He was waiting for me on the step.
“I know you,” I said. “You play the violin like an angel.”
“And you tip like you’re loaded.”
“Oh,” I said, “that. How did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t have a very big audience.” He smiled. “I’m Arthur,” he said. “I’d like to take you to lunch.”
“I’d like to go to lunch,” I said.
“The seafood place across the street?”
“Sure.”
The restaurant was in the basement. We paused at the door. Hanging above was a life-size fiberglass sculpture of a giant clam consuming a man. Only the man’s trouser legs and shoes remained, protruding from the clam’s mouth. In the window was a sign advertising the featured beer—Sam Adams Oktoberfest, and the special—oysters.
“Do you like oysters?” I asked.
“I’ve never had oysters,” he replied.
I pushed open the door. Inside there was darkness and chill. I heard the clink of glass as the bartender sorted clean wineglasses above the bar. There was the subtle smell of smoke and behind the hiss of grilling steak, I could hear the cooks laughing. We sat at a booth. Above our heads we could see the feet of passersby—feet coming together in conversation; feet rushing off. The waiter brought us drinks. Arthur had long fingers, muscled hands. He rolled his pint glass in his hands.
“There’s a storm rolling in,” he said.
“Tonight?”
“Late this afternoon.”
“What do you do during storms?” Our oysters arrived and I squeezed lemon over the lot. “Do you still play?”
“I sit in a bar, usually.” Arthur smiled. His teeth were crooked.
“You don’t go home.”
“I live in my van.”
“That’s awful.”
“You get used to it,” he said, stoically. “One good thing about living in your van is that you don’t have to drive home.”
“Any drawbacks?”
“It’s freezing.”
“Why do you live in your van?”
“Guess,” he said.
He had beautiful, squinty green eyes. “Bad breakup?” I suggested.
“Very good.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Most of my friends have suggested I find another topic of conversation.”
I smiled, but with some prodding and three beers, Arthur was a little more forthcoming. Arthur had moved into his van two weeks earlier after leaving his girlfriend of six years, her heroin addiction, and incidentally, his heroin addiction, in a collapsing house at the foot of Munjoy Hill. Much of Munjoy Hill offered a stunning view of Portland; however, Arthur’s room looked out at a vulcanizing shop. The house was flanked by a burned-out building and the Nissen bakery, which filled the air with bread fumes at strange hours but offered the advantage of selling day-old bread at ten cents a loaf. Arthur had also recently vacated his position as drummer for Intravenous, a metal band whose songs were indistinguishable from one another. The band had a loyal following and Arthur’s departure was seen as bizarre and ill-advised. Of course, many thought the same of his cleaning-up, particularly his girlfriend, who felt betrayed. In her eyes, Arthur had aged inexplicably; his conversion made him as alien as a stockbroker.
Arthur hadn’t played the violin in ten years, not since he was sixteen. But he had always been an exceptional player whose talent had tortured those around him, particularly when he disappeared into Boston at the age of seventeen and resurfaced two weeks later as a frightening punk rocker. Arthur was once again reinventing himself. He still had his studded leather jacket and bleached white hair (which, from the back, made him look like an old man) but playing the violin made him genuinely happy. Also, now that he’d quit heroin, he couldn’t talk to any of his old crowd. There were some people, for example Intravenous’s front man Bob Bob, for whom he still felt genuine affection, but talking to Bob Bob made him feel both self-conscious and bored. So he was strangely alone.
“How long do you plan to live in your car?” I asked.
“Van,” corrected Arthur. We laughed. Arthur took one of my cigarettes and lit it. He put his feet up on the seat of the booth and watched the smoke escaping from his mouth. “Someone has to need a roommate.” He shook his head wearily. “I know I’m getting old because the notion of living in my van depresses me.”
“Once,” I said, “that might have been romantic.”
“Once,” he repeated. “I’ve been kind of degenerate for the last six years. I told myself that I was living, being young. But now I just feel six years older.”
“There’s nothing embarrassing about getting old,” I said.
“It’s nothing to be proud of either,” Arthur replied. He looked at me slyly. “What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Me?” I laughed. “I don’t know. I have a new house—more of a shack—that I’m renting north of here. There’s a fireplace. It’s not really cold enough, but if there’s a storm blowing in I thought I might try it out.” I had no plans. “I have to fill out this application,” I said, holding up the piece of paper.
“Need any company?”
“You want to come home with me?”
Arthur turned deep red and I saw him checking his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
I thought for a moment. Boris was two states away and he’d promised me I could have friends. “I think you should.”
“Really?”
“Can you bring your violin?” I asked.
“I bring everything I own everywhere I go,” he said.
Arthur followed me up the coast. We stopped at the Mobil and got some beer, a half-dozen Duraflame logs, and a box of candles.
“We should get a movie,” said Arthur.
“Something creepy,” I said.
One good thing about the house is that it was fully furnished, complete with monster-sized TV and VCR and DVD, among other things—microwave, electric can opener, dishwasher—American necessities, things required by the folk willing to pay the high summer rates.
At the video store I picked out Silence of the Lambs.
We pulled into the driveway at around three. Gray clouds were rolling up the sky in a wall, shutting out the sun. The tide was completely out and birds were shouting warnings—coarse and sweet—in the wooded areas and scrubby pines. The air was heavy and electric. Arthur stood a comfortable distance away with his hands in his pockets. I looked over my shoulder at him, then back down at the bay. Suddenly, a gray coyote scooted across the point, disappearing over the drop into the woods.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“Yes, I did.” He seemed very peaceful.
A sudden gust blew in a cloud of rain than clattered over the roof in handful-sized drops. There was another spell of no rain, then lightning split the clouds open and it began to pour. Arthur and I ran into the house. I kicked my shoes off inside the door and Arthur did the same, although it took him a minute to loosen the laces of his boots. The water was sheeting against the windowpanes. I flicked on all the lights. While Arthur went to the bathroom, I opened the flue. The chimney looked fine, although the number of birds around the property made nests a possibility. I cheeped up the chimney, thinking that if indeed one had made its home there, it might reply.
Arthur came back from the bathroom. “You’re cheeping,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“There’s a leak,” he said, “right over the toilet.” He began laughing.
“Oh my God.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“About twenty-four hours.” I shook my head. “I was wondering why there was an umbrella in the bathroom.”
“On the bright side, the water goes right into the bowl. It’s kind of like a self-flushing unit.”