s difficult? They each influence the other.” The passengers kept walking up and down the street alongside the docks, stepping around the potholes, at the same time not letting the ship out of their sight, trailed by boys offering postcards, cigarettes, bottles of water, bananas. We can go further afield, Delage decided. The further they went from the ship the less he thought about the piano standing on its legs back in Vienna, and the different disturbances it had produced across the city which had affected people’s lives in a “ripple effect,” he was with the woman from Vienna who had left Vienna to be
nearby, he wondered what she could see in him, the way she came on board with that smile and significantly heavy suitcases, without knowing the near future, or the distant future, let alone the merits or otherwise of a city like Sydney, if he had asked about her plans he would have become cornered, he thought; he allowed his thoughts to wander without purpose from the colossal orange ship to the pale shape of her, to the streets, palm trees that needed water, dirt, always a few single men looking on, when what he wanted was clarity, not entirely but when necessary. Some children running ahead bumped into the group, the bookseller actually tipped his hat, old school, the two sister-companions from Elwood, Melbourne, fanning themselves with colored magazines, Delage’s thoughts had already slowed to a standstill, the English couple in the lead, tall timber, the older of the short-haired sister-companions looking Elisabeth up and down whenever she could, not a happy woman, no wonder she had been discarded, it was the other one who did the talking. “Watch the handbag, it’ll get pinched.” Only a few hours before, they’d been on the ship at the one table having breakfast, now as a way to move on Delage made light of the moment, in a loud voice: “Can you recommend any monuments?” “The pyramids, I believe, are that-a-way,” the Englishman joining in. He wore a royal-blue knitted cotton shirt with buttons, and a gold watch. “That man,” Delage told Elisabeth, “has a real-estate agency in the south of England somewhere, and knows all there is to know about Gothic churches. He’s a walking Oxford dictionary on the subject. And he does his best to hide what he knows. I don’t mind him
at all.” An Englishman who responded modestly and honestly to the solidarity of things, taking one step at a time, waiting before crossing the village street, a sequence which had produced strength in British engineering, medicine, law, science, the cataloguing of libraries, the design of umbrellas, as well as a pedantic tone in its literature, and art unable to shake an unhealthy obsession with the naked figure. They had been on the ship a week or so, Delage found himself glancing at her, Elisabeth, still not knowing enough about her, that was why, until he began being direct by looking direct; if she noticed, she would turn slightly, out of politeness or believing it showed her best side. The Dutchman had joined in and told them he regularly attended literary evenings, standing on one leg for hours at a time, drinking sour wine, while poets read aloud from their works, until it had ruined his health, not only his physical health, the Dutchman emphasized, had a large face and large eyes, but his psychological health as well, which was worse, he said, far worse, the result of taking in an exceptional amount of the most earnest, pointless words, very damaging, just as the body cannot be exposed to excessive X-rays, words and still more words of little or no value, even by well-known poets, who often had the worst reading voices, just as the worst poets had the best reading voices. “The poorest countries have the biggest postage stamps,” Delage chimed in. It was not only poets, the Dutchman went on, novelists and even, believe it or not, historians, biographers and journalists jump at the chance to give public readings, anything to be on stage and listened to by a live audience. It was the age of
performance. Why anybody would go to the trouble of putting on a fresh pair of trousers, go out into the weather, take the tram or bus, find the venue, and hand across hard-earned money, in order to listen to an author was, he could see now, beyond his comprehension. “Years of my life have been wasted combing my hair, and attending festivals, and listening to writers reading. The years wasted. And there’s nothing I can do about it now, which only makes it worse. I lie wide awake at night.” The two sisters had nothing against poetry readings, one of them had written poems herself. At literary festivals, which have spread like an infectious disease across the western world, a by-product of prosperity, the connection just came to him, the Dutchman, there is a never-ending stream of opinions spoken by writers, either they’re reading aloud or else seated on stage discussing their books, or tackling other weighty subjects such as free-market economics, or Islam and censorship, or whether it’s possible to write a good poem with a baby at your feet, or death, subjects they have little or no knowledge of, but still they keep on talking instead of writing, and are listened to reverently. The Dutchman had become exasperated at what he saw around him, “trash and camera-vanity,” one producing the other, “there is nothing firm underneath,” as he put it, his wife complained he never had anything positive to say, she enjoyed literary festivals, and after twenty-three years of marriage had left him, “an otherwise ordinary Saturday, taking just a suitcase, and wearing a raincoat,” and moved in with some women who were obsessed with puppet theater. “I am hoping the sea voyage will settle my nerves,” he
