Chapter 6, 'Rounding the Cape in Strong Gale'

Max was clearly exhausted from the ordeal of recollecting the past several years of his life to Clark, so they went directly back to his flat, a small, utilitarian place on the low, rounded hill near the university Clark had seen from the water, which was in fact just an expensive private secondary school. Max went into his bedroom without another word, and Clark was left with a surprisingly comfortable futon, some sort of Japanese-meets-Norwegian fluke of modern design, it seemed, as these things always had a reputation as serving as neither a good couch nor bed. That he was staying with a wanted criminal did not bother Clark; Max's logic, not rationalizing his acts, but creating some sort of meaning out of their meeting, was so logical and forthright that Clark almost felt like an obedient child; more than wanting to help Max per say, he just wanted to understand him. He awoke sometime around 3 in the morning and heard Max talking softly in his sleep, the same phrases kept repeating themselves, "Paradox Island, can't, stay, afloat, yesssss... he trailed off, then started again with 'Well, the gold was for sale, wasn't it? No, it isn't mine. No, it isn't mine. No, it isn't mine.' he repeated this several more times, each a child-like protest of some sort of larger inequality not his fault, it sounded like. The sleep talking bothered Clark slightly, he always felt awkward and undeserving when privy to some stranger's personal life like this, without their knowledge or consent, but somehow he felt it would have been ok with Max, he was so open, trusting, at least with him.

He awoke unusually early, perhaps wary of his new, unfamiliar location, but more likely due to the brilliant silver slivers of light that reflected in the windows of a nearby modern building and managed to coalesce just above his head, a late fall Norwegian wake-up call programmed by nature it seemed. He needed a reason to rise early though it seemed, to sort of the logical order the day should proceed in, before others interfered with his own fate. Max came out of his room shortly thereafter, apologized for the rather impolite morning sunlight, as if he knew Clark's thoughts, and started some coffee and eggs. He was already dressed; no lazy Saturday morning pajama's, this man was all business, despite his casual demeanor, it was clear he 'didn't fuck around', as Clark's 'cool' friends at Brown liked to say. He wore dark denim jeans; they tapered subtly along his lean, strong legs, and a robin's egg blue Oxford shirt, the collar open 3 buttons to reveal a pale, but toned chest, a few stray blonde hairs escaping the fabric and suggesting some sort of Nordic high stakes gambler or used car salesman, minus the sleaze and age, of course. Max saw Clark looking at him somewhat critically, and deflected his judgment with a sidelong smile, a smirk almost, and said 'What? You don't like to dress well? Let me tell you something. If there's one thing I've learned in this gig [he really was American; this was not a word one picks up in English grammar books, Clark noted] is that... he continued, pausing slightly on the 'that', as if to emphasize the sage wisdom of what he was about to say, despite his scant 25 years on this earth. "Is that....appearances are everything', he continued, his smirk now a more serious tone, 'You wouldn't believe how much first impressions influence people... I mean, I could be telling them how I am blatantly going to con them out of some cherished valuable, and they are still thinking how nice it is to see a clean-cut, articulate young man, comparing me to their disappointing grandchild who dropped out of Art school in Oslo, and so on...'

Now it was Clark's turn to smirk knowingly, and he let Max carry on in this vein for several more minutes, as if Clark was actually a refugee from a primitive tribe in New Guinea, and not a veteran of several years of awful "Leadership Skill" classes his always-worried mother had forced him to go to as a teen, worried about his lack of social exuberance, or some B.S like that. When Max was finished with his little diatribe, Clark just smiled and said, 'Well, you look nice. That's all I meant by it.' 'Your a charmer', Max countered, his accent appearing slightly, as it tended to do when he was nervous. They ate eggs benedict and drank strong, black coffee, the kind his Swedish grandmother practically ingested intravenously, on the edge of the little futon, as there was no table. Max was careful to sit at a distance away from Clark where he could turn and observe him at full profile, to critique and judge silently, not muddled by the awkward anticipation induced when two people sit aside each other on a small couch in an otherwise empty apartment. They ate largely in silence, the building sunlight entered the room now as large, confident squares, changed from the hesitant slivers of an hour ago.

Clark asked about the building next door, partly to break the sounds of chewing, which always bothered him, and partly to talk about something unrelated to crime or travel. 'Well, it used to be municipal offices for the city council for the arts, as well as welfare programs for young people and the mentally ill', he said, and Clark had a feeling he had some personal vendetta against the history of the place, the way he had to explain the multitude of goodwill organizations that had resided there, instead of just 'municipal offices.'

'But... ' he continued, 'When the conservatives came in power in this Province in 75', they slashed the budget for public services and the arts of course were another early casualty... my father's company, Lundgren Aluminum AB, was given a great deal on the no longer needed space, which he was able to acquire no doubt in part due to his hefty contribution to their campaign that previous fall.' He mumbled something heated in Norwegian, distracted, but then put the business of the building aside and returned to his formerly sunny demeanor. Clark wanted to inquire further, but sensed the stressed family relationships in his life, and decided now was not the time to bring such things up, given the youth and fragility of their relationship.

