by Tad Crawford
“Yes,” he replied after a pause that seemed to signal reluctance.
“May I come in?”
A chime resonated with a gentleness that made it sound distant. I stepped through the door only to stop in confusion because the walls trembled with motion. After a moment I realized that water was falling in smooth sheets over the walls of the entrance hall and into marble catch basins on the floor. It made a susurrus like ocean waves receding back into the depths. In the cool mist I smelled a tang that reminded me of wind sweeping across salt water. Recessed ceiling lights lit the way to the end of the passage, where the man opened the door to the interior of the shop.
“You want a boat.”
The shopkeeper appraised me with eyes of pale blue that peered intently from beneath extravagant white eyebrows. A thin, tall man with a squarish face and a full head of long white hair, he might have been eighty or more, but he stood straight behind the counter and spoke with a faint accent that I couldn’t quite place.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“How did you find the shop?”
“On the Internet.”
He frowned and shook his head. “Impossible.”
“But this shop sells model boats.”
“I’m not on the Internet. The shop can’t be found that way.”
I shrugged, ill at ease.
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t exist in the same way as other shops.”
Only a single beam of light fell from the ceiling to illuminate the counter. The rest of the room remained in darkness.
“How many ways can there be?” I finally stammered.
He scrutinized me. “This shop, if you want to call it that, is not about profits or losses. In that sense it has little in common with other shops.”
“If it doesn’t make a profit,” I said, smiling in spite of a desire to be respectful to such an old eccentric, “it can’t survive.”
“Ah.” He nodded at this.
“Isn’t that right?” I insisted. “Every business is on the Internet. That’s how people know about companies—by visiting websites, not offices or factories. You must have a website.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to help you,” he said with a wave of his hand that dismissed me.
I had been seized by a fantasy that I could make money for him. If he listened to me, he would understand how to improve the performance of his shop. My marketing savvy could quickly build his bottom line. That he cared nothing for this and wanted me to leave alarmed me and made me feel useless.
“Don’t you sell model boats?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to go.”
“But … ”
“Unless you want to tell me the truth.”
I didn’t have a glib answer.
“How did you find me?”
I stirred myself to speak. “I don’t remember.”
“Liar!” The blue eyes blazed and his clenched fists banged the white surface of the counter. “I’ll give you one more chance.”
It would have been simple enough to walk out of this darkened room and never lay eyes on the old man again. I swayed from foot to foot, side to side.
“I can’t tell you.”
“You mean you won’t.”
“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head.
“You’re protecting someone.”
I nodded, certain he would throw me out.
“You made a promise,” he surmised.
“Yes.”
“And you intend to keep it?”
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“You didn’t find me on the Internet.”
“No,” I admitted, “I didn’t.”
“The person you promised—do you know him well?”
“Hardly at all.”
“Why did he want you to come here?”
“I mentioned a ship. He didn’t like ships—or, really, his boss didn’t like ships. Or water. He kept talking about fire.”
“What about fire?”
“Fire brings out what is elemental. It’s the great engine of change.”
To my surprise, he smiled.
“Do you believe that?”
“I have no idea,” I answered.
“Of course you don’t,” he said more gently. “But why were you sent here?”
“The one interviewing me—”
“Interviewing?” He cut me off. “Why?”
“For the job.”
“What kind of job?”
“As an assistant.” I left out the specifics, feeling I had already said too much.
He nodded.
“He thought I should meet you. Perhaps to get a model boat. I don’t know why.”
The shop owner reached back to the wall and flicked several switches that turned on small spotlights in the ceiling. Now I saw the models, two dozen or so, each resting on a white pedestal as if floating in the light from above.
“Look around. Let me know if you have any questions.” He began studying diagrams on the counter.
I wandered among the boats, feeling surprised that he hadn’t thrown me out of the shop. I couldn’t be certain what had changed his attitude. Slowly the details of the models began to impress me. I bent closer to study the care lavished on the sewing of the sails, the rigging, the decks, the hulls, the miniature anchors, and the tiny crewmen. Nameplates with brief explanations about the type of vessel helped me distinguish barks, windjammers, frigates, junks, brigantines, catamarans, dhows, galleons, schooners, prams, ketches, and more.
“Do you make the models?” I finally asked.
“Yes, I make each model,” he replied.
“How long has the shop been here?”
He came from behind the counter and joined me in the display area.
“I first imagined this almost fifty years ago. But I had to travel a great deal. And I had to gather resources. The building I purchased nearly thirty years ago. A lot of work has gone into it since then.”
“It feels like a museum.” I admired the care and skill he had lavished on the models and the design of the shop. “I didn’t see a sign outside. How does anyone know you’re here?”
“People do find us,” he answered, stressing the verb.
“You like sailboats best.”
“I enjoy boats with sails, it’s true.”
“They’re so well crafted.”
He lowered his eyes at my praise.
“There are no prices,” I went on. “How do you sell them?”