said. The audience was small on the ship. People require distraction as never before, the Dutchman told them. What to do in our leisure time is the most important question today. It hasn’t been answered yet. “They could think about playing a piano,” Delage said to Elisabeth. “Opening night at galleries is the worst,” she said. “I don’t ever want to go to another one. You and I met at a lecture, but it could hardly be called public. It was someone lecturing about music, wasn’t it? I wasn’t paying much attention.” The strangeness of Port Said was strange in an ordinary way, small traders, large trucks, many gaps, and they felt slow and strange toward one another, wandering into side streets at random, the further they went from the ship the more they found the town and each other interesting. They were polite to each other, almost too careful, Frank Delage thinking it necessary to make a firm impression, while avoiding the false step. Figures lay asleep on concrete benches, “concrete,” he decided to tell Elisabeth, “because of termites.” “Termites?” checking on his seriousness, “How do you know that?” Further on she asked, “What is it you would like to know about me?” How many other men had she slept with? was one question that came to mind, a distant curiosity, little more, which he would never get around to asking. Instead it was her mother, remote yet attentive, who invited questions and slid away, replaced by her daughter, now by his side, who had parts of the same smooth face, Amalia von Schalla’s, the same way too of extending a silence, all of which interested him. Past the mosque, what could have been a mosque, a side-street mosque, the boy in a white shirt, followed by another,
threw a stone, others followed, one hitting Delage on the neck, he took Elisabeth by the elbow. “It would appear we’re not wanted here. Better not rush it.” The same boys brushed past, six or seven, different sizes. As they came in close, Delage reached for the hand of one of them, held it tight, clicked his biro and carefully drew a face with big teeth and ears, the boy looked up at him, then waved his palm with a cry, the others came forward wanting theirs. They had passed the opera house. Delage was in her hands. It stopped raining, which was a precise moment he always liked. The many different kinds of gray, of black, patches of gray-black reflected, laid out on and at angles to the streets, rectangles of it tilted and glistened, glass had turned as dark as mirrors, mixed with what was rounded. Taking his hand, Elisabeth led him into the von Schalla apartments, walked in, and opened the door to the main room. “Mister Sydney Piano has agreed to join us.” A silver-haired man in a dark suit reading a newspaper stood up. Elisabeth led Delage across a large apricot-colored carpet. Some people stand up and go forward, others remain standing and the visitor is forced to go forward. Visitors to Konrad von Schalla invariably wanted something, it was only to be expected he would remain in the one spot and for them to step forward, if it were the other way around, even meeting halfway, the advantage could shift at that moment from him to them, it didn’t take much for the pendulum to shift, over the years hundreds of people in business and governments had arrived at the von Schalla apartments with requests, or offers, or suggestions, or whispers of some sort, information of course
can be valuable, von Schalla standing up from his armchair or behind his tiny desk, so many people had crossed the large soft carpet, cap in hand, while he remained standing in the one spot, it had become a habit for him not to take a few steps forward, even to his own daughter. She kissed him and stepped back. “This is Mr. Delage from Sydney. He is the maker of a special piano. I think that is the way to describe you.” Delage nodded at the small man who was looking at him. “Relax, I’m not here to sell you any grand pianos. I’ve just about given up on that. It’s been hard to get a response. I met Mrs. Schalla yesterday. Beg your pardon, or was it the day before?” Amalia von Schalla had shown sympathy, and he had reached out and touched her breast. Delage didn’t care what he said to this man, who remained looking at him, although he saw in the eyes a watery blue warning, what appeared to be a faint smile of welcome, or condescension, nodding rather than saying anything, taking his time, Delage glancing past his shoulder expecting, or at least preferring, to see Amalia. “You might tell your mother her guest has arrived,” von Schalla said in German.

