by D R Sherman
“It is possible,” the boy agreed.
“Did you not think to throw the fish to the shark and get away while he was busy with it?” the man asked roughly.
The boy shook his head and looked away from the accusation in the man’s eyes. “I did not think of it,” he said with humility.
“No matter,” the man said, and he spoke gruffly to hide the remorse he felt for having shamed the boy. “There are times when there are too many things to be thought of all at once, and the little things are forgotten. It happens to all of us, and perhaps it would not have made any difference even if you had thrown the fish from your harpoon.”
He did not believe it: he knew it would have made all the difference, but a little lie was a small price to pay for the feelings of his son.
“Do you think so, Papa?” the boy exclaimed, brightening at once.
“Yes, I think so,” the man said. “Who can tell what a shark will do?”
“That is true,” the boy said thoughtfully. “They are the most stupid and unpredictable of all the fishes in the sea. They are cowards too, which is what I have learned today.”
He felt a moment of righteous superiority, but then he remembered the tiger shark he had seen off the Amirantes when he had gone there with his father on the schooner. It had been after a big shellback, and he watched, in a panic of excitement and excruciating anxiety as the turtle made it to the shore just in front of the shark and began to waddle up the coral beach. He breathed out in relief, glad that the shark had been foiled, but the next second the enormous body of the tiger shark burst through the water and followed the turtle up the beach, writhing and twisting and clicking its jaws together as it strained to reach the shellback. He stared in horror as it thrashed after the slow-moving turtle, and then the snapping jaws closed on the left rear flipper of the giant shellback.
The shark turned away after that and floundered back into the sea, and the turtle limped on up the beach with red blood from the stump of its severed flipper staining a path along the white sand.
“But they are also the ,greatest and fiercest of all the killers in the sea,” he admitted with awe. “Is that not so, Papa?”
The man nodded silently. He scratched at his thigh under the plaster and then leaned back on his arms, the palms of his hands down fiat and his fingers spread wide. He stared out to sea pensively for a moment. He turned suddenly to the boy, thinking of the porpoise which had come so close that the boy had been able to touch it with his hands.
“It is a pity you did not have the harpoon with you,” he said a little wistfully.
“But I cannot swim under the water with that heavy harpoon,” the boy protested. “Besides, I need both my hands to load the speargun. Would I drop the harpoon to the bottom of the sea every time I had to reload?” He shook his head decisively and went on without waiting for an answer. “In any case, even with the big harpoon I do not think I would be any match for a big requin. From a pirogue, yes, but under the water, never, not even with a harpoon. My God, Papa, you should have seen his size from close, and his strange cold eyes that watch without letting you know what is in his mind.”
“I was not thinking of the shark,” the man said. “The meat of a dolphin is like the flesh of a porpoise. It is excellent to eat, and as you know, it is always in great demand. We could have sold the meat of such a great fish for much money. Certainly we would have made enough to pay all of the rent which we owe on this house.”
The boy stared at the man in mute astonishment. For a second he could not believe that he had heard correctly. He went over the words once again in his mind, and when the meaning of them penetrated finally he gasped in horrified disbelief.
“But, Papa!” he exclaimed. “The big fish saved my life. How could I do such a thing to a friend?”
The man smiled indulgently. “I do not believe that the dolphin saved your life intentionally. Sharks have always been their enemies. I have never heard of a lone porpoise attacking a shark before, but I have seen schools of them kill a shark more than once, especially when they are afraid for their young.”
The boy thought about it for a while, but then he shook his head. “No,” he said stubbornly. “I do not think it was that way. The marsouin had no fight with the shark. It came only because it saw my danger, and it drove the shark away to save my life.”
“What foolishness is this?” the man exclaimed testily. “Do you think that a man can be the friend of a fish?”
The boy stared back levelly. “I had never thought such a thing possible before,” he said gravely. “I do not know whether a man can be the friend of a fish, but I do know that the big marsouin is my friend.”
“You talk like a child,” the man said, anger stirring within him. “No man can be the friend of a fish, and no fish can be the friend of a man.”
“If there is no feeling between us, why did he take me for a ride on his back?” the boy cried angrily. “And why did he save my life and allow me to scratch the smooth white skin of his belly?”
“I do not know about the ride,” the man answered dryly. “Because I do not think like a fish. As for allowing you to scratch his belly, have you never seen a porpoise rubbing himself against the bow of a schooner, and then coming back to do it again and again because there was pleasure in it?”
The boy fell silent. He had seen it, and remembering what he had seen he began to doubt. For a moment he wondered whether he might not have misconstrued the behavior of the big fish and attached to it more significance than was justified. But then he remembered how it had answered him when he whistled, and all the uncertainty which had been sickening him went away and left him with his faith unshaken.
“That may be so,” the boy said. “But how do you account for the fact that it answered my whistle?”
The man heard the triumph in his voice and he laughed. “I swear you are as jealous of this fish of yours as a young man with his first love. Are you sure it was not a sirène which allowed you to ride on her?”
The boy was puzzled for a few moments by the little leer on the man’s face, but then he understood. He blushed, and he felt the blood clotting in his cheeks. He knew what the man was getting at.
