Sailors on the Inward Sea (30 page)

The directory in the foyer contained a list of tenants. The offices of Duval and Purdy were on the fourth floor. A dank stairwell, lighted by dim sconces at each landing, spiraled upward toward a gray ceiling. I trudged up the stairs, assuming that the brokers' office would be no more inviting than the bleak stairwell. The door with its frosted glass and peeling names confirmed my suspicions so you will understand my surprise when I opened it and entered a cheery room with western-facing windows that framed a panoramic view of London and the estuary, more or less the way it is depicted in etchings you can buy in many bookstores. In addition there were
photographs of a dozen boats for sale mounted on the pale yellow walls, all beauties of their kind. Beneath each one a card listed their virtues and prices. The
Nellie
would be up there before long, I thought grimly, posing for the delectation of prospective buyers.

“That's not our complete inventory,” said a man seated behind a large desk.

A wooden nameplate identified him as Leonard Duval. He wore a green visor that shaded large, inquisitive eyes. Old-fashioned garters held up his sleeves. He was supremely Dickensian.

“I'm not looking to buy,” I told him. “I have a boat to sell.”

“I see. Please, sit down.”

An impressive model of a schooner stood on his desk, perfect down to the last detail of her rigging. Looking at Duval through the maze of tiny ropes fashioned out of fishing line reminded me of the last time I had seen Conrad. It was too much.

“Do you mind if I move this?” I asked. “It's hard to see you.”

“Not at all.”

His nervous glance told me that he did but this was business so he tolerated it. I carefully slid the model to one side.

“It's very impressive,” I said, hoping to make him feel better. “I've sailed ships of that sort. She's perfect.”

“Thank you,” Duval replied, beaming with pleasure. “It's a hobby with me, my only one. It relaxes me the way nothing else can. Now then,” he added as he removed a lined tablet from the desk, “I need some information. Your name?”

“Jack Malone.”

“And the boat?”

“The
Nellie.
”

“
The Nellie
?”

“Just
Nellie.
”

He jotted for a moment, all business.

“I like to start with particulars,” he explained. “They give me an idea of what I'm dealing with straightaway. You'd be surprised how people exaggerate. The claims they make,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Half the time they're thinking of enhancing the price. The other half its just bragging, the way people do about their children. Not that you would.”

He questioned me about the
Nellie'
s provenance and nodded appreciatively when I said her keel had been laid at a well-known shipyard in Glasgow.

“Ah, that's good, very good indeed. I know the builder. First-rate work. This is definitely to our advantage.”

He asked about her displacement, her draft, proceeding methodically, smiling from time to time over a detail. He was obviously knowledgeable and appreciated good craftsmanship, the kind of fellow you could put your confidence in, yet there was nothing enjoyable about our conversation. To the contrary, I felt worse each time I answered a question. I was betraying her, revealing her most intimate secrets to this stranger, as if I were a savage selling his daughter into marriage.

“This isn't easy,” I blurted out.

Duval regarded me sympathetically over the tops of his glasses.

“Not the first time I've heard that, Mr. Malone. Believe me, I understand. It's like this more often than not, especially for people who have had a boat a long time.”

“I haven't. Even if I had, that wouldn't make me feel any better.”

“You will. The money will help.”

“The money doesn't matter.”

“It always matters,” he said with the air of a man who knows what he's talking about. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll add these specifications to our agreement. It won't take a minute.”

As he rolled a form into the typewriter I wondered if he was right
about the money. Would I be like Judas, happy with my thirty pieces of silver? The clatter of his rapid-fire pecking reminded me of an auctioneer's patter—“Going once, going twice . . .” I imagined a room of faceless bidders, saw one rise and head for the cashier's table. There is very little I have been ambivalent about in my life, Ford. I think that's the case at least in part because I hate uncertainty and hemming and hawing, hate it when my mind or heart spins about like a compass needle whose magnetic field has been disturbed. But I was that morning. I wondered how I could feel disloyal to a thing of wood and metal? Or was something else gnawing at me?

I was startled out of my reverie by the racket of the sprockets as Duval pulled the form out of the typewriter.

“Well, now,” he said as he handed it to me. “If you'll just read this over and sign at the bottom we can get busy.”

The
Nellie'
s name was in thick black capital letters at the top of the form. Beneath it was a series of clauses followed by a list of details and measurements that defined her type. Reading the bill of particulars you would learn the facts about her, but nothing of her spirit. That was what struck me. Her real value was ineffable and resided in memories that came flooding back as I read the document, in a history rooted in the last century, in the stories that were told on her deck and had become great books. That was her value and it made a joke of the price typed conspicuously at the bottom, along with the amount of Duval's commission. I signed and gave it back. There was nothing else to do. Duval proceeded to explain his strategy for selling her, taking me through the process a step at a time, and I must tell you that his methods sounded quite impressive. I halfheartedly asked a few questions, more for his benefit than mine, and then said I was satisfied.

“You have my confidence,” I told him as we shook hands. “Let's hope she goes quickly.”

Duval walked me to the door and pushed it open.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm quite good at what I do. I should have no trouble finding a buyer for a vessel like this, I assure you. And I'll try to make sure it's someone who will take good care of her.”

Never mind that he was coddling me, Ford, talking to me as though I were a child to whom he had promised a sweet after I'd skinned my knee. I appreciated it. And yet his assurances did nothing to staunch my discomfort. That I had to get on with my life seemed inconsequential in the face of the feeling of betrayal that accompanied me down the stairs and out into the street.

