Viator

by Lucius Shepard

  He had intended to catch his breath, then proceed to the trading post, but the town looked vulgar and forbidding in its plainness, the color of the dirt on which it stood virtually the same as that of the sky in his dream, the movement of dogs and people and vehicles conveying an aimless, annoying rhythm. Under the strong sun, Inupiat men and women trudged along the streets, some stopping to exchange a few words; a red pickup pulled up next to the trading post; three children played clumsily on the shingle, while their fathers patched a net. Wilander felt defeated by circumstance, stranded between two inimical poles, and wished he were back in the comfort of his cabin. He sat on a flat rock, flanked on one side by a bush with dry yellow-green leaves and on the other by the remnants of a fire and some charred fish heads upon which flies were crawling, and watched the sluggish creep of commerce with an utter lack of interest. Something was wrong with him, he decided. The past few years must have cracked him in some central place. His behavior was becoming as eccentric as that of the men aboard Viator. Not as eccentric as Mortensen’s, but given what had just transpired, he doubted it would be long before he began collecting paint flakes or pressing linden leaves between the pages of his books. It seemed he had posed this—to his mind—overly dramatic self-diagnosis in order to provoke a denial, to energize himself, but it had entirely the opposite effect, weighing on him as would a criminal judgment; and, oppressed by the idea that he might be slipping, he sank into a fugue, staring at the town, seeing in its plodding regulation and drabness an articulation of his decline.

  In the mid-afternoon, Arlene, wearing baggy chinos and a green T-shirt, stepped from the door of the trading post, shielded her eyes against the lowering sun, and peered at the rise. She spoke to someone inside and then walked toward Wilander at an unhurried pace, hands in her pockets. She stopped on the incline a few feet below his rock and said, Terry says you’ve been sitting here a couple hours. You okay? It was in Wilander’s mind to assure her of his well-being, because she was intolerant of weak men, a by-product, he assumed, of a previous relationship; and yet she was also, if her depictions of former lovers were accurate, attracted to weak men—he did not want to think of himself as weak, nor did he want to play on her weakness for the weak or engage her intolerance by planting the idea that he might be on the verge of another collapse; but the way she looked, sensual and motherly at once, her breasts enticingly defined by the green cotton, a hint of sternness in her face, roused in him a childlike need for consolation. He caught her hand and pulled her down beside him.

  —What is it? she asked, slipping an arm about his waist.

  —I’ve just had a hell of a day.

  She leaned into him, her breast flattening against his arm, and that yielding pressure was enough to break the last of his resolve, turning him toward confession.

  —I’ve been having this dream, he said. It’s an awful dream, terrible, not like a dream at all, really. It’s more like a place I’ve been given to see. Hardly anything happens. But it keeps coming back and…I’m not sure what to make of it.

  He described the dreams, focusing on the one he had dreamt that morning, and when he had done, she said, You need to get off that ship.

  —I don’t think it’s the ship, he said, feeling an odd flutter of alarm.

  —I wasn’t talking about the ship itself. I’m talking about the isolation, and those crazy bastards you’re isolated with.

  —I suppose you’re right. But, uh…that’s where I’m stuck.

  —You could move in with me. On a temporary basis. Until we can find you your own place. That is, if you’re planning to stay in Kaliaska.

  Surprised, he said, That’s very generous…and flattering. But Lunde wouldn’t approve.

  —Lunde! The way you talk about him, it’s like he’s your lord and master. Your Moses.

  —He’s been generous to me, but he’s not my master. Just an old man who runs a temp agency.

  —But what do you know about him? This is such a weird thing, this job! He may be using you for something illegal. A swindle, maybe. Maybe he’s using your residency to establish a claim or…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.

  —Whatever his motives, I need the job. And he specified that we had to live on the ship.

  Arlene roughed up the ground with the toe of one sneaker and stared down at the furrow she had dug. What I’m saying, why don’t you tell Lunde you quit? I can use you fulltime at the store.

  —I can’t do that! He said this more vehemently than intended and tried to compensate for his bluntness by saying, I’d feel I was shirking my responsibilities.

