The Voyage (11 page)

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 smiling. 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.

And as von Schalla led him away from the table, Delage glanced at Amalia, her daughter opposite, pale women seated, Amalia folded her napkin once again, then folded her hands, Elisabeth looking up at Delage, an expression of calm. Here von Schalla’s breast-pocket handkerchief resembled two or three protruding white envelopes, containing checks, dark suit obviously tailored in London buttoned up, as always, it made him appear alert, ready to spring with unconventional rapidity—he’d leap in behind a dozy management and onto the share registry when least expected, spreading apprehension in boardrooms across all of Europe. So far Delage had had nothing but friendliness from von Schalla. The blue-eyed Austrian would have placed a grateful hand on his shoulder, if only he had been tall enough, he had the greatest respect for inventors, “as a sub-species,” his words. “If it were not for brains like you, we would still be up in the trees.” With bankers he showed no mercy when it came to using them, their skill, such as it was, consisted of nothing more than allowing money to pass through their hands, each time peeling off a percentage, the caution, the lack of invention, it can be seen too in the novel these days, which no longer stands as invention, more
and more an author’s reaction to nearby events, a display of true feeling. And when the world was busily inventing things with moving parts, for the convenience of everybody else, there were large numbers of Frank Delage types bent over drawing boards and work benches, but now that most things had long been invented and were running like clockwork, the restlessly inventing type had become rare, in Europe there were hardly any left at all. Von Schalla regarded Delage not as a businessman from Sydney, but a visiting-inventor from the Southern Hemisphere, a practical man who had possibly saved him from choking to death, he would never forget that, although Delage had not given it another thought, an inventor was accustomed to using his hands, in all circumstances. “I have something for our visitor to see,” Amalia stood up. Von Schalla gave a slight bow. “You are in demand.” “Ten o’clock tomorrow,” Elisabeth whispered as she brushed past, “I’ll collect you at the hotel.” In Vienna, Delage had been doing more observing than talking, in the dining room of the Schalla house there was much to take in, moments to comprehend, the impressions waiting to be classified, often conflicting, he was not accustomed to having the many different layers before him; and when he did say something, he felt no awkwardness with Amalia, or her daughter, or with the multinational businessman, Konrad von Schalla. In fact, when Delage spoke it came out in a series of abrupt rushes, almost careless in his deployment of words. He was following Amalia down the corridor, the businessman von Schalla at his side. The scratches and scuff marks on the skirting boards displayed, on the
surface, a casual attitude to property, old money demanding satisfaction in appearances, relaxed in the details, as long as the comfort was there. “Be decisive, but not hasty. Always leave yourself room,” came the businessman’s advice, which could apply to situations other than selling pianos. In every village and town in Europe, ambitious entrepreneurs would have given anything to spend five minutes at the feet of Konrad von Schalla, and here he was giving a master class in coldness, business acumen in general, to Frank Delage, not from Austria, Australia, close in product-name but entirely different, Australia being far beyond the horizon, an invisible country of no consequence, Delage, who hadn’t sought von Schalla’s business advice, listened to what he had to say about women, or rather, Amalia. It was doubtful, by the way, that Delage could read sheet-music. They were following Amalia. “My wife was always shapely,” he said. “I always liked the look of her. Whether she has ever felt the same way about me I am not sure.” “Have you asked her?” “What?” Von Schalla paused at the door. “Where do you get these impractical ideas from? A small area in the back of your brain, allocated to ‘hopeless and impractical ideas’—or what? Excuse me.” He said something in German to his wife, waiting at her door. “Men of short size have a clearer view of women,” as if talking to himself, taking a key from his coat pocket and opening his door, “that is my opinion. It is in the design of woman to be constantly changing their hair, dresses, perfume and shoes to give men the illusion they are always with a different woman, so keeping the man for themselves. My wife has cupboards full of dresses and
shoes.” He switched on the light. “How long has your company making the pianos been in business?” In Europe, people had so many extraordinary thoughts, and didn’t mind saying them, Delage wondered whether his new piano was extraordinary at all. “I was about to show you my private art collection. Another time.” By remaining at the door, Delage indicated a loyalty to the neatly dressed businessman, whom he barely knew, if he closed his eyes he would have had trouble describing him, aside from the externals, silver hair, the small shoes, which were unimportant, now they shook hands, a loyalty different in feeling from his loyalty to Amalia, which was not loyalty at all, she had closed her door, he noticed, more a spreading attraction, made stronger by a focus difficult to avoid; it included her daughter as well, Elisabeth, a woman displaying a younger sort of patience, almost a form of mockery, she had her own room down the other end of the house, perhaps on another floor. Since the invention of central heating, families have become dispersed, even in small houses. On the green sofa, Delage leaned forward and examined his palms, thinking it would interrupt the momentum taking him toward her, almost touching already, Amalia von Schalla, by transferring the attention to him, specifically a part of him, possibly his hands. When he came in she was seated, as if granting an audience; she patted a place beside her, which he took. He felt at ease going forward and sitting alongside, but immediately began looking at his hands. Amalia bent over and looked at them too. “They are not the hands of a pianist, I am told.” He held his stumpy fingers up to the light and seemed to agree.
