The Voyage (14 page)

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 corridor 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.

“She didn’t want to see me at all, it was a serious misreading on my part. I have never heard her speak loudly, it was because she was at her friend’s house. She asked what was I doing here. You have ruined everything, and now you come here, she pointed at me. Who do you think you are? There was no need for us to speak again. Spoke to me in that way. I didn’t know what to say. I handed her the books, she may have been
interested. She threw them to one side without looking at them. Then she began to cry. I thought I should at least touch her on the shoulder, to be of assistance, but thought better of it. Her friend from Amsterdam in her little apron-dress stood up and asked me to leave. On the path to the gate, her twelve-year-old son began throwing gravel at me. At the gate I met the garage-door salesman, come to visit the children. He saw in an instant what was happening. He talked to me about garage doors. The business was booming, he said to me. Home-owners in Perth and Fremantle wanted not one but two or three garages, each with the tilting or roll-up door, his firm could supply either. A lot of houses here have two cars, or one car plus the boat, he explained, or two cars and boat. And these need protection from the elements, he said. He could not keep up with the demand for garage doors. He quoted figures. It made him cheerful. He was a cheerful and energetic man, I saw he was the opposite to me. He had no doubts. I explained I was from Holland, and did not possess a garage, but he gave me his card.” High waves came in twos and threes, the ship had to point into them, the famed Southern Ocean, sending up spray which came down heavier than rain all over the ship. “It is an advantage to be pleased with the sound of your voice,” von Schalla behind his desk. “Everybody is aware of his own voice. As you talk, you listen to your own voice, make adjustments to it as you speak, listening to your own opinions, your choice of words, loud or soft, and approve of them. If you do not listen to your voice,” he said in Vienna, “you will not attract buyers to your piano. And never be concerned about repeating
yourself.” For the first few days, Delage spent as much time as possible with the Dutchman, who couldn’t stop talking, in all their time together on the small deck he had never heard the Dutchman talk as much, they were in the Southern Ocean, he was going over the same thing again and again, the ship met the procession of long gray waves, one followed by another, another, again, the Dutchman was incapable of changing the subject, which was his wife or former wife, he had a moist swallowing action Delage hadn’t noticed before, his tongue darted forward which showed bewilderment, the influence of the woman she had become friends with in Amsterdam, now settled with children in Perth, had not been helpful, all things considered, the Dutchman said, he went on talking to himself when he wasn’t talking directly to Delage, as if Delage wasn’t there. “Not for a moment have I stopped being interested in my wife, if you know what I mean,” he told Delage. “After our years together, it is a source of unhappiness to realize she is no longer interested in our situation, how we once were, what is left of it now. She has removed me entirely from the equation, all ideas of me.” The Dutchman hardly noticed he had become saturated at the rail, any physical discomfort only reinforced his psychological discomfort. “You could have been swept overboard, and disappeared completely,” Elisabeth said. “And then what would I do?” Delage was having difficulty keeping his balance, drying his hair with a towel. “What a question! I would expect you to immediately jump in and save me.” “I do not know why you find him especially interesting,” she went on, “his circumstances are not uncommon.” “He has me worried.
