Viator

—Oh, yes. JL Enterprises.

Wilander gave her a doubtful look.

—JL Enterprises. Jochanan Lunde. They pay all your bills. She sprinkled parmesan on a slice. So he’s changed his mind about that? About giving you a place to recuperate?

—Maybe…I don’t know. See, when I call Lunde—I call him weekly to give reports—he’s very crisp. Perfunctory to the point of rudeness. It’s like he’s too busy to talk. Arnsparger thinks that he was only pretending to befriend us and he sent us here for a reason he hasn’t explained. Me, I think Arnsparger was right the first time and it’s more a case of Lunde’s done what he can for us, now he’s on to something else. Perhaps he’s found someone new to befriend, someone he’ll send to join us. Charity or not, I’m grateful to him. I’m glad to be here. Glad to have this time.

Arlene mopped up excess parmesan from her slice with a napkin, taking—Wilander thought—an inordinate time to do so.

—What are you thinking? he asked.

—If I tell you, we’ll talk about it, and if we talk about it, it might make you self-conscious.

—I’m already self-conscious.

—Why don’t you trust me on this? I’ll tell you later.

—Maybe it won’t be necessary.

—No, probably not, she said and laughed, two bright notes that reminded Wilander of the stairstep notes a soprano might hit before essaying high C.

—What’s so funny?

—I was thinking how economical a little scene that was we just played.

He thought he grasped her meaning, but not being altogether familiar with her ways, he chose not to comment.

One of the two teenage Inupiat girls behind the counter, framed by a white arch on which a mural of polar bears romping across pack ice had been amateurishly attempted, sat on her stool and gazed glumly out at the tables, at two elderly women in blond wigs and anoraks and jeans sitting close to the door, speaking in whispers as they ate (a lesbian couple originally from Portland, Arlene said), and the other employee, a slightly younger girl, possibly the sister of the first, was leaning on the counter beside her and aiming a remote at a television set mounted on the wall above the tables, channel surfing—she settled on MTV, brought up the volume, and a faint music was heard. Arlene swallowed a bite and said, I can’t picture you as an investment counselor.

—I wasn’t a very good investment counselor, Wilander said. I probably shouldn’t have majored in business. But at the time there wasn’t anything I was passionate about. Might have worked out if I hadn’t followed my own advice.

—That’s what I don’t understand—why you chose such a career in the first place.

—I thought it’d be easy money. What sort of career should I have had?

She tipped her head to one side, studying him. A landscape architect, she said firmly, and had another bite.

Wilander laughed, and when she asked what was funny, he said, I wasn’t expecting a specific answer.

She shrugged, chewed. What will you do after you leave the ship?

—For work, you mean?

—Work. Yes.

—I’m not sure. I know I don’t want another career. Nothing that’ll make me crazy, take all my time. Just honest work. Simple work. Physical labor, maybe. I wouldn’t mind getting back in shape.

The Inupiat girls burst into giggles behind the counter and Wilander, suspecting that he and Arlene might be the object of their amusement, glanced at them over his shoulder—they were turning the pages of a magazine with brightly colored pictures.

—You should eat, Arlene said. It’ll get cold.

Though not particularly hungry, Wilander devoured a slice in three bites, leaving the crust. Duty done, he gazed out the window at twilit houses and the dirt street and mountains in the distance with exposed ridges of black stone and snowy slopes, pyramids of white meat larded with black fat, and tried to think of something to say, something casual that would nudge the conversation toward a plateau from which they could gracefully ascend to the central topic of the evening, the topic he considered central, at any rate. His instincts with women, once sure, had long since been stripped from him and, his confidence beginning to erode, he worried that he was rushing things, that he had misjudged the moment. Everything he thought to say seemed overly subtle or childishly manipulative, and soon he began to worry that instead of rushing things, he might be letting the moment slip away.

—I may have some work for you. Arlene dusted a slice with red peppers, using her forefinger to tap flakes of pepper from the jar, taking great pains to distribute them evenly. The afternoon boat brought me a shipment. A lot of it’s heavy stuff. Generators and TVs. I could manage myself, but I’ve got calls I’d like to make as soon as business opens on the East Coast and the boat’ll be pulling out around seven. You’d have to start before first light.

—That sounds possible, Wilander said. I could probably…

—I can put you up. Be easier than walking into town at three in the morning.