Free The Voyage by Murray Bail Page A

mother’s idea, or yours?” “Does it matter?”—the answer he expected, pointed to her. Now they were heading toward her, Amalia von Schalla, standing in a room above a street somewhere, he imagined, not at all fitting the usual idea of the mother, just because she had a daughter, even in the way he imagined her waiting with arms folded. As the rain stopped, Delage noticed Elisabeth was a woman who sighed, so someone else had a habit entrenched, gave little sighs for no reason, the way some people crack their knuckles, or clunk their teeth with a spoon when they eat, in her mid-thirties and a gentle habit had been allowed to form, she may no longer be aware of it, only child, Delage sighed, the sighs were almost imperceptible, now andthen a deeper, louder sigh, all of which had nothing to do with disappointment, exhaustion, unhappiness, Elisabeth was free of such troubles. “Always sighing is no help,” written down. When he heard another sigh, Delage found himself smiling, her breast moved against his arm, he listened for her sighs, before wondering whether anyone spending time with Elisabeth would become irritated by them.

    She wasn’t interested in the ship tied with lines against the wharf, it was hard to know what Elisabeth was interested in, immaculate, waiting patiently while Delage stood admiring the bulging mass of orange-painted steel, it reared out of the green water, colossal in volume, its height and length went on forever, without snapping in two. To Frank Delage, it was a marvel of welded engineering; impossible surely for anybody not to be impressed, except, that is, Elisabeth. Fat in the water, it leaked streams of water, as well as small sounds, creaking and groaning metal, humming, and slowly hissed steam, wisps of smoke coming out of somewhere; all this the piano manufacturer from Sydney found interesting. As soon as he made an observation to Elisabeth, he could hear a pedantic tone coming from his mouth and nose, better to try out exaggerated explanations. At intervals the ship let out sighs, sometimes he confused them with the sighs Elisabeth gave out, alongside him. In the beginning he had wondered whether Elisabeth’s habit came from boredom, or else tiredness, she could have been tired, lack of oxygen to the lungs; unhappiness with a mother or father, of life in general, is known to bring on sighing. Women throw themselves into various tasks with tremendous energy, thencollapse in a heap, suddenly tired: “the wreck of the Hesperus” he had heard only women say, his mother and close behind, his sister, women in the office too, the one time they don’t mind appearing gaunt. Telling Elisabeth ordinary things made her laugh, sometimes the English words didn’t fit, she had to listen carefully, it was one of the things he liked. To go ashore they took small steps down a steep gangplank, which had a rope for a railing, Elisabeth in glossy high heels, to reach the street, which had an oil-stained scrappy surface, they had to run between whirring forklifts carrying containers, warning lights flashing, men shouting, pausing for the tall grubby yellow gantry coming toward them along rails parallel to the ship. In her home city, Vienna, he had allowed Elisabeth to lead him about, here she turned to him for knowledge of the ship, the docks, the dangers, his second or third experience of the activities of docks. “See how she looked at me? I don’t think that woman likes me.” Delage hadn’t noticed, not necessarily disagreeing, said, “Don’t you find when sisters are together it’s difficult? They each influence the other.” The passengers kept walking up and down the street alongside the docks, stepping around the potholes, at the same time not letting the ship out of their sight, trailed by boys offering postcards, cigarettes, bottles of water, bananas. We can go further afield, Delage decided. The further they went from the ship the less he thought about the piano standing on its legs