Wherever he looked there was another wave of different shape, different size, lengths of dissolving foam drawing the eye, the pink sofa obscenely dented with buttons he couldn’t avoid, striped maroon armchairs by the fireplace, where Konrad von Schalla had risen from reading a newspaper, ebony-and-gold encrusted side tables, large lamps on tables, gold carvings and inlay erupting up and down legs, three clocks, two chandeliers, tall bulging vases, fireplace, the accumulating
conflict of shapes and colors, the large yellowish carpet occupying the center like a pool infested with weed, bordered by a pattern, possibly flowers, the largest carpet Delage had ever seen. Ancestral portraits were on the wall, “looking down,” military types favoring the large wave-breaking mustache. A few small landscapes, dark oils. “Do you find, in your line of business, Vienna is bogged down in the old ways?” Delage had pointed to the Steinway in the corner, which reminded him of his own difficulties. “Reputed to be Mahler’s personal piano,” von Schalla answered, perfect English, “but can you fully trust what people say?” Does a person mean what they say, even when it’s based on a fact? Very often words are chosen to fit an expression (thoughtful, skeptical, surprised). “My wife can tell you all about its history. If interested, you could ask her.” And it was too early to take up his next offer, “Sit down and play it, if you wish.” In Europe it seemed people Delage encountered were in a hurry, each one acting as a concierge in a vast hotel, moving on to someone else, from one problem or opportunity to the next, and a certain sardonic manner had established itself, skepticism as a way to live, at the very least. There was no sign of Amalia, her daughter had disappeared too. In their conversations often they went back to the night he had first met her father, and his impressions, the enormous drawing room, where his eyes couldn’t rest, the way her mother made an entrance, in a contrasting simplicity of dark gray dress. Now it was Elisabeth’s turn to show indifference. She appeared dressed for dinner while Delage was talking to her mother, who had a gaunt attentiveness, she was graying, the fine lines
around her mouth too, Delage saw, which produced in him a wave of intimate respect, once a beauty, now handsome, a raised-chin beauty, Elisabeth her daughter passed before them, similar shoulders, to sit in the striped armchair where she angled her legs to the floor, high heels, these were Spanish designer shoes, a butterfly embroidered on her stocking. “You’re frowning—at what?” Amalia von Schalla asked. Delage had averted his eyes from the daughter, in her mid-thirties she had an inappropriate ribbon in her hair, her reckless neckline which encouraged him to put imaginary hands down and onto them, take one or both in his hands, their warm pointed volume, making an estimate if nothing else, it was the same with most men, perhaps every one of them. And Frank Delage in Europe, one among the many millions on the streets, began to feel he could do or say anything; he was more free in the Schalla drawing room than in Sydney, where he was known. Elisabeth looked away, not recognizing her effect on him, Delage returning to Amalia, as she explained the government subsidy of Vienna’s orchestras, although he was not interested, a paltry amount apparently, a fraction of what, for example, Konrad von Schalla, looking on, invested in his cement factories or chain of hotels every week. A neat man, he barely came up to Delage’s shoulders. He wore a dark striped suit. The corners of the white handkerchief protruding from the lapel, the sails of the Sydney Opera House, perhaps that was where the architect Utzon found his inspiration, an overrated piece of architecture, if ever there was, a sacred building in Sydney, in all of Australia, based on a white handkerchief, in the glare
of daylight it shouts out “over-emphasize,” and therefore “provincial,” anything to catch attention, softer, more complex, thoughtful at night, and the acoustics are terrible. So many things in the world are arranged for the eyes, not the mind. The Dutchman had one elbow on the rail, gazing at the passing waves, trails of dissolving foam, “We should not be disapproving of repetition. Each day we see the same things, eyes, noses and legs, the trees and clouds, and each day we repeat the same words. And we never stop doing the same things over and over again, every day, sleeping, cleaning our teeth, shaking hands, drinking tea, sitting on a chair, which give stability to our lives. It is necessary. Daily repetitions form part of what we call love, I can see now—it’s been my mistake.” Alone or with someone alongside Delage could happily spend hours following the waves, each one replacing another. The Dutchman went on as if he weren’t there. “The repetitions we experience in ordinary life are so natural they ought to flow into literature, into novels most of all. The great Russians knew. It became their style. It is noticeable today when writers read aloud from their works, and something is missing. Repetitions are part of our existence. These waves—never stop. It is all very obvious. But repetitions are the first things publishers today want to strike out.” Delage sat at the table in the small dining room, not the long table in the long dining room, where antlers of different sizes filled one wall, Elisabeth facing him, her mother to the left, he could admire her hands, von Schalla to his right, as the ponderous footman put the tip of his tongue out each time he poured the wine. The glasses had green spiral stems. “Do you
have white wines in your country?” What a stupid bloody question. Delage raised his glass, “We have whites, but not much yellow like this.” Elisabeth was still smiling, her mother not looking at anybody. “It comes from our vineyard at Wachau. I mean to say, it has been in my wife’s family for generations. As have these glasses.” The wines of Austria was a subject he would like to talk about, his wife and daughter had not the slightest interest, wines were the furthest things from their minds at any given time, but all Delage knew was that Austrian red wines were even worse than Californian, Chilean or South African. It was then that Amalia von Schalla, on Delage’s left, said how interesting the evening at the Clothildes had been, at which her husband gave a snort. “Berthe’s not as bad as that,” his wife said. “In fact, what was being said was extremely interesting, and very apt, I thought, until the speaker had to leave in the midst of it.” She turned to Delage, “I believe his house caught fire. Everything he owned was lost. Musical scores, program notes, his record collection, all his books on music. It was his entire world.” “Who are you talking about?” von Schalla asked. Here Delage tried to help out, “A critic who got up and told everybody to their faces they were lazy and tradition-bound, a self-satisfied lot, letting modern music down. No surprises there, if my experience is anything to go by. What I found interesting was that it had no effect whatsoever. Everybody sat nodding, with their hands on their laps. And as he went on hurling abuse at them, he also said something about Austrian writers being egocentric, repetitious and vitriolic. I wouldn’t know about that. The piano is my field.