P
UTTING MY HOME
on the block initiated a number of errands. No matter how urgent they were, I couldn't walk more than a few blocks without feeling a profound desire to return to the
Nellie.
There's no mystery to it. With the end of our time approaching, I wanted all that was left, every hour. I swear, I craved every movement of her deck when she was rocked by a gentle swell. Covetousness of this sort goes against the grain of my nature, Ford. Normally, I'm not the grasping kind and that includes both my relationships with people as well as things. Early in my life I had learned the hard lesson of letting go, learned to recognize when I must despite my feelings. There's no question that if I'd had my wits about me this uncharacteristic resistance would have set off an alarm in my head and I might have penetrated to the source of my anxiety. But my wits were conspicuously absent as a result of the radical change under way in my life, which is to say that I put my feelings down to the imminent physical separation from the
Nellie
and the dissolution of our circle of friends.

Nonetheless, I didn't spend all my time moping. When I kept my mind fixed on the archipelago, I could deal well enough with less happy things. One night in a pub, I was going on about the loveliness of Java seen in the distance at the end of a long voyage, its various shades of green like a wonderful batik, when I suddenly imagined that vision from the deck of the
Nellie
and made an offhand comment about hiring a chap or two to help me sail her there. My companions,
old salts as crusty as myself, knew a thing or two about the treachery of the sea in those parts. To put it bluntly, they laughed in my face.

“I know, I know,” I said, “but with a little luck it might just be done.”

I wanted it to be true and because I wanted it so much I believed it was possible, foreseeing myself overcoming all the obstacles they threw at me, inventing ingenious replies that they handily dismantled as they pointed out how deeply flawed my reasoning was and had a fine time doing it. It didn't matter. I had to go through the whole voyage on the chance that I might come up with a notion that was sound enough to warrant giving it a try. I must have held out for half an hour before I admitted the obvious: Being a pleasure craft, the
Nellie
wasn't up to the travails of an ocean voyage and would likely break up in even a middling storm. It was like that moment when you're playing chess and see your last defensible position crumble, leaving you nothing to do but resign, be resigned. The
Nellie
would never see the Java coast.

The next morning I went to the harbormaster's office and inquired about ships bound for the East. A clerk thumbed through the register and found several freighters scheduled to depart at the end of the month. One, destined for Batavia, could accommodate a few passengers. An hour later I was in the company's office, booking passage. Afterward, on an impulse, I rang up Duval to ask how things were going. Three men wanted to see her.

I started packing. The deck and cabin were knee-deep in boxes, which I guided Duval and the clients around while they peered into her nooks and crannies. With each visit I became more indignant, as if they were taking liberties with her, men I didn't know. Never mind that they were perfectly decent chaps, experienced sailors (you could tell from a few minutes' conversation), knowledgeable enough so I didn't have to worry about them running her aground or ripping out
her bottom. Strangers with no appreciation of her soul were traipsing around her innards and on her deck, thinking of laying claim, making modifications, perhaps renaming her, the courtship as unromantic as an arranged marriage. I swear I could feel her wince whenever one of them opened his mouth and inquired about her virtues.

One day, after a prolonged investigation, a chap named William Straw made an offer. It was slightly below the asking price and Duval was for holding out, but I told him I didn't care to haggle. We went below and spread the papers out on the table. Straw agreed to put down earnest money with the understanding that I would remain on board until the freighter left.

Once my belongings were transferred to the shipping company's warehouse I began saying my good-byes. I had separate dinners with Harrison, Barnes, and Kepler to avoid the sadness of being together. I visited other friends and business acquaintances, and all our farewells were tinged with more than the usual somberness. I doubted I would return to Britain or that any of them would make the long journey to the East—too old, you understand, too set in their ways. And yet I don't mean to give you the impression that I was morose, Ford. Though I felt sorry about leaving my friends and letting the
Nellie
go, I was excited by the prospect of returning to that part of the world where my heart had been rooted since I was a young fellow fresh off the
Judea.
A circle was being closed.

I had arranged to meet Straw at his bank the day before I departed. I woke early with a waspish sense of uneasiness. While I drank my coffee, a trawler chugged by, followed by a large ship that ran low in the water, heavy with cargo. The wind was blowing steadily out of the north at seven or eight knots, perfect for sailing. I had an urge to take her out—it didn't matter where or how far—just for a valedictory sail, a last chance to enjoy the feel of her, the way she handled. I could do it and be back with time to spare before my
appointment. That hour would be a memento of our time together and if I wasted the opportunity I knew I'd regret it. I imagined Straw coming aboard the next day, taking possession of her, walking up and down the deck, pleased as punch. The scene had appeared to me on several occasions but never as clearly, never with the sound of his boots reverberating on the deck, playing a tattoo while the wind in the lines piped me off the boat and out of her life. It was one of those blessed moments when everything suddenly becomes clear, Ford, when the scales fall from your eyes and you see what has been hidden in a flash. I was on the verge of making a terrible mistake—not in letting her go, there was no question about that—but how.

An hour later I called Straw from Sebold's shop and told him that something unforeseen had come up that forced me to withdraw my offer to sell the
Nellie.
He was vastly disappointed. He reminded me that I had accepted earnest money, adding that he had spent a good deal of time arranging for the rest of the price. He had made plans. Apologizing profusely, I said I'd send a check immediately.