The Voyage Read online

  Delage had an engineer’s mentality, although he had no training or diploma in engineering, more an inventor’s mentality, directed toward a single specific mechanism he had happened upon—the restless inventor attracts good fortune. He was a man who easily became engrossed; and, as if he was looking up from solving a problem, he had developed an oblique way of seeing people and the nearby world. His sister was forever saying his mind ran too much along a man’s lines, that he’d be a more interesting person, he’d have more friends, if he included in his thinking a woman’s way of thinking. Women, she said, he told Elisabeth, are attracted to a man who has a woman’s psychological conversation, that was the word she used, “conversation,” and the layers of affinity it produces. “It’s the combination. Interesting,” Elisabeth began to nod, not getting it quite right. He liked looking at Elisabeth, or more often, glancing at her. Here she was holding on to the rail with both hands, facing the breeze, an advertisement for expensive sunglasses. With the rushing sea below, Delage couldn’t avoid calculating his chances if he had the misfortune of falling overboard, the shock of landing in the deep cold water, legs kicking, nobody noticing as the fat stern slowly disappeared. “Do you agree with what she said, your sister?” Elisabeth had turned. Before stating the obvious, which was that his sister was always on the phone, giving firm advice, just checking up, as if he was in need of help, he said, “By way of example, she said I should take an interest in fabrics, their colors, the feel of them.” Every conversation is an exaggeration. A story told, a description, voices imitated, an idea or a thought put into words, they’re condensed or colored—tailored—to hold the listener. And Delage was constantly aware of doing it himself, anything for the stronger effect, especially when leaning forward and selling the virtues of his remarkable, as it had been publicly described, invention, the Delage (piano). Women waited for attentiveness, they allowed even the most shameful exaggerations. Was that what his sister, Elisabeth too, apparently, meant? In conversation, Delage had noticed he avoided a woman’s eyes, it was unnerving the way they frankly met his, unwavering, nothing in the world to feel awkward about, at least when talking to him, the receptionist at the hotel the most recent, instead, he had formed the habit of glancing away at something, the corner of a table, or a bird on the wire, or the traffic passing, and so missed the effort, what appeared to be the truth, behind the face. For all his difficulties with the eyes, Delage, when drawn into a psychological conversation, felt a shifting of interest to a more personal, intimate level; and he felt part of him flow to the woman, and back to him, the bookkeeper, he recalled looking up from her pristine desk in Sydney, now Elisabeth. They had the subtle grasp of situations.

  Every other street had a shop devoted to music, their windows displaying recordings of the most acclaimed performances, as well as the most recent performances, which of course is not the same thing, while others specialized in sheet music or books on music, busts of the greatest of composers, now made in China, conductors who couldn’t help composing, and vice versa, wind instruments in the window, and one offered second-hand violins (and violas). The calculating businessman in Delage, the most irregular part of him, wondered how they all could make a living. You would think by now every family in Vienna had its piano or music stand, not to mention the alabaster bust of Beethoven on the mantelpiece. And yet Steinway & Sons had at least two dozen concert grands in their showroom, and probably more out the back. Near the Albertina, one shop had a cluster of metronomes working in the window and a display of white plates which featured around their circumferences a pattern of black keys as seen on a piano, so that someone eating their sausage and sauerkraut would be encouraged to think musical thoughts, perhaps even to hum a few bars, in particular, piano, as they wiped the plate clean. A woman in a cream coat splayed at the hips and glossy cream high heels was talking to the owner, who glanced at Delage and went on talking. He was selling these “piano” plates, but showed little respect for those who bought them. At the same time, Delage couldn’t help but notice, he was listening to and smiling at the woman, as if she were known to him, the thin and tall (as well as bald) shopkeeper tilted toward her, pressing one hand to his waist, the other cupping his elbow, as if he were in severe pain, which made him appear, in every sense, lower still. Turning now, speaking to no-one in particular, except she seemed to appeal to Delage who happened to be in the shop, she switched to English. “What to get a man for his seventieth? A husband is an impossibility.” Delage saw she had on a small, very smart round hat with a remnant of a veil, like a piece of delicate graph paper, called in more accurate times a “fascinator,” something Delage didn’t know, which shadowed her forehead. “A husband who has most things, I would suggest,” the shopkeeper widened his smile. “A piano,” Delage joined in, not even seriously, “a new piano.” Her face was accustomed to giving the quick glance. “He has more than enough pianos.” “Yes,” the shopkeeper glared at Delage, “of course he has pianos.” The shop represented in miniature the reception the city had been giving him since he arrived. “I know of something your husband couldn’t have, couldn’t possibly have. There’s one in Vienna, as we speak. It’s under wraps. Would he—but, first of all, you—be interested in something modern? I don’t think so.” Delage could hear himself sounding forced—too formal. A sudden change in circumstances, and voice and manner can change, whereas a simple