Polar Star

by Martin Cruz Smith

  As soon as the G-hooks snapped shut, Karp and his deckhands moved quickly up the ramp, hauling themselves in step by step on one lifeline. The net began stirring behind them. The Polar Star had a 'Trip Plan', a quota of fifty thousand tons of fish. So many frozen fillets, so much fishmeal, so much liver oil for a nation starved for protein to build the muscles that were building Communism. Say ten per cent was lost on board to freezer burn, ten per cent spoiled on shore, ten per cent was split between the port manager and the fleet director, ten per cent was spilled on unpaved roads to villages where there might or might not be a working refrigerator to save the last well-travelled fillets. No wonder the net rushed eagerly to the trawl deck.

  Slava led Arkady forward past the trawl deck and midships by the white hangar of the machinists' shop. 'Can you believe her accent? It's so good,' he said. 'Susan is a fantastic woman. That she can speak so much better than that Uzbek girl – what's her name?'

  'Dynka.'

  'Dynka, right. No one speaks Russian any more.'

  True. Upwardly mobile Russians in particular spoke the increasingly popular 'Politburo Ukrainian'. Ever since Khrushchev, the Ukrainian-born leaders of the country had spoken in crude, halting Russian, substituting w's for v's, until sooner or later everyone in the Kremlin, whether from Samarkand or Siberia, started sounding like a son of Kiev.

  'Say your name,' Arkady asked.

  'Slawa.' Slava eyed Arkady suspiciously. 'I don't know what it is, but you always seem to be getting at something.'

  On the dark seam where fog met the horizon was the glow of another catcherboat working a trawl.

  Arkady asked, 'How many boats do we have with us?'

  'We usually have a fleet of four: the Alaska Miss, the Merry Jane, the Aurora and the Eagle'

  'They were all at the dance?'

  'No. The Alaska Miss had a crew change coming and the Aurora had a steering-gear problem. Since we'd stopped fishing for the night and since we're about to go to DutchHarbor, they decided to leave for port early. We only had two boats at the dance, the same two we have now.'

  'You have a good band?'

  Carefully Slava said, 'Not the worst.'

  The forward deck was divided between a volleyball court on one side and a loading deck which Arkady and Slava walked across. Netting covered the court. Despite this, sometimes a ball escaped into the water; then the captain would turn the Polar Star around right to the bobbing dot, a task equivalent to steering a giant sow through heavy mud. Volleyballs were scarce in the Bering Sea.

  The Americans on board lived in the forward house, on the deck below the officers' cabins and the bridge. Susan had yet to arrive but the three others had assembled in her cabin. Bernie was the freckled boy Arkady had met outside the cafeteria with Volovoi. His friend Day wore steel-rimmed glasses that emphasized a scholar's doll-like earnestness. Both reps wore jeans and sweaters that were at once shabby and superior to any Russian clothing. Lantz was a National Fisheries observer charged with making sure the Polar Star didn't take fish of an illegal type, sex or size. As he was about to go on duty, he wore oiled coveralls, a plaid shirt with rubber sleeves, a rubber glove on one hand and a surgical one hanging like a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. Acting half-asleep, he lounged on the built-in bench, curling up because he was so tall, a cigarette stuck in his mouth. While they waited for Susan, Slava talked with the three of them in Russian with the enthusiastic ease of friends, contemporaries, soul-mates.

  Susan's cabin was no great step up from crew quarters. Two bunks instead of four, which she had to herself as the lone American woman. There was a waist-high ZIL refrigerator and the metallic aroma of instant coffee. A typewriter and manuscript boxes on the upper bunk and, stacked in cartons, books – Pasternak, Nabokov, Blok. Arkady saw Russian-language editions that would have sold in seconds at any Soviet bookstore or for hundreds of rubles on a Moscow back street. It was like coming upon cartons of gold. Susan could read these?

  'Explain again, please,' Day asked Slava. 'Who is he?'

  'Our workers have many talents. Seaman Renko is a worker from the factory, but he has experience with the investigation of accidents.'

  'It's terrible about Zina,' Bernie said. 'She was great.'

  Lantz blew a ring of smoke and asked lazily in English, 'How would you know?'

  'What happened to her?' Day asked.

  Arkady groaned inwardly as Slava answered, 'It seems Zina became ill, went out on deck and perhaps lost her balance.'

