by Kim Ekemar
Irving muttered something inaudible and repeatedly wiped the mist off the windscreen.
“Don’t worry, Irving”, Oona chirped, “we have chains on the wheels and everything's …”
She stopped, because there was a sudden heavy thud and the van keeled over to the left.
Irving and I looked at each other – I worried and he with the wrinkled forehead he always put up when he didn’t understand. He stepped on the gas and the car only skidded. Outside the misty windows, the snow kept coming down heavily. Irving turned off the engine. Everything went quiet except for the wind and the muffled sound of snowflakes landing on the car.
“What are we going to do now?” Oona whispered showing off her large eyes in the light from the dashboard.
Irving mumbled sullenly, hiding what probably was a curse underneath a sigh. I felt nervous. This kind of situation falls under the things I detest the most the need for improvisation to get out of a tough spot.
“Irving, what are we going to do?” she repeated.
Irving looked at me again. With a new sigh and a gesture of resignation he opened the door on his side and drifted out into the storm. Neither Oona nor I said anything. The only thing we could see on the outside was an inferno made of snow. A scratching sound came from the back of the car.
It did not take long before Irving opened the door again, brushed off the snow as much as he could and placed himself in the driver's seat. The expression on his face was worried, to say the least.
“It looks as if the left rear axle is broken”, he sighed. “It will be impossible to continue before replacing it.”
“Does it mean that we have to wait here until our other van arrives?” Oona asked.
“An option is walking the rest of the way to Haven”, Irving replied. “How far did you say it is, Corey? Five miles?”
“Between five and ten miles, but I'm not sure”, I answered him. “We’ll never make it walking to Haven in this storm. If we tried, we would most probably get lost.”
“I'm not overly excited by the thought of having to wait here freezing until our other van arrives.” He wrinkled his eyebrows in that peculiar way he had whenever he arrived at a conclusion about something important. “Tom and Jimmy have of course realized that they can't leave in this blizzard. If they left after lunch, they turned back when they understood that they wouldn't be able to reach Haven tonight. We have to accept that we can't expect help until the storm abates, which may be in three days, one week or even two, if we're unlucky and the storm holds out.”
He looked at us one at a time before he continued. Irving was never one to be cheerful when he sensed trouble.
“If bad becomes worse, we will most likely freeze to death if we remain here. With the motor running we're lucky to stay warm for a few hours more. After that we have to put on whatever clothing we have and adjust ourselves to the Inuit way of living. As you have no doubt noticed the temperature has dropped noticeably since we left this morning.”
Oona wrapped herself in her big fur coat and shuddered as she listened to Irving's words. I had slipped my padded anorak over the huge woolen sweater I already wore. That the temperature was sinking was self-evident by the cold nibbling our cheeks.
“Contrary to what you're saying, I think it's safer to stay in the van,’ I objected. ‘We will manage fine up to three or four days if that should be necessary.”
Irving looked at me with scorn.
“You don't understand what I'm trying to say here”, he said. “This is just the beginning. We won't make it if we remain here passively.’ He turned to Oona. ‘Oona, what do you think we should do?”
She hesitated.
“I'm not quite sure. If it's true that Haven lies within a couple of hours’ walking distance I would agree with you that we could try to make it through the storm. On the other hand …” she looked meaningfully through the side window, “… it will soon get completely dark, and what would happen if we get lost as Corey said?”
Irving snorted.
“Well, then I suggest that we resolve the problem the following way. Since neither of you seem to have any particular interest in hiking the insignificant distance to Haven, I will do it alone. I can't accept that the three of us remain here with the prospect of freezing to death. Let me see, it's now three o'clock and I should be able to reach Haven in less than five hours. Then I'll find a snowplow that can tow our van and we will return to you … hrm, surely not later than midnight.” He gave me an admonitory glance. “Keep the motor running for warmth, but don't forget to turn it off regularly. Use wisely what fuel you have until I come back.”
Oona watched him with admiration.
“Irving, are you going to be all right?” Her big eyes shone at him. “Are you sure you won't get lost?”
He laughed.
“Oona, don't worry. Do you see the long poles with red and yellow markings by the side of the road?”
Impulsively Oona and I looked out. It was absolutely impossible to see anything beyond the snowflakes flying past the window.
“I’ll follow those poles and that way I will stay on the road all the time”, Irving continued merrily. “As a bonus I’ll keep myself warm from the exercise. It will be worse for you.”
He smiled good-humoredly.
Nothing he said could make me change my conviction that it was safer in the van. Irving had always been like that; he took unnecessary risks, went ahead recklessly, and acted on his first impulse. Oona looked a bit confused, but then gave him a hint of a smile. I imagined she considered his actions romantic.
Irving put on an extra sweater and his long, fur-trimmed ocher coat. In his coat, and with the flaps of his enormous fur hat covering his ears, he certainly looked in shape to reach Haven. Before he left, he turned off all lights to not tax the car battery.
“Remember, I'm back not later than midnight”, he said self-assuredly.
Irving stepped out of the van, waved a last time before shutting the door, and then he was gone.