awkwardness can be more truthful. At the door he gave a bow to both of them, which probably looked ridiculous, and out on the street he remained for a moment in full view, deciding whether to go left to the Griensteidl, or right to the hotel, or cross the street and head toward the gardens; after all, he had nothing better to do. The color of her coat and shoes was the same lacquered cream as requested by one of his earliest customers, a piano to match his wife’s hair, perhaps that was what made him look twice, so he was thinking, when close by she spoke, “You’ve taken that poor man’s plate.” Delage saw it in his hand, and made a move to hurry back in. “Leave it. He won’t mind. Tell me, in there I did not understand what you were talking about?” There was nothing worse than talking or explaining himself, his presence in Vienna. “This was for my sister, who lives in Brisbane. She has a cupboard full of plastic Eiffel Towers and Statues of Liberty, and what-not, places she’s never been to. This plate she’ll like. She’ll put it on the mantelpiece.” The smallest thing could make his sister happy, or at least happier, she’d be on the phone to him immediately. He’d post it somehow when he got back. Close up he saw around her eyes the beginnings of softly radiating lines, helped along by the Austrian skiing season, “crow’s feet” back in his dry country, but it only made her more elegant. “Do you have a brother?” he asked without warning. Meeting a person for the first time, Delage invariably spoke abruptly, almost harshly, which was odd, for he didn’t look harsh at all, the instinct was to ward off, even for a minute or two. He went on, “I find this is an unimpressive place. I mean the city itself. By the way, you looked completely out of place in there. I can get you a taxi. I’ll do that.” He stepped out onto the street. It wasn’t necessary, the shopkeeper could have told him, Amalia Marie von Schalla had her dark limousine and chauffeur waiting by the curb. Shop for the tourists, “piano” plate, sister, local woman wearing little hat turning to leave: another second or two and the rapidly intersecting lines would not have met (had Delage remained staring at the display of plates in the window, instead of stepping inside). Moments of chance break into the flow of everyday life, producing aftershocks, sometimes deflecting a life for the better, or worse, so common that a subsequent once-in-a-million, so-called stroke of luck or a complete coincidence should not come as a surprise. The lost ring, a slip on the ice, wrong number, taking the wrong seat, bumping into a stranger, the flight missed, the right place at the wrong time, stopping to tie a shoelace, do I know you? At the window seat at the Sacher, she had the over-casual manner of giving time to someone, Frank Delage, she would normally not be bothering with, certainly not over coffee, such a
s it is in Austria, and the world-famous Sacher pastries. The headwaiter had elbowed his three waiters aside to greet Amalia Marie von Schalla, and found a table when there didn’t appear to be one by snatching with a histrionic flourish a small printed sign “Reserved,” and was excessively formal to the elderly American couple who arrived almost simultaneously, the man red in the face, “Now you listen. I’m room 401, and a booking was made seven weeks ago,” etc., it went on, the difficulty of remaining neutral in a foreign city. Amalia von Schalla took her time removing her gloves, and seemed to ignore or give only the faintest acknowledgment to similarly gray-blond women in their fifties at other tables, craning to have her attention, while at the same time, Delage could not help but notice, examining him, the strange man accompanying Amalia—they cannot help themselves. “I see women here like to wear hats indoors, but I haven’t seen one nearly as special as yours.” Men too went about on the streets in white raincoats down to their ankles like laboratory coats, local fashion, apparently, therefore hardly worth mentioning. In a low voice that had him leaning forward she went back to his speech on the footpath: “In many ways I would agree. Vienna can be difficult. But you are suffering from frustration. You cannot be expected to know our city.” To rest his hand on her hip he leaned back at a somewhat awkward angle on the sofa, smelling of her and her skin, a yielding woman, for in her softness she continued to take an interest in him, even though she could sit without moving or speaking for an unusual amount of time. Elisabeth pondered the answers he gave, now and then repeating a word in English. “Talked about this and that. She was easy to talk to.” Elisabeth moved her hair to behind her ear, and spoke in a dreamy sort of way, “She’s not like other mothers. I could tell you plenty about her.” “I think it was what I had to say about the piano situation, in general. She took an interest. I thought that was pretty unusual.” In turn, he managed to keep his eyes on the face before him, on an angle. For all the wealth behind Amalia von Schalla’s elegance it did not appear as a deliberate elegance, which only draws attention to the effort, little more, and was a large part of the envy of other women believed to be her friends. “She has always liked clothes,” Elisabeth said, after a pause, “and you have seen the house.” “What was your mother doing in that shop? I meant to ask.” Twisting around, Elisabeth lay herself across his lap looking up, which broadened her cheeks, almost the face of another person, her breasts too fell away, the breasts of another, happy for him to survey her paleness, her wide openness. The different voices, expressions, movement of shoulders, her pauses and sudden opinions had become part of her appearance. “Am I too heavy for you? Tell me if I am.” She remained looking up at him, his hand on her belly, “You’re not listening. What happened? Have you told me everything?”

