I got up to stretch my legs, patting Kepler on the shoulder as I went by. Standing by the cabin door, I saw the navigation lights of a ship making for port and beyond it the tiny gleaming points that were windows and street lamps. I had never been so aware of the closeness between Conrad and the legionnaire. My sense of their bond had pushed the question of the Roman’s presence in my recollections of the station to the back of my mind, where I assumed it would stay. At that point Harrison called to me, asking what the devil I was up to. The next instant I put my finger on what the attraction was for Conrad, what linked him to this man he had created out of a few suggestions from me. I have always been leery of the word revelation—it smacks a bit too much of deux ex machina for my tastes—but it is the only way to describe my feelings about what I now saw, that in a metaphorical sense Conrad and his legionnaire were one and the same.
“Thinking about something,” I told Harrison when I sat down. “If none of you minds, I’d like to tell you.”
None of them read fiction, never had the inclination, a fact that had greatly simplified matters when it came to the Marlow books, so I did some spadework by giving a brief summary of the plot of Heart of Darkness before starting in on the character of the legionnaire. I said that I had always thought he was likely to have been a good-sized chap for his day, thick enough through the arms and chest to command the respect of his men, smart, maybe a reader of Ovid in his spare time. In any case, I said, Conrad made it very clear that the fellow knew why he was in Britain and what he was doing, understanding the risks as well as anyone could in that situation, no angel, just a decent chap doing what he had to. “The point of this,” I added, “requires a little imagination from you blokes.”
“I imagine another drink,” Harrison said. “I imagine a glass full of whisky.”
“You all might as well top off,” I said to them. “It’ll make it easier for you to indulge me.”
“Don’t we always?” said Harrison.
“I want you to think about Conrad’s state of mind when he sat down to write that book.”
“I thought you were talking about the Roman,” Barnes said laconically.
“I am. But there are some things I have to say about Conrad first. There he was, having abandoned the sea for a desk, a steady salary for pathetic advances, security for the precarious life of a writer, his early books, the prentice work, having garnered indifferent if not downright hostile reviews. By the time he started on this one, that would have been around 1897 or so, he knew what he faced—slow, grueling work, the terrifying possibility of running out of material, losing his power to imagine, a fickle public.”
“You make it sound irresistible,” Harrison interjected dryly. The rest chuckled.
“Well,” I said, “that’s exactly what I’m getting at. Writing was irresistible to him. When it came to writing, he had no more choice than that legionnaire did to sail off to the land of savages.”
“So?” Kepler said.
Harrison put his hand on Kepler’s arm and said, “Let Malone speak. He’s suggesting a connection.”
“Thank you. The fact is, I believe he saw himself in that character as well as the trajectory of his whole career.”
“Come on,” Barnes said incredulously. “A Polish ex-patriot living in England thinks he’s a Roman legionnaire. The whisky’s getting to you.”
“Consider the similarities,” I retorted. “Put the two of them side by side. What have you got? Robust spirits, to start with. Difficult labor in a strange country (of the mind, in Conrad’s case), determination, willingness to face the dangers of the unknown.”
Harrison gave me a curious look.
“So you think we should see them as a pair?”
“Up to a point.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Desire,” I said, “the difference is in their desire. In the end, that Roman must have been satisfied. He had achieved what he set out to do and likely discovered capacities in himself he never thought he possessed, though he was damned ready to leave when the time came. Conrad makes that clear, going on about how he hated the barrenness and savagery, our ancestors going about in fur shirts and loincloths, longing for the old life of refinements, good wine, beautiful women, tossing on his pallet at night while remembering the feel of clean sheets, thinking constantly of the end of the ordeal—which was mainly why he worked so blamed hard and was probably known among his men as something of a bully—his reward a cushy job in the fleet stationed at Ravenna. When the order to transfer finally came he was overcome with relief and pride in having prevailed.”
“He probably was down with scurvy,” Kepler said.
