by Murray Bail
As soon as he sat down in the back, squashing Delage against Elisabeth, he wriggled the way a concert pianist settles on his stool, at the same time clearing his throat noisily, it was obvious he was the famous music critic, the residue of smoke in his clothing was immediately noticeable, the chauffeur swung around in his seat to see if the upholstery or something was burning. Delage went to shake his hand, “It was decent of you to come. I appreciate it.” This was the hand that had ruined the careers of promising violinists and sopranos, and hoisted others to unsustainable heights, an almost magical hand, if it was the actual one which had written his implacable judgments, critics have an absurd sense of their own superiority, an art critic can be found writing film criticism (it’s visual), or even literary criticism, music critics feel they can turn their hand to theater criticism, or criticism of architecture or town planning, they suffer from a constant psychological condition which constantly prompts them to be critical—nothing can be done about it, a critic begins as a failure. Ignoring Delage’s hand, the critic turned to Elisabeth, “Your mother has been very generous, as always.” He whistled through his teeth a few bars from Mahler. He had a natural talent for expressive whistling, something Delage never had. “Aside from anything else,” he said, “piano is not my favorite sound. We will see what is so important for me to cross Vienna for.” “I thought it was you who said what is new is important. Unless I didn’t hear correctly,” Delage said. The critic actually laughed, “So you remembered? You would be the only one that night who did.” It felt unusual, squashed in the back knowing Amalia von Schalla had arranged the meeting, she didn’t have to do it, whether it was for him or a love of music he could not decide, a combination probably, nothing is one. Delage often thought about people’s motives, he was especially interested in Amalia’s, whose presence was represented by her only daughter, Elisabeth, pressed hard against him in the dark limousine, she didn’t talk much, but then nor did her mother. To his surprise, the critic began asking about Australia. They were not questions about the musical world, although he couldn’t help shaking his head at the Sydney Opera House, which Delage’s sister insisted on visiting whenever she came down from Brisbane, it had the worst acoustics of any opera house in the world, according to the critic from Vienna, it is typical of the New World to prefer appearances over substance, “they ought to pull it down, and start again,” he said, he only wanted to know about the dangerous spiders and sharks that infested Australia, and the snakes, how lethal were they really; had Delage ever seen a live snake writhing on the ground? Dozens more people in Australia die of thirst or from bushfires than snakes or sharks, Delage wanted to say. What a country! In one way or another all are terrible, every country. “A country far away from everywhere else, and you tell me you have designed and built your own piano?” “Everything’s new in my country,” Delage explained. He wanted to say to Elisabeth, “Your mother isn’t very happy, it seems to me.” But pressed between her and the smoke-drenched music critic, although there was plenty of room, he thought he should commiserate, or at least show an interest, and ask if he’d lost everything in the fire. “I thought it was history beginning all over again. I have a small amount of Jewish blood, you see. I am left with the clothes I am standing in. That is all I need.” Looking at the music critic as he spoke, Delage saw there was much in him to like. Here was a man who had just lost all his possessions, all his papers, copies of all his reviews and notes for them in plastic bags, books, benchmark recordings, mattress, nothing left but the black shirt and tight trousers he was standing in, and perhaps cutlery, a few plates, knives and forks can survive, who was now looking at the passing trees and buildings, glancing up at the clouds, as if he had never been in a car before, not cursing or brooding over his recent misfortune, he was whistling in fits and starts a few more bars, a remarkable rendition of Webern, Ligeti, one or the other. It can be seen as a fresh beginning, he said. A composer begins with thin air. “Everything is before me, all over again. I am talking about the fact of the situation. I have nothing to complain about.” So lost in admiration was Delage, he was unaware his hand had settled on Elisabeth’s knee. She was lying on her side, leaning on her elbow, one hip rearing in assertive womanly abundance, the ship’s engine underneath and forward motion faintly shifting her breasts. “I wonder what your mother is doing in Vienna right now?” “She does not know where I am. I am thirty-six years old. What are we going to do in Sydney?” “You might not like the place. After five minutes you might want to scoot back home.” The very thought was enough for her to drape her hand around his neck, such was happiness or contentment on