Viator

by Lucius Shepard

  Two days short of a month after taking up residence aboard the ship, Wilander descended into the hold, clambered down the ladder, and set out under an overcast sky for Kaliaska, where he intended to make a few minor purchases and hoped to spend the evening, and perhaps the following morning, with Arlene Dauphinée. Their friendship, after numerous long walks and hours of energetic conversation, had reached that awkward stage at which it would necessarily evolve into something more intimate or else plane back into the casual, and he was not confident that things would proceed as he desired, nor was he confident that what he desired was the best possible outcome—he had been without a woman for years, wandering from mission to alley to sewer grating, a world wherein the only women available were filthy, deranged, dangerous, like the young girl he’d befriended in Seattle, saved from the threat of rape and fed and otherwise helped, never once touching her, and then she had stabbed him as he slept because, she later told the police, his eyes had begun to glow, shining so brightly, redly, hotly from beneath his closed lids, they had irradiated the refrigerator carton in which they sheltered and set it afire—and he didn’t know if he was prepared for the demands and stresses of an adult relationship; he valued the peace he had found aboard Viator, the lazy mornings, reading on deck under the linden boughs, writing in his journal about the ship, its curious crew, the woods, the sounds and sights of natural life surrounding him. And yet Arlene was unique. That was the only word for her; beautiful was insufficient a term, perhaps not an entirely applicable one, for her outer beauty had been worn down to the dimensions of middle age, her face whittled by years and eroded by the heart’s weather, so that on occasion he thought of her as a figurehead supporting the bowsprit of a three-master, voluptuous and calm of feature, her core strength undamaged, but her paint faded, wood cracked by seas and storms. Even this minor stress, that created by the dissonance between his desire and his sense of security, was hard for him to bear, and he considered staying home that night, going into Kaliaska the next morning to offer her excuses, apologies, because he believed he needed a fresh start with her, another week or two to pull himself together, and then he would be ready; yet as he walked along the starboard side of Viator that day, passing beneath the linden, idly patting the trunk, he began to feel less anxious, less out of sorts, and though he did not reach a conscious decision, he soon left behind all thought of returning to his cabin.

  The forest in close proximity to Viator was improbably lush, a micro-environment that would have been more appropriate to the Pacific Northwest. The black soil was carpeted with ivy, ground apple, and salvia; sword ferns sprayed upward from banks and hollows; mushrooms sprouted in gullies and beneath fallen trees; fungi and moss furred trunks and rotting logs; and, about thirty yards from the ship, a massive uprooted stump lying on its side, twelve feet in diameter, was so artfully decorated with lime green moss, it looked to have undergone an alchemical transformation—the dark circular underside of the thing, ragged with root fragments, some forming a witchy halo, had come to resemble those intricate reliefs depicting the Great Wheel of Life that embellish the walls of Hindu temples, only this particular great wheel was not painted in many hues, but done solely in green and black, and rather than illustrating the passage of a soul along the path of dharma, it presented a demonic version of that passage, a different course altogether, a far bleaker course complete with gnarled homunculi who appeared to have been banished, evicted, or otherwise brought forth from the emptiness at their midst, and whenever Wilander contemplated it—you couldn’t just glance at the stump; it drew the eye in; it sent your eye traveling over the circuit of incarnations suggested by the twisted postures of the little root men and the ornate symbology written by flourishes of moss—he half expected to look up and discover that he had been transported to one of the stations of the wheel, a land ruled by an opal moon floating in a maroon sky where black dragons wheeled above spindly onyx towers. The nearer he came to Kaliaska, the less dense and diverse the vegetation; the ground cover melted away. After a mile and a half, the forest gave out altogether and from atop a brush-covered rise he could see the town strewn across an acreage of gravelly dirt the color of weak coffee: close by the shore, a handful of two-story buildings plated in beige-and-brown aluminum siding, one of which contained the trading post and Arlene’s living quarters, another enclosing a beauty salon/barber shop, and a number of cubicle-sized rooms that were sometimes occupied by men from the freighters and fishing boats that stopped for supplies or were driven to anchor in the bay during storms; a swaybacked wooden dock to which a tug was moored; a gray beach with gray water lapping at it and a rubble of dark rocks jutting up from its southernmost reach; and, farther inland, more than a hundred small houses, many of the prefabricated variety, idiosyncratic in structure, but most of them white, with smoking chimneys, their unfenced yards littered by derelict cars, abandoned construction equipment, upside-down sleds and boats, doghouses, snowmobiles, ATVs. A couple of dogs were nosing along a deserted street near the shore, sniffing at debris. Parked behind the trading post were two state-owned yellow Caterpillar vehicles used for earthmoving and snow removal, and in each of their cabs, unidentifiable behind windows so smeared as to be opaque, someone was sleeping.

