Viator

The weather dirtied up, cluttered gray skies, snow flurries driven by offshore winds, dazzling explosions of light, like huge photic rips in the landscape, no more than fifteen or twenty yards ahead of the prow, and the din of metal under stress grew so articulated, Wilander could imagine the precise injuries being done, the iron plates gouged, dimpling, tearing. Wind howled about the ship; fir trees dumped loads of old snow onto the decks, and snow blew across the shingle, building drifts against the boulders. At night they would go into the mess for an hour or so and during that time Aralyn would run outside, probably to do her business—he hadn’t attempted to instruct her on the use of the toilet—while he leafed through his maps, adding a detail or two, wondering if they were accurate, and after she returned, they would return to the cabin. Lunde called on Friday morning to hear his report (Wilander having failed to call) and, recognizing the number on his caller ID, not wanting to talk, Wilander switched off the phone and left it off. If they were leaving the Alaskan Coast, and he could no longer harbor any reasonable doubt that they were, he did not wish to spend his last minutes on earth supplying Lunde with a blow-by-blow account of the passage, committed to routine like an astronaut. He sat brooding on his bunk, despairing of himself for having traded in a decent life with Arlene for a trip to nowhere with this womanly animal, who was playing with a candy wrapper on the floor. A pretty animal, an animal who appeared to be naturally housebroken, a relatively intelligent animal, yet not a terrific conversationalist. She had forgotten Tom, but every so often she would smile, a smile whose seductive quality was neutralized by the vacancy in her eyes, and say, Food. They had only engaged in sex the once, but that night Wilander, who had reminisced about Arlene much of the day, tormenting himself with the idea of abandoning Viator, knowing he would never do it, came to feel so desolate that he could no longer psychically afford to give weight to the question of whether or not he was debasing himself—he wanted to lose track, to forget Viator, forget Halmus, Arnsparger, Nygaard, Mortensen, to forget Arlene, and he beckoned to Aralyn and patted the blanket beside him. Either she did not understand or she chose not to comply.

—Come here, he said, patting the blanket harder.