Towards the front of the queue the
Romance
waited at anchor, Delage, Elisabeth and the Dutchman at the rails, the English couple in plastic chairs fanning themselves, waiting as the line of ships came out of the canal, the opposite direction to theirs, slow and steady procession, container ships almost as large as theirs, others a quarter the size, green, gray, black, North African and Middle Eastern trading ships, dribbling
rust, in need of paint. “They don’t look after their things. They scratch out an existence from the soil, a subsistence, and let things go. They can be personally clean, they wash their hands before eating, they clean their teeth, sometimes using special twigs. What they then do is throw their rubbish and muck outside their windows, or into the ocean. Without science, they have no knowledge of hygiene,” the Dutchman said. “And they wonder why others have trampled all over them. Because we are a tidy people,” the Dutchman went on, “we have ruled the world.” Elisabeth gave Delage a pinch, expecting him to say something. Then she’d turn away as if she wasn’t listening, the way her mother did, in his cabin while the sun lit up her bare shoulders, he saw the fine blond hairs on her jaw, normally invisible. He had his elbow on the rail, the ship moving under his feet, which began to give the sensation his life was not moving forward, while the ship and everything else was. Mid-morning they entered the canal, following three fat ships, traveling too slowly to produce a breeze. There was a simplicity to the straight line of the canal, which allowed the procession. His life had been a confusion, he found it difficult to express his views, let alone hold on to them, information and adjustments came in from all directions. Nothing was straightforward, not even the advantages of the Delage piano, it was not enough that the advantages were self-evident to him. Everybody has something to say, nobody is relaxed, too many things appear to be wrong in the world, every day there is something, the disappointments are of the ordinary kind; people close by end up ultimately as disappointments. It is only to be expected,
the fit between people is never precise, each person becomes known by their differences, a practical tolerance comes to the fore, a social necessity, everyone has their opinions without the finer details, invariably getting it wrong or not quite right, being almost wrong or almost right, not many have the nerve to express themselves openly, unlike the Dutchman who for some time, he said, had been observing problems or faults without solutions, wherever he looked. One side of the canal was green or with patches of green, the other side sand the color of crumpled canvas, at set intervals a tin hut or booth with a young soldier sitting in it. Wreckage left rusting from a war, tank tracks, barbed wire, observation posts, turrets mangled and ripped, which interested the Dutchman and Delage, joined by the Englishman, more than it did Elisabeth. Hardly ever did another person agree with him, in his opinion, listen, look at it this way. And what difference have I made? Touching hips with Elisabeth, when there was plenty of room at the rail next to the Dutchman, a clear sign of intention, Elisabeth, it was where she wanted to be, he couldn’t understand why. She was at least ten years younger than he was, something of his extra world-experience presumably showed. Her warmth blended into him, he recognized a comfort, a fact, not just familiarity. At the same time, he felt almost everything was beyond his reach. He decided to nudge, “You’ll be seeing plenty of those where you’re going, you’ll get sick of the sight of them. Even the word will start to get you down. There’s another one. Look, they’re everywhere.” Eucalypts were planted at intervals along the Suez Canal. “People in Europe
say they’re drab-looking.” At this she took a closer interest, “They do not look healthy to me.” “They can grow anywhere,” Delage informed her. “They’re adaptable—very. They remind me of you, the way you adapt.” There she was, on a ship heading for Sydney, on the other side of the world. “Thank you very much. So now I am a tree.” Below her ear along her sunlit jaw a surfeit of faint hairs flowed in one direction, bleached windswept grass, one afternoon south of Canberra (golden light); and he felt a sudden sympathy—for Elisabeth, with her unusual adaptability. The sisters from Melbourne had stayed below, missing the Suez Canal in its entirety, the younger one never married, the necessary signals had not come easily to her, there had been an absence of suitors, nobody could remember her conversing with a man, my sister, Delage couldn’t help thinking, she was devoted to comforting her more worldly sister who spent a fortune on handbags, shoes and scarves, all her life she had preferred the company of men to women, attracted to their most intractable characteristics, a subject she could analyze with other women for hours at a time, she was an acknowledged expert, which hadn’t prevented her husband of many years saying to himself, “Enough!” or not saying anything to himself at all, walking out the front door in Highgate, London, this was a few months earlier, leaving a typed note, a surprise to those who knew them both; and now after showing encouraging signs of being over the worst, the way sea air, sunlight and seagulls can increase an invalid’s appetite, she had collapsed once again into the proverbial heap, as they entered the canal. She certainly couldn’t be seen