  —You’re starting to sound like the people you’re complaining about.

  —I don’t mean my responsibilities to the job. If that were all it was, I’d move in tonight. You know that, don’t you?

  She sat with her folded arms resting on her drawn-up knees; a breeze moved some strands of hair that had been tucked behind her ear down to feather her cheek, and he gently brushed them back. She gave no sign that she noticed his show of affection, her eyes pinned to the trading post, where a group of teenagers on their way home from school, identifiable by their energy and the pink and red and turquoise packs on their backs, were jostling one another.

  —The other men seem to be deteriorating, Wilander said. I’m worried what might happen if I leave.

  —Are they having bad dreams as well? Arlene asked coolly. Is that a symptom of their deterioration?

  —I haven’t asked…but I get your point.

  —Do you?

  He slipped his left arm about her waist, the knuckle of his thumb grazing the underside of her breast. We’re still trying to see whether we fit together, he said. You agree?

  A pause, and then she nodded.

  —I’ve wanted to say certain things, he said, but it was too early to say them. I’m not sure I have grounds to say them, given where I’ve been the past few years.

  —You know that doesn’t matter!

  —But now, I think we’ve reached a point where somebody has to say something. You know, make a declaration. Would you agree with that?

  —Yes…maybe.

  —Well, I’m going to take a stab at it, okay?

  As he talked, Wilander believed he was speaking from the heart, but at the same time he had the suspicion that everything he might say would become true and by giving voice to only a handful of potential truths, he was being effectively dishonest and thus, perhaps, obscuring the thing he wanted to express—this supposition was informed by the last occasion upon which he had spoken at length, when, coerced by the dictatorial priest who managed the North Star Men’s Christian Refuge into offering public testimony regarding his devotion (completely specious) to Jesus Christ, he had experienced a similarly confusing interrelation between intent and performance, having brought a number of lost souls forward into the Lord’s embrace, despite entertaining substantial misgivings about the benefits of Christianity to the disenfranchised. Yet as he talked that afternoon, telling Arlene that he wasn’t arrogant enough to predict where the relationship would lead, though he hoped it would lead to deeper intimacy, to an unfailing union, his emotions fell in line with his words, or at least he no longer perceived so wide a distinction between them as he had during his impromptu sermon at the mission, and his tone grew impassioned, and he accompanied his message with caresses that, while intended to comfort and persuade, served also to inflame him. It was as if by admitting to love—to the desire for love, at any rate, since he did not mention the emotion directly—he surrendered to a thirst that had been half-wakened in him and now, thanks to his admission, was fully alive, fervently demanding. He wanted to be inside her, not later, but at that precise moment; he wanted to shuck off her chinos and sit her down on his lap and bury himself in the heat and juice of her, to touch her between the legs as they made love in view of the teenagers crowding together in front of the trading post, and was almost at the point of exploring her opinion on the subject—no one, he thought, would be able t
o see what they were doing at the distance—when Arlene lifted her hand, hesitantly, and touched his cheek. He kissed her fingertips, her wrist. It’s not you making me reticent, he said. It’s me, my lack of confidence.

  —I know. It’s just…I know.

  —There’s another thing I’d better tell you. It’s really the most important thing.

  She waited.

  —I think you’re hot.

  She made a sputtering noise, an unsuccessfully stifled laugh, and shook her head vigorously, saying, I must be crazy! God!

  —No, I’m serious. He grinned. You’re very hot.

  —Thank you. She composed herself and said, I haven’t heard you talk that way before.

  —Which way is that?

  —Saying I was hot.

  —It’s Terry’s influence. He’s mentioned a couple of times he thinks you’re pretty hot for an old babe.

  —He said that? I’ll have to give him a raise. She toed the trench she had dug in the earth. I guess you want to take things more slowly.

  —I worry I’m going to have problems if I go too fast. I don’t feel solid yet.

  —Problems? Like…?

  —The kind of problems that started me drinking. I don’t want to fail with you. You don’t deserve to have another wreck on your hands.

