absolutely bloody nothing.” And never had he talked so much as he had in Vienna. “A fiasco did you say?” “That’s right.” In Sydney he would go for long periods without talking, or talking as little as possible, months would pass, then without any reason he’d begin talking his head off, something triggered it, whatever, there was nothing stopping him, whether talking to a single person or an entire table, they would hang on his every word, so it seemed to him, holding forth on a subject, packing it with information, not only about his piano, plenty of other subjects too, his line of thought wandering as he introduced other thoughts, other angles, so many possibilities and facts out there, including complaints, before bringing it back to the original subject, he could be amazing, very persuasive. This was Frank Delage. Sometimes even he had to remind himself. And his sister used to complain he didn’t talk enough, that is, to her, but as he grew older he knew he was talking more, coming out with pointless sayings and recollections and suggestions that went on too long, just as his street directions went on and on, there are women after a certain age who talk too much, cannot stop themselves, going on without pause, a word-flow not allowing an entry point, it was a habit he wouldn’t want to become established, he didn’t want to go down that path. “At least one thing of interest came out of Vienna, wouldn’t you say?” still with her head turned. Delage laughed. Here he was on a stone bench in Egypt with the archetypal blond from upper Austria, except she was unusual, very, her visual characteristic was indifference. “Mysister I’ve told you about keeps telling me I exaggerate. She of course is someone who’s never exaggerated in her entire life.” “I have not noticed exaggeration.” But Elisabeth showed little interest in what he was doing, or was trying to do with his piano. If anything, she shrugged at the subject and at the broad polished object itself, as if she wanted to avoid anything to do with music, while Delage talked too much about it. At least he had plenty of other things to say—when they occurred to him. “Why are we being stared at by these boys? Do they not have something better to do?” Even this she said in a languid way, as if she was accustomed to hot countries, such as Saudi Arabia nearby, or Laos, Cambodia, Burma, countries that were humid as well as hot, whereas the only hot countries she had been to were Spain and northern Italy, when she was a student. “It’s not me they’re interested in,” he said. “They only have eyes for you. If I were them I’d be doing the same.” Delage had been addressing a postcard to his sister, and stood up. There were five other passengers on the Romance , Dutch, English, two sisters from Melbourne, in each case their hair, skin, firmness of jaw, parts of clothing made them recognizable from specific parts of the world. The Dutchman introduced himself as Zoellner (bookseller, Amsterdam); to Elisabeth, the sisters were “very sure of their place, very. I cannot understand why.” One followed the other in divorce or separation, it doesn’t matter which, now sister-companions, six years apart. The Englishman, from Folkestone, was a blinker, always at short intervals an eruption of blinking, tiring to watch—wife equally tall, alongside. The cabins were a surprise, decked out in brown carpet. Delage’shad a desk, an office chair. It was supposed to be the second engineer’s cabin, it said on the door, but it had been many years since a second engineer was needed on such container ships. Above the bed a large porthole faced the containers stacked in their different colors to the bow, the yellow gantry almost touched the window as it came forward, loading or unloading the “boxes,” so they are called. Elisabeth’s cabin was directly below. Most of the time she spent with Delage, and yet she didn’t seem to want anything. She
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