Viator

—Yes. The metal of the hull and superstructure. The rest, the fixtures, the galley, the engine…what’s left of it. All that’s Nygaard’s responsibility.

—And Mortensen?

Halmus appeared to consider the question. Lately, he said, he’s been preoccupied with the hold.

—Preoccupied, you say. Wilander swung his legs off the edge of the bunk and sat up. It seems you need little direction from me, but I should remind you this is a job, not a preoccupation. Lunde is depending on us.

—Lunde has no interest in what we do.

—On the contrary. He stated his interest quite clearly to me. We’re to provide him with an estimate so he can decide what to do with this old wreck.

Halmus’ face tightened in a scowl, as if he were displeased by the term old wreck. Shall I tell you about your relationship with our Mister Lunde?

—If you think it’s relevant.

Halmus glared at Wilander and said, Relevant? What would you know of relevance? You’ve been here a week!

—I know I want to keep this job. Steady work, unchallenging work, with virtually no expenses. That’s what’s relevant to me.

Halmus lifted his right hand to his ear, palm outward, fingers curved, as if intending to hurl an invisible stone, and for a time he was incapable of coherent speech. Why should I talk to you? he said with disdain, letting his had fall. You’re the husband of the linden tree. You have no speciality.

Several evenings later, Arden Nygaard knocked politely and inquired of Wilander whether he might be able to obtain a tool for the purpose of stripping chrome. He was slight and clean shaven, with limp gray hair and stooped shoulders, schoolteacherish in his wire-rimmed glasses, and yet he was possessed of a gaze so mild and unvarying, it gave the impression that he was simple-minded, dredging up Wilander’s memories of dwellers in street missions and homeless shelters, men whose intellects, brutalized by poverty and alcohol, had been pared down to childlike proportions and who would happily stare for hours at a shoe or a stain on the wall, seeing there some delightful shape or a fantasy incited by that shape, and this impression of impairment, of gentle madness, was furthered by his response to the question, Why don’t you walk into Kaliaska and order the tool?, which was, I don’t like going there, followed by a prolonged nodding, as if he were serially reaffirming the statement, testing its validity by examining it from various angles, satis fying himself that its application to the matter was appropriate in every respect. Wilander thought to ask why he didn’t like going to the village, but, suspecting that Nygaard would be no more incisive in his response and distressed by the presence of this sad little fellow who reminded him of a day not long removed when he had lived among such men and might himself have been seen as impaired by the casual eye, he sought to cut short the visit and promised that he would order the stripping tool the next time he went for supplies. Nygaard shuffled over to the sink and touched one of the faucets, petting the chrome, then smiled weakly at Wilander and went on his way.

Having had this much experience of Halmus and Nygaard, Wilander speculated that the other two members of the crew might also be mentally deficient, but Henrik Arnsparger, red-cheeked, round-faced, fortyish and plump, his belly overlapping the waist of grease-stained chinos, with thinning blond hair and an affable, garrulous disposition that seemed to fit within the parameters of normal behavior, eased Wilander’s concerns; and when Arnsparger flopped into the swivel chair beside the tiny writing desk affixed to the cabin wall and let his burlap sack drop with a clank onto the floor and started in talking as if they were great friends who hadn’t seen one another for a while, Wilander thought that here was an ally, someone in whom he could confide, someone who would give straight answers to his questions and not carry tales, and thus he asked Arnsparger to explain a few things: Why had Halmus called him the husband of the linden tree; what had he meant by saying that Lunde had no interest in the crew’s performance; and why was Nygaard reticent about going into Kaliaska?

—You can never be sure what’s going on in Nygaard’s head, Arnsparger said. That guy’s got no roof on his attic. Things fly in and fly right out again. But none of us like spending time in town. You’ve seen it. It’s a horrible place. Drunks and snarling dogs and hostile stares. As for Halmus, I suppose he was talking about this linden tree. The one outside your port.

—I can’t think what else he could have meant.

Arnsparger leaned back and blew out air through his lips as if snuffing a candle. Mortensen said something when I first arrived. We were the only two here, then, and he took me under his wing. He was a real talker in those days. Not so much now.

—How long has he been here?