“He’d have celebrated anyway,” I answered. “Now imagine Conrad in the legionnaire’s time bent over a plank that serves as a desk on the ship or in a tent reeking of sour straw, wrestling with some intractable scene, grousing and groaning—you all remember how he talked about the agonies of writing. He’s at his lowest ebb when relief arrives not in the form of a young centurion fresh from Rome with orders to ship out for Ravenna, but his own bosses, the Muses Calliope and Melpomene. They stroll in and one says, ‘Good news, Conrad. You’re excused from your post and free to retire to the country.’ You know damned good and well what he does. Without blinking an eye, with all that Polish charm he could turn on and off like a spigot, he thanks them for their offer—‘Most gracious, so kind, I’m honored’—and turns them down. When they ask why he explains that he’s content, more than content, loves what he’s doing, can’t imagine giving it up or living anywhere else. He gives them something to drink, a bite to eat, then escorts them outside—pick your weather, fierce sun or a cold drizzle—bids them good-bye. Maybe they fly away. Maybe they just start walking and disappear into a cloud like Oedipus. In any case, once they’re gone he returns to the ship or the tent and takes up his work. In his mind, year in and year out, he travels up imaginary rivers, treks into imaginary forests, hacking down bushes and trees, going deeper, on the lookout for ideas he can nurse into a story or a novel. When he’s satisfied, he sends for a courier, who pops those maps of the human heart into a pouch and carries them out to the world.”
I saw the courier sailing off downriver, heading toward us, as plain as day. Apparently my friends did too, for in the aftermath of my story there was none of the usual ironic commentary, especially from Harrison and Barnes. They were as quiet as I was, and while I couldn’t tell if they saw the point I had been trying to make, they had seen something, each deep in his own thoughts of Conrad, which had to be happier and more in touch with his spirit than what they’d felt all day. It was then that Harrison said, “In the end is my beginning,” quoting Queen Elizabeth’s motto with a finality that suited the occasion. He was answered by the Nellie, who creaked and groaned as she rose on a swell and then gently rocked back to stillness.
The wake was over, the lot of us fagged out, run down like a clock from the strains of the day, a bit drunk, sated with grief for Conrad and also for ourselves, aware that we had reached the end of our fellowship and were, even then, in the process of bidding each other farewell. We had kept it back as long as we could and now we had to face it. I can only speak for myself, but I think that they must also have been remembering the old days on the Nellie. Nothing lasts, of course, and you don’t get to be our ages without learning that and learning how to come to grips with radical change. But that doesn’t mean we can’t indulge in a little nostalgia for what we had, or that we don’t share John Dowell’s wistful hope that somewhere there is a Nirvana where the good things live on.
As I recall, it wasn’t more than five minutes after Harrison’s comment when Kepler uncoiled his thin body and stood up, scarcely visible in his black suit against the night sky, his bronze face half in darkness.
“He would’ve liked that,” he told me.
“Here, here,” said Barnes.
Rather than a valedictory word or two there was the hollow sound of our footsteps as if we were walking
on the skin of a drum. We went down the gangway onto the thick timbers of the dock, striding abreast of one another up to the cab station a block away, closing the long parenthesis that had opened when we disembarked at Victoria Station. We shook hands all round, no one making the mistake of saying that we should get together soon. Everyone was going in a different direction and as there were only two cabs Harrison had to wait. He lit his bulldog and said that he was glad I was bringing the Nellie back to what she was. In reply to his question about when I might finish, I said I thought it was a matter of weeks.
“What then?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I haven’t given it much thought since I heard about Conrad.”
“At least take her out on a trial run,” he told me. “Reward yourself.”
“Oh, I’ll do that, but it won’t be the same.”
“What is?”
At that point a cab turned onto the street and he stepped out to the curb under the lamp and hailed it. When the cab pulled over he got into the back and leaned out the window.
“I’m glad we came down here, Malone. It was a proper send-off.”