“Papa!” he remonstrated. “It was a fish, and I asked you to explain the fact that it came to me when I whistled.”
The man laughed again and then he became serious. “I do not think that it actually answered your whistle,” he said. “I think its appearance at that moment was quite accidental, and since you were longing greatly to see it again, you came to think in your mind that it had come in answer to your call. Question what has happened with an open mind, my Paul, and ask yourself if there is not some truth in what I am telling you.”
“But even if you are right,” the boy persisted doggedly. “It does not explain why it did come.”
“Who knows?” the man said, and he shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “They are playful fishes, and they will often jump clear over a boat just for the fun of it. It might have been playing, or it might even have come back in the hope that you would feed it once more.”
The boy began to doubt again, and the man saw the look of it on his face. He has no girlfriend, he thought, and he has fallen in love with a fish. He felt a sudden rough, compassion for the boy.
“I do not speak to discourage you, my Paul,” he said gently. “But it is better to face the truth of a thing, even if it is unpleasant, because in the end it is less painful than hoping for the impossible.”
The boy stared disconsolately at his father. He did not doubt the sincerity of his words, and he was beginning to accept the logic of them. A dark despair was blanketing his mind when he remembered the way the dolphin had come up in the water after its great leap over the boat and turned its head to look at him while it stood straight up on its tail. He straightened up suddenly, and his belief in the big fish and its friendship came back even more strongly. He wondered how he could ever have doubted it.
He felt like running st
raight down to the beach and whistling it up. But he was superstitious about his luck, and he did not want to put it to the test twice in the day. It was then that he decided never to search for the dolphin more than once in each day. It was not a conscious ruling he made at that moment. The directive was still only a vague idea at the back of his mind, but he was aware of it just the same. He glanced down at the man, and the expression on his face was almost pitying.
“You do not discourage me, Papa,” he said quietly. “I have a strong feeling in me that I will see my friend again, and I. have an even stronger feeling that he will come to me when I call.”
Anger burned momentarily in the man’s eyes, but then it died and was replaced by an amused contempt. “You are very foolish to consider that a dolphin can be your friend. You are a fisherman, and it is no different from any other fish which swims in the sea.” He looked away suddenly, and his voice grew very gentle. “It is there to be caught, my son, and remember if you can that there is not another fisherman who would value the friendship of a dolphin more than its meat.”
The boy gasped with shock. He stooped quickly and snatched up the speargun which he had put down on the bottom step. His mouth twisted in a snarl of hate and fury.
“I will put this harpoon through the first man who harms the big fish which saved my life,” he said, and he spat the words out past his clenched teeth.
“Even me?” the man inquired mildly, amusement in his eyes.
“Papa!” the boy exclaimed, and the color drained from his cheeks, leaving them pale and white.
The man laughed and leaned forward. “I do not think it will ever come to that, because I am sure you will never see your fish again.” He tapped the plaster on his thigh significantly. “Besides, I am not in a position to be of any danger to your fish.”
“And if I do see it again?” the boy challenged him.
The man stared thoughtfully at the boy. He knew what the question implied, but what the boy was asking of him made a mockery of the right he had to think of himself as a fisherman, and he had fished the seas for a great number of years.
“You wish me to be honest, Paul?” he asked.
“Of course”
“Then I will be honest with you,” the man said quietly. “With your permission, I would put my harpoon into the heart of your fish.”
A look of pain and disbelief passed across the boy’s face. “And if I did not give my permission?” he asked.
“Then I would do it without your permission,” the man said bluntly. “If we did not need the money so badly, I would be tolerant, and I would humor you in this foolish whim of yours.” He saw the effect of his words, and he knew that he had hurt the boy very badly. His own heart cried out for the pain of his son, but he did not show it as he tapped the plaster on his left leg again. “But as I have already said,” he went on, “I think you are worrying yourself over nothing. In the first place you will never see the fish again, and in the second place I am the least able of anyone to harm your fish.”
The boy felt a little of the tension leave him. “I will see him again, Papa,” he said softly, and there was absolute conviction in his voice.
“And if you do,” the man said, “will you act like a fisherman or will you behave like a fool?”
The boy was torn between his desire to please the man and the loyalty he felt he owed the big fish. He stared wildly at his father for a moment, and then a moan of anguish burst from between his tightly compressed lips.
“I don’t know!” he cried in torment.
“Be honest with me, Paul, and be honest with yourself,” the man said.
The boy stared at the man a while longer, and his eyes were frantic. “I won’t do it!” he shouted suddenly, desperately. “The fish is my friend.”
The man bowed his head: it was an admission of defeat. He felt a great hurt, thinking that the life of the fish meant more to the boy than his own need for its flesh and the money it would fetch. He thought of the rent which he owed, and of the ultimatum he had been given, and his humiliation deepened. At the height of his dejection he remembered that the whole question of the fish was purely theoretical, since he was certain it would never make another appearance. The knowledge cheered him a little. He looked up, and he felt a sudden warmth for the boy, because he knew it had taken courage to answer as he had done.
“My head tells me that you are thinking like an idiot,” the man said. “But I cannot find it in my heart to agree with what my head says.”
