by D R Sherman
He thought about the big fish as he walked towards the stream. He wondered where it had spent the night. He knew it did not breathe under the water like other fishes, and he began to wonder how it managed to sleep, if indeed it slept at all.
But it has to sleep and rest, he thought, like every other living creature.
What if it slept on the surface all night, naked and exposed? He could not imagine any other way in which it might sleep, and the thought alarmed and appalled him. There was many a fisherman who went out at night with a kerosene pressure lamp flaring in the bow of his pirogue. It was an easy way to spear mullet if the moon and the tide were right. What if one of them saw his fish sleeping on the surface of the sea?
He felt a moment of panic, but then he wondered if he was not being foolish. The big fish would probably have slept far out to sea in the deep water, and no fisherman ever went out past the reef at night. He would have felt much happier if he had known that a dolphin did not sleep continuously throughout the night. It slept two to three feet below the surface of the sea, and then only for short intervals, and every minute or so a few flicks of its dangling tail brought it up to breathe. He would have been even happier if he had known that it usually opened its eyes once or twice during the intervals between breathing when it was under the water, but of course he did not know this.
He reached the stream, still thinking about the fish. He pushed his way past the dew-wet ferns which grew in wild profusion on both banks and stepped into the icy water. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of his fish that the cold did not make him wince as it usually did.
He wondered what the fish was doing now, and whether it was very far away. He thought it might be hunting other fishes for its breakfast, but he had the feeling that it would be quite close. It had to be, because in a while he was going to go down to the sea and take the pirogue out and whistle till the fish came to him.
The boy bent down and scooped water up in his cupped hands. He sucked it into his mouth. He puffed his cheeks in and out, squelched the water around and then spat it out. He did it three or four times, and in between he rubbed the forefinger of his right hand briskly across his teeth and over his gums till the friction made his whole mouth tingle. When he had finished with his teeth he splashed water over his face. He washed the sleep grit out of the corners of his eyes, and after that he dampened his hair. He straightened up, running his fingers through it, and as he slicked his hair back he began to think of the girl he had spoken to in the morning yesterday.
When he got back to the house he walked round to the back and stopped in front of the smoldering fire. The outside of the breadfruit was charred and blackened, and it bore no resemblance to its original state. It looked almost repulsive, but he knew that beneath the blistered hide the white flesh would be cooking to a pale honey color. He inspected it carefully for a few moments, and then he bent forward over the fire and sniffed critically at the rising smoke. The hot fumes made his nose wrinkle, but through the pungency he detected the subtle nuances of odor. He sniffed cautiously at the smoke again, and then shook his head: there was a delicate richness in the smell of the smoke when the meat of the breadfruit was properly cooked, and it was not discernible now.
He squatted suddenly beside the fire, and then he reached out and rolled the breadfruit over. He jerked his hand back quickly, shaking it and sucking his breath in painfully, and then he stuck the tips of his blackened fingers into his mouth and licked away the sting of the heat. He thought of the steaming meat of the breadfruit which was cooking inside the burnt shell, and he wished that he had some coconut milk and sugar to sprinkle it with when it was ready to be eaten.
He thought about it for a while longer as he squatted on his heels and stared into the smoking fire, but then he shrugged abruptly and stood up. There was no money to buy sugar, and to get the milk from a coconut was a long and tedious process. First the flesh had to be grated on a râpe, and then after adding a little hot water the juices in the meat had to be squeezed out through a thin cloth. He had done it once or twice, when there had been nothing else to do, but he had not been enthusiastic about the task. It was work more suited to the wife of a fisherman, and it was foolishness for a man to waste his time on such trifles. He wished for a moment that the man had a wife, because then she would be his mother and she would grate a coconut and squeeze the milk for the man and for himself.
The boy turned away from the fire and limped into the house. He went into the room where they slept, and he saw that the man was up and sitting on the edge of his bed.
“Will you wash now, Papa?” he asked.
“Merci, mon Paul,” the man said, and he leaned forward suddenly and pushed himself up off the bed, taking the weight of his body on his good leg.
The boy turned and walked out on to the veranda. He picked up the brimming bucket. He carried it down the steps, his body leaning slightly to the right and his left arm extended and lifted up straight from his shoulder to give him balance and counter the weight of the bucket. Some of the water slopped over the edge, and it splashed cold and wet against his leg and ran down across his foot. When he got to the bottom of the steps he set the bucket down on the ground beside them. He skimmed the water off the side of his leg with the edge of his hand and then straightened up.
“It is ready, Papa,” he called.
