Read Online Sadie Walker Is Stranded by Madeleine Roux - Free Book Online
Authors: Madeleine Roux
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heavy sleepers. “You go around rescuing art? Captain Canvas?”
Kellerman began pulling more photos from his coat, handing them to me one at a time. A few of them I recognized, others were at least attention grabbing in that they were works of fine art. The water out around the boat squished against the hull, a rushing, breathing sound that made me simultaneously sleepy and energetic. For a moment, I wondered where we were going and whether or not Arturo had a destination in mind. Maybe we would drift forever. I frowned and tried to keep those thoughts at bay.
In the meantime, Polaroid photos of works by Julie Verhoeven and Piao Guangxie and others I couldn’t name piled up in my hand. It was an illustrator’s duty to know art, to steep in it, but it was impossible to know everything.
“I was a critic,” he said softly. That fit. “But I don’t do much criticizing anymore.”
He pointed to the photo lying at the top of a pile, a bizarre, modern canvas with very little paint and an excess of pretention. For once, I was glad I didn’t know the artist. He laughed fondly under his breath.
“Oh goodness. I called that one fatuous and desperate in L’Hebdo, ” Kellerman said. He gave a little breathy laugh and shrugged, “But I nearly died getting it out of New York.”
I gave him a long look. “Fatuous and desperate? I hadn’t pegged you for a brainless leg-humper but even so, Moritz, that’s really harsh. Why risk your life for something so … so…” I struggled for the word. “… average. I mean, if it doesn’t qualify as art, why would you bother?”
Kellerman smiled, the same kind of smile he wore in his photo with Allison. I looked away, startled. “I can’t answer that. I’m not a critic anymore, I don’t know what to make of any of this,” he said, “and I think … I think all of the philosophers are dead.”
FOUR
“Does Uncle Arturo actually know where we’re going?”
The shore, the water, the steel-bottomed clouds … it all looked suspiciously similar to the day before. It would be easy to lose track of the days out here and that’s exactly what I became afraid of. Andrea wouldn’t let me go near Arturo. She said I annoyed him and he wasn’t fond of children either, which meant Shane couldn’t do much but silently count shipwrecked boats along the shore. That was fine with me, in a way, because he could do that from any point on the deck and he didn’t put up a fight when I insisted he stick to my side unless absolutely necessary.
Even I wasn’t paranoid enough to make him use the bathroom while I hovered.
“Of course he knows where we’re going,” Andrea replied, waving me away impatiently. Occasionally Shane would glance up at us, smiling wanly as if amused by the adult bickering. Before I could disturb her uncle, she cornered me against a railing where I kept one eye on her and one on Shane’s still head of curls.
“Great—would he mind sharing that information with the rest of us?”
Uncle Arturo was quiet, Zen Master quiet. The man needed his boat, the water and a healthy swig of port and he was happy as a clam. Fitting, considering getting his mouth to form words was like trying to force open an oyster shell with a polite written request. His perfect paradise did not involve talking and neither did his day to day routine.
“Can’t you just ask him for some details?”
Andrea was ignoring me.
“I trust him,” she said by way of explanation. “And you should too.”
At that moment, Arturo had lowered the main sail and kicked the outboard motor to life. He was using the motor as little as possible, worried about gas consumption. He had a fuel canister in the cockpit, but using the sail was safer for us. I watched, my hands clinging to the rail, as he eased the Ketch toward a small, shadowy inlet. The sun hovered behind a gray wall of clouds, typical for the region, and just warm enough to make being out in the windy air bearable. Noah stood
Kellerman began pulling more photos from his coat, handing them to me one at a time. A few of them I recognized, others were at least attention grabbing in that they were works of fine art. The water out around the boat squished against the hull, a rushing, breathing sound that made me simultaneously sleepy and energetic. For a moment, I wondered where we were going and whether or not Arturo had a destination in mind. Maybe we would drift forever. I frowned and tried to keep those thoughts at bay.
In the meantime, Polaroid photos of works by Julie Verhoeven and Piao Guangxie and others I couldn’t name piled up in my hand. It was an illustrator’s duty to know art, to steep in it, but it was impossible to know everything.
“I was a critic,” he said softly. That fit. “But I don’t do much criticizing anymore.”
He pointed to the photo lying at the top of a pile, a bizarre, modern canvas with very little paint and an excess of pretention. For once, I was glad I didn’t know the artist. He laughed fondly under his breath.
“Oh goodness. I called that one fatuous and desperate in L’Hebdo, ” Kellerman said. He gave a little breathy laugh and shrugged, “But I nearly died getting it out of New York.”
I gave him a long look. “Fatuous and desperate? I hadn’t pegged you for a brainless leg-humper but even so, Moritz, that’s really harsh. Why risk your life for something so … so…” I struggled for the word. “… average. I mean, if it doesn’t qualify as art, why would you bother?”
Kellerman smiled, the same kind of smile he wore in his photo with Allison. I looked away, startled. “I can’t answer that. I’m not a critic anymore, I don’t know what to make of any of this,” he said, “and I think … I think all of the philosophers are dead.”
FOUR
“Does Uncle Arturo actually know where we’re going?”
The shore, the water, the steel-bottomed clouds … it all looked suspiciously similar to the day before. It would be easy to lose track of the days out here and that’s exactly what I became afraid of. Andrea wouldn’t let me go near Arturo. She said I annoyed him and he wasn’t fond of children either, which meant Shane couldn’t do much but silently count shipwrecked boats along the shore. That was fine with me, in a way, because he could do that from any point on the deck and he didn’t put up a fight when I insisted he stick to my side unless absolutely necessary.
Even I wasn’t paranoid enough to make him use the bathroom while I hovered.
“Of course he knows where we’re going,” Andrea replied, waving me away impatiently. Occasionally Shane would glance up at us, smiling wanly as if amused by the adult bickering. Before I could disturb her uncle, she cornered me against a railing where I kept one eye on her and one on Shane’s still head of curls.
“Great—would he mind sharing that information with the rest of us?”
Uncle Arturo was quiet, Zen Master quiet. The man needed his boat, the water and a healthy swig of port and he was happy as a clam. Fitting, considering getting his mouth to form words was like trying to force open an oyster shell with a polite written request. His perfect paradise did not involve talking and neither did his day to day routine.
“Can’t you just ask him for some details?”
Andrea was ignoring me.
“I trust him,” she said by way of explanation. “And you should too.”
At that moment, Arturo had lowered the main sail and kicked the outboard motor to life. He was using the motor as little as possible, worried about gas consumption. He had a fuel canister in the cockpit, but using the sail was safer for us. I watched, my hands clinging to the rail, as he eased the Ketch toward a small, shadowy inlet. The sun hovered behind a gray wall of clouds, typical for the region, and just warm enough to make being out in the windy air bearable. Noah stood
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