  'And perhaps came up in the net?' Lantz asked.

  'Exactly.'

  'Did anyone see her fall over?' Bernie asked.

  'No,' Slava said. This was the primal error of first-time investigators, the tendency to answer questions rather than ask them. 'It was dark, you know, and foggy after the dance and she was alone. These things happen at sea. This is the information we have so far, but if you know anything...'

  Assisting Slava was like following a lemming. The three Americans shrugged and said in unison, 'No.'

  'We were supposed to wait for Susan, but I don't think we have any more questions,' Slava told Arkady.

  'I don't have any,' Arkady said, and then switched to English. 'I am impressed with your Russian.'

  'We're all graduate students,' Day said. 'We signed on to improve our Russian.'

  'And I'm struck by how well you knew our crew.'

  'Everyone knew Zina,' Bernie said.

  Day said, 'Zina was a popular girl.'

  Arkady could see Slava mentally translating, trying to keep up.

  'She worked in the crew's galley,' Arkady said to Day. 'She served you food?'

  'No, we eat in the officers' mess. She worked in the officers' mess at the start of the trip, but then she transferred.'

  'We did see Zina on deck – at the stern rail, in fact,' Bernie said.

  'Where your station is?'

  'Right. There's always a company rep at the stern during the transfer of the fish. Zina would come out and watch with us.'

  'Often?'

  'Sure.'

  'Your station is... ?' Arkady turned apologetically to Lantz.

  'The trawl deck.'

  'You were on watch when the net bearing Zina came on deck?'

  Lantz brushed cigarette ash from his sweater and sat up. For such a tall boy he had a small skull and the raked hair of a narcissist. 'It was cold. I was inside having some tea. The deckhands know they're supposed to tell me when a bag is coming up the ramp.'

  Even below deck in the din of the factory line, Arkady knew when a net was coming by the high whine of the hydraulic winch and the shift in the ship's engines from 'half speed' to 'dead slow' as the net cleared the water, followed by the return to 'half speed' as it came up the ramp. In his sleep, he knew when fish were coming on board. Nobody had needed to call Lantz from a glass of tea.

  'You enjoyed the dance?' Arkady asked.

  'Terrific dance,' Bernie said.

  'Especially Slava's band,' said Day.

  'You danced with Zina?' Arkady asked.

  'Zina had more interest in the motorcycle gang,' Lantz said.

  'Gang?' Arkady asked.

  'Fishermen,' Bernie explained. 'American fishermen, not yours.'

  'Boy, your English is really good,' said Day. 'You're from the factory?'

  'The slime line,' Susan said as she entered and threw her jacket on a bunk. She pulled off a wool cap, releasing thick blond hair cut short. 'You started without me,' she told Slava. 'I'm the head rep. You know you don't talk to my boys without me.'

  'I'm sorry, Susan.' Slava was contrite.

  'As long as it's clear.'

  'Yes.'

  Susan had taken command, that was obvious, with the imperious manner small people sometimes have of inserting themselves into the centre of a situation. Her eyes darted around the cabin, taking roll call.

  'It's about Zina and the dance,' Bernie said. 'This Seaman Renko with Slava said he didn't have any questions, but I think he does.'

&nb
sp; 'In English,' she said. 'I heard.' She turned to Arkady. 'You want to know who danced with Zina? Who knows? It was dark and everyone was bobbing up and down. One second you're dancing with one person and the next you're dancing with three. You dance with men and women or both. It's like water polo without the water. Now let's talk about you. Slava told me you have experience with accidents.'

  'Comrade Renko served as an investigator for the Moscow Prosecutor's Office,' Slava said.

  'And what did you investigate?' she asked Arkady.

  'Very bad accidents.'

  She studied him as if he were auditioning for a part and not doing well. 'How convenient that you happened to be cleaning fish on the factory line of this ship. An investigator all the way from Moscow? Fluent in English? Cleaning fish?'

  'Employment is guaranteed in the Soviet Union,' Arkady said.

  'Fine,' Susan said, 'I would suggest that you save all your other questions for Soviet citizens. Zina is a Soviet problem. If I hear you've approached any American stationed on this ship again, I'm going straight to Captain Marchuk.'

  'No more questions,' Slava said and pushed Arkady to the door.

  'I have a last question,' Arkady said. He asked the men, 'You're looking forward to DutchHarbor?'

  This broke the tension a little.