The storm seemed to have waited for Irving's departure to really show off its might. Up till this moment the sound surrounding us had been a whimper compared to the howling that now filled our ears. Oona and I sat silently and heard the storm intensify.
Strangely enough, after a while I became more conscious of her breathing than the storm's howling. Although I had met her nearly daily for years, it had been a long time since we had been sitting alone together. It felt odd, and I did not need to watch her to be affected by her presence. I always kept her image within me.
“Will he will make it?” she mumbled, pleading for my agreement.
I did not reply at once. I wanted to declare my dislike that Irving had left us to go to Haven for help. This kind of foolhardy enterprise was probably what made women fall in love with Irving and not with me.
“He will make it”, I finally confirmed, ‘but not back here tonight.”
I didn’t realize how wrong I was.
January 24 – 30, 1973
Paul Crimson’s diary
Notes and letters exchanged between Paul Crimson and John Partridge
January 24, 1973
Isn’t it strange? No sooner am I writing about the fictitious breakdown of a van when the one Dan lent me skidded over the road and ended up in a huge snowdrift. I guess I’m not used to driving on icy roads. Inocencia was very nice about it, she just smiled and blamed it on the worn down tires. Dan wasn’t home when it happened, and anyway the van suffered nothing but a few scratches.
While she went over to the neighbor to borrow his car she sent me down to the basement to fetch a rope to haul the vehicle up on the road. She returned with a pickup truck and said the neighbor hadn’t been home, but that he wouldn’t mind us using his vehicle to get ours up on its wheels again.
Afterwards she made me laugh about the incident, and I felt good again. She’s so gentle and understanding. I insisted on helping her with the tea and cookies and cakes and whatnot that she prepares e
very afternoon. First she wouldn’t let me, but she finally gave in. We laughed a lot about silly things while getting her embroidered napkins and ridiculous butter knives and delicious scones ready. The dozens of details she insists should be on a simple tray of afternoon tea are just unbelievable. We took it together in the living room. Dan was away at work, something that had to do with the icebreaker since the weather is expected to get colder and the wind is picking up.
I didn’t see Lorena at all after lunch, which was a good thing. I had a wonderful time with Inocencia on my own.
January 25, 1973
The mailman delivered another note from JP today. JP is very brief and to the point, and he writes me several times a week to keep my spirits up. The mailman, who Inocencia told me is called Mr. Lockwood, takes a pleasure in ringing the doorbell and personally delivering his letters to Inocencia. She is always very thoughtful and lets him into the hallway, sometimes offering him a cup of coffee or hot cocoa. Well, the weather is not very uplifting and Inocencia is a beautiful woman – who can blame him? Yet, after the third or fourth time that I happened to be around when Inocencia let him over her doorstep, I began to notice things about him. He is really a strange-looking fellow. His face is pockmarked, with a jutting chin. Beneath the raven black hair and a blue cap that has been through better days his eyes watch everything - but with a kind of mistrust about them. It’s difficult to describe. From the hallway his view is limited to the living room and the kitchen, both which he must have seen hundreds of times, yet he studies every detail with a longing look that almost leaves an imprint upon what he has set his eyes. He’s a man around 40 – 45, of small build and very unappealing. Inocencia said poor Lockwood never got married and lives in limited conditions, as if that would explain everything about his odd behavior. I suspect he desperately wants the life Dan has, and that’s why he calls on Inocencia only when he sees Dan’s van is gone.
After yet another of Inocencia’s delectable lunches I accompanied Dan to his office in the port. He had to drive very slowly since the heavy snowfall has made the streets almost impassable. Dan told me they only have two snowplows in Harbor, and that the snow has been unusually heavy this year. Well, I like it, it’s soft and cold and welcoming and cozy – as un-Viet Namese as anything can become that I can think of.
We parted outside his office since I needed to go to the bank to open a local account and pick up some money. I’m also running out of coke and keep thinking of ways to get it here by mail. When I spoke to Johnny Push-push in NY about how he would like to set the thing up, he simply said ‘just deposit the money’. I still need the coke more than I expected, but I have managed to slow down on the habit some. Anyway, I’m very careful not to use it when I know Dan and Inocencia are around, although I doubt they would be able to tell the difference from baking powder.
So I went to the one bank in town, and it sure doesn’t fit into my category for pleasant surprises. The premises are gray and lack decoration, the personnel look mousy and uninspired, the lighting is fluorescent and stark. I suppose the gloomy setting is caused by the absence of local competition. To open an account, I was told I had to see Mr. Pringle, a man who embodies the banking experience in Harbor all wrapped in one. First he kind of sniffed around me – most likely to get the scent of money. Disappointed that he didn’t smell anything promising, he started to ask me questions far too personal for my liking as far as my concept of dealing with a banker goes. When it finally dawned on him that I was making good money from my book his face looked relieved, as if the initial slander about this fool’s gold being fool’s gold had just been a malicious rumor.
Suddenly he was all heart and couldn’t stop talking about how well my money would be taken care of by the main banking facility in Harbor. He made it sound like the New York stock exchange was in constant communication for advice on how to run the show. I didn’t want to let him down since I didn’t have much of an option, so I just grunted when I was expected to and signed the paperwork. I dread seeing the man again – the incarnation of a creep crawling for quarters and dimes, if I ever saw one.