the container ship, easy to be with, Elisabeth von Schalla, no difficulties or awkwardness, he didn’t have to watch each and every step, take care what he said or didn’t say, he felt he could say anything at all. With Elisabeth he could breathe easily, her mother was like this too. The English married couple had been arguing on the small deck, rather, the Englishman was heard raising his voice, none of the other passengers felt they could venture onto the small deck, the woman said nothing, pink from top to toe, it was not the first time she had been shouted at, they could tell from the deck below. The elbow of one of the two sisters now cut across Delage’s field of vision, the sisters sitting together, the one whispering to the disconsolate older one had begun brushing her hair, it was rich chestnut-dyed, a portrait of sisterly devotion if ever there was, the methodical brushing by the smaller, possibly younger, sister almost immediately smoothed out the haggard look on the inconsolable one, a comfort can give hope, Delage observed. Nothing lasts, at least not in original form. “She is going to be alright,” Elisabeth’s view at a glance. The one being brushed didn’t want her sister to be her best friend, she wanted more. “I’ll see what’s happened to the Dutchman,” Delage announced. Elisabeth had her foot pressed firmly on the top of his shoe in full view of the music critic, if he chose to look down, not shoes exactly, Delage wore boots with a well-oiled worn look, made in Tasmania. They’d left the museum area behind, heading toward the warehouse district, Delage thought he recognized corners and streets. What promised to be a turning point in the future of the Delage piano was delayed by the critic who tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder when he saw a shop specializing in sausage; Delage and Elisabeth remained seated, together they watched as he leaned forward over the gutter, taking bites out of the dark sausage, Bertolt Brecht photographed struggling to light one of his cheap cigars, Elisabeth’s foot remaining on Delage’s boot. She went ahead of the two men at the piano warehouse, the critic contemplating her from behind, at the same time managing to talk while finishing the last of the sausage—an example of the true independence necessary to the critic. He said he often had seen her mother, Amalia von Schalla, across the room, as he put it, the number of musical events he was required to attend in a given week was truly staggering, it played havoc with his diet, his sleep patterns, his own social life had become nonexistent, he was always being asked to attend something arranged by others, Amalia von Schalla made her requests sparingly, as a consequence was doubly, possibly triply, effective. Naturally when Amalia von Schalla asked would he be so kind as to give this new piano from Australia a hearing he canceled all other appointments and requests to comply. In Vienna she was the most important patron of music, he told Delage more than once, a great help to composers and hopeful conductors, she even threw money at the Vienna Boys’ Choir, which may be a successful export but was a ridiculous embarrassment to musical Vienna. “Mother and daughter,” the critic said, “one is C major, the other A minor. I’ve just this minute thought of that,” he said, as they entered the building, Delage looking more closely at the shape ahead of them. Later, when Elisabeth asked what they were talking about back there, Delage shook his head. For some time he had been trying to see the world a step removed from musical terms, in thoughts and conversations he had caught himself bringing everything back to the Delage piano, or the scarcity of skilled labor, or the music business in general, mentioning the adva
ntages of his piano at every opportunity. It was a wonder his sister had not pointed this out, although she may well have said it by other means. A lot of what she said went clean over his head. He would listen carefully now to what he himself said. To go about doing the hard-sell on the Delage piano was counterproductive. Naturally people in power begin to have doubts if they detect anxiety in someone giving a pitch. It was a building of metal doors. Behind the offices in the storage area a man came and switched on the lights. At the sight of so many parked pianos in rows with narrow aisles, the critic stretched out his arms and said something in German. Elisabeth translated, “An elephants’ graveyard.” “Ah, yes,” Delage joining in, “the ivory.” Elisabeth was shapely, expensive, leaning against the rail above the steps, waiting for them. In many small ways she reminded him of her mother, Delage leading the way through the different concert grand pianos, before reaching his own toward the far end. As he whipped off the dust-sheet, Elisabeth alongside, he remembered he had made a similar theatrical flourish for Amalia von Schalla, a few days earlier. And it was here, when he was first alone with Amalia, his hand had gone forward in an involuntary manner, out of control, she allowed him to touch her.
