The Boatmaker

by John Benditt

  As the boatmaker leaves the Old Quarter he sees handbills marked with the triangle and blackbirds. These new handbills, in the old spiky type, are more overtly violent than the leaflets from The Brotherhood. They focus less on the king and more sharply on the Jews, calling for a final purification. They are signed The Sons of Vashad.

  He gives the men on the street a wide berth and moves on. There are no police to be seen, and no soldiers, except those guarding the largest royal buildings. Outside the Mint stands a ring of royal guardsmen. They are wearing combat blue rather than dress scarlet, are heavily armed and look deeply uninterested in idle conversation. Leaving the city, he sees more groups of the Sons of Vashad in their red-triangle armbands. Some carry long, heavy sticks; he thinks he sees one with a pistol.

  The boatmaker’s journey to the place marked on Eriksson’s map takes two days. The camp is deep in the woods. On reaching it, the first thing he sees is a man lounging at the base of a tree on the far side of a stream, shotgun cradled in his elbow, smoking.

  As the stranger approaches, the sentry drops his cigarette in the stream and steadies his gun, its muzzle pointed at the boatmaker’s knees. When he gives his name, the sentry tells him to wait. He disappears, returning a few minutes later trailing a taller figure, who also carries a shotgun. Eriksson has shed his canvas coat for a leather jacket and flat cap; he seems quite comfortable with the gun.

  The foreman gestures the boatmaker across the stream. He picks his way across flat stones, the dinner suit wrapped in its torn sheet held over his head.

  When the boatmaker has crossed the stream, the foreman leads him along a narrow path in the dark. To one side he sees men, barely visible in dark clothes, and tents pitched between the huge trunks of ancient trees. This forest, far from the city and part of a royal preserve, has never been logged. It smells prehistoric, ripe with birth and death. Up ahead, torches throw light on a clearing. At the center of the clearing is a platform made of unfinished pine boards, flanked by four large white tents, each with its flap down.

  The foreman sends the sentry back to the stream. Torchlight illuminates many sets of muddy footprints on the boards, some made by a woman’s boots.

  “Did you have trouble on the way?”

  “No, they left me alone.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I stopped in the compound.”

  “Gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “We got out just in time. A few more minutes and we would have been in the ashes ourselves, with no stories to tell our grandchildren.”

  “The façade was the only thing standing.”

  “The house can be rebuilt. The compound has been rebuilt before.”

  “Everything else is gone.”

  “Yes, the wood, the pieces in the workshops. We will make new ones. There is more wood in the world.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Believe me, there is. The House of Lippsted has been through this before. Fifty years ago was the last time. Even though I’ve never been through it myself, I have a sense of how things will go from here. Some from the compound have left. But those who have remained until now will stay with us. They are solid, like well-built furniture.” The taller man laughs, deep shadows painted on his face in the torchlight.

  “By the way,” the foreman says, reaching in the pocket of his leather jacket and taking out his pipe. He lights the pipe gracefully around the shotgun. “I saw your piece in the storeroom before I went to the track. A Lippsted secretary. Very nice. Two generations ago that was one of the best-known pieces in the line. Not that we made many of them. They were famous because it’s damned hard to make one without metal fastenings. You did a nice job.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not easy to find, these days. They are considered old-fashioned. Where did you find one to learn from?”

  “In the place I was before.”

  The foreman smiles at the boatmaker’s terseness. He inhales and lets his smoke rise toward the torches.

  “Well, if you are not a master of the craft, you are not so far away from being one either. I am not sure whether what you made in the storeroom was really a Lippsted masterpiece. Perhaps a few too many touches of your own. I was skeptical, you know: an untrained man in the back of a storeroom. But what you made was good. Maybe a masterpiece, maybe not. But in its own fashion—very good.”

  The boatmaker, pleased and embarrassed, looks at the splatter of bootprints. In the torchlight they are black against the pine boards.

