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Authors: Martin Cruz Smith
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of the boat’s last tow: limp flatfish, skeletal crabs.
“I don’t understand,” Slava said. “Usually they’re so friendly.”
“You feel something, too?” Arkady asked. “A certain coolness. What language will we be speaking, by the way? Swedish? Spanish? What kind of Americans will these be?”
“You’re going to embarrass me, aren’t you?”
Arkady looked Slava over. “You’re wearing your jogging shoes, your jeans. You’re the picture of a Young Communist. I think we’re ready to face the captain.”
“Some assistant I have, a regular fugitive.”
“Worse, someone with nothing to lose. After you.”
The
Eagle
’s bridge was smaller than the
Merry Jane
’s and had no carpeting or teak, but otherwise was more what Arkady had supposed an American bridge would be like: a veritable space capsule’s array of color monitors banked around and behind the captain’s chair; a circle of radar screens and the cathode-green of fish-finders that targeted schools of fish as shifting orange clouds. Radioshung from the overhead, their ruby numbers floating in the static of open channels. The chrome hoods of the compass and repeater were polished to shine like crystal. In all, glitter without clutter.
The man in the captain’s chair fit in. Fishermen were usually scarred by exposure to knives, spines and frayed ropes, and coarsened by cold air and brine, but Morgan seemed to have been abraded by something sharper. He was lean to the point of gaunt, with prematurely gray hair. Although he wore a cap and sweatshirt, there was about him and his ship’s bridge a sense of monkish order, of a man who was happiest alone and in control. As he unwound from his chair Slava gave him a nod of obeisance, and it occurred to Arkady that the third mate would have made a good dog.
“George, this is Seaman Renko. Or you can call him Arkady.” To Arkady, Slava said, “Captain Morgan.”
The captain gave Arkady’s hand a brief squeeze. “We’re sorry about Zina Pishvili.”
“Patiashvili.” Slava shrugged as if either the name was ridiculous or it didn’t really matter.
“Pashvili? Sorry,” Morgan said to Arkady, “I don’t speak Russian. Ship-to-ship communications go through the company reps on the
Polar Star
. Perhaps you should ask a rep to join us, because right now we’re losing trawling time and that means we’re losing money. Can I offer you a drink?” On the chart chest was a tray with three tumblers and a bottle of Soviet vodka. Better than what the Soviets drank at home: export-quality vodka. He lifted the bottle a millimeter off the tray, as if measuring the minimum of hospitality. “Or are you in a rush?”
“No, thank you.” Slava could take a hint.
“Why not?” Arkady asked.
Slava hissed, “First wine, now vodka?”
“It’s like New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?” Arkady said.
Morgan poured Arkady half a glass and, bemused, one for himself. Slava abstained.
“Nazdrovya,” Morgan said. “Isn’t that it?”
“Cheers,” said Arkady.
Arkady drank his in three swallows, Morgan in one that he followed with an even smile of excellent teeth. “You don’t want a company rep,” he said.
“We’ll try to do without.” The last thing Arkady wanted was Susan joining them.
“Well, Arkady, ask away.”
Morgan was so assured that Arkady wondered what would faze him.
“Is this boat safe?”
Slava started. “Renko, that’s—”
“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “This is a seventy-five-foot Gulf boat with a North Sea rig. That means it was originally built to tend oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico and then was refitted to come up here for the crabbing boom. When crabs went bust, they put on the gantry for trawling and some extra plating for hitting the ice. The real money went where it counts, into electronics. We don’t have all the amenities of our round-headed friend and his three dwarfs over on the
Merry Jane
, but we do catch more fish.”
“Did you know
“I don’t understand,” Slava said. “Usually they’re so friendly.”
“You feel something, too?” Arkady asked. “A certain coolness. What language will we be speaking, by the way? Swedish? Spanish? What kind of Americans will these be?”
“You’re going to embarrass me, aren’t you?”
Arkady looked Slava over. “You’re wearing your jogging shoes, your jeans. You’re the picture of a Young Communist. I think we’re ready to face the captain.”
“Some assistant I have, a regular fugitive.”
“Worse, someone with nothing to lose. After you.”
The
Eagle
’s bridge was smaller than the
Merry Jane
’s and had no carpeting or teak, but otherwise was more what Arkady had supposed an American bridge would be like: a veritable space capsule’s array of color monitors banked around and behind the captain’s chair; a circle of radar screens and the cathode-green of fish-finders that targeted schools of fish as shifting orange clouds. Radioshung from the overhead, their ruby numbers floating in the static of open channels. The chrome hoods of the compass and repeater were polished to shine like crystal. In all, glitter without clutter.
The man in the captain’s chair fit in. Fishermen were usually scarred by exposure to knives, spines and frayed ropes, and coarsened by cold air and brine, but Morgan seemed to have been abraded by something sharper. He was lean to the point of gaunt, with prematurely gray hair. Although he wore a cap and sweatshirt, there was about him and his ship’s bridge a sense of monkish order, of a man who was happiest alone and in control. As he unwound from his chair Slava gave him a nod of obeisance, and it occurred to Arkady that the third mate would have made a good dog.
“George, this is Seaman Renko. Or you can call him Arkady.” To Arkady, Slava said, “Captain Morgan.”
The captain gave Arkady’s hand a brief squeeze. “We’re sorry about Zina Pishvili.”
“Patiashvili.” Slava shrugged as if either the name was ridiculous or it didn’t really matter.
“Pashvili? Sorry,” Morgan said to Arkady, “I don’t speak Russian. Ship-to-ship communications go through the company reps on the
Polar Star
. Perhaps you should ask a rep to join us, because right now we’re losing trawling time and that means we’re losing money. Can I offer you a drink?” On the chart chest was a tray with three tumblers and a bottle of Soviet vodka. Better than what the Soviets drank at home: export-quality vodka. He lifted the bottle a millimeter off the tray, as if measuring the minimum of hospitality. “Or are you in a rush?”
“No, thank you.” Slava could take a hint.
“Why not?” Arkady asked.
Slava hissed, “First wine, now vodka?”
“It’s like New Year’s Eve, isn’t it?” Arkady said.
Morgan poured Arkady half a glass and, bemused, one for himself. Slava abstained.
“Nazdrovya,” Morgan said. “Isn’t that it?”
“Cheers,” said Arkady.
Arkady drank his in three swallows, Morgan in one that he followed with an even smile of excellent teeth. “You don’t want a company rep,” he said.
“We’ll try to do without.” The last thing Arkady wanted was Susan joining them.
“Well, Arkady, ask away.”
Morgan was so assured that Arkady wondered what would faze him.
“Is this boat safe?”
Slava started. “Renko, that’s—”
“It’s okay,” Morgan said. “This is a seventy-five-foot Gulf boat with a North Sea rig. That means it was originally built to tend oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico and then was refitted to come up here for the crabbing boom. When crabs went bust, they put on the gantry for trawling and some extra plating for hitting the ice. The real money went where it counts, into electronics. We don’t have all the amenities of our round-headed friend and his three dwarfs over on the
Merry Jane
, but we do catch more fish.”
“Did you know
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