Pym_ A Novel - Mat Johnson [83]
“Arthur Gordon Pym,” I said to him. At the moment, the white man was pulled into the far corner of the bar’s wall, surrounded by cast-off cups of past customers. Bent over, walking among them, Pym was gathering up the mugs that lay discarded, picking up a fresh one as a particularly tall Tekelian lobbed one in Pym’s basic direction. From his custodial actions, it appeared that I had interrupted Pym at his job, that he was perhaps the pub’s owner, or at least one of its stewards. However, I then saw Pym find a cup with a little drink still frozen solid to its inside. He immediately dropped all the other cups again and began scraping out the prized remainders of the one with his pink hand, shoving the garbage into his mouth.
Nathaniel, seeing this process, let go of me, limping heavily until he reached the pile Pym had dropped, and scooped his own brown fingers in search of leftovers as well.
“This tastes like fermented whale piss” was his critique of the now frozen beverage, as he scooped a bit from an ice glass with his pinkie.
“Close” was Pym’s response, and as soon as he had licked the last remnants of the stuff off his fingers, Pym dropped the glass in hand straight to the floor, turning to look for another one. I don’t know if Nathaniel didn’t hear Pym’s confirmation of the drink’s ingredients or if Nathaniel’s own hunger was simply too great for him to object, but he kept eating from the discarded receptacle regardless. I too was tempted: if this was all there was left of the world, what else would there be for me to dine on?
“I say to you that good liquor is not light on the tongue,” Pym continued, lips smacking. “And this is the drink of the Gods. It is the elixir of life, keeping me alive longer than I’m sure I have a right to live.” Swallowing down another bite of his frozen spirit, the clearly inebriated man took a good look at me.
“This is how you survived two hundred years, huh?” Nathaniel perked up. It was clear that he didn’t believe the Caucasian but just as clear that he knew he didn’t need to believe him in order to sell this dreck by the barrel back on the mainland. The optimism intrinsic in this speculation, that there might still be a mainland to return to, put a little pep in Nathaniel’s limp as he searched through the pile for other samples.
As Pym chewed, his mustache bounced up and down over his top lip like a caterpillar in a circus. He was taking me in now, really looking at me for the first time since he’d realized I was not a fellow white man. “You look awful. Or like offal. One or the other; I care not,” he told me.
“Of course I look awful, these creatures have me living like a fucking slave. What the hell am I supposed to look like?” To this, Pym raised his eyebrows in disapproval before continuing with his binge. His manner seemed to imply that he found my reply not only boorish but pathetic.
“That is not what I have heard. Your master Krakeer was just over there—”
“Who, Augustus?” I asked in disbelief. The idea that Augustus, even with his considerable strength, could ever be the master of me was ridiculous.
“Do not interrupt me. As I was saying, I heard from the very source that in fact you were being put up for sale. I suspect in mere weeks your indolent character has revealed itself.”
“He’s not feeding me, Pym, he doesn’t have any food. I’m starving. I’m not working around the house because I’m so starved I can barely move.”
“Well, you managed to walk all the way into town, didn’t you?” Pym replied smugly, very impressed with his own impish wit. “I suspect your master will have food enough shortly, for that is him addressing the great warrior Barro. In fact, I imagine your