  “Who is so loud at this hour?” Rachel Lippsted’s head emerges from one of the tents, curls framing her face, her eyes heavy with sleep. The foreman touches his cap and retreats into the darkness beyond the ancient treetrunks.

  In the tent nothing needs to be said. When she saw him talking to Sven Eriksson, the questions in her letter were answered. He has things he wants to talk about, but they are difficult, requiring what for the boatmaker amount to extended conversations. He doesn’t have the strength for that; he has eaten little on his journey.

  He lays his bundle on the floor of her tent and joins her, head against her chest. The boatmaker knows little about how a child grows inside its mother. As he leans against Rachel, he wonders whether he will hear two hearts instead of the one he knows. But it is just the single, familiar beat.

  She gathers his head to her, feeling his body uncoil. Lying on the camp bed, the boatmaker feels as if he is still on the road, his legs never stopping, consulting the map engraved in his mind. The thoughts he could not afford while he was on the road flood in. He wonders whether the families in the lighted farmhouses he passed were gathered around their kitchen tables reading The Brotherhood, whether the Sons of Vashad have spread from the city to the countryside. He wonders what happened to Donelan’s body. The foreman would never have left it in the stables at the track if he could help it, but his main thought must have been to get Jacob Lippsted and his sister out of the city before the mob reached the townhouse. And what of the horse who woke from his trance and ran like a brown demon? What of the pony who became a friend for a lump of sugar?

  Rachel leans over him, watching the muscles of his face work as he lies exhausted between waking and sleeping. She sees his mouth move, thinks she can make out words, but when she leans in, her ear brushing his lips, the only word she can make out is Vashad.

  She leaves her ear on his mouth for a moment, not listening, just feeling the warmth of his lips. He turns over and his body softens.

  She eases off the narrow bed, finds a blanket and covers him without removing anything except his boots, blunt and muddy, which she puts under the bed.

  She pulls up a camp chair and sits, watching him as he tosses and speaks snatches of conversation she does not understand, talking to people she does not know: a woman named Karin, his mother, someone with the comical name of Crow, a priest. He tosses under the blanket, mumbling, finally lying still as light begins to change the color of the canvas.

  Early the next morning, her brother’s dark head appears inside the flap, inquiring wordlessly whether she is decent. She looks at the bed, at her brother and raises a finger to her lips. The dark head disappears. Outside, low voices signal the beginning of the daily routine in this camp pitched in a royal forest near the border with Europe.

  A little while later the boatmaker opens his eyes and sees the shadows of leaves on canvas. For a moment he thinks he is on Small Island, building his boat in the shed. Then everything that has happened returns and fills him with his own story.

  He throws off the blanket, washes his face in a basin, sits in the camp chair to pull his boots on. All around him are her possessions: a steamer trunk set on end serving as an armoire, books in French and English, a silver mirror, comb and brush. He has never been in her bedroom before. Her possessions are things he cannot imagine anyone owning; her ways of being cared for are beyond his ken.

  Outside on the platform four men of different heights stand in June sunshine. The foreman i
n his leather jacket, shotgun in the crook of his arm, towers over the others. Jacob Lippsted, in shirtsleeves, a vest, dark trousers and tall riding boots, is in the middle. Shorter are the rabbi and an even smaller man who looks much like him.

  All four heads turn to the boatmaker. Conversation stops. Jacob Lippsted steps up to him, grasps him by the shoulder and shakes his hand. “So Eriksson’s map served you right?”

  “It was clear.”

  “I’m glad you made it. My sister will be pleased. Is pleased, I should say. This is the rabbi’s brother, by the way, Meyer Goldman. You’ll be visiting him in due course.”

  Jacob Lippsted seems in good spirits, in command here in the woods as he was in the compound, apparently untroubled by the destruction of his home.

  “What can we get you? Breakfast? You must be hungry. No trouble on the way?”

  “Not really. Mostly it was quiet—after.” He wants to talk about the Sons of Vashad but knows he must wait. “Breakfast would be good.”

