The Voyage

by Murray Bail

  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.”

  Towards the front of the queue the Romance waited at anchor, Delage, Elisabeth and the Dutchman at the rails, the English couple in plastic chairs fanning themselves, waiting as the line of ships came out of the canal, the opposite direction to theirs, slow and steady procession, container ships almost as large as theirs, others a quarter the size, green, gray, black, North African and Middle Eastern trading ships, dribbling rust, in need of paint. “They don’t look after their things. They scratch out an existence from the soil, a subsistence, and let things go. They can be personally clean, they wash their hands before eating, they clean their teeth, sometimes using special twigs. What they then do is throw their rubbish and muck outside their windows, or into the ocean. Without science, they have no knowledge of hygiene,” the Dutchman said. “And they wonder why others have trampled all over them. Because we are a tidy people,” the Dutchman went on, “we have ruled the world.” Elisabeth gave Delage a pinch, expecting him to say something. Then she’d turn away as if she wasn’t listening, the way her mother did, in his cabin while the sun lit up her bare shoulders, he saw the fine blond hairs on her jaw, normally invisible. He had his elbow on the rail, the ship moving under his feet, which began to give the sensation his life was not moving forward, while the ship and everything else was. Mid-morning they entered the canal, following three fat ships, traveling too slowly to produce a breeze. There was a simplicity to the straight line of the canal, which allowed the procession. His life had been a confusion, he found it difficult to express his views, let alone hold on to them, information and adjustments came in from all directions. Nothing was straightforward, not even the advantages of the Delage piano, it was not enough that the advantages were self-evident to him. Everybody has something to say, nobody is relaxed, too many things appear to be wrong in the world, every day there is something, the disappointments are of the ordinary kind; people close by end up ultimately as disappointments. It is only to be expected, the fit between people is never precise, each person becomes known by their differences, a practical tolerance comes to the fore, a social necessity, everyone has their opinions without the finer details, invariably getting it wrong or not quite right, being almost wrong or almost right, not many have the nerve to express themselves openly, unlike the Dutchman who for some time, he said, had been observing problems or faults without solutions, wherever he looked. One side of the canal was green or with patches of green, the other side sand the color of crumpled canvas, at set intervals a tin hut or booth with a young soldier sitting in it. Wreckage left rusting from a war, tank tracks, barbed wire, observation posts, turrets mangled and ripped, which interested the Dutchman and Delage, joined by the Englishman, more than it did Elisabeth. Hardly ever did another person agree with him, in his opinion, listen, look at it this way. And what difference have I made? Touching hips with Elisabeth, when there was plenty of room at the rail next to the Dutchman, a clear sign of intention, Elisabeth, it was where she wanted to be, he couldn’t understand why. She was at least ten years younger than he was, something of his extra world-experience presumably showed. Her warmth blended into him, he recognized a comfort, a fact, not just familiarity. At the same time, he felt almost everything was beyond his reach. He decided to nudge, “You’ll be seeing plenty of those where you’re going, you’ll get sick of the sight of them. Even the word will start to get you down. There’s another one. Look, they’re everywhere.” Eucalypts were planted at intervals along the Suez Canal. “People in Europe say they’re drab-looking.” At this she took a closer interest, “They do not look healthy to me.” “They can grow anywhere,” Delage informed her. “They’re adaptable—very. They remind me of you, the way you adapt.” There she was, on a ship heading for Sydney, on the other side of the world. “Thank you very much. So now I am a tree.” Below her ear along her sunlit jaw a surfeit of faint hairs flowed in one direction, bleached windswept grass, one afternoon south of Canberra (golden light); and he felt a sudden sympathy—for Elisabeth, with her unusual adaptability. The sisters from Melbourne had stayed below, missing the Suez Canal in its entirety, the younger one never married, the necessary signals had not come easily to her, there had been an absence of suitors, nobody could remember her conversing with a man, my sister, Delage couldn’t help thinking, she was devoted to comforting her more worldly sister who spent a fortune on handbags, shoes and scarves, all her life she had preferred the company of men to women, attracted to their most intractable characteristics, a subject she could analyze with other women for hours at a time, she was an acknowledged expert, which hadn’t prevented her husband of many years saying to himself, “Enough!” or not saying anything to himself at all, walking out the front door in Highgate, London, this was a few months earlier, leaving a typed note, a surprise to those who knew them both; and now after showing encouraging signs of being over the worst, the way sea air, sunlight and seagulls can increase an invalid’s appetite, she had collapsed once again into the proverbial heap, as they entered the canal. She certainly couldn’t be seen by the other passengers, she was unwell. In caring for her, the younger sister showed no concern for herself; a selfless woman, not