“I’ve come to a dead end with the piano,” not quite changing the subject. Instead of taking an interest, she suddenly stood up, it was to her advantage, some women are better seated, Amalia better standing, straight-backed, poise producing a certain distance. Without moving, she appeared to be doing a slow dance. Delage got to his feet too. “Did he show you his collection? I wish he would not.” Delage shook his head. “I didn’t go in.” Standing near Amalia, he became unsure, not wanting to stumble, his sister would have had a theory on that, she had a theory for anything he did or didn’t do, she read a lot of women’s magazines, perhaps for this purpose, he could hear her flipping the pages even when she was on the phone to him. The hand he placed on her hip moved, after a pause, to her breast, or almost, stopped, he didn’t want to take advantage. It was hardly the moment to bring the subject back to himself, to the simple fact of his disappointing piano. In Amalia, he saw a brief affinity to the Steinways, Bechsteins, Bösendorfers gathering dust in silent rooms in Vienna, their lids closed, like Europe itself, a place hardly able to breathe, a matter of raising the glossy black lids, waiting to release sounds. At least Amalia had made an attempt, in private she was demonstrating to herself an alternative. The walls were white, the geometry in the paintings suggested a modern moment, as of now, which happened to match or be in tune with the new sound of his piano. With just a few days to go in Vienna, he had to chalk up some success, yet instead of making valuable contacts, seeking introductions, using the phone, here he was merging in warmth with the aristocratic woman who alone had tried to
help him, with little to show. If only those back in the factory could see him now. We always regret what is possible, what is nearby. Coming to Vienna had been the right decision, it was either Vienna or Berlin, in Vienna the limitations of Europe as musical fortress were immediately apparent, his own limitations as well. “The piano is getting too narrow for me,” was a line picked up by Delage, underlined. His straightforwardness, which may have been an advantage in the design and precision manufacture of a piano, left him in Vienna at a disadvantage. In a matter of days he saw himself as a more complex person, complexity, something he had not considered before, the complexities spreading from Amalia von Schalla, and her daughter, who was never far away, Elisabeth, his attraction to them, had in turn made him more complex, a man modified, just a little, which was enough; either that or he had never noticed or considered his complexities back at the home or at the factory, amongst people he could greet by name, putting up with his sister, she was different, she was his sister, his daily life in Sydney. The intricate situations in Vienna had become unavoidable, he had to take them into account, attractions were stronger than information or the difficulties of manufacturing or selling, Amalia seemed to be telling him, which in turn made him a more complex person. Not a cloud, and the green-blue sea glittering, the trails of white forming across the water, more or less parallel to one another, before dissolving. And the great depth of the ocean, always apparent. The ship continued pushing across the surface, a path of creamy-white in its wake, which was almost immediately erased, leaving no
sign—an easy mockery of the ship’s mighty engines and propellers. The sun on the small deck was bright enough for Delage to put on his sunglasses, the pale Dutchman in floppy khaki shorts squinted without, hardly anyone on the streets of Europe wore sunglasses, at least not in Vienna, Delage had noticed, in Sydney on the streets, even in the depths of winter, hardly a person was without their sunglasses. “I have loved maps,” the Dutchman said. “‘Loved’ itself is a nuisance word. It is not a comfortable word. Nobody uses it with comfort. I can say I have loved looking at maps more than I loved looking at my wife. The fine lines and names on maps, most of all charts, where the fathoms are indicated with figures and colors, make you pleased to be human.” Delage leaned over the rail listening to the pale Dutchman, the Englishman behind managed to secure his green seat in the sun, unconcerned his face was turning red, his wife had a floral towel over her head. The sisters had a habit of arriving late. It added to their invalid quality, everybody made way for them. The melancholy of the forsaken sister was having a stooping effect on the younger, attentive sister who had never married, and had not the slightest interest in marriage, she never thought about it, it never crossed her mind, not anymore, she told Elisabeth, I prefer being alone, she said more than once, the thought of living with somebody and taking their needs into account, it was altogether too difficult, aside from being unnecessary, she was happy with her own company and of other similar women, the 1930s apartment building in Elwood, Melbourne, where she lived had many single women, they did things together, such
