Viator

He hurried along the passageway of the officer’s deck, thinking Arlene might be down at the opposite end, by the galley and the stairs leading to the engine room, but as he passed the mess he saw her standing beside the dining table. She was wearing a red-and-black plaid wool jacket and jeans, her hair tied back, and she was peering at his maps, which were scattered about on table, chairs, and floor. The light from the ports seemed ancient light, the light of centuries past, the pearly gray glow that Vermeer used to cast a glum benediction upon the subjects of certain portraits—it limned her figure and lent her skin a low polish, as of marble. ’Morning, he said, and she flicked a glance his way, the sort of look you’d give an incompetent waiter before turning your eyes away and asking for the check in a surly voice. She indicated the maps and asked, This is why you needed the sketchpads?

—It’s just something to pass the time.

—You felt a need to pass the time? The tedium was that great? Being with me is so boring, you prefer…what? She swatted at the maps, knocking several to the floor, anger breaking through her neutral pose. What’s this all about?

—Maps. Wilander went a few steps into the room. How can you say I’m bored with you?

She put a forefinger to her chin, making a show of pondering the question. Let’s see. Not hearing from you for three days, that was my first clue.

—It hasn’t been three days!

—Does time pass more slowly? How long do you think it’s been?

Wilander couldn’t come up with a number, but realized it might have been longer than he thought. It’s been three days? Really?

Arlene spat out a disgusted noise and stared down at the table once again. Maps of what? she asked.

—I’m sorry. I don’t understand how it happened. I must…I don’t know. Maybe…

—Maps of what? She slapped the table with her palm and shrilled at him. What? What is this?

Again, Wilander was so disconcerted, he could only offer a stammering reply. I told you, it’s nothing, just…just a…

—They have something to do with Viator, don’t they? She idled along the table, inspecting more of the maps. You’re crazy like the rest of them.

—It’s not crazy. I’m not sure how to explain it, but…

—But I’m dying to hear your explanation! Are they, like, your rust? Your broken glass?

—There’s no use getting angry.

—I’m not angry. Not anymore.

—Yeah, I can tell.

—Okay, I’m angry. Three days without a word, I was…

—We didn’t sign any papers, said Wilander resentfully.

In Arlene’s stare, in the configuration of fine lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, he saw scorn directed at him and also at herself, the self-ridicule of a woman who had committed an act of folly, one she had committed many times before and had sworn never to repeat.

—I was worried, she said. I thought you might be sick. I didn’t realize you had such important work to do. She took a less aggressive swat at the maps. You’re damn right, I’m angry. And I’m sad. She snatched up a sheet of sketch paper and thrust it at him. Go ahead. Explain it to me.

—So you can make fun of me? That’s what you want?

—So I can understand what’s wrong with you. Her voice broke and she struggled to control her features. I know there’s something wrong.

The tension between them softened and wavered, but when neither one moved to close the distance or to speak, Wilander sensed it hardening again, and their silence might have held if Terry hadn’t entered the mess, coming up behind Wilander and asking Arlene how much longer she intended to stay, then, on spotting the maps, brushing past him to have a look and saying, What’s all this shit? And Wilander, forced by Terry’s interruption to adopt some stance, to break the tension, called their attention to the wall and asked if they saw the landscape thereon. He pointed out firs, hills, the city, the lagoon, the coastline, the islands, feeling foolish as he did, certain that he was confirming Arlene’s characterization of his behavior, but at the same time feeling defiant, secure in what he believed, as if her challenge had confirmed something in him, the knowledge that he was not crazy, and given a reliable value to all the things he half-believed about Viator—they were true; perhaps not wholly accurate, but true. And they were significant. He was onto something here. Do you see it? he asked, and Arlene admitted, It’s there, yeah. Terry fiddled with his lighter, clicking it open and shut, appearing disinterested. That’s what the maps are of, Wilander said. You can see different views of the same place on the other walls.

Arlene said, They’re becoming visible…the pictures? They weren’t always there?

—That’s right.

She fingered the edge of one map, studying it. Let’s say that’s true…

—I can show you! Every wall—almost all of them—has an image of the same exact place. It can’t be coincidence.

—Fine. But I don’t have time for a tour, so let’s say it’s true. Arms folded, she came to stand facing him, a foot away. That’s the reason you’re staying here?