Richard Russo - Ship of Fools

I grimaced. “He didn’t,” I admitted. “It was my own idea. And it was a bad one.”

Pär laughed again.

“Glad you’re so amused,” I said. “I’ve got to get the thing disabled.”

Pär finally stopped laughing. “I know someone who can take care of it.”

“Soon,” I said.

He nodded. “Tonight, or first thing tomorrow. I’ll arrange it.”

I thanked him, then got up to look for a small bottle of whiskey I had been saving for years, waiting for just the right occasion. This seemed as good as any; I suspected the kind of special occasion I had hoped for when I was younger was never going to occur. I found the bottle, a couple of glasses, then poured some for each of us.

“That’s good,” Pär said.

“A lot better than that stuff you usually have.” I sipped at the whiskey, relishing the smooth burn licking down my throat and into my gut. I thought again about Nikos and his drinking.

“I think the captain’s developed a drinking problem,” I said to Pär.

He nodded. “That’s what my sources tell me. If he’s not careful, he’ll go the way of General Wainwright.”

“How did General Wainwright go?”

“You haven’t heard yet?”

“Too much going on in too short a time. All I know is he’s been replaced by Geller.”

“He came into a council session so far out on Passion that he couldn’t speak. He’d finally gone too far. They voted him off the council, and confined him in the psychiatric ward for a hard withdrawal. He’s still there, and I don’t think he’s ever going to get out.” Pär leaned forward. “One more thing of interest,” he said. “Arne Gronvold’s banishment has been rescinded. Not only that, he’s been reinstated on the Planning Committee.”

I was reminded of Nikos’s clandestine meetings with Arne; I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that Arne was betraying the insurrection. Probably because Nikos had been meeting with Arne for months before I was even aware of the plans myself; even so, I’d thought Arne’s sympathies were with the downsiders. I’d obviously thought wrong.

“I guess we know what happened, then,” I said.

Pär nodded. “I guess we do. That bastard.”

“Which one?” I asked. “Arne or Nikos?”

Pär just grinned.

There was a banging at the door. Nikos called out my name, his voice only partly muted.

“Bartolomeo, I know you’re there! Open the door!”

I thought about ignoring him, but that would only be putting off the inevitable. I put down my glass, got up, and went to the door.

“Damn you, Bartolomeo, what the hell was…?” His voice trailed off when he saw Pär behind me. Nikos was at a loss for words, something I had rarely seen.

Pär stood and said, “I’ll go.”

I shook my head. “No, don’t.” Then, to Nikos: “What did you want?”

Anger flushed his face, and his eyes went hard. He stared at Pär. “So you are still aboard, little man. I’d hoped you’d taken that damn shuttle.”

“I’m still here.”

Nikos turned to me, furious. “We have to talk, Bartolomeo. We need to move before anyone has second thoughts. We’ve got to select the exploration team, and you and I need to talk before we start choosing people. I got you out, remember? Now it’s your turn.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Schedule the selection meeting for three hours from now, or a little later if you have to. And I’ll meet you in your quarters in an hour.”

“No, not there.”

“Where, then?”

“You know where I’ll be.” He turned and strode away.

I closed the door, but didn’t turn around; I stared at the dark green panel, as if I would find answers in it. I wasn’t even sure what the questions were.

“Ah, old friends,” Pär said.

I turned around, expecting to see him grinning at me, but his expression was dead serious.

“He’ll be dangerous as an enemy,” Pär said. “Better if you could somehow stay friends.”

I shook my head. “It’s too late for that.”

THEWasteland was hot and dry. Unlike the other nature rooms, the Wasteland had no seasons, no weather changes. I stood just inside the ground entrance, dizzy from the heat and blinking against the glare reflecting from the sand and white rock. The designer of this room had been brilliant—looking in any direction from any location, the desert appeared to continue without end, or at least for many kilometers, stretching to the vague suggestion of distant dunes.

Formally named the Desert Conservatory, the Wasteland was the largest of the nature rooms, and also the least frequented; but Nikos had always liked it. He would spend hours there when he needed to think, or needed to escape from the pressures of the captaincy. When we were young, fifteen or sixteen, he had brought me there and tried to explain why he loved it so much. I hadn’t understood at the time, but over the years I came to appreciate his fascination for the place, although I never could shake my own unease, and avoided it like nearly everyone else did.

I scanned the Wasteland, searching the shadows of cacti and rocks, taking in everything several times before I finally spotted Nikos sitting with his back against a large boulder, gazing into the distance.

A dull ache worked its way through my chest as I thought about all the years we’d known each other, everything we’d been through. I walked toward him slowly, surprisingly apprehensive; I didn’t relish any more intimate conversations. When I was a few meters away, I stopped and waited in silence.

“You never did like it here,” Nikos said without looking at me.

“No.”

“That always surprised me. It was one of the few ways you were like everyone else on this ship.” He finally turned and looked up at me. “I don’t think you understand what’s going on aboard this ship.”

“Maybe not, but you don’t either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. I’m not sure anybody really does.”

He nodded, resigned. “Except maybe the bishop.”

“No, not even the bishop. He probably thinks he does, but he knows less than he imagines. I would guess that’s how it is with most of us.”

Nikos stared out across the bleached sand, the scattered cacti and rock. “Walk with me a while, Bartolomeo.”

We walked together across the hot sand, an arm’s length apart. I’d already lost my orientation, and when I looked around, I found I could not locate the entrance I’d used; I was struck by the irrational fear that I might never be able to find my way out of there. Or that Nikos would murder me. My body could remain undiscovered for decades.

“We’ve been friends a lot of years, Bartolomeo.”

“ Were friends,” I corrected him.

“No more?”

“I don’t think so, Nikos.”

He stopped, turned, and looked at me, his expression steady. If he’d been drinking recently, I couldn’t tell. Everything about him seemed sober and firm.

“We’ve both made mistakes. Out of fear, or mistrust. Or perhaps even simple misunderstanding. Whatever the reasons. But is the damage to our friendship irreparable?”

I’d thought so, but suddenly I was unsure. Watching him, listening to him, I was unable to detect any dissembling. He seemed sincere. Nikos could be deceptive and manipulative, but I always thought I could see through him. I’d missed it before, although looking back on it, I realized the signs had been there—I just hadn’t recognized them; maybe because I hadn’t wanted to. Now, though, I saw nothing but a sincere effort at reconciliation.

“I don’t know,” I finally said.

“Honest enough. I don’t know either. But I’m prepared to make the effort, if you are.”