  And it rained on the ship, everything became slippery, they stayed in Delage’s cabin, a sofa, brown floor, metal desk, the small double bed. “I am not complaining”—gave his arm a little punch. The von Schalla houses in Vienna and Upper Austria were more like warehouses for oil paintings and furniture, cavernous corridors and galleries, the small drawing rooms where elderly servants crept in and out, the many details of lavishness spaced out to impose themselves, as required. He had seen her father’s desk, how it swarmed with scrollwork, entablature, gold-leaf flourishes, which had crept in from the city’s churches, its theaters, seat-of-empire buildings and fountains, leaving hardly enough room for a sheet of quarto, von Schalla’s legs barely fitting underneath. Behind his head, a vast gold-framed mirror by a trick of perspective forced Frank Delage and any other visitor to be conscious of their distant positions. It was from this small desk that Konrad von Schalla, short, blue-eyed man, had directed his and his wife’s considerable fortunes into chemicals and made a chemical fortune, soon followed by a cement fortune, and built up from the same tiny desk a European-hotels-and-theme-park fortune, and on meeting Frank Delage he took the opportunity to make off-hand inquiries about the Queensland cattle industry. Through the portholes, other ships and Mediterranean fishing boats appeared as horizontal colors, dissolving in gray. “You are thinking maybe I’m soft,” Elisabeth sat up. “I would like you to know, I’ve camped out in the high forests. What do you know about snow?” Sometimes it is a matter of leaning back and not saying anything, not even smiling. Acceptance can be encouragement, it can be done by remaining quiet. Aside from a few piles of snow, the one subject Delage had, more or less, mastery of was the piano—inner workings of, unaltered (as if it was the best we could do) over centuries. Leave out the knowledge of the revolutionary construction of the Delage, its fresh sound appreciated by a few adherents, and his life was mostly blank. Until recently it had been difficult to think clearly about what was there, now it felt as if he were being led—to some area where it would be better for him, a small distance, but away from what he was beginning to sense himself to be. “I told your mother about my family. She wanted to know where the Delages came from.” “Delage” had an aura of Europe and European craftsmanship, Benson or Cook or poor old Jones would simply not go with a piano, “the Benson piano,” or “the Cook piano,” or “the Jones concert grand,” it would not work, whereas the Delage was there on the lid in serifs and repeated in product brochures, invoices, business cards, signage, clearly a piano backed by a long tradition, look at the name and the serifs, even though the Delage Piano Company in an industrial suburb outside Sydney was barely fifteen years old. “In the 1920s, there was a car made in France called Delage,” he told Amalia von Schalla, “I think I am related.” At this she laughed. “Have you properly looked into this? Can you be sure?” “It was known as the French Rolls-Royce. That’s good enough.” The information had come down from his unreliable grandfather, the wool-buyer all the way from Lyon, on his first visit fell for a Sydney Rocks barmaid, never went back, he told Amalia von Schalla at the Sacher, while she recalled that her grandfather had owned a Delage, or some name like it, powder-blue, with maroon upholstery, in contrast to the other old families who remained loyal to the silver Mercedes. Seated there, Frank Delage could not escape the thought that if Amalia von Schalla as a young woman sat in the maroon leather of the Delage, she would have been sitting on him. His father, Sydney-born, a screen printer and a mason, did his best to neutralize the atmosphere which surrounded “Delage,” he referred to their second-hand Vanguard as “the Delage,” and at every opportunity liked to mock the fancy French, or Frenchness, or foreignness of his name, pressing it into common usage, instead of saying “large,” saying “a delage piece of that cake, if you don’t mind,” or, “these trousers are too delage for me,” and other such nonsense, and gave his son the name Frank, plain and practical. At their first meeting, Delage did his best not to come across as an obsessive, not wanting to be the Jehovah’s Witness who has the black shoe in the front door, or the Mormons in the drip-dry shirts, their neatness and cleanliness illustrated the promise of paradise, ready with their tedious answers to every question, every objection, drab unhappy people, never feel sorry for them, at the same time it was necessary to describe the mechanical features of his new piano to explain why it produced a superior, or at least a different, sound; and when Amalia von Schalla showed patience and apparent interest, and ordered another round of the Sacher’s excellent pastries without even a glance at the waiter, it was easy for Frank Delage to believe he was not obsessive, not at all, but a person who had arrived with a possibility, and for a moment or two could keep talking with his mouth full. A person can go through an entire life without having a conversation with another person, nothing to show over the years than thousands of murmurings and mutterances, the distracted nodding, not entering, not taking part, so missing what waited within the other person—“the accumulating curiosity,” Delage had noted from one of the English newspapers at the Griensteidl. Changing position to have her back more to him took the weight off his tingling arm, sending it more or less unguided over her shoulder to drape, he was talking about her mother, to her breasts, first one, the other, a drape