It was not a matter of doing the hard-sell, it was simply a matter of introducing his piano—that was all. Neither the critic nor Elisabeth seemed to mind the yellow-brown color. He flicked some dust off the lid with his handkerchief, lifted the lid to explain the technical advantages of the Delage piano, there were quite a few, they could be seen only by peering in, he could point to them easily. The critic was not interested. “Play it,” he shook his head, “play it, so I can hear.” To give a recital in front of the leading music critic in Vienna was known to be a terrifying prospect, the most accomplished and experienced soloists froze, or made elementary blunders, or even vomited, his career-ruining pronouncements were taken as gospel in Vienna, in Berlin too, the most music-drenched cities in Europe, where the piano was said to be in decline anyway. Delage’s playing was not good enough for him to be nervous, his skill rudimentary, if that. In his work it was not necessary for him to actually play music. He also couldn’t decide from his repertoire what he should play, as he adjusted the stool, although it didn’t need adjustment, out of the corner of his eye he could see the critic becoming impatient. Elisabeth too he saw now leaning with her elbows on top of the piano, watching him with concern. The strange falseness of the situation gave Delage a feeling of carelessness, which made him relax. Delage began with scales. A person with a basic knowledge of music would hear how the progression of notes of the Delage piano was immediately clearer, sharper than all the other concert grands. The critic began to speak rapidly in German, complaining that listening to somebody playing scales was useless, he could not form a clear picture, only a mechanical device with ears, as he put it, could, he began blowing his nose in irritation, this wasn’t a Dada event, he said, the trip across Vienna in the traffic had been a waste of time, he was sorry and so on, while Delage continued up and down the scales, half turning to give explanations over his shoulder. The difficulty was the music critic himself could not play the piano, violin, yes, but not piano; he had never been keen on the piano, making a move for the exit. Compared to the violin, even the viola, certainly the cello, it was a shallow instrument. At this point, Elisabeth slid alongside Delage on the stool, as if she were slipping into bed, he said to her later, removing his hand from the keyboard, and began to play softly, a Schubert sonata, which stopped the critic in his tracks, then Scriabin, Schoenberg to and fro, all of which, although hardly to concert standard, allowed the critic to close his eyes, listen carefully. The way the wind changed: constantly, rapidly, it was indicated by the waves. At a glance the officers could measure the wind to a scale. They had established a hierarchy of winds. It was taking too long for Delage to reach home, he was restless to have his feet back on solid ground, otherwise he had little interest in Singapore, the Dutchman standing at the rail. “My father had about him the leftovers of cloves and other tropical spices. In Amsterdam he dressed in cotton jackets and bush shirts. He grew up in the Dutch East Indies, as they were called. The changing of place names has been a nuisance to school teachers and of course a bonanza to publishers of maps. Every other week you’ll notice another country or city has decided to change its name. If a person said Zimbabwe, or Mumbai, or Beijing, my father gave the impression he didn’t know what was meant. Sometimes he put his hand to his ear, as if he was deaf. All through what he continued to call Java were towns and villages, and rivers too, he no longer recognized.” In the darkness on either side were small lights, some moving. As the ship slowed and approached the dock, the air became thick and sweet, uncomfortably humid. Most changes are larger than the person complaining about them, nothing at all can be done, so much is out of reach. Delage leaned against Elisabeth’s shoulder, “When the sun decides to come up, we’ll step ashore. I have a few things to do—postcards. I don’t want my sister slashing her wrists. I should phone the office. I’ll tell them more about the sale. After that we’ll sit in a cane chair under a ceiling fan. I’ve had nothing but good reports on the Singapore Sling.” On the way back from the piano warehouse, the music critic said nothing, he sat with them in the spacious car, Elisabeth, Delage, without saying a word, instead of giving his considered opinion in the car, which could make or break the prospects of the Delage piano, he said nothing, eventually he began playing a tune on his knee with his fingers, which could only mean he had come to a conclusion, still he remained silent, it wasn’t clear if he had a good or bad opinion of the piano that had come all the way from Sydney, Australia. He sat on his hands, as it were. He had seen too much opera, the art of the drawn-out conclusion, theater is dependent on cheap tricks, people pay for absurdly expensive tickets in order to experience cheap tricks, the operatic principle is one of delay, the drama of withholding, denying the audience to stretching point, and so leaving them aghast and breathless, clutching at the sides of their seats, waiting for the dénouement, dabbing the eyes, even when they’ve seen it many times before. And Delage and Elisabeth squashed together could only remain patient, although Delage was tempted to ask abruptly for the verdict, the silence was not promising, almost certainly a bad sign. Outside