“I agree.”
With that he waved and closed the door. I watched the jiggling tail-lights until they disappeared and then strolled back to Sebold’s shop, peering in the windows at the ghostly relics of a sailor’s life and went on. You know what it’s like down there, buildings so close together you can’t see the river, warehouses side by side with tenements and the odd boardinghouse that caters to sailors. The lights were on in most of the buildings, random patterns of brightness that put me in mind of the ongoingness of life. I walked aimlessly, attentive only to the dull sound of my boots striking the walk and cobblestones while images drifted like smoke through my mind: Fox-Bourne gazing up at the roof of his car, his wife’s red lips, the mourners, the road narrowing, the buildings rising above me in the darkness like tall, leaning shadows, only their black doors and padlocks faintly visible. I went on even though I had no idea where I was. It was like being in a dream in which you keep walking or running to find out where you are or who is waiting for you. Finally I saw a streetlight framed by buildings at the far end of a lane. I went toward it and came out in a vaguely familiar square—how I knew it, from what time, under what circumstances was a mystery until I reached the center of the square and saw a small park off to the left. Beyond it was a row of shops where the light was strong enough for me to read the sign, THOMAS AND SONS, BOOKSELLERS. Of all the places in London I might have stumbled upon, this shop ought to have been the last. I hadn’t been there in more than twenty years. I went over and looked in the windows. The interior was dark, but in memory I saw the tall bookcases and for a moment it was as if I were entering the shop again, hearing the bell attached to the door ring as I opened it. I remembered my excitement and curiosity when the owner beamed at Marlow’s name and then time came down like a shutter and sealed me off from that day. I took the shortest route back to the docks. There were lights on in some of the boats and I remembered to my chagrin that I’d left the lantern burning, a stupid oversight. I quickened my pace until I could see her and let my breath out. She loomed up, her white hull distinct in the moonlight, and I had the impression that she had receded, drifted backward not through space but time, that she was now part of the old dispensation.
SOMEWHERE, FORD, you have written that the sound of a hunting horn echoing in the woods is the music of lost time. That was how I felt as I stepped aboard, the long hours of talk that had bound the gang together in friendship and to the Nellie gone, leaving the empty chairs in a circle round the lantern. At loose ends, uneasy in my skin, I collected the glasses and bottles and took them down to the galley. When everything was washed and dried and returned to the cupboard, I folded up all but one chair, storing them in a locker behind the cabin. I pulled the remaining one close to the lantern and sat down, exhausted but too troubled to sleep. The boats on either side were dark, dark too the buildings opposite the dock whose shapes I could just make out against the stars. A mild swell coaxed faint creaks from the Nellie, which I could identify as if they were my own aches and pains. The conversation with Harrison came back to me and I realized why I had been reluctant to say what I was going to do. With Conrad’s death, the Nellie and I had come to the end of our days together. Like it or not, she was haunted for me now and no good for pleasure. I suppose I’d known since reading Jessie’s telegram and hadn’t let myself think about what it meant.
WELL, FORD, OVER the next two days it became clear that I should sell the Nellie. In view of all that had happened, it seemed the only thing to do. I made some inquiries and was given the name of a ship broker who was rumored to be honest and aboveboard in his dealings. Toward the end of the week I paid him a visit, walking a few blocks to an ominous-looking building stained brownish black by age, its only virtue its proximity to Tilbury Dock. Given my frame of mind, going much farther would have been impossible. Putting the Nellie on the block grieved me, and when I grieve my body goes into a sulk, weakens, rebels against movement. I approached the door with a sense of dread and deep ambivalence though I knew I had no other choice. You may laugh when I tell you this, but I felt like a woman on her way to a foundling hospital with a bundle in her arms, mumbling to herself that this is how it has to be.
