Ferrer had not slept a wink that night either, of course. Kneeling before the open trunks, he had turned each of the objects in all directions at least a thousand times. By now he was exhausted, no longer had the strength to look at them, no longer knew what he was seeing, lacked even the energy to be happy. Riddled with aches and pains, he got up with groans of protest, walked to the window and saw that the sun was already rising. But no, his mistake, in Port Radium the sun had not slept any more than he had.
Ferrer’s room looked like a small one-person dormitory, which seems like a contradiction in terms and yet it’s so: blank, characterless walls, lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, linoleum floor, cracked sink in one corner, bunk beds of which Ferrer chose the lower, out-of-order TV, closet containing only a deck of cards—auspicious at first, but in fact unusable because it was missing the ace of hearts—strong odor of frying pan and gurgling heater. Nothing to read but in any case Ferrer didn’t much feel like reading, and finally he managed to sleep.
After the visit to the Nechilik, they were catching their breath in Port Radium. Each time they caught it, moreover, a torrent of spiraling steam, dense as cotton wool, escaped from their lips before crashing against the frozen marble of the air. Once Angoutretok and Napaseekadlak were thanked, paid, and heading back to Tuktoyaktuk, Ferrer had to remain for two solid weeks in this town, where the hotel choices came down to his room, which was next to a laundromat. Whether the building was a club, an annex to something, or an activity center, Ferrer would never know for sure, given that it was always empty and the manager mute. Or in any case not very chatty, for perhaps at heart he was suspicious, so rare were tourists in those god- and man-forsaken holes: the days are endless, the distractions nonexistent, and the weather stinks. Given that there’s no police station or representative of any authority whatsoever, one might suspect the resident stranger of fleeing some form of justice. A fair number of days and dollars, smiles and sign language were required for Ferrer to finally take the edge off the manager’s circumspection.
Nor was it easy to find, among the populace of Port Radium, an artisan capable of making containers suited to the Nechilik’s cargo. All the more difficult in that wood practically doesn’t exist in these climates: you don’t find any more of that than of anything else, but as always anything is possible if you’re willing to pay the price. Ferrer met the manager of the supermarket who agreed to adapt to the desired size some solid television, refrigerator, and machine-tool crates. It would take a while, and Ferrer had to wait. Usually keeping to his room since he didn’t like to leave his antiques; getting bored rigid when he couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. Port Radium can really be a drag, nothing much happening here, especially on Sunday when tedium, silence, and the cold worked together at peak efficiency.
He occasionally went out for a walk, but there wasn’t much of anything to see, either: three times more dogs than people and twenty little houses in mellow colors, with tin roofs, along with two lines of buildings fronting the port. In any case, given the temperature, Ferrer never stayed out for long. Through the almost empty streets he took a quick stroll around these houses built with rounded corners to keep the cold from catching in the angles, to leave the least possible hold for ice. Heading toward the dock, he skirted the yellow clinic, the green post office, the red supermarket, and the blue garage, in front of which stood rows of Skidoos. At the port, other rows of boats on drydock awaited a more clement season. Most of the snow on the ground had melted but the ice floe, pierced only by a narrow channel, still obstructed a large portion of the bay.
In the general calm, he observed some occasional activity. Two provident individuals, taking advantage of the thaw, were digging holes in the momentarily movable earth with an eye toward burying those of their loved ones who would die in the coming winter. Two others, surrounded by prefabricated materials, were assembling their house kit, carefully following the instructions with the help of an explanatory video; smashing the silence, a generator powered the VCR in the open air. Three children were bringing empties back to the supermarket. Near the port, an old metal church overlooked the shore where two iron-gray Zodiacs, having forged a passage in the channel, unloaded in hiccups twelve passengers wearing anoraks and large shoes. The lake’s frozen lid had begun to come undone in huge plates with simple outlines, like pieces of an elementary jigsaw puzzle for beginners, and, beyond that, streaming under the pale sun, a hundred or so large and small icebergs waddled along. Heading back to his lodging, Ferrer again came across the two men building their house. No doubt to take their mind off things, to take a break, they had swapped the builder’s video for another of pornographic character, which they pondered gravely, standing, immobile and meditative, without a word.
For the first several days, Ferrer took his meals alone in his room and did not try to communicate with anyone except the manager. But the manager’s conversation, even after he seemed to be reassured, was not all that scintillating. Besides, talking only in gestures gets tiresome. During his brief excursions, the few locals he met always smiled at him, and Ferrer smiled back, but that’s as far as it went. Then, two days before his departure, as he was trying to peer through a yellowed window at the inside of a house, he saw a young girl in the background who smiled at him like the others. He smiled back, but this time the girl’s parents joined in. Jovial, apparently having nothing better to do, they invited him inside for a drink. To chill the whiskey, they sent the girl to chip some ice off the nearest ice floe, then they drank hard while chatting in broken English; soon they insisted he stay for dinner, seal mousse and baby whale steaks. But first they showed him around the house: well insulated, telephone and television, large stove and modern kitchen, cheap white-wood furniture of the Nordic variety, which can be found almost anywhere, even in the outskirts of Paris.
So Ferrer fraternized with the entire Aputiarjuk family. At dinner, he had some difficulty making out the father’s profession before he understood that the latter had none. The recipient of unemployment benefits, he preferred to hunt for seal in the great outdoors rather than sweat in some tiny office, large kitchen, or huge ship. Even fishing, in this man’s eyes, was just a horrid livelihood: nothing like seal hunting, the only true sport that gives you any real pleasure. Ferrer gave a little toast like the others. They drank copiously to seal hunting, affectionately to the health of seal hunters, enthusiastically to the health of seals in general, and soon, succumbing to the alcohol, they invited him to spend the night if he wanted; no problem with sharing the girl’s room and in the morning they would tell each other their dreams as was customary in these parts, in every family, every morning. Ferrer found it hard to refuse; the lamp shed a soft glow and the radio was playing Tony Bennett, it was warm, the stove rumbled, everyone was laughing, the girl was smiling at him, ah, let’s hear it for Port Radium.