Viator

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 to 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…”