The boy remained mistrustfully alert.
“Come, my Paul,” the man went on, and he reached out and pressed the boy’s leg with his callused fingers. “Let us never again speak of your fish and the harpoon in the same breath.”
“Truly, Papa?” the boy asked.
“Upon my honor,” the man replied.
He saw the smile which lit the boy’s face, and he felt a great happiness himself, because it was he who had put it there. He nursed the glow of warmth inside him, but then suddenly it all went fiat. He felt guilty, because there was no true worth to the little sacrifice he had made, and he did not think he would have made such a promise if there was the remotest possibility of the fish returning.
“Tell me, Papa,” the boy said abruptly. “Have you spoken so only because you feel certain my fish will not come back?”
The man started, and for a moment he wondered whether his thoughts had shown so plainly on his face that the boy had been able to read them. He dismissed the idea before it could take root.
“Perhaps I have,” he said. “I am not sure of it myself, but what concerns you is that I have said it, and what I have said will remain good—” he paused for emphasis, staring coldly at the boy “even if your fish comes back.”
If it did, the man thought suddenly, I would regret my rashness for a very long time. He consoled himself with the knowledge that with his leg as it was it would be virtually impossible for him to do anything about it, and he could never order the boy to do such a thing against his will.
The boy saw the sudden flicker of apprehension in the man’s eyes. It lasted only a moment, and then it was replaced by a dull resignation. He looked away, because the sight of it made him uncomfortable. It was beyond his grasp, but he knew that it had something to do with his fish. He fidgeted for a while, running his thumb aimlessly up and down over the shaft of the harpoon. Toying with the spear-gun made him recall what had taken place earlier on in the morning before he went fishing.
He felt a sudden contraction in his stomach as he thought of Pierre Vigot, and of how he had almost been caught stealing his tobacco. He knew then that there was something important he had wanted to ask his father about, but he could not remember what it was.
THE boy woke late the next morning. It was still early, but it was late for a fisherman, because the sun had already been up for more than half an hour. He was glad then that the man had broken his leg, because more than anything else he hated rising early In the morning when it was dark and damp.
He was not really glad about the leg. What he enjoyed was the respite which the unfortunate accident had provided, but in his mind cause and effect were so closely associated that he was unable to differentiate between them. He knew he should not be glad that the man had broken his leg, and he was not, but no matter how hard he tried he could not help feeling pleased.
He began to feel ashamed of himself. He remembered the big fish then, and he forgot his shame in a sudden surge of excitement.
He swung his legs to the floor and sat up. He stretched and yawned and scratched sleepily at his matted hair, and then after that he yawned once again and stood up. He was naked. He glanced at the man in the other bed, and he saw that he was awake and watching him. He reached out and took his shorts from the foot of the bed where he had laid them before going to sleep. He flicked them up and down snappily, just in case a centipede had crawled into the folds during the night, and then he stepped into them. They were stiff with salt, and he began to wish
that he had rinsed them in the stream yesterday instead of being so lazy. He sat down on the bed again and looked across at the man.
“You have been awake a long time?”
“Have you ever known me to sleep late?” the man countered.
“No,” the boy replied. “But if I were you, I would make up for all the mornings I’d had to wake up early.”
The man pushed himself up on one elbow. “What!” he exclaimed. “And forego the enjoyment of being able to lie here and watch you having to get up before me?” He lay back with a contented sigh and yawned with deliberate exaggeration.
The boy grinned and stood up quickly. “If you weren’t an old man with a broken leg I would roll your bed like a pirogue in a cross sea and tip you right out.”
“Even if I have a broken leg,” the man said slyly. “It does seem to have its advantages.”
“Mon Dieu!” the boy exclaimed, and he struck his forehead against the heel of his palm, in mock exasperation. “I walked right into that one with my eyes closed.”
He stretched out and scooped the box of matches from the table, and then he turned and limped out of the room. He shot the bolt on the front door and swung it open. He picked up the large breadfruit lying against the wall and skipped down the front steps. He hefted it in his hands, rubbing his thumb against the congealed trickle of sticky white milk which had run from the broken stem and dried on the dark green skin.
He thought about the fruit as he walked round to the back of the house. He had taken it from one of the trees which grew a little higher up on the mountain. Technically it was the property of Jean Morel, since the tree from which it came grew on his land. But breadfruit were abundant, and no stealth had been called for, because no one would consider it stealing in any case. He began to wish that breadfruit were as highly prized as bananas, because then they would be more worthy of his attention. But he liked them, and so did his father, and he thought it was perhaps better after all that they were so easy to come by.
He made a fire in the ashes of the last one. He started it with dry grass and palm leaves, and then when it was going he broke and split the dry stem of a palm frond over his thigh and added the fibrous wood to the fire. When the first embers began to collect he laid the breadfruit on top of them and then put more fuel on the fire. He pocketed the box of matches and brushed his hands off against the seat of his pants. He walked off a little way and urinated against a tree and then started out for the stream. The bucket on the veranda was full, and he could have carried it outside and used some of the water to wash, but he preferred washing in the stream where the water was running and fresh.