He doesn’t look in great shape. Whoopsie!” The ship was pitching and rolling. “The poor wife, think of her. She could have been driven crazy by him.” “That’s possible,” Delage changing out of his trousers, “I wouldn’t be surprised.” “You have spent more time talking to him than talking to me,” though she was not really complaining. Delage noticed she had been sighing less on the ship than on land. “I have added up the minutes,” she looked up at the ceiling. Elisabeth envied the easy relationships between men, however slight. He removed the bones from the fish for her. She imagined an honesty, or simplicity between them, although she knew if she questioned Delage about it he would avoid a straight answer, it was not a subject he had given any thought to. On the small deck, the Dutchman talking, Delage saw how little he knew, only her shape, little more, waiting in his cabin, he was always on the brink of discovering more about her, her mother stood before him, he knew her even less, if he could say he knew her at all, yet he believed he understood the mother more than he did her daughter. Her breast in her hand, in the room, it was phosphorescent. Elisabeth smiled and sat up when he said Amalia reminded him of the Statue of Liberty, always standing. “But my mother could hardly be called passive. She has strong feelings about everything.” “I think she is brave.” “I do not know what you mean by that.” “I like her very much.” It was hard enough to know your own mother, let alone anybody else in the world. Elisabeth spoke of herself sparingly, indifferently, to an unusual extent, which made him all the more thoughtful, unlike his sister whether on the phone or in person, she invariably came
out with everything possible about herself, everything she could think of, even when it had not yet happened. The two sisters emerged in similar charcoal gray, the discarded sister adding a series of silk scarves which featured horses, a promising touch, adding color to her mood, should anyone in the family be meeting the ship in Melbourne. All along they had hardly said hello to the Dutchman, almost ignoring his presence, some people don’t have any manners, even in the narrow confines of a ship, it doesn’t hurt to say “Good morning,” or “Too rough for you?” although he seemed not to notice. The incomprehension of the discarded sister had stabilized, as a consequence the anger and weeping diminished, the younger one told Elisabeth, they were yet to return to their normal sisterly ease, she confided, visually the younger attentive one maintained what is called a supporting role, in Melbourne they lived ten minutes from each other, she would see to it that her discarded sister had plenty of people around her, while the husband was off somewhere pursuing a new life. There were the same large birds following the ship, then on the fourth day the sun came out. “The voyage had been the bookkeeper’s idea, she made a strong case for it. But now here I am returning without the piano on board,” he pulled out brochures advertising the Delage. “For all the difficulties, the trip has almost paid for itself. Everything saved is money earned. We have been having problems with the banks and cash flow. And, as our bookkeeper pointed out, I hadn’t taken a day off in God knows how many years. She has made a big difference to the office. It’s quite a professional outfit now. Before she arrived, the filing system, for example, was a
terrible mess. She knows nothing about pianos, the craftsmanship that goes into them, and all that. Otherwise, she pretty well runs the company.” When he left for Europe she was pregnant, the question was whether she would be staying in the job. “This is the woman from Slovakia?” Elisabeth had an uninterested air, turning the pages of the brochure, the Delage piano photographed from different angles, including an aerial view, featured pale glossy colors Delage had come to think were garish. “All along I was more interested in the workings of the piano than its appearance, which I know is the road to bankruptcy.” The fine grain of the highly polished timbers, taken from forest trees on the verge of extinction, had shifted attention from the technical improvements hidden beneath the lid, which produced the Delage sound, a sound like no other piano sound. The range of colors reminded him of the garage-door man in Perth, his horizontal doors, which opened like enormous piano lids, came in eye-catching colors, the salesman had informed the Dutchman, although white was generally preferred. “Your mother said not to worry about the color. Apparently in a Vienna drawing room, a nicotine-brown or a white piano doesn’t look out of place. I saw straightaway what she meant.” It had been a long time since he had been out of the factory for more than a few days, separated from the people he had become accustomed to, their attitudes to him, the way they spoke, combed their hair, each with their own skills, stubbornnesses, the many encounters, solving problems together, his daily habits, on the streets, in the rooms where he slept and ate, each morning stepping out after shaving and
reading the
Telegraph
, assembled into what felt like normal life, a slightly useful life. In fact, aside from when he came down years ago with the flu, just as the first piano was being finished, Frank Delage could not remember being away from the factory for more than a day. “In the early days there was a lot of problem-solving.” It was the part he most enjoyed. “I’d sleep in the factory. I had a camp-stretcher made up in the corner,” the thought of which sent Elisabeth, like others, into chortling. Not only had he been away now for six weeks, possibly more, perhaps seven, without newspapers, calendars, clocks on the ship, he had spent more time alone with Elisabeth von Schalla than he had with any woman before, establishing a separate layer of habit, with an inevitability he hardly thought about. “When we arrive, what was it you planned on doing?” He was looking thoughtful as he spoke. He had a responsibility, he had to be careful. After the Schalla palace in Vienna, she could easily take one look at his rented two-bedroom with balcony apartment in Artarmon, Sydney, and catch the first plane home. She kicked one leg up, “Back to