which has the feel of ownership, had he wanted it. “I have carpenter’s hands, look. But all I do is walk through the factory, shouting instructions to everybody. That’s become my life, looking over shoulders and pointing out expensive bloody mistakes.” The morning he’d had to snap his fingers in front of the apprentice for falling asleep on the job! Across the table, her hands remained alongside the suede gloves, a pair of fixed crimson shadows almost parallel to her hands. “I want to say, if this piano is so good, why is it you do not have an agent selling it for you? We have piano agents in Vienna. Why do such work yourself?” “Good point. That should be the next stage.” “It requires local knowledge”—she straightened her gloves—“which you do not have.” The local product enjoyed the home-grown advantage of manufacturers’ names polished darkly by the legendary pianists in thousands and thousands of concert performances, not only across all of Europe, in the Americas, Japan, Australia, New Zealand too: the Bösendorfer piano, the Bechstein, Faziolis, a long succession of Steinway & Sons. Now add the Delage (Sydney), Delage said, though he did not actually come out with the words. “Each in its own way a Mount Everest. Do you have any idea?” In Vienna he had to keep reminding himself, do not get into the technicalities, people are not interested, even if he was interested, it’s too difficult, and anyway not the point, all a person had to do was sit down and listen to his piano being played, notice the different tone, cleaner, there was one under wraps in Vienna, transported from Sydney at enormous expense for the very purpose. At first he thought Amalia von Schalla was one of the best listeners he had come across; on the other hand, the attention she paid to his ambitions may have merely been the habit of aristocracy which made her “come down” to a conversation, just as the Queen of England is said to be wonderful at dispatching all sorts of onerous tasks, at the same time being a most wonderful conversationalist. It wasn’t merely a new person revealing themselves. Across the starched table in the Sacher, she seemed to stretch and become taller, her lines became straight lines, more alert, more of a presence, to the point where Delage wondered what there was about him that could possibly interest her. “Oh, I have a free day,” she said, after shaking her head at the exaggerated stories about his family (sister), the harbor city, man-eating sharks, his knowledge of music, of old Europe, “unless you have somewhere else to go.” But diffidence ran deep in the family, it was seen as a virtue. Frank Delage’s father went around with a permanent wince, as if he had been punched in the stomach, turning his wife still more inward, protected by the walls of the kitchen, it was she who insisted on a piano and lessons for their son Frank, there biting the bottom lip, now sliding his eyes from the faces of women in case he was caught—ordinary male shyness, or hopelessness, widespread in Sydney, even more in the rest of Australia—and when, as in Vienna, circumstances made it necessary to depart from this inherited shyness, Frank Delage managed it awkwardly, departing too little or too much. Coming to Vienna had not been a wise decision, there had to be a better way to introduce a revolutionary new piano. Habits develop which become part of what we are, difficult to change, “pianists and conductors, concert promoters are amongst the worst,” ticking off points on his fingers, at the same time not wanting to appear relentless. “The composers keep on inventing, or reinventing, and there is some sort of progress in science, I’m told, while the actual playing of music is stuck in the mud, coming out with the same old sounds.” By way of agreement or to cool him down she reached across with a napkin and removed a flake of pastry from his chin, the advancing shadow of a stout woman, large nose, small eyes, tan feather in her hat, seemed to pause before enveloping the table. “Amalia, can we expect you tomorrow?” Without turning, Amalia von Schalla introduced Delage, “I think we need to call you an inventor. Clever man. He has come all the way from Sydney. Tomorrow evening, yes.” To Delage, “Berthe will have some people it is