The Voyage by Murray Bail Read Free Book Online Page A

construction. Am I right? Even if only a speck of that is true, you must be very clever.” Frank Delage recognized her from the Sacher, Berthe Clothilde, large perspiring nose, which cried out for an oriental diamond, small eyes, not as slender as her friend, Amalia, sharp inquisitive manner, by extension the long single rope of large-diameterpearls she continually twisted around one finger, while bobbing about below her throat a vintage brooch of a peacock, all gold and filigree (wings), its tail erupting like a fan cooling her throat. “It is a musical evening. Next month—it will be architecture. Or is it Islamic pottery? It doesn’t matter, there is much to learn. Are you with us for long? Look at Amalia. Where would our poor little Vienna be without her? Everybody wants to stand close to Amalia. There won’t be any room for Konrad”—glancing at Delage—“her husband. Excuse me.” The hostess stepped forward to greet a short man in a bulging black T-shirt, and a young woman with wild orange hair, wearing a transparent black blouse and various chains. Pierced lips, eyebrows and so on, streaks of color, paint thrown over their faces and hair, appeared in the early evening in parts of Sydney, and even other cities of Australia, as well as across Europe, England too, small outbreaks of flamboyant conformity, Delage felt around for his pen and notebook. Everybody had drifted into the adjoining room where the cellist and the male pianist continued playing, a Steinway, Delage noted, of course, an apartment with its own music room, its own Steinway concert grand, next to it a harpsichord, its ancient lid closed, mercifully, as far as Delage was concerned. The inadequacies of the harpsichord created the piano! The harpsichord had a bucolic scene on the lid, some sort of German custom, Delage assumed, cavorting nymphs, the distant castle etc., and so on, Old Europe arranging the scenery even back then, which gave Delage the idea, he made a note, paint a scene of native trees, eucalypts, on his piano which would rear up into a forestwhen the lid was raised (notes flitting like birds through the smooth trunks?). If not to everybody’s taste it would at least declare where it was manufactured, a graphic reminder of the differences between his piano and the antiquated, established pianos, he needed as much help as he could get, from anywhere. He also wrote in his notebook something he had read in a newspaper, “All the same in our differences.” Or words similar, he’d have to think about that. Chairs had been arranged in rows, the men continued talking in a subdued manner, women sat expectantly. The cellist had the human-shaped instrument between her legs, giving birth to difficult music, the pianist who wore a white skivvy kept glancing across at her, the hostess, Frau Berthe Clothilde close at hand, waiting patiently for them to finish. There was nothing for it but to continue listening. Delage half turned to the blond woman who had taken the seat beside him, “What is it they’re playing?” not expecting an answer. “I would be the last person to ask,” came the voice, which was how he met Elisabeth von Schalla. “I like a tune, almost any tune,” Delage went on. “It’s not a lot to ask. Do you think our pianist knows what his fingers are up to? Or is it the contraption he’s trying to play? That’s an old piano making heavy weather of it, I feel like blocking my ears.” She was younger than he was, ten years, a rough guess, which would explain why she listened to him, instead of getting up and changing seats. He persevered. “I am not 110 percent sure he’s a professional pianist anyway. Where did he get the tan? A pianist usually spends all his time indoors. He looks more like a ski-instructor, playing a bit ofpiano on the side. Knitted gloves. He would have learned to play by blowing into his hands and wearing knitted gloves. You probably don’t know, but where I come from there’s a hell of a lot