The Voyage by Murray Bail Read Free Book Online

corner of his eye, a place hidden from view, on top of which was the fluorescent lighting, before he realized she could not escape, grand pianos close behind and to the sides, giving the impression, an entirely false impression, he had trapped her, forcing himself upon her, a woman must be allowed space to slip away. Although watchful, wondering what would happen next, Amalia von Schalla was reassured by the eyes which remained close to hers, no ice in either one, khaki, her husband’s clear blue beginning on her wedding night. By then his hand had fallen away, “Very good of you, it really was. Who else would come here? Anyway, so now you’ve heard it.” Amalia von Schalla wanted to laugh, disheveled, even if she knew there was not a hair out of place. “You are grateful to me?” “Of course. By that I mean—” “If you could only see yourself, you’re red in the face.” At this point Delage would normally cough, or come out with a quip, or crack some sort of joke,anything to deflect the attention, although here he chewed his lip at what expression to adopt, solemn, jovial, modest, an appealing awkwardness, up to their waist in pianos, she not so much looking at him but surveying him. The door above the steps suddenly opened, metallic, followed by a harsh gurgling voice, which could have been an order or a question, enough to trigger in Delage a newsreel of crouching soldiers, tanks, black smoke, dead horses, old women wearing head scarves. “He says he has to lock up.” “My concert is over, and just when I was getting warmed up.” At last she threw her head back and released her face, she was less regal, new vertical lines formed from the mouth down, how the beauty of some women increases with age and laughter, and looked away. The deck, such as it was, had a steel floor painted brick-red, which interested Delage—so much metal surface in the world!—as he leaned over the rail, his elbow touching her sleeve, knowing her hardly at all, everything she said was new, the way it was said especially.
    In the evening at an apartment on Karolinengasse, twenty to thirty people would have been standing under the chandelier said to be the largest and heaviest in Vienna, a city which has developed a chandelier neurosis, more cut-crystal chandeliers in Vienna than any city on earth, and so the spread of subtle artificial lighting, sipping champagne, chatting about this and that, pairs of women angled on apricot-colored settees, a few smokers, not a word of English, at least Frank Delage didn’t pick up any, to one side wearing his thin suit, waiting for something he could relate to, not even from thewaiters who had exceptionally smooth skin and stiff necks. He reached out for another glass as a tray passed. Elegance was important to these people. Much of it came from the immaculate state of their clothing and hair, the men especially. When he spotted Amalia von Schalla, who wore a silver dress, glittering as if lit up by electricity, she turned slightly, no more than a millimeter, enough to move out of his field of vision, and continued talking to several people at once. Delage wondered what he was doing there, she had scribbled down the address in the car, perhaps wanting to do or say something after what had occurred in the warehouse, touching his hand with a fingernail, “people will be there,” whatever that means. It is impossible to know what another person is thinking, it is difficult enough to know what we ourselves are thinking. In the piano warehouse, Delage didn’t know what her thoughts had been when his hand had—automatically—moved to her cheek and breast. In another room a piano and cello were being played. “Your name is? Amalia said you would come, and you did. Good. Let me introduce you to some of these wonderful people. On the phone Amalia reminded me you are from Sydney, not a place I have been to, unfortunately, and you know everything it is possible to know about pianos and their