Martin was in his bunk; handling the lines had tired him. His eyes were shut but he was not asleep. He listened to Bervick moving about the cabin. “Going up town?” he asked.
“That’s right.” Bervick adjusted his cap.
“You going to see Olga?”
“I might. Haven’t had much to do with her lately.”
“That’s right, you haven’t.”
Bervick pulled on his parka. Thinking of Olga excited him. He still liked her, and the thought of the Chief with her, bothered him. The Chief would not be with her tonight; for some reason he was sure of that. Tonight was his night.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said to Martin, and he went out onto the forward deck.
The tide was going out and the wheelhouse was now level with the dock. With an effort he pulled himself up to the dock. To his left was the native village and to his right were more docks and warehouses. Men from the various boats walked about on shore, dim figures in the twilight. Pale blue smoke circled up from the galley smokestacks. There was a smell of cooking, of supper, in the cool air. Bervick turned and walked into the village.
The main street of the settlement curved parallel with the beach for half a mile. Most of the houses were on this street. Bars and restaurants and one theater, all wooden, also lined the street. The buildings had been painted white originally; they were many weathered shades of gray, now. On a small hill, behind two bars and a former brothel, the old Russian Orthodox church rose straightly against the evening. Its two onion-shaped cupolas were painted green; the rest of the church was an almost new white.
On several lanes, running inland from the main street, were the homes of the two hundred odd pre-war residents. Most of the houses had been vacated at the beginning of the war. The windows were boarded up and the privies leaned crazily in the back yards. Seven trees, which had been imported, were withered now, and their limbs had been made grotesque by the constant wind.