Those last terms at Barranugli High he grew superior, even in his attitude to somebody like Johnny Haynes. Dad was going to speak to a client of the bank whose cousin or something was librarian of Sydney Municipal Library. Dad thought there was every possibility, if he asked, and Waldo passed well, that the Library would take him on. It excited Waldo. The only drawback was that the plan might force him into a relationship with his father unconvincing to himself and everybody else.
Thought of all this made him less aggressive. And he studied. He studied in the most obvious place — the train.
Then, the holidays before the end, his parents received a note from Dulcie Feinstein’s mother, written in a black, peculiarly angular, foreign hand, suggesting that their boy Waldo should visit them on the Friday to spend a few hours with her daughter and one or two other young friends.
Waldo noticed Mrs Feinstein had made a point of not including Arthur, though perhaps that was natural, as Dulcie had never met him, and if her mother had, she would not have connected him with the kind of person Dulcie had described meeting at tennis.
Arthur remarked: “Those Feinsteins have a neat place. At the back there’s a brass bell which they keep polished up — like a ship’s bell I think it is — which she told me she rings when she wants to bring the others in.”
“Who rings?” asked Waldo.
“Mrs Feinstein. Dulcie’s always practising the piano. She plays the piano.”
“You went there?” asked Waldo.
“To deliver the order.”
How much more Arthur might have told, Waldo would have been interested to hear.
But all Arthur would say was: “Feinsteins are some of the quickest payers. They’re fine people.”
He had no time for more than to brush the loose hair and dandruff off his shoulders, as Mother had taught him, and leave for work. Otherwise he would have been late at the store.
The afternoon Waldo had to go to Feinsteins’ he arrived late to show he wasn’t all that keen on coming. Then he got the wind up wondering whether he was expected at all, there was such a withdrawn air about the white-and-green-painted villa. The shutters were not exactly closed, but they might have been. In his uncertainty he went round to the side rather than to the front or the back. That way he had a good look into a large, deserted, but lived-in room, in which an upright piano was more noticeable than the quantities of dark furniture arranged, practically clamped, around it. The piano was obviously Dulcie’s, but he could not connect her with the furniture, the dust-coloured tapestry of which was straining to hold the stuffing down. Many people, however, had no connexion with their furniture.
Presently Mrs Feinstein came, and he was relieved to see she expected him.
“You must have wondered, Waldo,” she said, and smiled at the shutters she was prodding wider open, “whether we have not returned to Sydney.”
There was nothing very extraordinary about Mrs Feinstein except that her r’s made you wonder, and some of her tenses might have been lifted out of a bad translation. She was old, he supposed, though how old he couldn’t have bothered calculating. Her skin looked soft, more the colour of skin from an unexposed part of her body. Her nose was of interest.
“As a matter of fact,” said Mrs Feinstein, “we nearly postponed your little visit. The Lembergs and Leonard Saporta are down with a grippe.” She was going to be one of those, of irritating habit, who did not explain the persons they were mentioning. “Dulcie, too, has been sick with a cold. She has made herself so miserable. But wanted to enjoy your company.”
He did not believe it. And even Mrs Feinstein’s smile wavered.
What could he say to this woman, whose voice smelled of old plush, and sounded with slashed ’cello notes?
Fortunately Dulcie came in. She was in embroidered white today, which made her arms look yellower.
She said: “Hello,” and stood applying a ball of damp handkerchief to her inflamed nose.
“Poor Dulcie!” moaned Mrs Feinstein in suffocating sympathy.
“Oh, Mummy!” Dulcie protested from the other side of her cold. “I am not dead!”
Mrs Feinstein looked as though she could have mourned for her daughter most professionally if she had been.
Instead, she went, it soon sounded, to prepare and fetch food.
“You won’t be interested in us,” said Dulcie, not particularly looking at Waldo. “Anyway, we’re not at all what you’d like us to be. We don’t read books, or only occasionally — or discuss interesting topics. My parents are boring.”
Dulcie was certainly very different from what he had expected, but he supposed it was the cold having its effect, making her what Mother called “morbid”.
“You can play the piano, can’t you?” he said.
Because the piano was the dominant object in the room.
“Oh,” she said, “I sit down at it. I work at it. I wanted very badly to play, I mean, to show off brilliantly in public. Until I realized it was not for me. I’m really,” she said, “a very mundane individual.”
She paused as though the language she was using might sound too daring, too much like a dialogue she had rehearsed. It was from the dark rôle he had expected on the first occasion, when she hadn’t played it.
“I’m sorry my cousins didn’t come,” she said, sitting down on the piano stool and picking at the ivory skin of the exposed keys. “They’re very entertaining. Dina can impersonate people,” she said, “killingly.”
With the result that Waldo grew entranced. He would have liked to think that Dulcie sat in the pepper-pot tower keeping a journal, and that he would succeed eventually in reading it by stealth, after which she would find out and know that he knew.
As though to confirm these possibilities Dulcie broke into the semblance of a piece on the piano, full of clotted notes, which she was creating purely for herself, it was implied, in her sultry, morbid, becolded condition.
“Doesn’t Dulcie play nicely,” said Mrs Feinstein, coming in with a trayful of inherited-looking china and a strange black cake.
“Oh, Mummy!” Dulcie protested.
“She will never be a performer, though, and I am glad,” Mrs Feinstein said. “I have heard many of the greatest performers. Acchhh, yes!” After this expression of pain and reverence, she put the tray down, and turned quite skittish. “We have been working the planchette the other evening,” she said, looking at her daughter, “and Dulcie asked it what she will become. Afterwards. In life.”
Mrs Feinstein glanced again, this time obviously for permission.
“No,” said Dulcie. “It’s too uninteresting.”
Her swollen nose aggravated her angry sullen look. She was really very ugly. The fall of slightly frizzy hair, not long enough to fulfil a graceful purpose, was tied behind her head by a cerise bow.
“Will you take tea, Waldo?” asked Mrs Feinstein in her kind of translation.
Waldo said all right he would. If it had not been for the dark and interesting cake, again he would have felt sorry he had come.
“This is Mohntorte,” Mrs Feinstein said, and cut into the cake as if it had been flesh.
“Poppy seeds,” Dulcie explained, brightening.
“Is it an opiate?” Waldo heard his cracked voice.
“No, but what a pity!” Dulcie came to life; her face began to lose its swollen look.
Mrs Feinstein sucked her teeth, as though to defend her poppy cake, and at the same time a little drop of dribble appeared at one corner of her mouth.
“If it were an opiate, then we should float off perhaps,” Dulcie said, in such a rich and gliding voice that Waldo looked at her, and seeing her eyes, imagined her dancing, her white dress swirling out from her in waves.