I went back to Dan’s office where I had to wait for more than an hour before he could leave. I had another glimpse of Mr. Rawlins as he gave another ‘you-had-it-coming’ to Dan. Afterwards Rawlins looked surprised to see me sprawled in a corner of their waiting room. His greeting when he vaguely recognized me was more like a Doberman pinscher slavering over a piece of fresh meat.
On our way back I did my best to carefully pry some information out of Dan. He answered politely, wearing his obvious disinterest on the sleeve. It suddenly occurred to me that Dan is equally immune to the details his wife showers him with as to the abuse he puts up with from his boss.
January 26, 1973
The wind has picked up considerably over the last twelve hours. And the wind has brought more snow than I’ve ever seen before; even in daylight the air is darkened by the snowfall. It’s become a gray mass of large flakes that I thought would reflect the light. Instead the snowflakes seem to absorb it.
All Dan talks about is the difficulties the icebreaker will have keeping the channel open. Inocencia has been baking bread in the oven all day and the house smells delicious. Perched on a stool, Lorena has watched her from across the kitchen while listening to her inoffensive talk without comment. I can’t understand how Inocencia can put up with her. On several occasions I have subtly asked about their relationship but Inocencia always quickly, not to say nervously, switches the conversation to another topic.
What she did tell me today, in front of the lit fireplace over tea, scones and homemade marmalade, was that during all her years living in Harbor she never experienced a winter storm like the one we are presently going through. When I subtly tried to broach the subject of how her life was before coming here, she became distant and refused to talk about it. She doesn’t tell me off or anything, she just turns silent and remote and slightly sad. This doesn’t mean that she stops being nice to me; on the contrary, I find her even more gentle and considerate when she’s pensive and quiet.
January 26, 1973
I’m mad at myself, or is it embarrassment I feel?! Inocencia sent Lorena in the van to pick up some groceries and suddenly I was alone with her. We sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace again, and she was telling me some funny incident. She put her hand on my arm when she wanted to make a point, and I couldn’t help myself. I leaned over and tried to kiss her. She shied away ever so slightly but was very good about. “You shouldn’t”, she said, “you’re a nice boy and I’m a married woman who is much older than you.” Older! She is alive with youth and beauty! She smiled when I blushed and stammered my apologies. The magic went away and I returned to my room.
January 28, 1973
The snow stopped for a couple of hours before it started again even heavier than previously. The streets are now practically blocked for traffic, although I hear the snowplow pass by every now and then doing its best effort to keep the snow off the thoroughfares.
When the snow stopped I thought for a while that the skies would clear. I don’t want the sun, its scorching heat, its brilliant light and its merciless revelations. I like the feeling of being enveloped by the penumbra and the soft world of falling snow.
From my room in the attic I can see the sea below. If I open the window and lean outside I can also see the shut-down harbor. Three ships remain in the water. With one exception, the only boat I see come and go is the ferry making the rounds to the islands. The exception is the icebreaker that Dan calls for to keep the channel open. Of the boats still here one is an old three-masted sailing ship, a beautiful vessel from, I don’t know, perhaps a hundred or three hundred or even five hundred years ago. I imagine the Spaniards used a ship like this when they came to establish a new trading route and instead discovered an unknown world. It’s big enough to withstand the pressure of the ice. I suppose its hull is made of thick oak planks the way they used to make ships in the good old days.
January 29, 1973
The mailman brought me another letter in exchange for one I had written to JP, and as usual it bothered me that Inocencia invited him in for something hot to drink. Why does she encourage him to enter the privacy of our home? JP wrote me that he strongly advises me to concentrate on the main issues in my new manuscript, whatever that’s supposed to mean. He doesn’t grasp that I’m writing on a hunch and that I’m not yet certain where this idea - this experiment, really - will eventually lead. My gut feeling, though, is that it will be interesting to write – and as a consequence, interesting to read. Words well forth from the dark recesses of the subconscious. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole thing turned out to be a cleansing of souls in trouble. I’ve decided to change the title to The Ship, and the ship in question to be a metaphor for the soul.
From my attic window I look at the harbor, or whatever I can see of it through the continuous snowfall. The beautiful old ship is still floating tall in the frozen waters. Someone’s living on board, at least temporarily, because for two days I’ve seen a flickering light coming from some of the portholes.
Could it have been candlelight, a kerosene lantern or perhaps even a fire?
Note from JP to PBC dated January 27, 1973
Dear Paul,
I write you in all haste since I’m buried in work as usual. But then again, when wasn’t I? Bear with me. I am a momentary slave to extraordinary circumstances, and - although I don’t need to tell you – I have been so for the last 57 years. Nevertheless I dedicate all the time necessary to the work you send me. Intriguing prose, to be certain, although parts of it may need a thorough going-over before presented in its final state.
You know, you make my work so much harder because of your reluctance - or is it inability? – to send me a synopsis of the work in progress. I am not used to labor that way. On the other hand, I also trust my instincts. Based on my experiences from your previous book and the first drafts of your upcoming work, I can’t be too far off base.