as having a coffee or small dinner parties, going to concerts, pottery classes. “Is she serious thinking that—I mean, about men?” Delage asked. “If it makes her feel better, then it is alright,” said Elisabeth, who took little interest in other women. The attentive sister seemed to be a contented woman, she arranged her loyalties, looking after her disconsolate sister, more contented than the Englishwoman whose head was covered in a towel, who often appeared to be smiling to herself, alongside her husband, at the same time completely ignoring her husband, letting him get sunburned, they had become too familiar with one another. Now the sisters faced the sun, closing their eyes, allowing the warmth to soften their thoughts, the older, forsaken one undoing the top buttons of her blouse to extend the tan, after first rubbing cream into her feet and throat, the buttons on Amalia’s pleated, high-collar blouse he found to be imitation buttons, decoration only, on her back well-hidden by the Italian pleating, which gave the impression of vertical stripes, was a tiny zipper of unexpected elegance. For Elisabeth, it was too hot on the small deck, she went back to the cabin, favoring an Austrian complexion over acquiring a tan, Delage remaining at the rail with the Dutchman. “Tell me something we don’t already know,” said the Englishman from under his hat, his eyes closed. “Where I grew up in South Australia, the houses had corrugated iron roofs,” Delage said, when nobody else said anything. “And ours was the same red as this, on the deck here.” “I love an iron roof on a house. I wish I grew up with an iron roof,” the older sister spoke for the first time. “Especially when it rains,” she went on, which made
them all look at her. “There are no flies on a moving ship,” the Englishman observed, who could not imagine a corrugated iron roof, or why anyone would want to live under one, a factory or a warehouse, yes, not on a house, his eyes closed. “In Holland the thatch continues to flourish, I believe.” The
Romance
never stopped moving, day and night going forward, the steady vibration of the engines underfoot, so much distance to cover, so much deep water in the world, it was a wonder there could be any danger to rainfall or fish stocks, according to the captain. An albatross had landed on top of a container. In the morning it was still there, large, clumsy, on the following day too. Every effort was made to save the great bird. It was all they could talk about. The captain slowed the ship, still it couldn’t take off. On the small deck they gathered, Elisabeth too, the Dutchman taking the closest interest. “Of course, the albatross mustn’t die on a ship.” One of the crew had the idea of crawling out, wearing industrial gloves. All watched as he reached it, there was a struggle, the bird was struggling and snapping at his face and arms. “Careful,” the Dutchman said. The man got to his feet and threw the big bird up in the air—it dipped, working its wings, before flying off. The steel ship was warm to touch, in places hot. With nothing else available beyond the ship, only ocean, they lost the use of days, Thursday, Saturday, Monday, it hardly mattered, the feeling was one of being transported. By the fourth week they were well down the western side of Australia, although no sign of land, only iron-ore carriers going in the other direction, Delage increasingly wondered how Elisabeth would react to
the place, all the more difficult for it being far away. Before she woke, Delage was up and making his way down the many layers of steps, almost to the waterline, where he could walk along the edge of the ship, a gangway with rail, holding on to the rail, the beginning of another day, the air cold, the empty ocean was like the day itself, one hundred and seventy paces, by his count, to where it (thick steel) tapered into the bow. Some mornings Delage went along and back twice. At this very end or front of the moving ship there was no wind, or sight of water, it was still, a neutral zone. Introducing his piano to Europe had not been a waste of time, or a difficult financial loss, on the contrary, something had come out of it, nothing is ever wasted, not entirely. It had left Delage an altered person, he was faintly aware, the normal version of himself was modified by his short time in Vienna, by Amalia, her daughter now on the ship, his reactions to them, separately and together, the reception of his piano, each had their effect on him; Konrad von Schalla too had been an influence. By the time he had left or fled Vienna, he was a modified person. The Dutchman had been drawn to the silent bow of the ship, more and more he sat there alone, thick chains and lines coiled nearby, as if he was smoking, only he wasn’t smoking. Sometimes he didn’t see Delage, which suggested he wanted to be left alone. The Dutchman didn’t believe a grown person could change very much—only at small doses at the edges, hard to detect, especially to the person themselves. “I would go for a walk with you along the length of the ship, if there was room. If we were in the country we would walk, and I would talk. There would be