Max suggested they go out into town, as he had to arrange some things with a 'business associate', in town for the weekend from St. Petersburg apparently, whom he thought Clark should meet. Visions of some surly Russian mob boss cracking both their heads over the back of a Mercedes coupe after failing to receive his promised gold bars flashed through Clark's mind, but he decided to play along and not ask too many questions. They walked down Nygata to the little park set amongst stately slate and brick townhomes on one side and a cluster of ugly, functional low-income housing blocks on the other side, a study in the contrasts of the social welfare state, Clark thought inquisitively, reminding himself that at least the Scandinavian countries managed to take care of their poor, their downtrodden, where as in America, they were cast out of the street for failing to meet the mark of a ruthless capitalist system they were unwillingly born into. He failed to see the irony in the upcoming exchange, where Max would trade chunks of bright, corrosion-resistant metal for cash, money he didn't even need, considering his lineage, just to get another taste of that ephemeral high, the head rush of selling and buying that entranced humans so much.

He gave the money almost entirely to charities, he informed Clark as they walked arm-in-arm the way the Italians do, and he believed him. He had a few endearingly loose screws, that was certain, and Clark liked him that much more for it. He had decided after applying to dozens of jobs in LA and across the U.S after UCLA and hearing back from a minuscule fraction of them, that rather than fall into the easy of trap of accepting a well-paying 'engineer' position at his father's company, he would try something a little different. That this would evolve into a transnational cold War Robin Hood scenario was unbeknown to him at the time; he merely knew that the internships he'd done while in school were incomparably more valuable and applicable to life than school itself, so why not extend this philosophy into some 'self-employment?' He loved that term, 'self-employment', because as he explained to Clark as they walked up to several empty benches in a leafy corner of the park, that just translated to choosing whose will you were enslaved to for money, rather than having it dictated in a little rectangular box of glass and steel, oh, say a 30 minute drive from your house, the way most people did. 'God, this kid is a trip... ' Clark thought, recalling that crazy chick from Stockholm, the one who had told him he 'came from a dream'. Then again, who was he to pass judgment on anyone's sanity these days? He'd given up that right when the first tab of acid reached his already manic brain that May evening some 6 months earlier, each step he took from his then-abandoned car to the Newport docks another irreversible lifestyle shift.

They took a seat on one of the benches, and Max instructed Clark to act cool, he'd already told Peder, his accomplice, all about him, and he was looking forward to meeting him, he informed Clark. After about 5 minutes of watching passerby's and exchanging adolescent comments between each other as to the person's attractiveness and/or employment, a tired looking, heavyset man in a large brown peacoat and equally tired looking leather shoes walked up to them, greeting Max with a reserved smile and nodding approvingly towards Clark. After they had exchanged several words, he turned towards Clark and extended a hand. 'Peder Zherov', he said in a surprisingly high voice, almost theatrical. 'I'm sure you expect some polished, important [which came out sounding like eeeemporrrtant] looking KGB ambassador, from Kremlin direct, eh?', he asked Clark with a slight smirk in Max's direction ,as if this was some kind of inside joke, and Clark stumbled over some vague apology, before Peder chuckled and continued, 'I am just representative, you see... What you hear in American news, Soviet Union has unlimited supply of natural resources, blah blah... not true. In specific, we lack precious metals, even vith new deposit in Kazakhstan and Norilsk, eez always more, more, more! zhey vant...' he trailed off, clearly disgusted with the American-style resource imperialism the Russian's were carrying out in an attempt to reach parity with the Yankees.

Max brought a small briefcase up from near his feet, slim and black, he carried it with such precise indifference Clark hadn't noticed it until now. He handed it to Peder, who hefted it with one arm, expertly gauging the weight, letting it dilate the blue veins of his flabby, tired arms in delicious exertion. 'Yezz, zis is precizzzely what we have been looking for', he said absentmindedly to Max, still distracted with the exact heft of the little briefcase. 'Too much platinum supply now that Norilsk mines operating fully', he instructed Max. 'Biggest deposit in vorld for platinum-group-element, no qvestion... but, we can no sell to American or even those European fuckers in NATO', he continued in disgust. 'Government, zhey even try and sell below spot price', he added dejectedly, 'but Americans no want, say zhis no good, zhis beautiful Siberian vhite gold', he added reverently. 'So they want to buy gold, and silver in lesser quantities, but that's generally too bulky and hard to move', Max added, sensing that Clark was now thoroughly lost. Peder nodded, and fished what looked like a typed receipt, neat rows of numbers and Cyrillic characters on narrow paper, and handed it to Max, who surveyed it quickly, nodded approvingly, and shook Peder's hand. 'Clark', he said, 'eet vas very nice to meet you. I vish vee talk more, especially about Mediterranean girls and zee vonderful French wine, but I must be going now... authorities pozzibly vire-tap my phone call other day, and fake passport zhey give me not so convincing, you know?', he winked, and added more soberly, 'You know, I vonder sometimes vhen ziss is all over, vhen vee one global community and not egotizztical Nation-States ruled by handful of crazies, vhere will vee all be? Hopefully still alive!' he added on a lighter note, and slapped his knee, walking west towards the train station and ferry docks and waving goodbye over his shoulder.