The Story

by Victoria Hislop

  A big room. Red, polished, concrete floors. Large, silver fridges. And quiet. He could hear the noise from the shop and, further off, the noise from the market. But in here it was still and the stillness and the silence had a special sound. Like water.

  Wesley closed his eyes. He shuddered. He opened his eyes again, tucked the lead under his arm and beat a hasty retreat.

  He was in a world of his own when Trevor finally arrived that morning. On two occasions Trevor said, ‘Penny for them,’ and then snapped his fingers in front of Wesley’s unfocused eyes when he didn’t respond.

  ‘I’m thinking of my dad,’ Wesley said. ‘Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Why?’ said Trevor, who was in a fine good-humour considering his tyre hold-up.

  ‘I was just in the pie and mash shop getting the extension lead for the lights. Out the back. And then I was suddenly thinking about my dad. You know, the navy and the sea and all the stuff we used to talk about when I was a kid.’

  ‘Your dad still in the navy?’ Trevor asked.

  Wesley shook his head. ‘Desk job,’ he said.

  ‘Probably those bloody eels,’ Trevor said, bending down and picking up a crate of Coxes.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those eels out the back. Making you think of the sea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the fridges. He keeps the eels in there.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Wesley’s voice dipped by half an octave. Trevor didn’t notice. He was wondering whether he could interest Wesley in selling flowers every Sunday as a side-interest. A stall was up for grabs on the Mile End Road close to the tube station. Sundays only.

  ‘You’re telling me he keeps live eels in those fridges?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Live eels?’ Wesley asked, with emphasis.

  ‘In the fridges, yeah.’ Trevor stopped what he was doing, straightened up, warned by the tone of Wesley’s voice.

  ‘What, like…’ Wesley said, breathing deeply, ‘swimming around in a big tank?’

  ‘Nope.’ Trevor scratched his head. ‘Uh… like five or six long metal drawers, horizontal, yeah? And when you pull the drawers open they’re all in there. Noses at one end and tails at the other. Big fuckers, though. I mean, five foot each or something.’

  A woman came up to the stall and wanted to buy a lemon and two bananas. She asked Wesley for what she needed but Wesley paid her no heed.

  ‘Hang on a second,’ he said gruffly, holding up his flat hand, ‘just shut up for a minute.’

  He turned to Trevor. ‘You know anything about eels?’ he asked. Trevor knew enough about wild creatures to know that if Wesley had been a dog or a coyote his ears would be prickling, his ruff swelling.

  ‘Not to speak of…’ he said.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Wesley said to the customer, ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ and off he went.

  Wesley strolled into the pie and mash shop. Fred was serving. Wesley waited patiently in line until it was his turn to be served.

  ‘What can I get you, Wesley?’ Fred asked, all jovial.

  Wesley smiled back at him. ‘Having a few problems with the lights on the stall,’ he said. ‘Could I just pop out the back and see if the plug’s come loose or something?’

  ‘Surely,’ Fred said, thumbing over his shoulder. ‘You know the lie of the land out there.’

  Wesley went into the back room and up to one of the fridges. He took hold of the top drawer and pulled it open. The drawer contained water, and, just as Trevor had described, was crammed full of large, grey eels, all wriggling, eyes open, noses touching steel, tails touching steel. Skin rubbing skin rubbing skin.

  Held in limbo, Wesley thought, in this black, dark space. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Wanting to move. Nowhere to go. Like prison. Like purgatory.

  Wesley closed the drawer. He shuddered. He covered his face with his soft hands. He breathed deeply. He hadn’t been all that honest. What he’d said about his dad and everything. True enough, his dad had been in the navy, he’d travelled on ships the world over, to India and Egypt and Hong Kong. Only he never came back from the sea. Never came back home. Sort of lost interest in them all. Only sent a card once, a while after… a while after… to say he wouldn’t ever be back again.

  Wesley knew all about the sea, though. Knew all about fishes and currents and stingrays and everything. His mum had bought him a book about it. For his birthday when he was six. And so he knew about eels and how they all travelled from that one special place in the Sargasso Sea. Near the West Indies. That’s where they were spawned and that’s where they returned to die.