  Before Wilander arrived in Alaska he had imagined that Alaskan trading posts were uniformly rustic, dimly lit places with log walls, venerable wood-stoves, animal heads and antlers mounted everywhere, disorderly shelves stocked with soup, beans, rice, candy bars, fifty-year-old copies of National Geographic containing articles on the area, exotic locally prepared foodstuffs sold in mason jars, gutting knives, French soap, Russian pornography, bullets, whale jerky, slingshots made from fir and reindeer hide, whiskey, mukluks, sacks of flour, fish hooks, hard candy, fossil fragments, rope, fix-it-yourself manuals, work clothes, a few pretty dresses, canned moose meat, snow-shoes, long underwear, ballpoint pens, native handicrafts of a surpassingly indifferent quality (carved ivory, paintings on bark, handmade dolls), an accordion, a guitar or two, dog muzzles, spark plugs, cooking oil, bongs, feminine hygiene products, grease traps, framed photographs of sunsets, paperback novels, animal snares…but though Arlene’s TP (so read the sign above the door) stocked all the aforementioned items and more, there was no hint of disorder, everything shelved neatly and laid out in display cases, and the atmosphere was of a stripped-down functionality, not rustic charm, the fluorescent lights blazing, walls of unpainted planking, dustless floors, and instead of the colorful types Wilander had pictured sitting around the stove in his imaginary trading post, the only person present that afternoon was a long-haired Inupiat kid named Terry Alpin who helped Arlene out in the evenings and was standing by a bin of CDs, picking over the heavy metal section. Wilander asked him if that was his kind of music and, after a pause, the precise measure of which, Wilander had learned, was designed to convey contempt for white non-Alaskans moderated by a degree of respect due a friend of Arlene’s, Terry said, No, man. It’s for the seals. And when Wilander expressed bewilderment at this response, Terry said, The pups, man. Baby harp seals. They love the shit. You go down to the beach, hide out in the rocks with your Walkman. You slap on some Slayer, kick up the volume. Pretty soon the pups, they hear it, they come over to the rocks. You jump up and bash their heads in and get the skins. It’s a lot easier than chasing ’em.

  —You’re serious? That’s how you catch them?

  Terry shot him a surly look. We useta stay up all night chanting to the seal god. This way, it cuts down on the brain damage.

  —I thought the season…when they give birth. I thought that was in the spring.

  —Just checking out some tunes for next year. Terry inspected the playlist on a Queens of the New Stone Age disc, set it to one side. I kept one pup alive from this last time and I been testing tunes out on him. He’s getting maybe too old, though, to be reliable. The adults, they fucking hate music.

  —Where’s Arlene? Wilander asked.

  —Out back. Selling some guy a flat o
f beer.

  Wilander idled along a row of display cases, putting his nose close to one and peering at a grouping of men’s rings with huge cubic zirconiums in ornate settings. He leafed through a fishing magazine that lay open by the register. He stared out the window at two men wearing jeans and denim jackets having a conversation in the middle of the street. He laid a dollar coin on the counter to pay for a Butterfinger bar, which he ate in three bites. I’m going out back, see if I can find Arlene, he said.

  —It’s your world, dude, said Terry.