  “Eriksson, would you help our friend find a meal? And after that, a visit to Meyer’s quarters. You’ll find we’re well equipped.”

  Jacob Lippsted rubs his hands together, a man with a full program, eager to begin the day. Meyer Goldman gives the boatmaker a nod that is not entirely friendly.

  Eriksson leads him into the woods, passing smaller tents hidden among the trees. Beyond the tents, the boatmaker sees a picket of armed men in leather coats.

  They reach an open area with a cooking fire and men eating, weapons within easy reach. The boatmaker recognizes the men from the compound. They nod, finish their food, pick up their guns and head to the woods. The cook hands the boatmaker a metal plate, and he realizes how hungry he is. When he’s cleared three plates and emptied two metal mugs of coffee, Sven Eriksson returns to lead him deeper into the woods. On their way they pass a new clearing in which men are cutting saplings and erecting a canopy of green branches under the larger canopy formed by a grove of old oaks.

  “The horse?” he asks Eriksson.

  “Safe in the country. Fannie, too.”

  “Staedter?”

  “Now, that man is a survivor if ever there was one. He slipped away after the race. Believe me, he’ll be fine. Who knows? He may even be one of them. Never did like the man much, to tell you the truth. Got the job done, though, didn’t he?”

  “The horse seemed like he was in a trance. I thought maybe they’d gotten to him after all with the syringe.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he was grieving for Donelan. And he snapped out of it just in time.” The foreman paces silently on his long legs. Then he says softly, “The scum. Killing an old man with arthritis who was trying to protect a horse.” He spits to the side of the trail. Silence resumes.

  The foreman leads him to a small tent standing by itself in the woods. “There you go,” he says, turning to leave, shotgun over his shoulder.

  Inside the tent Meyer Goldman sits on the floor cross-legged, an unfinished jacket in his lap. He untangles himself and rises. “So, the famous man of Small Island comes to visit the humble tailor.”

  When the boatmaker is silent, Goldman continues. “Come for the wedding suit, have you? I’m told you wear a dinner suit well, though no one could tell that by looking at you.” He has the same accent as his brother, the same love of words. But some of the twinkle is missing.

  “Well, don’t just stand there. Take off those boots and overalls. How do you think suits get made? By themselves? That’s not the way it happens. Not even here in the forest. No. We take the measurements, then cut and sew and back and forth until the garment is finished. And if we find ourselves in the woods, sitting in the dirt like barbarians rather than in the capital like civilized men, then that is where we do our work. Step lively, Small Island man. If you are going to marry Miss Rachel Lippsted tomorrow in that huppah they’re building next door, you’ll need to do as you’re told.”

  The boatmaker wonders if the rabbi’s brother is a drinker. He doesn’t smell alcohol, but the stream of words reminds him of a certain kind of drunk.

  He takes off his clothes and stands naked. He is short enough that he does not have to stoop under the roof of the tent as the tailor takes measurements for the first suit of clothes that has ever been made for him. From the moment he arrived at the camp he has felt the power of the House of Lippsted around him, arranging everything. He feels that it would be easy to let himself go and allow these arrangements, made effortlessly smooth by the lubricating power of money, to carry him along. But that is not the way the boatmaker has set his course.

  “I have a dinner suit. I don’t need a new one.”

  “What?” the tailor says, tape measure around his neck. “Don’t play the fool with me, man of Small Island.”

  “I’m not. The one I have is the one I’ll wear.”

  “Then what are we bothering with all this for?” The tailor flings his arms wide. On his face is an expression like curdled milk.

  “I’d like a suit like the ones Herr Lippsted wears. In brown tweed. With a vest.”

  “And you think we’re running a dry-goods store out here in this goyishe wilderness?” But there is a hint of amusement in his outrage, and the boatmaker sees a little more of the rabbi in him.

  “We’ll see what we can do. But I can’t promise it for tomorrow. Now put your Small Island potato sacks back on and be gone from my respectable place of business.” He is mumbling to himself as the boatmaker leaves the tent, glad to stand outside in the sunshine, fully clothed.

