The Voyage Read Online Free PDF Page A

on a piano and lessons for their son Frank, there biting the bottom lip, now sliding his eyes from the faces of women in case he was caught—ordinary male shyness, or hopelessness, widespread in Sydney, even more in the rest of Australia—and when, as in Vienna, circumstances made it necessary to depart from this inherited shyness, Frank Delage managed it awkwardly, departing too little or too much. Coming to Vienna had not been a wise decision, there had to be a better way to introduce a revolutionary new piano. Habits develop which become part of what we are, difficult to change, “pianists and conductors, concert promoters are amongst the worst,” ticking off points on his fingers, at thesame time not wanting to appear relentless. “The composers keep on inventing, or reinventing, and there is some sort of progress in science, I’m told, while the actual playing of music is stuck in the mud, coming out with the same old sounds.” By way of agreement or to cool him down she reached across with a napkin and removed a flake of pastry from his chin, the advancing shadow of a stout woman, large nose, small eyes, tan feather in her hat, seemed to pause before enveloping the table. “Amalia, can we expect you tomorrow?” Without turning, Amalia von Schalla introduced Delage, “I think we need to call you an inventor. Clever man. He has come all the way from Sydney. Tomorrow evening, yes.” To Delage, “Berthe will have some people it is important for you to meet.” The large woman glanced at Delage, “Thank you, Amalia, thank you.” And later, after Delage finally succumbed to the technicalities of what gave his piano superiority, describing the shorter distances of the hammer movements, the different surface of the hammers, the different frame and hardwoods used as a consequence, these were real improvements, and of an unexpected kind, only then after listening carefully, or appearing to, Delage all the while managing to keep his eyes on her, more or less, she didn’t mind, she accepted perhaps even understood his gaze, did she suggest lunch the following day or perhaps the day after at the Hotel Bristol not the Sacher, by which time she’d think about what he’d said. Elisabeth had placed her hand between his legs, “My mother and father had nothing more than a business marriage. I still cannot work them out. I do not know that I ever will.” The pregnant bookkeeper’s thrifthad forced a delay in Delage’s departure, which allowed Elisabeth to join the Romance at Piraeus, although she could have caught the ship farther on, at Port Said or Singapore, for example, Delage was stepping down the corrugated gangway thinking he might walk into Athens, a city he had seen so often in photographs, or at least the noble ruins of it holding up against the blue sky, always perfect blue sky, along the streets he would observe the many local customs, he would take his time—from the top of the gangway he saw Elisabeth looking up, expecting someone to take her three suitcases. The ship had been left unattended by the German officers and crew who had piled into taxis heading in different directions for the brothels. When he told Elisabeth, she said, “But aren’t they married?” The sky was thick with clouds, the sea dark, almost black, it rained, it stopped, rained again—pelting the ship as it passed through. In the Mediterranean, Delage expected to be amongst lumps of land broken off what is called Greece, white stony islands everywhere, the ones which appeared here in the rain blurred into the color of half-submerged legs and shoulders of lamb. “Please don’t look surprised. You know what I’m like.” Against the stained concrete of the wharf, a gantry began to move, Elisabeth appeared as paleness and softness, well satisfied with her decisiveness, already a success, Frank Delage trying to fix a smile, although it only revealed a confusion, he knew, he hardly knew her, Elisabeth von Schalla, not in three