And I was having it all translated for me.” He winked at Elisabeth, as von Schalla began dabbing his mouth with a napkin, “And you say his house caught fire? What some people will do to attract attention.” Delage thought Amalia had been left isolated, though it was difficult to know, she remained aloof. He said to her, “The fire, that sounds bad for him. Did you know him at all? He was someone I was keen to meet.” A patch of sun from the deck crossed the side of his face, and remained, the white glare magnified the soft surface, brought the spots and silver hairs forward, small broken veins, a general life-tiredness, more than the Dutchman realized, still talking, oblivious to the light, which encouraged inspection, although forced to squint. He was careless about his appearance. He wasn’t interested. Here and there Delage’s body showed signs of wear, of his years, of ignoring his sister’s dietary and exercise advice, even his hands continued as factory hands, none of this he thought about until now, Elisabeth’s younger body, clean, smooth, gradual in its contours. They were leaving the Mediterranean, the other passengers had emerged to see, leaving Europe. Delage went down to get Elisabeth. After the coffee, Delage had touched Elisabeth on the shoulder as he followed her mother out of the room, to indicate “her suggestion,” following her along the corridor, the long carpet called a “runner,” it came to him, reddish-pink, it went on forever, tapestries, alabaster nymphs and other figurines, mirrors, entablature and what-not, to one of the doors toward the end, “cluttered houses, cluttered minds,” she was saying. Amalia opened the door and switched on the light. It was a white
room, unexpectedly sparse, just a few paintings, cubist and geometric abstract, one entirely black, and a bookshelf in two stages painted red and black. Two chrome-legged reclining chairs faced a low green sofa. Nothing in Delage’s appearance gave a clue as to his profession, partly because only a handful of piano designer-manufacturers were left in the world, and nobody knew anymore what they looked like. These chairs were the kind chosen by architects the world over, just as architects the world over, and not only progressive ones, dress in the same black shirt, black jacket, almost-black trousers, the progressive architect’s uniform, it follows they specify the same black leather chairs and sofas for their interiors, whether they’re comfortable or not, everything in its place at the precise angle, altogether a statement by Amalia von Schalla on being clear, unencumbered, modern, in contrast to the rest of the von Schalla house, to Vienna itself, to her marriage. “These are my apartments. This is where I come and sit.” He turned to her again—and what a laugh, her mouth open and wide, a laugh involving him. It was a matter of joining in, although he didn’t know why, not quite, laughing away with her. He had hardly come across her kind of woman before, a remote beauty, if it was beauty, which now softened, the laugh had calmed down to a broad smile, enough to encourage his hand to her waist, where it remained, while looking at the near-empty room. “It suits you,” he decided, “I think it does.” He moved his hand to the back of her head. “Do you like it as a room?” If he had not gone to Europe to introduce his new piano, it would not be happening. “It’s very much you. Of course, I like it.” The
over-decorated rest of the house and the over-decorated city outside must have been setting her teeth on edge. Her aesthetic principles were modern, there was progress in art, even in furnishings, perhaps it included pianos, advances in their original design, which was why he was in Vienna, stroking her hair. The modernity of the room encouraged movement, Amalia may have felt it that way, allowing him to draw her closer, in the same movement taking her breast, she was allowing the strange hand, Delage continued, although he was perplexed. She was difficult to know, but now a small part was released. He was on the verge of saying something, he thought he should, almost anything, when she gave an unexpected push, a slap stinging his cheek. Delage could go only a small way in understanding a person, beyond a certain point he could never know their thoughts, or their way of thinking, the surface of a person was only that. Unexpected behavior took him by surprise more than it should. The door had opened, von Schalla was standing there, small neat figure in the well-tailored suit, which Delage noticed was buttoned up, unusual inside a house. “I’m looking for our daughter. She’s not here, I can see.”