  But first, such a journey! Feeding on plankton, the tiny, little transparent eels, newborn, floated to the surface of that great sea from their deep, warm home in its depths, drifted on the Gulf Stream, travelled over the Atlantic, for three summers, then into European waters, in huge numbers, swam upriver, from salt to freshwater. What a journey. And man couldn’t tame them or breed them in captivity or stop them. Couldn’t do it.

  How did they know? Huh? Where to go? How did they know? But they knew! They knew where to go. Moving on, living, knowing, remembering. Something in them. Something inside. Passed down through the generations. An instinct.

  Wesley uncovered his face and looked around him. He wanted to find another exit. He walked to the rear of the fridges and discovered a door, bolted. He went over and unbolted it, turned the key that had been left in its lock, came back around the fridges and strolled out into the shop.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Wesley said as he pushed his way past Fred and sauntered back outside again.

  Trevor shook his head. ‘No way,’ he said. And he meant it.

  ‘You’ve got to fucking do this for me, Trev,’ Wesley said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know how old some of those eels are?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some could be twenty years old. They’ve lived almost as long as you have.’

  ‘They get them from a farm,’ Trevor said. ‘They aren’t as old as all that.’

  ‘They can’t breed them in captivity,’ Wesley said. ‘They come from the Sargasso Sea. That’s where they go to breed and to die.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Near the West Indies. That’s where they go. That’s what eels do. They travel thousands of miles to get here and then they grow and then they travel thousands of miles to get back again.’

  ‘Sounds a bit bloody stupid,’ Trevor said, ‘if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m a travelling man,’ Wesley said, ‘like my dad was. Don’t try and keep me in one place. Don’t try and lock me away.’

  ‘They’re eels, Wesley,’ Trevor said, almost losing patience.

  ‘Imagine how they’re feeling,’ Wesley said, ‘caught in those fridges. Needing to travel. Needing it, needing it. Like an illness, almost. Like a fever. Dreaming of those hot waters, the deep ocean. Feeling cold steel on their noses, barely breathing, crammed together. Nowhere to go. No-fucking-where to go.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Trevor said, ‘I’ve got no argument with Fred. Forget it, mate.’

  ‘Take the van, Trevor,’ Wesley said calmly. ‘Drive it round the back, where they make the deliveries. I already unlocked the door.’

  Off Wesley strode again. Trevor jangled the keys in his pocket, swore out loud and then ran after him.

  Wesley crept in through the back entrance. He stood still a while. He could hear the chattering of customers in the shop and he could hear the sound of a van pulling into the delivery passage. He went outside, smiling wildly, happy to be fucking up, same as he always was.

  ‘OK, Trev,’ he said. ‘Open the back doors but keep the tail up so’s when I dump them in there they don’t escape.’

  Trevor looked immensely truculent but he did as Wesley asked.

  Wesley went back inside, opened up one of the big, silver drawers, pushed his arms in, down and under all that silky, scaleless eel-flesh. He curled his arms right under, five eels, all wriggling, closed his ar
ms around them and lifted. Water splashed and splattered. He looked over to the doorway leading into the shop, bit his lip, couldn’t pause. The eels were whipping and lashing and swerving and writhing. He headed for the exit at top speed.

  Trevor stood by the tailgate. When he saw the eels he swore. ‘Fuck this man! Fuck this!’

  Wesley threw the eels into the back of the van. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said, ‘to get them back to water, otherwise they’ll suffocate.’

  Trevor watched the eels speeding and curling in the back of his van, swimming, almost, on air. He turned to say something but Wesley was gone. A minute later Wesley re-emerged. More eels. Like snakes. Faces like… faces like cats or otters or something. Little gills. Seal eyes.

  As Wesley turned to go back in Trevor caught him by his shirt sleeve. ‘I’m not doing this,’ he said. ‘Things are going well for us here. He’s kept eels in this place for years, gets a delivery every week.’

  Wesley turned on him. ‘Give me the keys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give me the shitting keys and I’ll drive them to the canal myself.’

  ‘This is stupid!’

  ‘Don’t call me fucking stupid. No one calls me that. Give me the fucking keys.’

