The Voyage (12 page)

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 immediately 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 small 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