the Café Schwarzenberg, he asked the driver to stop, at the same time motioned Delage to step out, “on the footpath, he talked to me for five minutes,” he told them at the Schallas’ main table, Konrad von Schalla at the head, Amalia next to him, Delage, Elisabeth opposite her, “people had to walk around us on the footpath, as he delivered his verdict.” The bare shoulders of both mother and daughter were soft in the candlelight. It must have been Elisabeth who gently kicked his foot under the table. “What he had to say was interesting, I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It had taken him a while to see what the problem was. The sound of the Delage piano, he said, was too pure. Unlike a Steinway or a Bösendorfer the tone was not blurry, it was a new sound, clean and precise. It is what I have always said. But he said it doesn’t allow for imperfections. A person playing the Delage piano would be exposed with every note. It is unforgiving. And that would be alright, except it was not a technical mistake, it showed a misunderstanding of art—he said ‘catastrophic misunderstanding.’ All art, he said, including the playing of pianos, was imperfect. He went on to say, quite loudly on the footpath, the power of art did not come from perfection, but in the demonstrated effort—he emphasized ‘effort’—of creation. As listeners, we actually want an imperfect result. It is human, and therefore closer to human understanding. Otherwise, it is beyond understanding. He finished by saying that whoever invented such a perfect piano would be just as unforgiving in his life. That was something that hadn’t crossed my mind,” Delage gave a quick laugh. There was silence at the table. Either the Schalla family was absorbing the critic’s verdict, or they had trouble understanding it, or they were expressing sympathy to Delage. It could also have been they didn’t care either way, his world was one they didn’t inhabit. “Som
ething else he made very clear,” Delage continued. “My piano is not about to make any headway in Europe, because the classical composers have written for the European blurry tone. They have made good use of it. Brahms, he mentioned. The only hope, your critic said, would be in contemporary music. Some of the new composers might take an interest. The precise tone could suit their cold compositions. Otherwise,” said Delage, “I might as well pack up and go home.” Close to Amalia, he was aware of being aware of himself, and with it uncertain of the merits of his piano. To avoid Amalia, he turned to Elisabeth, who gave him a smile. “Contemporary composers can always be commissioned,” her mother said. “However much they protest,” von Schalla from the end, “they like nothing better than to hang around the salons, eating from our table. Prokofiev ate like a horse, in this very house.” “Berthe has three young composers under her wing,” Amalia recalled. Delage went on cutting up the schnitzel using the family silver, the knives and forks had handles made from antlers. “Am I hanging around, as you put it? I don’t think so.” “You are silly,” Elisabeth leaned forward, “you are not a composer.” “A manufacturer,” von Schalla agreed, or appeared to agree, whenever possible his face wanted to express reserve. Composers and artists were drawn inexorably to the old families, such as the Schalla family, wealth and casual influence dazzled them, artists especially, all those walls waiting to be filled with their canvases, watercolors, sculptures, experimental photographs, their creations secured ahead of all others. If they learned that a patron, or a possible patron, had an interest in waterfalls or tulips it wasn’t long before they arrived with a painting of one, just for your interest, under their arm. There is always a salesman aspect to the artist, part of their anxiety. At least with a painting, the patron ended up with something to be displayed, or put to one side, a tangible asset that could one day rise in value, whereas if a composer is commissioned the patron is lucky to have in minuscule type a dedication printed on the score. And just as the old families would let drop that a composer or the painter so-and-so had been around for afternoon tea, in the conservatory, so too would the composer or the painter reveal they had once again been invited to the Schallas’ for pastries and coffee. “Patronage is nonexistent where I come from,” Delage told them. “I’m not complaining,” he added. Something bothered him at the table, Amalia looking straight ahead, her daughter glancing at him. If it was Elisabeth whose foot had given the little kick, it was still pressing against his. Whenever he moved, it followed. “Don’t be hasty,” came von Schalla’s advice—from a master-businessman, enough for Amalia to unfold her hands on the napkin. Von Schalla held a steady, not unfriendly gaze, which seemed to encourage Delage still trying to come to terms with the critic’s verdict, the future of his piano in Europe was limited at best, Vienna, he could see now, had been the worst possible place to introduce an improvement to something as long-established as the grand piano, some things are resistant to change, in Vienna their sausage, sauerkraut and pastries were beyond improvement too. It had been a difficult day for Delage, although he ended up liking the music critic, who gave the impression, without coming out and saying it, not in so many words, they could meet up again, perhaps at the Café Bräunerhof, the homeliest of the cafés, where, he said, the most irritable men in Vienna sat and read their newspapers, the world after all