  —Aren’t you’re running a bigger risk of becoming a wreck by staying where you are? Arlene rested her chin on her knees. Living on a wreck. Among wrecks. It’s clearly affecting you.

  —It’s a challenge. But that may be what I need. And I don’t have to worry about ruining things with you.

  She was a quiet for a while and the shouts of the teenagers, as rancorous as the cries of gulls, filled in the gap. I have a challenge for you, she said.

  —Oh, yeah?

  —It’s an urgent challenge. One that requires your immediate attention.

  Puzzled, he said, Okay? What is it?

  She gave him a soft rap on the forehead. You’re a little thick today, aren’t you? I was attempting courtly speech.

  —I’m not familiar with it.

  —I thought you were such a big reader! It’s how knights and ladies flirted back in the Middle Ages. You know, the lady would say something like, Careful, sir, or you will prick me with your sword, and the knight would go, Could I but find the proper sheath, milady, it would do you no injury. And then she’d go, As it happens, sir, I have in my possession the finest and softest of sheaths, one that will never dull your blade. And then if he was having a bad brain day, like you, he’d say, You talking about sex?

  —See, I heard no mention of swords and sheaths. That’s what perplexed me.

  —You’re not perplexed anymore?

  —Try me. Engage me in courtly speech.

  —All right. Arlene appeared to deliberate. Why don’t we go up to the apartment?

  —Sounds good, Wilander said. I could stand a little sheath.

  Four

  “…I’m not sure what I’m seeing anymore…”

  Though Wilander had no compelling reason to feel responsible for his shipmates, he took renewed interest in their comings and goings following his conversation with Arlene, as though his expression of concern for their welfare had not been—as he intended it—a flimsy tactic designed to reject, temporarily, her invitation, but a self-fulfilling prophecy with the dutiful properties of a vow. This adjustment in attitude had a minimal effect upon his relationships with the elusive Mortensen, the habitually surly Halmus, and simple-minded Nygaard, but it did strengthen the tenuous bond between him and Arnsparger. They had coffee together now and again, most often in Wilander’s cabin, since it was the bigger of the two, and one evening, later than was customary, Arnsparger invited himself in as Wilander was preparing for sleep, bringing with him a cardboard box filled with triangular pieces of metal, each labeled and secured in its own jewel case; after urging Wilander to sit on the bed, he displayed them with a connoisseur’s pride, offering pertinent commentary, and though Wilander was not surprised to discover that Arnsparger’s samples had nothing to with the job, with evaluating the worth of Viator’s hull, he was astonished to learn that his guest’s obsession involved the classification of (in a thoroughly idiosyncratic fashion) the varieties of rust.

  —This one, now. Arnsparger opened a case and exhibited it with the panache of an upscale salesperson presenting a pricey necklace to a prospective buyer. This is chian. He sounded the name out—ki-ahn—and cautioned Wilander to be careful handling the piece; the flaking was extremely fragile. See how the metal appears to have effloresced. Here…and here. Like little arches. Almost a Moorish effect. And the blue…isn’t it wonderful? I guess you’d call it peacock blue. It must be a nickel alloy. I got the sample from the railing outside the bridge.

  —Why do you call it chian?

  —The name just hit me one morning. It seemed to fit. He allowed Wilander to examine the piece a few seconds longer, then took back the case. Now here…here we have an example of ozim.

  Ozim, a delicate overlay of black rust on red—like a Gothic lace, said Arnsparger; a scorpion’s idea of beauty—was followed by quipre, which Arnsparger characterized as a piece of chiaroscuro, and that was followed by shaumere, cuprise, noctul; by catrala, mosinque, tulis; by basarach, drundin, icthilio, ceranze, and more. Seventy-three varieties catalogued in accordance with aesthetic criteria whose determinants were either too subtle for Wilander to perceive—though he acknowledged that many of the pieces were lovely, like miniatures wrought by a tiny, deft hand—or else were a product of dementia. After listening to a two-hour lecture on the elegance of rust, he was convinced that Arnsparger, though more socialized than the other men, must be every bit as mad, and yet it was not the fact of his madness that dismayed Wilander, it was the effete, quasi-professorial air that Arnsparger affected while talking about his samples, a style that clashed with his usual bluff good humor and seemed incongruous coming from this overweight, slovenly fellow who looked less like an academic than he did a beer truck driver.

