The Man Who Was Going Nowhere

           ThecabininwhichIfoundmyselfwassmallandratheruntidy.Ayoungishmanwithflaxenhair,abristlystraw-colouredmoustache,andadroppingnetherlip,wassittingandholdingmywrist.Foraminutewestaredateachotherwithoutspeaking.Hehadwaterygreyeyes,oddlyvoidofexpression.Thenjustoverheadcameasoundlikeanironbedsteadbeingknockedabout,andthelowangrygrowlingofsomelargeanimal.Atthesametimethemanspoke.Herepeatedhisquestion,—"Howdoyoufeelnow?"

           IthinkIsaidIfeltallright.IcouldnotrecollecthowIhadgotthere.Hemusthaveseenthequestioninmyface,formyvoicewasinaccessibletome.

           "Youwerepickedupinaboat,starving.Thenameontheboatwasthe‘LadyVain,’andtherewerespotsofbloodonthegunwale."

           Atthesametimemyeyecaughtmyhand,thinsothatitlookedlikeadirtyskin-pursefullofloosebones,andallthebusinessoftheboatcamebacktome.

           "Havesomeofthis,"saidhe,andgavemeadoseofsomescarletstuff,iced.

           Ittastedlikeblood,andmademefeelstronger.

           "Youwereinluck,"saidhe,"togetpickedupbyashipwithamedicalmanaboard."Hespokewithaslobberingarticulation,withtheghostofalisp.

           "Whatshipisthis?"Isaidslowly,hoarsefrommylongsilence.

           "It’salittletraderfromAricaandCallao.