  He walks back alone through the woods, the warmth of a summer’s day spreading under the leaves. The square between the tents is empty. He lifts the flap of Jacob Lippsted’s tent, asks permission to enter.

  The scion of the House of Lippsted sits behind a folding desk, papers and account books stacked neatly in front of him. His jacket hangs on the back of his chair. He looks clean and collected as he motions the boatmaker to a camp chair.

  The two men talk over the events of the past few days and discuss the future. Jacob is certain he will be able to return to the capital and rebuild. He has confidence in his relationship with the king, though he says nothing about whether they are in communication. He is interested in the boatmaker’s plans for returning to Small Island and building something of his own there. He is sober when he hears about the Sons of Vashad. He seems distressed only when the boatmaker describes the bodies under the broken pushcarts. Then he puts his head in his hands. But his composure returns quickly.

  The boatmaker leaves the tent and stands on the platform. The sun, moving toward the peak, warms his back and arms. He turns his face up, feeling for the first time in many weeks the release of the tension that was bound up in the race. Even though his secretary is nothing but pools of gray ash, Sven Eriksson has seen it and blessed it. The boatmaker is no longer an apprentice. And he knows where he is going from here.

  As he stands, face offered to the sun, he feels her leave her tent, step on the boards and press herself against his back. Holding him, she pulls him back, a step at a time, until they are moving backward in a gliding dance: a fantastic animal with four legs, their heads facing the same direction. She lifts the flap of her tent with a free hand, and they pass into her world.

  She releases him and turns him around. He sees that an oval metal tub has been brought into the tent. She removes his overalls slowly, looking him in the eye as she undoes the buttons at the shoulders, pulling the fabric down. She removes his longjohns a little at a time, reaching her hands inside. She pulls them down and descends with them until she is kneeling before him. He lifts one foot, then the other out of the garment, which she lays on the floor. She embraces his knees, kissing the flat knob of each in turn, allowing the rich, loamy, acrid smell of him and his time on the road to fill her.

  She moves behind him and guides him into the tub. The water is hot but not scalding. He lowers himself, soaking while she sponges him. She washes him now as the man who is about to be her husb
and, not as the odd stranger she meets in a shabby rooming house in the Old Quarter. Each part she touches is part of her husband, the father of her child, who will soon be a member of the House of Lippsted, playing a role that is yet to be written but for which she is sure he was born. He closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation of being touched by her.

  Kneeling beside the tub, she says: “You know, in being with you, I didn’t know whether I was doing what my brother wanted or something that he would be shocked by—or even hate. He does not explain everything. That is not his way. He puts things in front of people and sees what they do. Do they come forward and take what is offered? Do they run? Do they freeze? I’ve seen men—and women—do all of those things while he watched without giving a sign. I can tell you it made some of them crazy. He hasn’t yet given me any signs. And I’m still not sure I know the answer. But it doesn’t matter. He seems happy. And I know I am. I’m sure he will put things in front of you and see how you react. You are free to choose what you wish. I will be with you regardless of what you choose and what you leave from among what he offers.”

  Her voice pours over him like the warm water she uses to rinse his body. He hears what she says about her brother. But he knows he will make his own way, not simply choosing from among what his wealthy, powerful brother-in-law sets in front of him. He has already shared his plans for Small Island with Jacob Lippsted. He feels no need to explain them to Rachel yet. She will find out soon enough. He closes his eyes, and she begins sponging him off.

  He stands. She wraps him in a towel and leads him to her camp bed. Her world remains strange to him, but he does not question his decision to come here, to enter that world. He has not questioned it since he burned the letters in his room, took his bundle and set out on the road leading to this forest. Lying with her, seeing himself reflected in her eyes, he is thinking of the words in her letter: There will be a child.

  The child is already with them on this camp bed, he thinks. It is simply waiting for the right time to join them, to enter the space where the moonlight was when they lay in his little room over the alley.