—Problems? Like…?
—The kind of problems that started me drinking. I don’t want to fail with you. You don’t deserve to have another wreck on your hands.
—Aren’t you’re running a bigger risk of becoming a wreck by staying where you are? Arlene rested her chin on her knees. Living on a wreck. Among wrecks. It’s clearly affecting you.
—It’s a challenge. But that may be what I need. And I don’t have to worry about ruining things with you.
She was a quiet for a while and the shouts of the teenagers, as rancorous as the cries of gulls, filled in the gap. I have a challenge for you, she said.
—Oh, yeah?
—It’s an urgent challenge. One that requires your immediate attention.
Puzzled, he said, Okay? What is it?
She gave him a soft rap on the forehead. You’re a little thick today, aren’t you? I was attempting courtly speech.
—I’m not familiar with it.
—I thought you were such a big reader! It’s how knights and ladies flirted back in the Middle Ages. You know, the lady would say something like, Careful, sir, or you will prick me with your sword, and the knight would go, Could I but find the proper sheath, milady, it would do you no injury. And then she’d go, As it happens, sir, I have in my possession the finest and softest of sheaths, one that will never dull your blade. And then if he was having a bad brain day, like you, he’d say, You talking about sex?
—See, I heard no mention of swords and sheaths. That’s what perplexed me.
—You’re not perplexed anymore?
—Try me. Engage me in courtly speech.
—All right. Arlene appeared to deliberate. Why don’t we go up to the apartment?
—Sounds good, Wilander said. I could stand a little sheath.
Four
“…I’m not sure what I’m seeing anymore…”
Though Wilander had no compelling reason to feel responsible for his shipmates, he took renewed interest in their comings and goings following his conversation with Arlene, as though his expression of concern for their welfare had not been—as he intended it—a flimsy tactic designed to reject, temporarily, her invitation, but a self-fulfilling prophecy with the dutiful properties of a vow. This adjustment in attitude had a minimal effect upon his relationships with the elusive Mortensen, the habitually surly Halmus, and simple-minded Nygaard, but it did strengthen the tenuous bond between him and Arnsparger. They had coffee together now and again, most often in Wilander’s cabin, since it was the bigger of the two, and one evening, later than was customary, Arnsparger invited himself in as Wilander was preparing for sleep, bringing with him a cardboard box filled with triangular pieces of metal, each labeled and secured in its own jewel case; after urging Wilander to sit on the bed, he displayed them with a connoisseur’s pride, offering pertinent commentary, and though Wilander was not surprised to discover that Arnsparger’s samples had nothing to with the job, with evaluating the worth of Viator’s hull, he was astonished to learn that his guest’s obsession involved the classification of (in a thoroughly idiosyncratic fashion) the varieties of rust.
—This one, now. Arnsparger opened a case and exhibited it with the panache of an upscale salesperson presenting a pricey necklace to a prospective buyer. This is chian. He sounded the name out—ki-ahn—and cautioned Wilander to be careful handling the piece; the flaking was extremely fragile. See how the metal appears to have effloresced. Here…and here. Like little arches. Almost a Moorish effect. And the blue…isn’t it wonderful? I guess you’d call it peacock blue. It must be a nickel alloy. I got the sample from the railing outside the bridge.
—Why do you call it chian?
—The name just hit me one morning. It seemed to fit. He allowed Wilander to examine the piece a few seconds longer, then took back the case. Now here…here we have an example of ozim.
Ozim, a delicate overlay of black rust on red—like a Gothic lace, said Arnsparger; a scorpion’s idea of beauty—was followed by quipre, which Arnsparger characterized as a piece of chiaroscuro, and that was followed by shaumere, cuprise, noctul; by catrala, mosinque, tulis; by basarach, drundin, icthilio, ceranze, and more. Seventy-three varieties catalogued in accordance with aesthetic criteria whose determinants were either too subtle for Wilander to perceive—though he acknowledged that many of the pieces were lovely, like miniatures wrought by a tiny, deft hand—or else were a product of dementia. After listening to a two-hour lecture on the elegance of rust, he was convinced that Arnsparger, though more socialized than the other men, must be every bit as mad, and yet it was not the fact of his madness that dismayed Wilander, it was the effete, quasi-professorial air that Arnsparger affected while talking about his samples, a style that clashed with his usual bluff good humor and seemed incongruous coming from this overweight, slovenly fellow who looked less like an academic than he did a beer truck driver.
—You seem quite knowledgeable about art, Wilander said as Arnsparger packed away his show-and-tell.
—Me? Hell no! Arnsparger beamed. I know what I like. That’s as far as it goes.
—But you’re familiar with artistic terms.
—Oh, I ordered a couple of books after I started collecting. Maybe I picked up a few things. Arnsparger stowed the cardboard box beneath the wooden chair and took a seat. When I get home, I might do some painting. If I can get some technique down, all I have to do is copy my samples. They’re a damn sight prettier to look at than most of the stuff you see in museums.
Wilander settled back on his bunk, plumped pillows beneath his head. What’s interesting to me is that both you and Halmus have become artistically inclined while aboard ship, yet neither of you have any arts background.
—Huh! I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a coincidence, for sure. Time on our hands, I guess. This old ship—he patted the wall beside him—it’s got lots to show you, you take the time to check it out.
—Does Nygaard have a similar artistic passion?
—The poor guy imitates everything I do. He attached himself to me when he first came and he’s never gotten over it. So, yeah. He’s collected a boxful of kettle tops and stove parts…that kind of thing. But—Arnsparger nudged the box with his heel—it’s not the same as this.
—No, I imagine not. Wilander reached up and fumbled about blindly on his overhead shelf for a candy bar, located two Paydays, and offered one to Arnsparger, who said that his teeth were bad enough, thank you. From outside the cabin there came a long, thin cry, metallic sounding, that planed away into a whispery frailty—Wilander pictured a tin bird with gem-cut glass orbs for eyes, perched high in the dark crown of the linden tree, mourning an incomprehensible loss. What about Mortensen? he asked. Does he have a hobby?
—It’s funny about Mortensen. There’s times I think the guy’s nuts, but he’s too damn smart to be nuts.
—Intelligence is scarcely proof against insanity. The fact is, intelligent people tend to be more prone to certain types of mental illness.
—You couldn’t prove it by me. I peaked in the fourth grade. Arnsparger chuckled. Mortensen, though…I tell you, crazy or not, he’s a smart son-of-a-bitch. But he’s not into collecting.
—Halmus told me he was doing something with the hold.
—Yeah. Usually he never stays with anything. He reads it and then he moves on to someplace else.
—Reads? What do you mean?
Arnsparger explained that Mortensen claimed the ability to interpret the ship through the signs manifest in its many surfaces. The rust and the glass, the raveled wiring, the accumulated dust, the powdery residues of chemicals—they were languages and Mortensen spent his time in mastering them, translating them. It sounds crazy, Arnsparger said. But when Mortensen talks about it, I get what he means. It’s like with my samples. When I come across a good one…they’re like these concise statements that pop up from the rusted surfaces. They come through clear, they seem to sum up what I’m seeing, what I’m thinking about what I’m seeing. Like with a slogan, you know. A decal or something.