The Voyage by Murray Bail Page B

alone concern for, his lack of success establishing it in Europe, as if career and income were of no importance. He was affable, yet dissatisfied. The sea looked warm, an oily slop. “It is definitely a different color,” the Englishman leaning over the side, “possibly red.” A habit of making appraisals had left the top of his face in a constant state of blinking, while the rest remained stationary, a man whose wife in the plastic chair hardly said a word, round, rosy, not keen on moving, especially in this heat. Hot meals still came to the table, heaps of carbohydrates, the requirement of seamen, Elisabeth pushing the plate away. The number of womenin the British Empire who fainted in the heat would run into the thousands. “How the Romans managed without ice and soda water,” the Dutchman said, reaching out for another serve, “is very impressive.” He began talking about his wife, her tiredness, his wife became more and more tired. “It was a tiredness in general,” he said, talking to no one in particular, “my wife began to move about slowly. She spoke more slowly. I was forced to wait. I did a lot of waiting. She wanted her tiredness to register. One day she said in a voice I could hardly hear she couldn’t do up the buttons on her blouse. And before long our marriage became tired. Naturally I didn’t think my wife had the strength to leave our marriage. I wish my wife hadn’t left me, or I hadn’t left her—whatever it was. We could have entered old age together, when I too would have been tired. It was the final period we might have shared.” Plenty of people are in a state of irritation, every other person is unhappy about something. It is held in check. People learn to smile over nothing. Away from land the Dutchman found less to be irritated by, there was less detail, everything and everybody in his little country had been all too visible, even though his wife was nowhere to be seen, it had been easy on land to be irritated, there was always something, wherever he turned there was something not working, always something or somebody to react against. Either the world as he saw it was unsatisfactory, a mess, or he had become dislodged. He listened when Delage eventually told him about his piano. It had been left behind in Europe, in Vienna, “the musical center of the world.” They had been having conversations, just the two of them, Delage doingmost of the listening, the other man made him more thoughtful, he felt it, an unusual feeling—it didn’t happen every day. Delage had always been drawn to people with clear ideas, he didn’t mind standing alongside, some of what the Dutchman said was worth putting in his notebook. “If I hadn’t been on board this ship,” he said to Elisabeth, “I would not have met this interesting man.” He waited for her to say, “There was me too,” but she turned away slightly, a habit he had grown to like.
    Ahead, behind and on either side, all water, a red-painted deck about six paces square, a long table dominated by an unnecessarily ornate candelabrum positioned in the center, the table so long the four sat at one end, von Schalla at the head, as required, Amalia and daughter facing Delage at the sides. “Elisabeth was good enough to show me the sights. There were so many it took the whole day.” He looked at Konrad von Schalla, “Have you seen the place where Mozart lived?” Amalia wanted to hear what he thought of the rooms of the great composers, but her husband cut her off, “Tell me about your country. What has it given the world?” Delage had to think about that one, advances in agriculture and the Delage piano came to mind, he twisted his mouth to indicate he was thinking, someone’s foot under the table began pressing against his, blurring any answers he may have had. “No composers, painters, novelists?” Amalia encouraged. “Not that I’m aware of,” Delage shaking his head. Von Schalla went on eating the fish. “Our