The directory in the foyer contained a list of tenants. The offices of Duval and Purdy were on the fourth floor. A dank stairwell, lighted by dim sconces at each landing, spiraled upward toward a gray ceiling. I trudged up the stairs, assuming that the brokers’ office would be no more inviting than the bleak stairwell. The door with its frosted glass and peeling names confirmed my suspicions so you will understand my surprise when I opened it and entered a cheery room with western-facing windows that framed a panoramic view of London and the estuary, more or less the way it is depicted in etchings you can buy in many bookstores. In addition there were photographs of a dozen boats for sale mounted on the pale yellow walls, all beauties of their kind. Beneath each one a card listed their virtues and prices. The Nellie would be up there before long, I thought grimly, posing for the delectation of prospective buyers.
“That’s not our complete inventory,” said a man seated behind a large desk.
A wooden nameplate identified him as Leonard Duval. He wore a green visor that shaded large, inquisitive eyes. Old-fashioned garters held up his sleeves. He was supremely Dickensian.
“I’m not looking to buy,” I told him. “I have a boat to sell.”
“I see. Please, sit down.”
An impressive model of a schooner stood on his desk, perfect down to the last detail of her rigging. Looking at Duval through the maze of tiny ropes fashioned out of fishing line reminded me of the last time I had seen Conrad. It was too much.
“Do you mind if I move this?” I asked. “It’s hard to see you.”
“Not at all.”
His nervous glance told me that he did but this was business so he tolerated it. I carefully slid the model to one side.
“It’s very impressive,” I said, hoping to make him feel better. “I’ve sailed ships of that sort. She’s perfect.”
“Thank you,” Duval replied, beaming with pleasure. “It’s a hobby with me, my only one. It relaxes me the way nothing else can. Now then,” he added as he removed a lined tablet from the desk, “I need some information. Your name?”
“Jack Malone.”
“And the boat?”
“The Nellie.”
“The Nellie?”
“Just Nellie.”
He jotted for a moment, all business.
“I like to start with particulars,” he explained. “They give me an idea of what I’m dealing with straightaway. You’d be surprised how people exaggerate. The claims they make,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Half the time they’re thinking of enhancing the price. The other half its just bragging, the way people do about their children. Not that you would.”
He questioned me about the Nellie’s prov
enance and nodded appreciatively when I said her keel had been laid at a well-known shipyard in Glasgow.
“Ah, that’s good, very good indeed. I know the builder. First-rate work. This is definitely to our advantage.”
He asked about her displacement, her draft, proceeding methodically, smiling from time to time over a detail. He was obviously knowledgeable and appreciated good craftsmanship, the kind of fellow you could put your confidence in, yet there was nothing enjoyable about our conversation. To the contrary, I felt worse each time I answered a question. I was betraying her, revealing her most intimate secrets to this stranger, as if I were a savage selling his daughter into marriage.
“This isn’t easy,” I blurted out.
Duval regarded me sympathetically over the tops of his glasses.
“Not the first time I’ve heard that, Mr. Malone. Believe me, I understand. It’s like this more often than not, especially for people who have had a boat a long time.”
“I haven’t. Even if I had, that wouldn’t make me feel any better.”
“You will. The money will help.”
“The money doesn’t matter.”
“It always matters,” he said with the air of a man who knows what he’s talking about. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll add these specifications to our agreement. It won’t take a minute.”
As he rolled a form into the typewriter I wondered if he was right about the money. Would I be like Judas, happy with my thirty pieces of silver? The clatter of his rapid-fire pecking reminded me of an auctioneer’s patter—“Going once, going twice . . .” I imagined a room of faceless bidders, saw one rise and head for the cashier’s table. There is very little I have been ambivalent about in my life, Ford. I think that’s the case at least in part because I hate uncertainty and hemming and hawing, hate it when my mind or heart spins about like a compass needle whose magnetic field has been disturbed. But I was that morning. I wondered how I could feel disloyal to a thing of wood and metal? Or was something else gnawing at me?
Sailors on the Inward Sea Page 21