important for you to meet.” The large woman glanced at Delage, “Thank you, Amalia, thank you.” And later, after Delage finally succumbed to the technicalities of what gave his piano superiority, describing the shorter distances of the hammer movements, the different surface of the hammers, the different frame and hardwoods used as a consequence, these were real improvements, and of an unexpected kind, only then after listening carefully, or appearing to, Delage all the while managing to keep his eyes on her, more or less, she didn’t mind, she accepted perhaps even understood his gaze, did she suggest lunch the following day or perhaps the day after at the Hotel Bristol not the Sacher, by which time she’d think about what he’d said. Elisabeth had placed her hand between his legs, “My mother and father had nothing more than a business marriage. I still cannot work them out. I do not know that I ever will.” The pregnant bookkeeper’s thrift had forced a delay in Delage’s departure, which allowed Elisabeth to join the Romance at Piraeus, although she could have caught the ship farther on, at Port Said or Singapore, for example, Delage was stepping down the corrugated gangway thinking he might walk into Athens, a city he had seen so often in photographs, or at least the noble ruins of it holding up against the blue sky, always perfect blue sky, along the streets he would observe the many local customs, he would take his time—from the top of the gangway he saw Elisabeth looking up, expecting someone to take her three suitcases. The ship had been left unattended by the German officers and crew who had piled into taxis heading in different directions for the brothels. When he told Elisabeth, she said, “But aren’t they married?” The sky was thick with clouds, the sea dark, almost black, it rained, it stopped, rained again—pelting the ship as it passed through. In the Mediterranean, Delage expected to be amongst lumps of land broken off what is called Greece, white stony islands everywhere, the ones which appeared here in the rain blurred into the color of half-submerged legs and shoulders of lamb. “Please don’t look surprised. You know what I’m like.” Against the stained concrete of the wharf, a gantry began to move, Elisabeth appeared as paleness and softness, well satisfied with her decisiveness, already a success, Frank Delage trying to fix a smile, although it only revealed a confusion, he knew, he hardly knew her, Elisabeth von Schalla, not in three weeks, not nearly enough time, although from the first word at the soirée he had liked her, Elisabeth of the Schalla family, and went down to carry up her suitcases. “What have you got in here?” They weighed a ton. Also she brought her own pillow made of goose down, the pillows in a cargo ship would undoubtedly be hard, if they had any pillows at all, away from home Elisabeth was always accompanied by her pillow filled with goose down, even having it under her arm entering the best five-star hotels, a display of feminine sensibility Delage almost admired and she ignored. “I told you I was coming. And you decided not to believe me.” “Your mother, does she know about this?” “You left in a hurry”—although she wasn’t really cross, it was too interesting being on a ship. The epaulettes on the dress gave her a faint Germanic touch, there is still the military residue, diminished by the thin yellow belt, and a small maroon lizard- or crocodile-skin handbag, which added to her gaiety. The ship bulged and shifted against the wharf, straining to depart. And yet he had had every intention of keeping to himself, settle the thoughts, to gather them, as people used to say, he was “gathering his thoughts,” going over what had happened in Vienna along with what should have happened in Vienna, sliced across by a tram, how he had responded to each situation and so on, what he should have said and done, but had not, instead had done something else. To do this it was necessary to be alone, not easy on the ship, on any ship. From La Spezia he had spent hours leaning over the rail following the waves, the five other passengers he looked upon at meal times with careful politeness, making the smallest conversation, little more, before returning to his cabin where he stretched out on the bed, or sat in a chair, all the time aware of the ship driving forward; now Elisabeth on board would require him to talk, take an interest and so forth. It is difficult anywhere to do nothing but think, it’s difficult even to gather thoughts, it is more and more impossible to be clear, there are t