consisted of hundreds of constantly shifting irritations, which was why the Bräunerhof had become his second home, the world was composed of nothing but irritations, he touched Delage’s elbow, we can only do our best, it was a comfort to be surrounded at the Café Bräunerhof by others who either openly expressed their irritation at the world around them, or allowed unspoken irritation to develop in their faces, irritation being a sign of intelligence, there nevertheless was always a quiet corner, they could have their coffee and pastries, while he asked for more details of the deadly insects, reptiles and fish of Australia. But Delage had only a week or so left in Europe, before catching the container ship at Hamburg. And he was also trying to work out where the difficulty lay at the table. From where he was seated, he could hardly avoid Amalia’s throat and bare shoulders, by leaning at a slightly different angle he could include her daughter’s expanse of candle-white softness, as she bent forward, Elisabeth, helpfully. In the space between Amalia, who had long pale hands, just the one diamond ring, and her blue-eyed daughter, there were no clear signs, nothing he recognized or could follow in confidence. He wasn’t sure what he was offering these people. He had the feeling he could spend the rest of his life in a warm room talking, or listening, sometimes stepping out with one of them. Von Schalla was now talking, “I suppose in your business you become a connoisseur. Have you heard our daughter play at the piano?” Elisabeth gave one of her faint smiles, which made Delage smile. “She stepped forward today and saved the situation—didn’t you? I see you’re being modest.” “Unfortunately, it was my playing that made up the critic’s mind. I have never really liked that man.” “For a brief time, we were hoping for a concert career. Weren’t we, darling?” Elisabeth turned from her mother. “It was never my intention,” she said, “I knew I was not good enough.” “Where to now?” von Schalla asked Delage. “Is it possible our famous critic has got it wrong?” Appearing thoughtful, Delage began shaking his head. “You have come from a long distance, only to be given bad news. We are sorry,” Amalia said to Delage, and gave a little tap on his sleeve with her finger, Elisabeth observing her mother’s sympathy, Delage’s gratitude. It was interesting to see her mother at work. Partly because her distant beauty and manner were shared by people who came in contact with her, Elisabeth couldn’t imagine this woman as her own mother. And she saw how the combination of opposites, elusive beauty offering sympathy, exerted an unexpected power, of which her mother was oblivious. For herself, Elisabeth had a more modern approach: a woman had nothing whatsoever to apologize for. “The piano is only a mechanical construction overlaid on nature,” Delage had written in his notebook, no longer sure whether it came from the opinionated music critic back in Vienna, or the difficult Dutchman on the ship. “It’s the sort of idea either of them could have come out with,” he said to Elisabeth, “I could always ask the one nearest.” “Our own private Dutchman,” Elisabeth in her clipped voice. “Anyway, what you have written can apply to practically anything manufactured.” They were sitting on the small deck. She was wearing a yellow blouse, pink linen trousers, nothing underneath. “Do you have written observations about me? Show me.” For several days no other ships were sighted. Not only had the Englishman tried to reserve his own chair, the green plastic one, placing it carefully for himself in the same position on the small deck the way the British claimed tropical islands for their empire, he made a practice of stepping out at mid-morning in pajamas and dressing gown, as if the Romance was not a German container ship but the royal yacht Britannia, wearing pajamas outside cabins naturally was frowned upon, at that hour or any hour, until the captain requested he wear ordinary clothing, even though he or the officers rarely came onto the small deck, after which the Englishman, at every opportunity, gave impersonations of the captain including horizontal hand movements and his Bavarian accent. A rectangle of dense shadow divided the deck, where the sisters sat in any chairs available, out of their cabin into the full glare of the world, almost touching the other passengers seated in their chairs, a small congested part of the world, the younger sister careful to keep her older sister, who was not wearing make-up, itself a statement of some sort, away from the direct sun. “She’s coming along, I think she’s going to be alright,” the younger one whispered, her sister was looking the other way. “It’s happened to all of us,” the Englishwoman to Elisabeth, said as a warning, women everywhere, the softness of her face momentarily disappearing. “I don’t have a clue what to say to her,” Delage admitted later. It wasn’t that he disliked the Englishwoman, he didn’t know what to say, with his sister too, he often became stuck for words. “She never stops smiling, it’s hard to concentrate when someone’s always smi
ling. And what does it mean? When she does talk, it’s about the weather.” Some people are addicted to knowing about the weather, the present and future weather reports, it stands for something else. “Unhappy woman,” said Elisabeth. It was too hot on the other side of the great sloping funnel, they had crossed the Equator in darkness, Delage pointed to flying fish, small islands attracted larger clouds, the gray-green, almost black immensity of the ocean, now the Indian Ocean.