by the other passengers, she was unwell. In caring for her, the younger sister showed no concern for herself; a selfless woman, not interested in her appearance, aside from neatness. On the voyage they began to look more and more like identical twins than ordinary sisters, the fall in aura in one was met by a rise in energy and aura in the younger one, sharing between them a wariness in manner, in movement, dress, unsmiling speech. The straight line of the canal looked out of place in the sand: a human effort, an alteration. Nature prefers to follow the contours. Nature is lazy, it makes its own way. The Dutchman said to Delage, “I come from a horizontal country. The slightest movement is instantly noticed. We see things clearly. If Holland had mountains and valleys my wife would not have left me.” Elisabeth whispered in Delage’s ear that she came from a country of mountains, there’s hardly a flat piece of land in all of Austria, she whispered, she wasn’t about to run away, and the warm breath in her ear seemed to confirm it. She had arrived in the morning at the hotel in one of the family’s Mercedes with chauffeur to take him on a tour of the city, “My mother no doubt thought you needed educating,” looking at him closely. “She talked me into it. She didn’t need to, really.” A sudden smile. To Delage, she looked like difficulty, a troubled young woman. “Is your mother still speaking to me?” “And why wouldn’t she be?” At that time, Delage found he was thinking about her mother, Amalia, altogether too much, he also thought, husband in tow, while her daughter displayed a shapely, careless attractiveness, taking him to every composer’s house she could think of, especially if it included an
antique piano, which it invariably did, as well as the gold-plated harp on its stand in the corner, beginning with Mozart’s rooms behind the dark cathedral, it took all morning, many of the greatest composers lived and worked at some time in Vienna, often changing addresses. She had thought of everything, itself a statement of some kind. A corner table had been booked in a fancy restaurant. “My mother suggested we have lunch here. She is giving to you a lot of attention.” And to join in, or outdo the power of her mother, Elisabeth von Schalla leaned forward, enticing Delage down to what lay waiting in shadow beneath her dress, the position of the chairs made it difficult for Delage to avoid. Delage became aware of certain familiar stages, which he knew were easily crossed. They shared a bottle of Moselle. “I should be doing the rounds of the piano people. Not that anyone’s shown the slightest interest in what I have to say. I don’t know what’s the matter with the people in this place. Have their imaginations come to a grinding halt? Fossilized,” he threw in for good measure. Elisabeth had no interest in pessimism, Delage had to be careful, even if he was exaggerating, he was doing his best not to dwell on her face, avoid the eyes, he assumed she didn’t have a job of any sort, all the time in the world on her hands, an old phrase, he meant to ask what she did all day, it would have been fun showing a man from far away the hidden parts of her city. “I’ve been told to show you the house the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein designed. If you think our house is a mess, wait till you see this. He designed it for his sister.” That was when Delage introduced his own sister who lived in Brisbane,
explaining his irritation, it was more incomprehension than irritation. “Now there’s a woman who never lets up. I don’t know why she has to carry on,” he said. She was always wanting to be involved in his life, while he wanted her to leave his life, or at least not be so involved. They crossed the Ringstrasse. “My mother admired Wittgenstein’s intentions, but not the result. I think it would be like living in an office building. The Wittgensteins are related, on her side.” It became difficult to concentrate, the idea of turning composers’ houses into holy houses with perfect wallpaper, bare desk and 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 always
enjoyed 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 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 women
in 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 doing
most 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.