Viator

—He was your friend! Telling you he was captain of a ship that he was sending you to salvage, to live on…that would be natural for a friend. He’d tell you things only he knew. He might want you to report on how his cabin looked, or if you found where he carved his initials.

—Swedish men of his generation, they don’t tend to be chatty about their pasts.

—Perhaps not. But this was such an important part of his life. Did I tell you…I can’t remember. About him losing his license? His company was going to prosecute him. He must have gone through hell. What happened with Viator changed everything for him.

—All the more reason he wouldn’t talk about it. He’s probably ashamed. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe that’s all that happened. He was drunk, he lost it and ruined his career.

He no longer heard the comedian and assumed that Arlene had gone into the living room and pictured her throwing magazines off the sofa and lying down, wearing her plaid flannel pajamas, the phone tucked between her shoulder and jaw; he went out onto the deck so he might feel closer to her, removing the barrier of iron, separated from her by darkness and trees alone.

—The maps, the other stuff you’ve talked about, Arlene said. Aren’t you anxious to learn what he knows?

—I’m interested, but not anxious.

—You know, I don’t understand this. Ever since I met you, you’ve been dying to know what Lunde had in mind, and now you’re all blasé…Like, whatever.

—I’m going to call him. All right? But it’s not the most urgent thing on my mind.

—What could be more urgent? It’s not like you’re overtaxed out there.

He started to say, no, he wasn’t overtaxed, not like her, he had no important inventory to take of spark plugs, tampons, Diet-Rite, string cheese (a favorite Inupiat treat), nothing so pressing as that, but he didn’t want an argument, no more than was already in the air, and he said, I’ll take care of it soon. I promise.

—We’re past making promises. Do it or don’t do it. It’s not my concern anymore.

He walked along the deck, moving toward the bow, passing beyond range of the spill of light from the mess, keeping a hand on the rail to guide himself through the dark. We don’t have to be enemies, do we? he asked. Even if you consider me worthless, an idiot, we can treat each other respectfully.

—For now, I have to be your enemy…a little.

He had the notion that the silence surrounding him was pouring out of the phone from Arlene’s apartment, which was flooded with an endless supply. The damp and chill of the night worked beneath his skin. He considered asking what would happen between them if he came to her a week from now, a month, but realized that whatever answer she gave, it would somehow serve to harden a negative attitude. I guess I should let you go, he told her.

—Yeah, I’ve got to sleep. Another early morning tomorrow.

—Okay. Well…Good night.

—Good night.