  'Two more days,' Bernie said. 'I'm going to the hotel, get the best room, sit in a hot shower and drink an ice-cold six pack of beer.'

  'Soo-san?' Arkady liked saving it that way, making her name Russian.

  'Two more days and I'm gone,' she said. 'You'll get a new head rep in Dutch and I'll be flying out of the fog to California. So you can say goodbye to me now.'

  'The rest of us are coming back,' Day assured Slava. 'We have two more months of fishing.'

  'Just fishing,' Slava promised. 'No more questions. We should always keep in mind that we are shipmates and friends.'

  Arkady remembered that on the way from Vladivostok the Polar Star had staged exercises in camouflage and radiation cleansing. Every Soviet seaman knew that in his captain's safe was a sealed packet to be opened upon receipt of a coded signal of war; inside were instructions on how to avoid enemy submarines, where to make friendly contact, what to do with prisoners.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Arkady usually didn't enjoy amusement rides, but he liked this one. Nothing fancy. The transport cage had a chain for a gate and a tyre on the base to cushion its landings, but it lifted off the deck of the Polar Star with a satisfying taut jerk of the crane cable, swaying as it rose, and for a moment, in midflight, felt like an oversized birdcage that had taken wing. Then they cleared the side and began dropping towards the Merry Jane. Next to the looming hull of the factory ship any catcher-boat looked diminutive, even though the Merry Jane was forty metres long. It sported the characteristic high bow of a Bering Sea trawler, a forward wheelhouse and stack, a mast hung with antennae and lamps, a wooden deck with a side crane of its own, and a stern ramp and gantry with three neatly reeled nets. The hull was blue trimmed white, the wheelhouse white trimmed blue, and the boat looked bright as a toy as it rubbed against the black sea fender of the Polar Star. Three fishermen in slickers steadied the cage as it descended to the deck. Slava unhooked the chain and stepped out first. Arkady followed; for the first time in almost a year he was off the factory ship. Off the Polar Star and onto an American boat. The fishermen vied with each other to pump his hand and to ask enthusiastically, 'Falha Portugues?'

  There were two Diegos and one Marco, all short, dark men with the soulful eyes of castaways. None of them spoke any Russian or much English. Slava hurried Arkady up the wheelhouse stairs to meet Captain Thorwald, a pink-faced, bear-sized Norwegian.

  'Crazy, isn't it,' Thorwald said. 'It's American-owned, that's all. The Portuguese, they spend ten months of the year fishing here, but they have families in Portugal. Just, they make a fortune here compared to what they could at home. Same with me. Well, I go home to shovel snow off the walk, they go home to fry sardines. But two months on land is enough for us.'

  The captain of the Merry Jane wore pyjamas open to gold chains nesting on a chest of red hair. Russians supposedly traced their ancestry back to Viking raiders; 'Russ' meant red, for the hair of the invaders. Thorwald looked as if nothing less than Viking pillage would wake him up.

  'They don't seem to speak English,' Arkady said.

  'That way they don't get into trouble. They know their jobs, so there's not much need for conversation. They may be little fuckers, but next to Norwegians they're the best.'

  'High praise', Arkady said. 'Beautiful boat.'

  The luxurious bridge alone was a revelation. The chart desk was teak-lacquered to an agate gleam; the deck bore a carpet thick enough for a member of the Central Committee; and at each end of the wide, padded console was a wheel with its own high, upholstered swivel chair. The chair on the starboard side was surrounded by the colour monitors of fish-finders, radar screens and the digital read-outs of radios.

  Thorwald reached inside his pyjama pants to scratch. 'Yah, this is built solid for the Bering. Wait till you see us in the ice sheet. To bring a boat like the Eagle up here, to me that's really crazy. Or to bring women.'

  'You knew Zina Patiashvili?' Slava asked.

  'When I fish, I fish. When I fuck, I fuck. I don't mix them up.'

  'Wise,' Arkady said.

  Impervious, Thorwald went on, 'I didn't know Zina and I didn't go to any dance because I was in the wardroom with Marchuk and Morgan trying to show them where to trawl. Sometimes I don't think the Russians and Americans are after fish at all.'