“If the right customer comes, we agree on a price.”
How could he run a successful store with this approach? I wondered about the soundness of his mind, but I quickly calculated that he had purchased the building when New York City was on the brink of bankruptcy. He probably bought it for next to nothing. If he also invested in other real estate at that time, he would certainly be a wealthy man today. So this shop might be more a hobby than a business. But why had he wanted to create a shop like this? How had he developed the skills to make the models? They seemed almost to move through the space.
“Could you give me the range of prices? I mean, which boat costs least and which costs the most?”
Those blue eyes studied me like a puzzle to be solved.
“No, I couldn’t,” he finally replied.
“It’s just hard to shop if you have no idea—”
Waving his hand, he cut me off. “Which of the ships excites you the most? Which ship could carry you across the boundaries of the known world and take you to foreign lands? What adventures might you have in those latitudes and longitudes?”
This struck me as overly dramatic, and a bit intrusive. Why talk about boundaries and foreign lands?
“I’d have to look some more.”
“Take your time.”
I walked even more slowly among the models. I couldn’t say one appealed to me more than the others. I liked the curve of the hulls on some, and the wind-filled shape of the sails on others.
“I don’t kno
w,” I said to him at last.
“I’m not surprised,” he said, coming to join me again. “After all, what is the source of attraction? Isn’t it concealed within us, waiting for the moment of its discovery? You can look at boats, but understanding what makes you desire one thing or another is more elusive.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You may need more time. Don’t feel any urgency. Come back on another day and spend another hour. Keep coming back until the faintest hint is amplified. Suddenly you’ll want this boat or that one,” he said, pointing first to the windjammer and then to the schooner.
“Yes,” I said, wondering if I understood him. “I’ll have to come back.”
He turned off the lights, except for the single beam that lit the counter and its diagrams.
“Let me show you out.” He led me into the hallway filled with the calming sound of falling water.
“Are you still looking for a job?” he asked as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Yes.”
“I’m looking for an assistant,” he said as he closed the door. “If you’re interested, come at the same time in a week. I’ll have something to show you.”
5
“I love you,” I said to her.
“I don’t want to be unkind,” she replied, her voice measured, “but I have to ask you again what difference that makes?”
“How can love not make a difference?” I snapped.
“When it’s a disguise for something else.”
“I love you,” I repeated. “Your feelings may have changed, but mine haven’t. And you did love me.”
“That’s true.”
“Why don’t you love me now?”
“I’ve explained to you already.”
“I only know you loved me and now you say you don’t.”
“I said I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Why make this harder than it has to be?” she asked, waving to get the waiter’s attention.
I couldn’t dismiss my certainty that she was being unfair.
“Because it’s hard. At least I feel it.”
“I’m not going to let you make me feel guilty.”
“You’re responsible for this.”
“Oh, please.”
“You’re breaking up our marriage.”
“If our marriage is breaking up, we’re both responsible.”
“Like a pedestrian is responsible if he gets run over by a car.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not.”
“Look,” she said, “I can’t accuse you the way you’re accusing me. You are who you are. I have nothing against you. Once I loved you. I wish I could love you still. But you don’t carry your share of the burden.”
“What burden?” I demanded. “Why is marriage like carrying a burden?”
“Listen to yourself,” she said with a superiority that I could sense even if she tried to conceal it.
“You could listen too,” I flung back at her.
“Oh.” She sighed with a look of disappointment.
“I love you,” I said.
“But how do you love me?” she asked. “Do you love me enough to look at who you are? Do you love me enough to take back everything you believe about me and examine it all again? Do you love me enough to see me as I am and not the way you want me to be?”
The waiter finally arrived.
“The check, please,” she said.
“I love you enough to know what we’re losing,” I answered, feeling the limit on my time with her. “It was so good for us. Why would you give that up?”
She put a credit card on the bill and waved away the card I’d pulled from my pocket.
“We’re not getting anywhere.”
She spoke the words sadly. I started to cry, the tears flowing from the corners of my eyes. I cried because I had disappointed her and I wanted her to come back to me. But I was beginning to understand what she meant, like something just visible at the periphery of my vision. Then she too started to cry. The waiter returned and looked discreetly away while she dabbed at her tears with a napkin.
“This is pointless,” she said. “It just upsets us.”
She signed the slip for the credit card. The waiter picked it up and glided swiftly away.
“We can give it time,” I said. “We don’t have to decide anything quickly. After all, we’re living in the same apartment.”
“Sure.” She tucked her wallet into her purse. “We can give it all the time in the world, but it won’t do any good. Let’s not meet like this again.”
“But … ”
“It’s too painful. We just don’t understand each other anymore. Let’s go.”
Pushing back her chair, she rose.
“Yes, let’s go.”
6
“Are there forms to fill out?” I asked.
The shopkeeper looked at me for a moment before shaking his head.
“Will you want references?” I had been careful to return exactly one week from the time of my first visit.
