Viator

Eight

“…What the fuck’s wrong with you…”

The morning following the first snowfall, a light snow that sugared the tops of the fir boughs and the boulders along the shore and left the decks slick, Wilander, sitting in the officers’ mess, phoned Jochanan Lunde to make his report, and when the old man asked if anything out of the ordinary had occurred, Wilander related the tale of his months aboard Viator, omitting nothing, inflecting each incident with a kind of venomous relish (You want out of the ordinary? Take a bite of this!) that, he thought, might have been brought on by his long repression of it—he told Lunde about the recurring dreams, the ropy flying creatures that dominated them, about Mortensen’s apocryphal admonitions, about the maps that appeared on the walls, about the wiccara and the qwazil, about the blazing lights and the groans that issued from the heart of the forest (a phenomenon repeated on three occasions thusfar), and he further related his thoughts and feelings about these matters, his ongoing invention of a history and ecology to suit Cape Lorraine and the Iron Shore, his idée fixe that Viator’s journey might not have not ended. And after the old man failed to offer an immediate response, other than to mutter a curse in Swedish, not a wicked curse, but a profane word used in astonishment, Wilander asked Lunde to explain why he had sent them to live onboard the ship, saying that he refused to believe that they were doing preliminary work for a salvage operation.

Lunde kept silent a few seconds longer and then said, I don’t wish to talk about this. Perhaps we can touch on it next time.

—Why not now?

—I have business to attend. But keep me informed, will you? It might be helpful for you to call more frequently. Every few days or so. Now…are you set with supplies?

—We have food and water for three months. We could stand to lay in some more gas for the generator. It’ll take longer to order once winter’s here.

—Very well. Order it. And call me. Call me Friday. From now on why don’t you call every Friday as well as Mondays?

At this juncture, Wilander, after months of worrying that the old man might become angry and terminate them, caught something in Lunde’s voice, an undercurrent of excitement breaking through his stern manner, that made him realize that he, not his employer, held the upper hand. You’re not hearing me, he said. I want to know what’s going on.

—I beg your pardon?

—With Viator. I want to know what’s happening to us.

—You’re not making sense. How can I help you with that? I’m not there with you.

—Yeah, you’ve said that before. But you were Viator’s captain. You were aboard when she ran aground. That’s what I want to hear about.

—How did you learn this? Lunde asked.

—Don’t worry about it. Just tell me what went on.

Flustered, Lunde said, It’s not in my interests to discuss the subject. I’m not permitted to, uh…There are legal issues, you see. I’m not…

—Let me be clear. If you won’t talk to me, I’ll pull the crew off the ship.

Lunde fell silent again and, afraid that his bluff would be called, because he wasn’t certain that he could pull himself off the ship, let alone the others, or that he could even find them all, because it had been a week since he’d seen Mortensen and several days since he’d seen Halmus, Wilander decided that the wisest course was to raise his own bluff and said, I’ll pull them off today. I may not be able to move Nygaard. And Mortensen may resist. But neither of those guys is capable of making reports. Nygaard’s a borderline idiot and Mortensen’s turned into John the fucking Baptist. And that’s what this is about, isn’t it? The reports? You need somebody to tell you what’s going on. There’s something about Viator you want to know. You must be desperate to know it. Why else spend so much money and effort to send us here?

—I can’t tell you anything, Lunde said weakly. You’ve already gone past…

Wilander waited for him to continue; finally, to prompt him, he asked, Past what?

—Maybe I know enough. Lunde’s breath came ragged. Maybe it’s time to end this.

—If you think you know anything, Wilander said, I want to hear about it.

Lunde chuckled. I know I’m not just a crazy old man. That’s more than I expected.

Wilander was dismayed by the chuckle—it implied that Lunde was looking from a remote, whimsical perspective upon a situation that he, Wilander, found deadly serious and far from remote. Do you want me to pull the crew? he asked. Or are you going to explain things to me?

—You may be disappointed with what I have to say. You’ve told me far more than I can tell you. But…why not? Hang on. I need to speak with my secretary. Muffled voices; papers rustling; a woman’s laugh. All right. I’m back.

—I’m waiting.