After a while he heard the putt-putting of a small boat approaching. An early fisherman, probably, heading down the creek. Soon the entire cabin rocked gently and the lamp swung a little from the boat’s wake. After a while the sound passed and it became quiet again… He wondered if he was going to get any more sleep himself. He remembered when he used to be a night person, going to bed at three or four in the morning and waking up at around noon. It seemed then that nothing of any importance could ever happen during the hours between dawn and late afternoon, and he avoided them as much as possible. Now it was the opposite. He had to be up with the sun or something was missing. It didn’t matter that there was nothing to do.
He picked up the slips on Dusenberry, put them back into the tray where they had been removed and then got up and tucked the tray into the pilot berth where it had come from. Above the pilot berth the portholes of the cabin showed light outside. He saw that the sky was somewhat overcast. It might clear up. The buildings across the harbor were gray. Some trees on the bank still had their leaves but they were brown and ready to fall. October colors.
He pushed the hatch back and stuck his head out.
It was cold out, but not as cold as before. A mild breeze rippled the water toward the stern of the boat, and he felt it on his face.
6
Richard Rigel awoke and looked at his watch. It was 7:45 already. He felt tired and cross. He had not had much sleep since that fool author and Lila Blewitt stumbled across his deck.
All night long, in and out, in and out, the wakes from passing boats caused that author’s barge next to him to push his own boat in and out against the dock like a railroad Pullman car. And there was nothing he could do about it.
He could have gotten up and adjusted the author’s lines himself. But that wasn’t his job.
What was really angering was that he hadn’t even granted the author permission to raft. The author had been told in Oswego he could raft because of the emergency there and evidently had taken it as a lifetime privilege.
Now no more sleep was possible. He would have to make the best of it. Bill would have to get up too. There was much to be done today.
Richard Rigel went to the forecabin of the boat, found Capella with a pillow over his head and pulled it off. Get up, Bill, he said.
Capella opened his eyes, looked startled and then sat up quickly.
Much to do today, Rigel repeated.
Capella yawned and looked at his watch. They said they’d take us at nine to get the mast up.
Rigel replied, We should be ready for an earlier opening.
He went back to his aft cabin, removed his pajamas, carefully folded them and put them in the drawer. Only a week left before going back. He could get Simonsen to take over his court appearances, but if he were lucky and there were no more delays he might still get back in time… What a completely rotten vacation.
Capella’s voice said, What about next door?
You mean the "Great Author"? Rigel replied. I don’t think the "Great Author" will be up this morning.
Why not? Capella asked.
Didn’t you hear him last night?
No.
You certainly must have been sleeping soundly… Of course! You were forward. He fell on my cabin.
He fell?
Yes, he and that woman he was dancing with stumbled across the deck and fell evidently. I didn’t want to get into it so I didn’t go up there. What a commotion!
In the boat’s head Richard Rigel drew a basin of heated water with which to wash his face and shave. He said loudly, We’ve got to get free of his boat before we can move. You’ll have to go over and wake him up.
Wake him up? Capella repeated.
Yes, Richard Rigel replied. He was in no condition to set an alarm clock.
He added, more softly, I wonder what his situation is, to pick up someone like her.
The water was steaming hot but there wasn’t much satisfaction in that now. Two years ago it had cost him an arm and a leg to have this hot water system installed. He had to wait a whole summer for it. Now he was selling the boat. Everything changes. Nothing is predictable any more.
Rigel vigorously soaped the warm wash cloth and applied it to his face. He thought the Great Author’s respectful readers should have seen him last night dancing with Lila. They probably wouldn’t have minded though. Among his respectful readers drunkenness and whoring were probably considered some form of Quality.
It was interesting to get a look at someone like him up close. In Oswego he seemed so reserved. They look so fine from a distance but when you see them up close for what they really are then all the cracks and blemishes appear. He wasn’t reserved. He was just boorish.
Last night was typical. After listening to the author talk on and on about some pet idea about nothingness, Rigel had tried to illustrate the point with a fishing story. The Great Author didn’t even listen. Rigel had tried to warn him about sailing alone off shore and he wouldn’t listen. And then after he had warned him about Lila he had the nerve to invite her to their table.
Boorish. What made it so hard to stand was that it wasn’t deliberate. He just didn’t know any better… He seemed so naive most of the time and yet there was something… clever about him that infuriated. He shouldn’t let him make him so angry like this. He didn’t really matter that much… If he wasn’t careful he was going to cut himself with this razor.
There were enough people like that, of course, but what made this all so insufferable was that here was a man who was passing himself off as an expert on Quality, with a capital Q. And he got away with it! It was like watching some ambulance chaser sway a jury. Once he got them emotionally on his side there wasn’t much you could do about it.
Richard Rigel emptied the basin, rinsed it neatly, then folded the towel and put it on its rack to dry properly.
Capella said, If I’m going to wake him up, what am I going to tell him about his boat?
Rigel thought for a while. I suppose I should be the one to talk to him, he said.
He would do it tactfully. He’d invite him to breakfast, and then when the author turned the invitation down, he would be up and awake so that he could be told his boat needed moving.
Now clean and shaven Richard Rigel felt a little better. He watched in the mirror as he combed his hair into respectability, then tried on a tie. It didn’t look right. With Gary Grant features like his own it would be inappropriate to be overdressed, particularly in a place like this. He removed the tie, unbuttoned the collar and carefully opened it a little. Much better.
He climbed to the deck and looked around at the harbor. There were old rotting timbers and hulks that had to be crossed by a series of precarious gangplanks to get to dry land. One was lucky if he didn’t break his neck. Probably it would be a whole day wasted here.