  Trevor took the keys out of his pocket and dropped them on the floor. He walked off. His eyes were prickling. ‘Fuck it!’ he shouted, and his voice echoed down the passageway.

  Back inside, Wesley pulled open the third drawer, shoved his arms in, took hold of the eels. Water was everywhere now. Thank God it was lunchtime and Fred was busy. He held the fish tight and straightened up. He headed for the back door.

  Outside, he met Fred. He was holding the five eels. He looked at Fred.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Fred said.

  ‘Why aren’t you in the shop?’ Wesley asked, stupidly.

  ‘Jean’s in,’ Fred said, eyeing the eels. ‘She’s covering.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘What are you doing with my eels?’ Fred put out his arms. ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘No,’ Wesley said. ‘You can’t own a wild thing.’

  As he spoke he took a step back. Fred moved forwards and put himself between Wesley and the tailgate. The eels were itching to get free. Wesley’s arms were aching. Fred took a step closer. He was short and square and tough as a boxing hare.

  Wesley opened his arms. The eels flew into the air, landed, skidded, flipped, whipped, scissored, dashed. At top speed, they sea-snaked down the passageway, into the market, on to the main road.

  ‘Down the Roman Road,’ Wesley yelled. ‘Back to the water, back to the frigging sea!’

  Fred punched Wesley in the mouth. Jesus, Wesley thought, feels like all my teeth have shifted. He staggered, righted himself, clenched his hands into fists, by way of a diversion, then kicked Fred in the bollocks. Fred buckled.

  Wesley skipped past him and sprang into the van. Got the keys in the ignition, started the engine, roared off in a cloud of black exhaust fume.

  Beale’s Place, Wright’s Road, St Stephen’s Road. Bollocks to the One Way! Sharp right at the tip of the market. Back on to the Roman Road, screw the traffic, on to the pavement, over the zebra crossing, past the video shop, the church, the intersection, Mile End Park. Sharp left. Over the grass. Tyre tracks. Mud-cut. Foot flat. Brakes.

  How long had he taken? He didn’t know. He could see the canal, just below. Dirty, dark waters. Dank and littery.

  Down with the tailgate! The eels were like flying fish. The air made them pump and shudder. Like spaghetti in a heated pan, boiling and bubbling.

  ‘Get in there!’ Wesley yelled at them. ‘The Grand Union Canal, the Thames, the Channel, the Ant-bloody-arctic.’

  A cluster of eels shuddered down into the grass, rippled on to the concrete path, and then One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Into the canal.

  One eel split from the others, turned right and darted towards some undergrowth. One stayed in the back of the van, smaller than the others and less agile. Wesley grabbed it by its tail. He swung it in his arms. He ran to the edge of the canal. He threw it. The eel made a whip-cracking motion in the air, shaped itself like a fancy ribbon, just untied from a box of something wrapped and precious. Then splosh! It was under.

  Wesley stood by the canal for several minutes. He inspected his hands, he sniffed, he stopped shaking. He started walking. He walked. He walked. He passed by a fisherman. He stopped walking. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Which way is it to the sea?’ he asked casually. ‘From here, I mean?’

  The fisherman gave this question some consideration while sucking his tongue and rolling his rod between his two hands.

  ‘I should think,’ he said, eventually, ‘I should think it’s in the exact opposite direction from the one you’re travelling.’ Then he turned, stared down along the path Wesley had just trodden, and pointed.

  Emerald City

  Jennifer Egan

  Jennifer Egan (b. 1962) is an American writer. She has published short fiction in The New Yorker and Harper’s, and her journalism appears frequently in The New York Times Magazine. Egan’s novel A Visit from the Goon Squad won the 2011 Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

  Rory knew before he came to New York what sort of life he would have. He’d read about it in novels by hip young authors who lived there. He saw the apartment, small but high-ceilinged, a tall, sooty window with a fire escape twisting past a chemical-pink sky. Nights in frantic clubs, mornings hunched over coffee in the East Village, warming his hands on the cup, black pants, black turtleneck, pointed black boots. He’d intended to snort cocaine, but by the time he arrived, that was out. He drank instead.

