one of their few attractions. But although the speaker had been unshaven and wore a grubby T-shirt, the audience under the chandelier appeared stiff in dress and movement. They too were comfortable in what they had chosen. Even Delage could see the quality of their suits and ties, women wearing trim jackets, hair done for the occasion, jewelry. Of course he could take the initiative and select an unsuspecting person who was also ignored by the majority, and begin by giving his impressions of Vienna and the Austrian people, if they were interested, before switching to the Delagepiano and its advantages—after all, that was the reason he was standing there in a stately room in Vienna. It had been Amalia who arranged the invitation to Berthe’s soirée. And Berthe didn’t allow just anybody in. Some people had been waiting years to get in, and would continue to wait, pulling every string they could think of, evidently the wrong sort of strings, for there was little chance these people would ever be allowed in. Now instead of mixing with the upper echelons of Vienna’s musical world, many of them in this one room, although he couldn’t recognize any of them, Delage remained to one side, thinking about all kinds of things other than pianos and concert performances, Sydney streets and glittering water, for example, the factory floor (its cleanliness), which he always liked, close-up of accountant’s pouting mouth, at the same time trying to slow down his thinking or, far more difficult, stop thinking altogether. If he succeeded it was not by managing to be empty of all thoughts, more that he couldn’t recall what they were, especially when Elisabeth broke in—“What are you thinking?” Having to think what he had just been thinking about was not the same as thinking. Delage’s tendency was to stand back and not say a word, before rushing in with his own considered thoughts, his own positions, whether people liked it or not, enough to deflect or derail, at least it announced his thinking, producing mixed results. His thoughts kept returning to Amalia von Schalla, how he had touched her, which she had allowed. And there she was down the front, so he looked on, and waited. If the chandelier had loosened and fallen, bringing down the ceiling with it, ontothe heads of the smartly dressed people, whose refuge from ordinariness was in taste, sensibility, an irreplaceable section of Austrian society would have been wiped out, or at least severely injured and covered in dust, reminiscent of the last hours in Hitler’s bunker. He could see Elisabeth still talking to her mother. “Are you dining with the Schallas?”—Berthe Clothilde at his elbow. Already she was waving goodbye to an unusually short couple, the woman wearing a green felt hat. “One of our composers. You wouldn’t know who he is.” Delage felt Elisabeth’s hand on his arm. “I am to look after you. You are not to be out of my sight.” While nodding he looked over to where her mother had been standing but she was no longer there. “You can call me Elisabeth, if you want.” She said she hadn’t eaten all day. As they left the Clothilde house he wondered whether he had offended her mother, Amalia, women don’t usually turn their backs without a reason, they’re always making a point of some sort. His hand had reached out and touched, as if it had a life of its own, obeying an affinity was how it felt. To think about it made him smile. Elisabeth was different, modest, yet unconventional, she had a freshness, easy to be with; she gave herself. From the beginning, Delage saw traces of her mother, even if it was out of the corner of his eye, the shape of her nose relocated, losing a little precision along the way, their shared neatness of hair, skin, dress. He didn’t know what he was expected to do. Out on the street, Elisabeth revealed more of her mother’s straight back, she could have stepped off a show-jumper, but was not as tall as her mother, he saw
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