  Slava and Arkady descended to the galley, where the crew had assembled for a meal of salt cod and wine, hardly the mid-day fare on a Soviet ship. Fishing was arduous work, but again Arkady was struck by the amenities on the Merry Jane: the big range with sliding bars to keep food from flying in heavy seas, the table covered by anti-skid pads, the cushioned banquette, the coffee machine with its pot strapped in place. There were homey touches: hanging from a lamp cord, a wooden model of a sailing boat with eyes painted on the bow; a poster of a whitewashed village on a beach. Very different from the galley of the inland trawler Arkady had served on off the coast of Sakhalin. There the crew ate with no room to take off their coats, and everything – groats, potatoes, cabbage, tea – tasted of mildew and fish.

  As they ate, the Portuguese watched a videotape. Aside from a polite nod, all interest in their guests was gone. Arkady understood. If someone was coming to ask them questions, that someone should speak their language. After all, when Russians were mucking around in row-boats the Portuguese had an empire that circled the world. On the screen was the hysterical narration and languid action of a soccer match.

  'Zina Patiashvili? Slava asked. 'Does anyone here know Zina? Does... do you... have you?' He turned to Arkady. 'This is a waste of time.'

  'Football,' Arkady said as he sat down.

  The Diego next to Arkady poured him a tumbler of red wine. 'Campeonato do Mundo. You?'

  'Goalie.' Twenty years ago, Arkady realized.

  'Forward.' The fisherman pointed to himself, then to the other Diego and Marco. 'Forward. Back.' He aimed his finger at the television. 'Portugal white, Ingles stripe. Bad.'

  As all three fishermen winced, a figure in a striped jersey broke away and scored. How many times had they already seen the tape of this game, Arkady wondered – ten times, a hundred? Over a long voyage, men tend to tell the same tale over and over. This was the more refined torture of high technology.

  While Diego averted his eyes from the television, Arkady showed him the snapshot of Zina and Dynka.

  'You stole that,' Slava said.

  'Zina.' Arkady watched the fisherman's eyes slide from woman to woman equally. He shrugged. Arkady showed the picture to the other two crewmen and got the same reaction, but then the first Diego asked to see the photo again.

  'No baile,' he told Arkady. 'A loura da Russia. A mulher com os americanos.' He bec
ame passionate. 'Entende? Com americanos.'

  'She danced with the Americans. That's what I thought,' Arkady said.

  'Beba, beba,' Diego refilled his glass.

  'Thank you.'

  'Muito obrigado,' Diego instructed him.

  'Muito obrigado.'

  'Meo pracer.'

  Arkady held onto the centre bar as the transport cage swung down to the second trawler. Slava was looking more and more miserable, like a bird caged with a cat.

  'This is upsetting the work schedule.'

  'Look on it as a holiday,' Arkady said.

  'Ha!' Slava soberly regarded a gull hovering outside a bilge hole of the Polar Star waiting for slops to drop. 'I know what you're thinking.'

  'What?' Arkady was mystified.

  'That since I was on stage I could see who Zina was with. Well, you're wrong. When you're on stage playing, the lights are right in your eyes. Ask the other members of the band; they'll tell you the same thing. We couldn't see anyone.'

  'You ask,' Arkady said. 'You're in charge.'

  The Eagle was smaller than the Merry Jane, red and white, lower to the water, a side crane and a gantry with a single reel. Another difference was that not a single fisherman was on deck to greet them. They stepped out onto wooden planks empty except for the dregs of the boat's last tow: limp flatfish, skeletal crabs.

  'I don't understand,' Slava said. 'Usually they're so friendly.'

  'You feel something, too?' Arkady asked. 'A certain coolness. What language will we be speaking, by the way? Swedish? Spanish? What kind of Americans will these be?'

  'You're going to embarrass me, aren't you?'

  Arkady looked Slava over. 'You have your jogging shoes on, your jeans. You're the picture of a Young Communist. I think we're ready to face the captain.'

  'Some assistant I have, a regular fugitive.'

  'Worse, someone with nothing to lose. After you.'

  The Eagle's bridge was smaller than the Merry Jane's and had no carpeting or teak, but otherwise was more what Arkady had supposed an American bridge would be like: a veritable space capsule's array of colour monitors banked around and behind the captain's chair; a circle of radar screens and the cathode green of fish-finders that targeted schools of fish as shifting orange clouds. Radios hung from the overhead, their ruby numbers floating in the static of open channels. The chrome hoods of the compass and repeater were polished to shine like crystal. In all, glitter without clutter.