Another look, another shake of his head.
“Is there a job description?”
“No.”
“An interview?”
“Not really.”
“Would you like to know anything about my present position?”
He shook his head, adding, “But you could tell me your name.”
I told him. He smiled and offered me his hand to shake.
“And yours?” I asked
“Pecheur.”
“First name or last?” I asked.
“Either.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, not at all,” he protested.
“But that isn’t your given name.”
“That’s true. You might say it’s my chosen name.”
“You don’t want two names?”
“I find one adequate.”
“Shall I call you Mr. Pecheur?”
“Just Pecheur is fine.”
I nodded.
“Why don’t you spend a little time with the models? Then I have something to show you.”
He flicked on the spotlights again. The model boats sailed in the pools of brightness. Again I moved among them, attracted first to one and then another. Occasionally I glanced at Pecheur, bent over the diagrams spread on his counter. I lingered awhile in front of the junk. Its shape, and especially its sails, had an ancient and exotic feeling.
“Is that your favorite?” Pecheur asked when he came to join me.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Would you like to see something a bit different?”
“Sure.”
“Come this way.”
He led me to the back of the shop and pressed a button for the elevator. The golden door slid open, and he and I stepped into a cab barely large enough to contain us. The interior was made of the same golden metal, polished to the point where I could see my reflection. The cab didn’t appear to be moving but must have been rising ever so slowly. Finally the light indicated that we had reached the second level.
The door opened onto an empty room about the size of the shop on the first floor, but no ships were on display. Rather, a low white wall extended into the room like half an ellipse. It rose up above my knees and its interior sloped to form a large basin roughly twenty feet long and fifteen feet wide. Two brown leather armchairs faced this wall. Behind them, about in the position of the counter on the first floor, were a door and a glass window that appeared to belong to some sort of control room.
“Have a seat.” Pecheur gestured toward the chairs. “I’ll be right back.”
I sat. He entered the control room, and in a few moments the lights dimmed. When the room had gone completely dark, I heard murmuring and a warm, moist breeze gently touched my face. A globe of light brightened like the sun overhead. In front of me it revealed a miniature landscape, its flatness cut diagonally by a wide river. Beside the river I sa
w fruit trees and a group of tiny people dressed in clothing that looked like costumes from Ancient Egypt. A small package, a log or perhaps a basket, floated on the water’s muddy surface.
Pecheur sat beside me and lightly touched my shoulder. He offered me a device that looked, with its pair of unusually long tubes, like a hybrid of binoculars and a telescope. Putting it to my eyes, I saw that the package was a basket that drifted toward the reeds at the edge of the river. I didn’t understand how this scene had been created. Only a moment before, there had been nothing in this space. It couldn’t be real earth and water, but I had never heard of a hologram that looked so realistic. Perhaps such an image could be created of a single person, but of an entire landscape, with a river that flowed and people who moved toward the water’s edge, gesturing and pointing to the basket caught in the reeds? It struck me as impossible.
I could not be seeing this scene that unfolded before me. And yet through the unwieldy binoculars I saw a young woman wade into the water and pick up the basket. She carried it to the shore, knelt, and set it down before another woman, who gestured for the top to be opened. Within I could see a red-faced baby, perhaps three months old, a beautiful child despite the contortions that crying brought to its face. The standing woman looked at the baby for a minute or more as she spoke to the kneeling woman and the others that had gathered about. Then the kneeling woman rose, picked up the basket, and joined in a slow, single-file procession as the group departed from the riverbank.
The lights lowered until the room returned to darkness. I heard a distant breaking of waves. A chilling, wintry breeze rasped my face, rich with the scent of the sea. I shivered as the unmistakable sound of waves grew louder until the plangent push and pull seemed to be at my feet. A full moon glowed high in the darkness and cast its light on gray formations of clouds. I saw ocean unrelieved by land. How Pecheur had done this I could not imagine. I leaned forward into the bitter wind blowing from the basin and reached to touch the water, but he placed a restraining hand on my arm and I rested back in my seat. A schooner with three masts bucked and dipped on the moving surface. Using the schooner for a sense of scale, I realized the waves must be forty feet or higher. The ship faced into the wind but made no progress. At times the waves broke over the deck and only the masts were visible, but then the schooner would rise again from the depths. What had happened to the crew? I shifted the spyglasses toward the steering wheel, but it had no hands to guide it and spun aimlessly from side to side. I wondered how the boat could maintain its position, much less progress, without guidance. Despite the darkness, the ship had no running lights. Looking closely at the sails, which I had imagined secured against the violent winds, I could see that only shreds remained. Without a crew, without sails, unable to progress—this boat must be doomed. Its next landfall would be fathoms down at the ocean’s bottom. What did Pecheur mean by this? I swung the scopes to the prow, but the frothing of the waves over the deck and the tossing of the ship from side to side obscured the small letters of her name.