  * * *

  Arlene Dauphinée’s face was not a face that instantly drew men’s notice. Unlike the hot color of a sign advertising a restaurant along a highway or the brightness of a lure dragged across the surface of a lake, it wasn’t suited to serve as an initial attractor, to inspire certain hungers; at least she did not employ it as such. She wore no make-up, no jewelry. All her expressions, especially her smiles, were slow to develop, as if she didn’t wish to reveal anything about herself, as if, in fact, she wished to deflect attention by minimizing her reactions, and when Wilander had first seen her, his eyes had skated away from her face, lingered on her red hair, clasped in a barrette behind her neck, the pale shade of red that often (as with her) accompanies freckly, milky skin; and then he had taken an inventory of her body, her slack, soft breasts, her slender waist and long legs, and it was not until their second meeting that he was struck by the astonishing composure seated in her face, emblematic neither of passivity nor of any quality that might imply resignation, but an active principle, a potent, ringing composure that signaled the type of person she was, a woman who hadn’t been stranded in Kaliaska, stuck with the trading post because, say, her husband had died and left her in charge (she had never married), but had chosen this solitude nine years ago, this unsightly scar of a town on the edge of a thousand nowheres, because she wanted to live in a place where things were uncomplicated and self-sufficiency was a useful virtue, not—as was the case in much of the civilized world—a vestigial function, as useless as the stubby tail that briefly manifests on the human foetus; and once he had been made aware of this quality, he found it impossible not to see the unadvertised beauty of her face, the strong mouth and olivine eyes and lines of character that sketched a femininity considerably more alluring than that of the flashier, showier women with whom he had frequently become infatuated. She seemed a woman who might be someone’s fate, who might be waiting patiently to perform in that capacity, and though he hoped she might be his fate, he was plagued by insecurity and prone to believe that what he felt was a foolish preoccupation, a form of desperation, or else a dream he was having about a subject that she was merely an emblem of—yet as they sat that evening in Polar Bear Pizza (which occupied half a house on the outskirts of town, the other half given over to a coin laundry), sharing a large double pepperoni at a picnic-style table covered by a checkered plastic cloth, beneath a painted wall menu with all the prices effaced that heralded, among other items, Our Stupefying Super Spicy Stromboli Sandwich, it may have been that her companionship shored up his self-doubt, for he suddenly felt that his business failures, the drinking and drugs and the vampire people with whom he had associated while he drank and drugged, the stages of the slow collapse that had led to homelessness…those things were behind him and he was ready to build on the wreckage, to address those problems that might arise with maturity and confidence.

  —Living with such unbalanced people, she said, and paused to sprinkle parmesan over a slice. It must remind you of the shelters.

  —They’re not all unbalanced, he said. Arnsparger’s okay. A little obsessive, maybe. And I’ve haven’t talked to Mortensen yet…though judging by the way he avoids me, I assume he’s not quite right.

  —You’ve been here a month and you haven’t spoken to him?

  —Oh, we’ve spoken, but at a distance. We’ve said hello and waved. I’ve tried to catch him in his cabin, but he’s never there. All I know about is that his beard and hair are gray, and he’s thin. He did leave me a note a few days ago. Slipped it under my door. A note concerning you…obliquely, anyway.

  —What could he possibly say about me? We haven’t exchanged a hundred words.

  —He seems to have a definite opinion of you.

  —That’s strange. Even when he was alone on the ship, he never talked to me. He’d come to the post, drop his list on the counter, and wait outside in the cold until I filled it. What did the note say?

  —He said, Don’t you think it’s time you paid less attention to the Queen of Kaliaska and took your duties aboard Viator more seriously?

  Arlene smiled. It’s amusing to think of Kaliaska having a queen. Well, I’ve been called worse. But what’s he talking about? What duties?

  —I have no idea. Both Halmus and Arnsparger have told me they don’t believe there is a job. They think Lunde sent us here for his own purposes. And yet they go about their days as if they’re on deadline.

  —Lunde?

  —Jochanan Lunde. He runs the Manpower office in Fairbanks. He’s the one who handed us the job. A nice old fellow. He treated me with great kindness. He treated all of us that way, apparently. Arnsparger said he originally thought the job was an act of charity. Lunde was giving us a place where we could rest and get strong.

  —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.