  —You seem quite knowledgeable about art, Wilander said as Arnsparger packed away his show-and-tell.

  —Me? Hell no! Arnsparger beamed. I know what I like. That’s as far as it goes.

  —But you’re familiar with artistic terms.

  —Oh, I ordered a couple of books after I started collecting. Maybe I picked up a few things. Arnsparger stowed the cardboard box beneath the wooden chair and took a seat. When I get home, I might do some painting. If I can get some technique down, all I have to do is copy my samples. They’re a damn sight prettier to look at than most of the stuff you see in museums.

  Wilander settled back on his bunk, plumped pillows beneath his head. What’s interesting to me is that both you and Halmus have become artistically inclined while aboard ship, yet neither of you have any arts background.

  —Huh! I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a coincidence, for sure. Time on our hands, I guess. This old ship—he patted the wall beside him—it’s got lots to show you, you take the time to check it out.

  —Does Nygaard have a similar artistic passion?

  —The poor guy imitates everything I do. He attached himself to me when he first came and he’s never gotten over it. So, yeah. He’s collected a boxful of kettle tops and stove parts…that kind of thing. But—Arnsparger nudged the box with his heel—it’s not the same as this.

  —No, I imagine not. Wilander reached up and fumbled about blindly on his overhead shelf for a candy bar, located two Paydays, and offered one to Arnsparger, who said that his teeth were bad enough, thank you. From outside the cabin there came a long, thin cry, metallic sounding, that planed away into a whispery frailty—Wilander pictured a tin bird with gem-cut glass orbs for eyes, perched high in the dark crown of the linden tree, mourning an incomprehensible loss. What about Mortensen? he asked. Does he have a hobby?

  —It’s funny about Mortensen. There’s times I think the guy’s nuts, but he’s too damn smart to be nuts.

  —Intelligenc
e is scarcely proof against insanity. The fact is, intelligent people tend to be more prone to certain types of mental illness.

  —You couldn’t prove it by me. I peaked in the fourth grade. Arnsparger chuckled. Mortensen, though…I tell you, crazy or not, he’s a smart son-of-a-bitch. But he’s not into collecting.

  —Halmus told me he was doing something with the hold.

  —Yeah. Usually he never stays with anything. He reads it and then he moves on to someplace else.

  —Reads? What do you mean?

  Arnsparger explained that Mortensen claimed the ability to interpret the ship through the signs manifest in its many surfaces. The rust and the glass, the raveled wiring, the accumulated dust, the powdery residues of chemicals—they were languages and Mortensen spent his time in mastering them, translating them. It sounds crazy, Arnsparger said. But when Mortensen talks about it, I get what he means. It’s like with my samples. When I come across a good one…they’re like these concise statements that pop up from the rusted surfaces. They come through clear, they seem to sum up what I’m seeing, what I’m thinking about what I’m seeing. Like with a slogan, you know. A decal or something.

  —But the hold…You seem to be suggesting he has a special relationship with it.

  —He spends a lot of time down there, writing stuff on the walls. But I don’t know. He’s liable to move on to something else.

  Wilander pressed him on the subject of Mortensen, but Arnsparger, after answering a couple of questions, tucked his chin onto his chest, pushing his lips in and out as might a sullen child, his replies growing terse; finally he scooped up the cardboard box, surged to his feet and said he needed to get going, there were things he had to do, and when Wilander, bewildered by this shift in mood, asked if he had in some way offended, Arnsparger said, I’m fed up with you pretending to be my buddy so you can pick my brain. I’m not a fucking reference library! and stormed out, leaving Wilander to consider whether he had been insufficiently enthusiastic about Arnsparger’s samples, or if the man’s reaction was attributable to an irrational fit of temper, or if he, Wilander, had inadvertently crossed some impalpable boundary, one of many such boundaries for which Viator appeared to serve as a nexus.