oo many alternatives, Delage had always skipped from one thing to another, a “grasshopper mind,” father liked to point out, just as it is impossible to remain in a stationary position anywhere on earth without hearing a sound. Delage was shown to the table at the Hotel Bristol, Amalia von Schalla arrived late, she tugged off her gloves, a different pair (different suit, speckled blouse, no miniature hat with fascinator), briefly acknowledged his presence. It had been her idea, her invitation, now she was unhappy over something nobody else had a clue about, perhaps she wondered why she was seeing him again, at the Sacher sipping coffee, while he ate the pastries, she had got on too easily with him. And here he was again in his one-and-only two-button suit, from a faraway place she could not imagine, a tall open-faced man who looked as if he should be missing a front tooth, a salesman walking the streets of her city, knocking on doors (unsuccessfully), if it had been hardware, or boots made from kangaroo hides, not something to do with music, a piano with a revolutionary new sound, she would not have given him five minutes, let alone lunch at the Bristol. “There’s also a car called Bristol,” he said, leaping onto yesterday’s conversation, for he believed it had been a success. “I’ve seen a purple one driving about in Sydney sometimes. They were built by an airplane company in England, and made special use of aluminum.” At the mention of “aluminum,” Delage thought she would walk out. “Aluminum! Do I need to know this?” Her shoulders rose and fell. “Whenever I think of this hotel, which I should say has been a favorite of mine, I’ll now think of a piece of metal.” “Haven’t lifted a finger this morning but read the papers. I wrote a few letters—business letters, the usual stuff. Now I am all yours.” “I do not need you to be nice. Thank you. If you don’t mind, stop now. I prefer here to the Sacher, I do not know why. I seem to have grown up in the Sacher. We become hostages to habit—who was it said that? There is another place I could have taken you to. They specialize in chocolates. You know nothing about Vienna, I keep forgetting.” Once again people at various tables recognized her, Amalia Marie von Schalla, and gave little waves. The simultaneous eye, finger and silent mouth movements are deployed by women in public to bridge a gap, while actually keeping the person at a distance, a function of some importance, apparently, for it has not been diminished at all by natural selection, if anything it has been strengthened. It surprised Frank Delage to see how it was followed by comments only partly disguised by the backs of hands, or out of the corners of mouths twisted by lipstick. Gradually, Amalia von Schalla began listening again, aware that the artists and composers, no doubt the inventors as well, rarely came from her aristocracy, but were thrown up by the restless, ever-hopeful middle classes, and deserved respect of some sort; he began looking at Elisabeth openly, following her contented movements as the ship went forward, it pushed ahead at a constant speed, the resistance, she could feel, strolling about in his cabin, casual, chatting away, naked. From an overnight position of losing interest in Frank Delage, beginning with his insistent physical presence (a practical eye-shifting alertness, sometimes it made him appear canny, although she didn’t believe he was), along with the repeated specifications and superiority of his new piano—he’d invented and built with his own two hands—“necessary breakthrough” not piano, he preferred, which of course had no hope of making an impression in Vienna, the most musical of cities, not in a thousand years, “necessary breakthrough” or not, Amalia von Schalla could see, now passing her hands back and forth from her cheeks into her already handsome blond hair, repeatedly like a carpenter shaving curls of Huon pine, she returned to taking an interest in him, when she certainly didn’t have to, in his energies which began in his face, precise, alert, at the same time an almost careless set of energies as if it was all in his neck and arms. She listened closely as he launched an attack on the senility of Vienna, of the hidebound, dreary musical establishment, all parts permeated by the fossilization of old Europe, all the old countries, the old states, “and England is no better,” the Tudor cladding, complacent, head-in-sand, tedious places, and still the superior airs, still laying down the law, what a joke; Europe wasn’t aware it had lost it, slipping down and farther down over the years, “historical has-beens,” and actually made worse by music, in particular the violins, the blurry cellos, not to mention the never-ending ballroom waltzes, or “schmaltzes” as he called them, giving a layer of honey over the ordinary present, Vienna the worst. There was quite a build-up of pressure out there. Mild-mannered pianists have been known to lose it and bang their foreheads on the lid or break their big toes kicking the legs, he said in an approving way. “That would not happen in Vienna.” “Why not? It’s not too late to be modern,” he told her. And although Delage had been perplexed by her change of mood he returned the fork to the plate with a slight rattle (“F sharp?”), and invited her to see and hear the only Delage piano in Europe, “worn out, over-decorated Europe,” a fresh piano sound to be demonstrated to her, only her, Amalia von Schalla.