Viator

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.