  He was a photographer’s assistant, loading cameras all day, holding up light meters, waving Polaroids until they were dry enough to tear open. As he watched the models move, he sometimes worried he was still too California. What could you do with sandy blond hair – cut it off? Short hair was on the wane, at least for men. So there it hung, golden, straight as paper, reminiscent of beaches he’d never seen, being as he was from Chicago (in Chicago there was the lake, but that didn’t count). His other option was to gain or lose some weight, but the starved look had lost its appeal – any suggestion of illness was to be avoided. Beefy was the way to go; not fat, just a classic paunch above the belt. But no matter how much Rory ate, he stayed exactly the same. He took up smoking instead, although it burned his throat.

  Rory stubbed out his cigarette and checked to make sure the lights were off in the darkroom. He was always the last to leave; his boss, Vesuvi, would hand him the camera as soon as the last shot was done and then swan out through the sea of film containers, plastic cups, and discarded sheets of backdrop paper. Vesuvi was one of those people who always had somewhere to go. He was blessed with a marvelous paunch, which Rory tried not to admire too openly. He didn’t want Vesuvi to get the wrong idea.

  Rory swept the debris into bags, then he turned out the lights, locked up the studio, and headed down to the street. Twilight was his favorite hour – metal gates sliding down over storefronts, newspapers whirling from the sidewalk into the sky, an air of promise and abandonment. This was the way he’d expected New York to look, and he was thrilled when the city complied.

  He took the subway uptown to visit Stacey, a failing model whom he adored against all reason. Stacey – when girls with names like Zane and Anouschka and Brid regularly slipped him their phone numbers during shoots. Stacey refused to change her name. ‘If I make it,’ she said, ‘they’ll be happy to call me whatever.’ She never acknowledged that she was failing, though it was obvious. Rory longed to bring it up, to talk it over with her, but he was afraid to.

  Stacey lay on her bed, shoes still on. A Diet Coke was on the table beside her. She weighed herself each morning, and when she was under 120, she allowed herself a real Coke that day.

  ‘What happened at Bazaar?’ Rory asked, perching on the edge of the bed. Stacey sat up and
smoothed her hair.

  ‘The usual,’ she said. ‘I’m too commercial.’ She shrugged, but Rory could see she was troubled.

  ‘And that was nothing,’ Stacey continued. ‘On my next go-see the guy kept looking at me and flipping back and forth through my book, and of course I’m thinking, Fantastic, he’s going to hire me. So you know what he finally says? I’m not ugly enough. He says, “Beauty today is ugly beauty. Look at those girls, they’re monsters – gorgeous, mythical monsters. If a girl isn’t ugly, I won’t use her.” ’

  She turned to Rory. He saw tears in her eyes and felt helpless. ‘What a bastard,’ he said.

  To his surprise, she began to laugh. She lay back on the bed and let the laughter shake her. ‘I mean, here I am,’ she said, ‘killing myself to stay thin, hot-oiling my hair, getting my nails done, and what does he tell me? I’m not ugly enough!’

  ‘It’s crazy,’ Rory said, watching Stacey uneasily. ‘He’s out of his mind.’

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She looked slaphappy, the way she looked sometimes after a second gin and tonic. Eight months before, after a year’s meticulous planning, she had bought her own ticket to New York from Cincinnati. And this was just the beginning; Stacey hoped to ride the wave of her success around the world: Paris, Tokyo, London, Bangkok. The shelves of her tiny apartment were cluttered with maps and travel books, and whenever she met a foreigner – it made no difference from where – she would carefully copy his address into a small leatherbound book, convinced it would not be long before she was everywhere. She was the sort of girl for whom nothing happened by accident, and it pained Rory to watch her struggle when all day in Vesuvi’s studio he saw girls whose lives were accident upon accident, from their discovery in whatever shopping mall or hot dog stand to the startling, gaudy error of their faces.

  ‘Rory,’ Stacey said. ‘Look at me a minute.’

  He turned obediently. She was so close he could smell the warm, milky lotion she used on her face. ‘Do you ever wish I was uglier?’ she asked.

  ‘God no,’ Rory said, pulling away to see if she was joking. ‘What a question, Stace.’