interested in her appearance, aside from neatness. On the voyage they began to look more and more like identical twins than ordinary sisters, the fall in aura in one was met by a rise in energy and aura in the younger one, sharing between them a wariness in manner, in movement, dress, unsmiling speech. The straight line of the canal looked out of place in the sand: a human effort, an alteration. Nature prefers to follow the contours. Nature is lazy, it makes its own way. The Dutchman said to Delage, “I come from a horizontal country. The slightest movement is instantly noticed. We see things clearly. If Holland had mountains and valleys my wife would not have left me.” Elisabeth whispered in Delage’s ear that she came from a country of mountains, there’s hardly a flat piece of land in all of Austria, she whispered, she wasn’t about to run away, and the warm breath in her ear seemed to confirm it. She had arrived in the morning at the hotel in one of the family’s Mercedes with chauffeur to take him on a tour of the city, “My mother no doubt thought you needed educating,” looking at him closely. “She talked me into it. She didn’t need to, really.” A sudden smile. To Delage, she looked like difficulty, a troubled young woman. “Is your mother still speaking to me?” “And why wouldn’t she be?” At that time, Delage found he was thinking about her mother, Amalia, altogether too much, he also thought, husband in tow, while her daughter displayed a shapely, careless attractiveness, taking him to every composer’s house she could think of, especially if it included an antique piano, which it invariably did, as well as the gold-plated harp on its stand in the corner, beginning with Mozart’s rooms behind the dark cathedral, it took all morning, many of the greatest composers lived and worked at some time in Vienna, often changing addresses. She had thought of everything, itself a statement of some kind. A corner table had been booked in a fancy restaurant. “My mother suggested we have lunch here. She is giving to you a lot of attention.” And to join in, or outdo the power of her mother, Elisabeth von Schalla leaned forward, enticing Delage down to what lay waiting in shadow beneath her dress, the position of the chairs made it difficult for Delage to avoid. Delage became aware of certain familiar stages, which he knew were easily crossed. They shared a bottle of Moselle. “I should be doing the rounds of the piano people. Not that anyone’s shown the slightest interest in what I have to say. I don’t know what’s the matter with the people in this place. Have their imaginations come to a grinding halt? Fossilized,” he threw in for good measure. Elisabeth had no interest in pessimism, Delage had to be careful, even if he was exaggerating, he was doing his best not to dwell on her face, avoid the eyes, he assumed she didn’t have a job of any sort, all the time in the world on her hands, an old phrase, he meant to ask what she did all day, it would have been fun showing a man from far away the hidden parts of her city. “I’ve been told to show you the house the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein designed. If you think our house is a mess, wait till you see this. He designed it for his sister.” That was when Delage introduced his own sister who lived in Brisbane, explaining his irritation, it was more incomprehension than irritation. “Now there’s a woman who never lets up. I don’t know why she has to carry on,” he said. She was always wanting to be involved in his life, while he wanted her to leave his life, or at least not be so involved. They crossed the Ringstrasse. “My mother admired Wittgenstein’s intentions, but not the result. I think it would be like living in an office building. The Wittgensteins are related, on her side.” It became difficult to concentrate, the idea of turning composers’ houses into holy houses with perfect wallpaper, bare desk and polished floorboards is more a display of falsity than history, although it hardly deters the visitors who go into every room, wanting to add layers to their general knowledge, mouths open in wonder, in Mozart’s case, amazing how a family with so many children could fit in such a space, how Mozart managed to work with his family around him, making the usual family racket, or the curator’s immaculate recreation of Beethoven’s rooms, not a speck of dust to be seen, when everybody knows he lived in disorder and squalor. According to Elisabeth, her mother contributed to the upkeep of the composers’ houses, she even fought off Berthe Clothilde in an ugly public scene for the privilege. Naturally it concerned Delage that after three or four days no one had shown the slightest interest in his piano, aside from Amalia von Schalla, although her interest was not going to result in any sales. “I do not get much out of new sights. Once upon a time I did, yes. But new sights are hard to quantify, don’t you think? What I miss is the unexpected,” Amalia said, on the subject of travel, seated at one end of the low sofa. “I always enjoyed the discomfort of the unexpected. Surely that is good for the mind.” To Delage, she had never talked as much, and hurriedly too, all because of the slap, he assumed. “It is different when traveling on business. The unexpected could prove a hindrance. What do you say?” “I’m here on business. It pays to keep the old eyes wide open, just in case.” It had been difficult to get contacts, he needed just one door to be opened, one would be enough, the right door, even slightly open, not necessarily wide open, enough for him to step in, and after clearing his throat, launch into the advantages of the Delage piano. He discussed it on the sofa. “You have seen the piano, and I have explained it. Remember I played it for you. I put it through its paces. It was only a few days ago.” He wanted to arrange a meeting with the music critic, even though his house with all his belongings had recently been burned to the ground. Delage thought she was thinking about something else. “Come back tomorrow evening. I should have an answer then.” At the end of the canal they looked over the side as a pilot left the bobbing motor boat, leaped onto the ladder which had been lowered, and up to the bridge to direct the helmsman in a zigzag course through the lakes. “The captain tells me it is unnecessary, but it is the way they do things here.” Also a custom was to give the pilot, who had a family to support, or even if he hadn’t, a carton of American cigarettes: Delage wasn’t watching as the man left the ship, the carton in one hand, he was thinking of Amalia von Schalla, what she would be doing back in Vienna, in her own uncluttered rooms, which he had a clear picture of, until blotted out by her face, a version of her face, filling rooms, when Elisabeth gave a cry. The pilot had fallen into the water, making a splash. Leaving him, the motor boat went to save the cigarettes which kept floating away. The German officers began shouting. The motor boat left the cigarettes and turned, everybody waving their arms and shouting, Elisabeth held on to Delage’s arm, as the motor boat kept circling.