The Voyage Read Online Free PDF

weeks, not nearly enough time, although from the first word at the soirée he had liked her, Elisabeth of the Schalla family, and went down to carry up her suitcases. “What have you got inhere?” They weighed a ton. Also she brought her own pillow made of goose down, the pillows in a cargo ship would undoubtedly be hard, if they had any pillows at all, away from home Elisabeth was always accompanied by her pillow filled with goose down, even having it under her arm entering the best five-star hotels, a display of feminine sensibility Delage almost admired and she ignored. “I told you I was coming. And you decided not to believe me.” “Your mother, does she know about this?” “You left in a hurry”—although she wasn’t really cross, it was too interesting being on a ship. The epaulettes on the dress gave her a faint Germanic touch, there is still the military residue, diminished by the thin yellow belt, and a small maroon lizard- or crocodile-skin handbag, which added to her gaiety. The ship bulged and shifted against the wharf, straining to depart. And yet he had had every intention of keeping to himself, settle the thoughts, to gather them, as people used to say, he was “gathering his thoughts,” going over what had happened in Vienna along with what should have happened in Vienna, sliced across by a tram, how he had responded to each situation and so on, what he should have said and done, but had not, instead had done something else. To do this it was necessary to be alone, not easy on the ship, on any ship. From La Spezia he had spent hours leaning over the rail following the waves, the five other passengers he looked upon at meal times with careful politeness, making the smallest conversation, little more, before returning to his cabin where he stretched out on the bed, or sat in a chair, all the time aware of the ship driving forward; now Elisabeth on boardwould require him to talk, take an interest and so forth. It is difficult anywhere to do nothing but think, it’s difficult even to gather thoughts, it is more and more impossible to be clear, there are too many alternatives, Delage had always skipped from one thing to another, a “grasshopper mind,” father liked to point out, just as it is impossible to remain in a stationary position anywhere on earth without hearing a sound. Delage was shown to the table at the Hotel Bristol, Amalia von Schalla arrived late, she tugged off her gloves, a different pair (different suit, speckled blouse, no miniature hat with fascinator), briefly acknowledged his presence. It had been her idea, her invitation, now she was unhappy over something nobody else had a clue about, perhaps she wondered why she was seeing him again, at the Sacher sipping coffee, while he ate the pastries, she had got on too easily with him. And here he was again in his one-and-only two-button suit, from a faraway place she could not imagine, a tall open-faced man who looked as if he should be missing a front tooth, a salesman walking the streets of her city, knocking on doors (unsuccessfully), if it had been hardware, or boots made from kangaroo hides, not something to do with music, a piano with a revolutionary new sound, she would not have given him five minutes, let alone lunch at the Bristol. “There’s also a car called Bristol,” he said, leaping onto yesterday’s conversation, for he believed it had been a success. “I’ve seen a purple one driving about in Sydney sometimes. They were built by an airplane company in England, and made special use of aluminum.” At the mention of “aluminum,” Delage thought she would walk out. “Aluminum!Do I need to know this?” Her shoulders rose and fell. “Whenever I think of this hotel, which I should say has been a favorite of mine, I’ll now think of a piece of metal.” “Haven’t lifted a finger this morning but read the papers. I wrote a few letters—business letters, the usual stuff. Now I am all yours.” “I do not need