The Voyage by Murray Bail Page A

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 alwaysenjoyed 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.

    Once in the Red Sea where the heat and humidity gave Elisabeth a rash, nobody could recall the unfortunate pilot’s face, he struck his head, the Dutchman had heard, only his white cotton shirt, wet hair, Elisabeth, at least ten years younger, stayed in the cabin, Delage doing his best lying on the bed to answer questions about his family, she showed little interest in the enormous, mostly vacant country she would soon be seeing, had no idea what she was letting herself in for. “I would not describe your time in Vienna as a failure. How could you possibly think it?” Yet she listened with only vague curiosity whenever he talked about the design of the Delage piano, and showed even less interest in, let