He heard the man grunt an acknowledgment, and then he went round to the back of the house where the breadfruit was cooking in the coals of the fire. He rolled it out of the coals, using the sole of his left foot. It would be ready to eat now, and even if it was not, it did not matter. He could waste no more time in being overly particular: the big fish might already be getting impatient.
He picked up the curved stem of an old palm frond. He broke off a piece about a foot long. It was four inches wide and slightly concave along one surface, and he scooped the smoking breadfruit up and carried it round to the front of the house. He rolled it off onto the ground near the steps, on the opposite side to where the man was washing. He went into the house and returned a few moments later with a broad-bladed machete. He split the breadfruit right down the middle, and then when the man had finished rinsing his face and had seated himself on the steps he handed him one of the steaming halves, joggling it up and down in the palm of his hand to prevent any accumulation of heat. The man took the breadfruit gingerly and put it down on the step beside him.
The boy laid his own half on the bottom step. He sat down beside it and dug out some of the steaming meat with the point of the machete. He blew on it for a while, and then he picked it off with the fingers of his left hand and popped it into his mouth. He chewed, sucking air in through his mouth to cool the scalding hot flesh of the fruit. He cut and loosened the remainder of the meat in the shell and then offered the machete to his father.
The man laughed and shook his head. “I have a little more patience than you,” he said. “The taste of the steel seems to get into the meat, and it has a sharp bitterness which does not please my tongue.”
The boy shrugged and laid the machete on the steps. “You always say that, but I have never found any difference myself, either way.”
“You eat to fill your stomach,” the man said. “I am old enough to disregard my stomach and think a little more of my palate.”
The boy shrugged again and continued to eat. He scooped the soft meat of the breadfruit from the shell and then pushed it into his mouth, licking his fingers clean with each mouthful he took. When he had finished the flesh he picked up the roasted coque, and then with the machete he scraped and flaked the burned crust from the outside of the shell till it was smooth and brown. He broke off a piece of the shell and munched at it.
“Will you eat your coque this morning?” he asked.
“I would save it for later on,” the man replied, “if I thought I might have a fine fat fish to eat with it. But of course, small fish for the coals of the fire are difficult to come by, since in this season there are many big fishes preyi
ng on them.”
The boy had been about to agree, but there was something in the man’s voice which made him pause. He stared curiously at his father, and he saw the suppressed smile which made the corners of his mouth turn down and link up with the two deep lines which ran from the side of each nostril and down a little way past his mouth. He grinned slyly.
“You are right,” he said innocently. “It is just so at this time of the year, and I must remember all these things you tell me, because they will help me become a more able fisherman.”
The boy scrambled out of the way as the man aimed a good hard kick at him with his right leg. He picked up the machete, and the piece of coque, and then he lifted the bucket up by the handle and carried it inside. He put it down against the wall and then walked into the room on the left-hand side of the veranda. He dropped the shell on the table and laid the machete down beside the coiled lines in the corner of the room.
He walked out and into the adjacent room. He went down on his hands and knees beside his bed and drew out his speargun and the mask. He stood up and limped out. He crossed the narrow veranda in three strides and went down the steps. He stared out to sea for a moment, and then he turned to face the man.
It is a good day to be in the sea, he thought, because the water is calm and the sun is shining. My big fish will like this weather.
“I will go now, Papa,” the boy said.
The man chewed a little longer and then swallowed what was in his mouth. “I think you should take the harpoon, Paul.”
“But, Papa!” the boy exclaimed, and shock bruised his face.
The man stiffened, but then he forced himself to relax, and it seemed that a veil came down over his dark eyes. It hid the anger and the sudden pain that had come into them.
“I was thinking of the sharks, my Paul,” he said softly.
“Oh… oh, I thought—” The boy faltered, too ashamed to go on: the man had been concerned only with his safety, and he had thought otherwise.
“I know what you thought,” the man said. “But it is only a little mistake which anyone could make quite easily.”
The boy nodded eagerly, feeling relieved. “It is too heavy to swim with, though,” he protested.
“You have told me that before,” the man said. “And I agree with you. But what if you should be in the boat and a shark or another great fish swims in close? You will have nothing with which to kill it. Even the flesh of a shark has value, mon garçon,” the man concluded.
Indignation crept into the guilt the boy was still feeling. The man had not been concerned about his safety, after all: he had been thinking about his missing an opportunity to kill a fish. He began to feel less ashamed about his thoughtless accusation.
“And once again,” the man went on, “let me remind you not to swim out past the reef or swim too close to it. You may not be so fortunate the next time you face a shark in the water.”
The boy bowed his head, and his shame came back to him. “I will take the harpoon,” he said, and he started up the steps.
