A black-and-white tug latched onto their bow and began turning up chop as it levered the Aleph out of her berth. From the wheelhouse they could hear the pilot rapping out commands in a kind of drunken staccato. Captain Daneri would repeat them, but silkily, like a man cajoling his slighted lover.
“Dead slow ahead!” barked the pilot.
“Dead slow ahead,” intoned the captain.
“Starboard five-oh!”
“Starboard. Five-oh. Please.”
“Stop!”
“Cut the engines, Mr. Piskaryov.”
Drunk or not, the pilot was good. With the tug grumbling by her side, the Aleph gradually backed out into the bay. Above, gulls turned circles overhead. Otik was studying them intensely, writing microscopic notes in a journal. He pointed out some element of their flight dynamics to Lars, who nodded, forming his two hands into a diving bird.
A rip from the ship’s horn made Radar jump. The gulls scattered. Inside the wheelhouse, Captain Daneri kissed his fist and shot them a grin.
The sky lightened, softening the hulls of the great tankers that lined Newark’s port. As they turned, the familiar stench of the Hackensack rose up and filled Radar’s nostrils. He shivered, seized by the violent urge to get back onto dry land. Craning his neck, he tried to catch a last glimpse of home, tried to make out the great swath of darkness that encircled the little shack behind his house on Forest Street, tried to see the A&P where she worked, but the sun had already risen and the darkness had fled. Kearny and its mysteries melted into an endless Jersey panorama.
A panic that had been gathering in Radar all night now broke through and overwhelmed him, as if a large animal pelt had been thrown across his back, so thick and heavy he felt he might collapse under the terrible weight of it. He already missed Ana Cristina. He missed his mother. He missed Kermin. He missed everything.
Radar clenched at the handrail of the boat, reeling. He had made a terrible, horrible mistake.
The intensity and vast ballast of this sensation felt very different from the nimble prelude to a seizure. There was no telltale whiff of lemon or cinnamon, but beyond that, he felt much too clear for an electrical malfunction. No: he could tell his body would not let him disappear into an epileptic netherworld. Not now. It held him fast, forcing him to confront his choice, eyes wide open.
What had he done? He was not supposed to be on this ship.
Desperate, he looked back at the docks. The distance between ship and shore had widened considerably. Fifty feet. Now seventy-five. The water white and restless from their maneuvers. He could dive in. He did not know how to swim, but surely he could make it just by thrashing like a dog. How hard could it be? He would not look back at the ship; he would haul himself from the muck and mire, run home, lie prostrate at his mother’s feet, and offer a thousand apologies for his madness. Then he would find Ana Cristina and he would hold her, wet and shivering, and he would never let her go.
He released his grip on the railing and stumbled up to Lars.
“I need to go back,” he said.
“For what?”
“I can’t go.”
“You can’t go?”
“I need to find Kermin.” He willed back the tears. “I can’t leave her alone like this.”
Lars studied him.
“It’s too late,” he said. “We’ve left.”
“Please,” said Radar. “Tell them to stop the ship.”
“She’ll be okay.”
“She won’t be okay. It wasn’t me who wanted to go,” he said, realizing what he was saying.
“I need to go back,” he said quietly.
Lars looked into his eyes. They stood like this, the tug twirling the boat around, and then Lars nodded and walked into the wheelhouse.
• • •
AS THEY SWUNG AROUND Bergen Point and headed toward the arched gateway of the Bayonne Bridge, Captain Daneri strode out onto the bridgewing, with Lars in tow.
“What’s this I hear about you jumping ship?” bellowed the captain. His posture had changed decidedly. Arms akimbo, he was all right angles and mariner’s scowl. His left eyebrow arched and trembling like a flag in a stiff wind.
“I’ve got to go back, I’m sorry,” said Radar, stepping backwards. “I don’t want to cause any—”
“May I ask why you got on my boat in the first place?” said the captain.
Radar looked around to see if anyone was watching. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I really am, but I’ve got to get off. Please.”
Lars was standing behind the captain, delivering a quiet glare in Radar’s general direction. It was the first time Radar had seen this side of him; in all other matters, even during the previous night’s gloomier episodes, Lars had been nothing but calm and cheerful, a steady rudder to Otik’s mania. But here was a glimpse of the fire within. Seeing that glower, Radar understood how a group as obscure and unfeasible as Kirkenesferda had persisted through the years. It was an indirect kind of rage, a seething generalis. He could feel himself shrinking beneath the onslaught.
Hearing the commotion, Otik abandoned his bird-watching and approached their little trio.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Apparently your compadre doesn’t want to voyage with us,” said the captain. The eyebrow twitched.
“I told you!” said Otik. “I told you, Lars. He is like the little child. He is half the man of his father. Less, probably. One quarter-half of one percent.”
Captain Daneri thrust a finger into Radar’s chest. “What’s eating at you, my boy?”
Radar opened his mouth but said nothing.
“Go on,” the captain said. “What’s got you turned around?”
“My father disappeared,” he said. “He’s the one who was supposed to be here, not me. I can’t just abandon my mother in the middle of a blackout. I have to go help her find him.”
“She told him to come,” said Lars.
“She was probably tired of dealing with him,” said Otik. “She wanted him kaput.”
“She didn’t know what she was saying,” said Radar. “Please, sir. Let me off. I won’t bother you anymore. I just need to go back. They don’t even want me here.”
“It’s not true,” said Lars. “We need you. And you need us.”
The Bayonne Bridge was above them. The metal laced into a perfect convex, launched lightly from either bank, unequivocal in its conceit. It was a dream of men. Of all men.
The captain went to the railing. He rubbed his beard with the palm of his hand.
“A nasty little strait, this Kill van Kull,” he said. “Straits are what get you. Your bow is pushed from shore and your stern is sucked in. You must go straight, but you cannot steer straight. So what do you do?” As he said this, he pointed at the wheelhouse, where the pilot was alternately giving commands and speaking of whores. Yet you could tell that he was completely in control from the ease with which he switched between his story and his directional orders. And so could the captain, apparently, who was comfortable enough to leave the pilot while he lingered out here with them.