Free The Voyage by Murray Bail

determined not to smile. And Elisabeth too had exaggerated, for the recollection was never going to equal the crashing force of the event, nor the sensation of escape, standing there now at the very spot, her pale fine skin, aware of her soft blood which was living warmth. The sight of a piano being destroyed imposes silence on the bystander. There was that concert grand, a Bechstein, by the look, which had been converted into a coffin, with hundreds of small faces painted inside the lid, some sort of war protest, he told Elisabeth, who knew all about it. “Performance Art,” she gave a little sigh, Basel in the early ’70s, Delage had seen photographs and almost had one doctored for the company Christmas card, before thinking better of it. Pianos lie in silence at the bottom of the ocean; those destroyed in European cities, collapsing under the bricks of burning buildings, others left exposed in a room above the street, wallpaper flapping, in German cities in particular, home of music, Poland, Hungary too, of course, thousands of perfectly good pianos were lost to the world then. Many were used in barricades, a piano left smoldering—talk about an image of old Europe. As they advance into houses, it is known that soldiers destroy musical instruments, there is an impulse to destroy signs ofthe previous serene life, not as senseless as it may seem, pianos machine-gunned, violins smashed against walls. Vienna had a brooding quality, something still going on. Delage wondered whether he should return to his hotel, simplicity beckoned, an early night, just him, himself in his room, he hadn’t stopped since he had landed in Vienna, each movement was a blow to his habits. “After your narrow escape, I suppose you run the other way at the sight of a piano.” He felt too tired to be sufficiently alert. “My mother told me you are clever.” It wasn’t how Delage saw himself. People impressed with one quality of a person use it to describe their other qualities. “We are inviting you to eat with us. My mother entrusted me. You may have other arrangements, something more interesting. Do you know our nightclubs? They are the best in the world.” Without answering, he kept walking with Elisabeth, who took his arm. Back in his hotel room he would have sat with his hands on his knees and contemplated his future, he was here on business, after all, he had to get on with it, to establish some sort of foothold, or “beach head,” as he almost shouted at them back at the factory. One way forward would be to enlist the support of the music critic, if he could find a way of meeting him. If Vienna remained indifferent, he could always turn to Berlin. Instead he was heading toward Amalia von Schalla, handsome unsmiling woman, a regal presence, until he had reduced the gap with his hand, he lingered more on her, the mother, than her fast-forward daughter, he knew virtually nothing about her, even less about the daughter, Elisabeth, now striding with purpose. The best of his intentions were being derailed by adetermination or an interest he could not understand, not fully, everything he was seeing was unusual, he may have appeared as a novelty to them, mother and daughter, certainly there were things all around him he was not accustomed to, in a strange dark city where the surrounding language was foreign, he became all too aware of his limitations, take away the piano and he represented nothing, or very little. At the same time he wanted to expand beyond the mechanics of the piano. More and more he saw himself as someone without edges, the imprecision, one who easily became indifferent, after a certain distance he tended to fade. It happened to people close by, those coming closer, turning them away. When he looked around he saw this wasn’t unusual. He had been getting nowhere in Vienna. If he took up the invitation to dinner he might pick up some useful contacts or tips, the whereabouts of the music critic, for example. “Was it your