Wien
? I am sorry, that is no longer possible.” Together they spent hours in the cabin or out on the deck, they were not always saying anything of note, at intervals settling into various kinds of silences, interesting, they were not at all uncomfortable, the occasional sighs from Elisabeth were more like breathing. The
Romance
had slowed outside Port Phillip Bay for the pilot. Delage watched as he climbed on board from the tiny unstable boat, a stocky bare-headed man wearing a nylon jacket and a tie. “Do you want some news? I don’t have any,” he
said to Delage in passing, who had been waiting for the Dutchman—at other ports they had leaned together over the rail on the small deck, observing the pilots making grabs at the swinging ladder, difficult in rough weather. “It is easier getting on than getting off,” the Dutchman had observed. The pilot gave Delage his folded newspaper after he had steered the ship through the Heads, and complained about the lack of dredging, it was making the entrance dangerous for the large ships. “It is an accident about to happen,” Delage managed to hear over the wind and engines. How the complicated events of the world are compressed into sheets of paper always of the same size, which need to be filled to the outer edges every day, reports from long distances or eyewitness accounts taken on trust, reporting or prophesying situations which begin to change, as everything does, even as the newspaper is being printed, replaced the following day by a fresh set of happenings, or possibly about to happen, people described in victory or at a loss, or stories without people at all, a melting glacier, worth reading or at least perusing. News is essentially about other people’s mistakes, or their misfortunes, a regular feature is the one-paragraph report of disaster in remote regions (floods, bushfires, earthquakes, train crashes, a building collapses, the obligatory tornado, overloaded ferry has sunk), the short efficient sentences produce an exclamatory effect whether intended or not. There will always be news whether there’s any news or not. The finance, sports and weather pages can be relied upon more than any of the other pages. Anything to do with art, literature, music a matter of opinion in the
newspapers, through which a consensus eventually may form, while the larger opinion pieces are just that, one thought laid out at a time, a man swinging a sledgehammer to erect a circus tent. Newspapers raise unimportant incidents to the level of important incidents. This was how Frank Delage, small manufacturer, read about his piano in Europe, and saw the photograph, not in the folded tabloid the pilot had handed him as he left the ship, another newspaper a few days later, on the way to Sydney. Whenever he thought of Konrad von Schalla and his outspoken words, often he did, he thought of von Schalla’s wife at arm’s length, he had almost reached out to her but had not, he had but not enough. He should have, he had begun to, but had not. Thinking of Elisabeth, he would return to thinking of her mother, Amalia, the small similarities, mother in the daughter, which made her attraction intimate. Elisabeth had a solemnity that was casual, modern. In his short time in Vienna, he had become drawn into the Schalla family, for different reasons each of them wanted his presence, he, from Sydney not Vienna, an entirely fresh face, musical, yet not musical at all, not by their standards, at the most inconvenient times with Elisabeth he would think of her mother in Vienna, Amalia von Schalla, standing, she appeared before him, it was difficult, if not impossible, to avoid. At the last minute the captain announced the ship was having six hours turnaround, and would leave on the tide before midnight, which allowed Delage and Elisabeth only a quick tour of the city from a taxi. The two sisters with their suitcases at the top of the gangway were in such a hurry to leave the ship and have Melbourne, marvelous
Melbourne, underfoot, family and friends waiting on the wharf under umbrellas, they said goodbye hurriedly, looking at the wharf and away at the skyline, office towers lit up, rather than at Delage and Elisabeth; the sisters were eager yet awkward, the older rejected sister appeared as a young or youngish widow in black, except for a small rosella parrot brooch, avoiding Delage and Elisabeth entirely, not a glance in their direction, already she was wary about her new life in Elwood, Melbourne, how she would be seen, her sister providing support nearby, which she wanted but didn’t want at all, all of which gave Delage and Elisabeth the opposite feelings, tolerance, energy, optimism, curiosity. Delage left it up to the taxi driver to show them the sights of Melbourne, in richness and so forth a city closer to Sydney, certainly than to Perth, Singapore, Port Said, he was from Riga, “that’s in Latvia,” he said, not everybody knew, a man with large sloping shoulders, “I wouldn’t go back to Riga if my grandmother was on fire. There is always something wrong with a city, your only hope is to choose one with the smallest number of faults.” Every place where people had settled, congregated, built and added their monuments and decorations, had its faults. By not saying anything, trying instead to make sense of the shapes in the darkness, Delage and Elisabeth appeared to give encouragement to the driver who reeled off the major cities in the world and their most unattractive characteristics, he had been to all of them, he said, beginning with Riga, which had no personality whatsoever, and a terrible sewerage system, Vienna and Sydney each had so many things wrong it was difficult to know where to