“It is also a good day for fishing,” the man reminded him quietly.
The boy paused on the steps. He stared down at the man, and then he nodded humbly. “You are right again,” he said.
He went into the house and he collected the big killing harpoon and the short twenty-fathom handline with the three hooks on it and the strip lead twisted around the line five feet above the first leader. He took the handline, mostly to please the man, but he felt bad about taking it, because he knew he had no intention of using it. He wanted to shoot with his speargun, and he wanted to ride on the back of his friend the big fish. He walked out of the house and down the steps:
“If I took the sail and the mast and worked out towards the banks I might get something worthwhile for my trouble,” he told the man.
“And if a storm blows up and you are blown far out to where the land falls below the horizon?” the man asked. “Would you be able to find your way back across the sea with only the smell of the breeze and the stars to guide you?”
The boy shook his head wordlessly.
“Then enough has been said about the sail and the mast,” the man said.
The boy nodded and turned away disconsolately. He wanted to sail the boat on his own far out to the distant fishing banks where the bonito and the big bluefin tuna ran in great schools. He wanted to fight the big fish alone and without any help, but the man had never permitted it.
“Your time will come, mon Paul,” the man said, seeing the dejection on his face. “And when you are ready, I will, know it, and even when you are ready, I can tell you that you will not like it the first time you find yourself alone and without the sight of any land.”
“But give me the mast and the sail and I will not go far out,” the boy pleaded.
He was thinking of sailing far out to sea, but not so far out that the land fell off below the horizon. In his mind he saw the big fish swimming beside him in the water as he sailed the pirogue across the sea, following him as a faithful dog will follow its master.
The man laughed. “With a good wind in your sail you will forget all about the land. In the great happiness of your freedom you will trap yourself, because when you do look back again, you will find that the land is no longer there.”
“Hah!” the boy grunted. “You are afraid that I might catch more fish than you have ever been able to bring in from the banks.”
The man grinned back at the boy, but then suddenly he grew thoughtful and his face became a little melancholy. “I wish that you could,” he said.
“I wish that I could too,” the boy replied quickly, and then he turned away. “I will go now,” he said again. “I think the big fish will be waiting for me.”
“I hope you see him,” the man called out after the boy. “And I hope he brings the shark or another fish to you while you are in the boat.”
He did not believe it, but he thought about the possibility just the same. You are becoming like a boy again, he told himself. Full of dreams.
“Perhaps I will be lucky like that,” the boy called over his shoulder. “But in any case I will certainly bring you a fish to eat with your coque.”
The man raised a hand in acknowledgment, and the boy turned and went on down the hill. He half ran as he hurried down the side of the mountain. His feet slipped and skidded dangerously on the stones and loose earth. He did not slacken his pace, though, because there was no room in him for caution. He was bursting with an expectant excitement. It was like a living thing, but separate and distinct from himself and his own awareness. A little bit of it was his eagerness to be reunited with the sea, but most of it came from the anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing the big fish again. And all of it urged him on in reckless haste.
He came to the bottom of the hill, and then he crossed the road and ran limping through the grove of coconut trees. He reached the seawall, and he climbed up on top of it and jumped down onto the wet sand. He was breathing fast, in and out through his open mouth. He glanced to his right, and far away where the bay curved out to sea he saw a group of dark-skinned children playing in the water of a shallow tidal pool. They looked like black puppets against the shining whiteness of the sand, and intermittently he saw the gem-bright sparkle of the sun on splashing water.
He turned and looked to his left. He ran his gaze the length of the seawall, and over as much of the elevated terrace as he could see. His heart began to beat a little faster as he searched for the daughter of Jean Morel. But she was nowhere to be seen, and he felt a sharp disappointment.
He climbed back on top of the seawall, so that he could see a little further in along the terrace. He saw the house, and he waited a while, watching it, hoping that she might come out from inside or walk into view from around the back which was out of sight from where he stood.
If I see her, he told himself, I will walk along the wall and wave to her.
But she will laugh at me and call me limpleg, he thought.
/> He felt a sudden stab of humiliation. He jumped off the wall and walked down the beach. He thought of the sea, and the big fish in it. He felt a surge of throat-tightening gratitude, because in the water he was no different from any other man, and also because a great strong fish had saved his life and singled him out to be its friend, and he had never before heard of anyone being able to boast of such a thing. It was a vindication, and he began to feel less unhappy as he limped along. By the time he reached the edge of the sea he had forgotten all about the girl. He was thinking only about the fish, and it filled all of his mind.
He splashed into the water. He wondered whether he should whistle out straight away and try and call the fish to him. What if it did not hear him, or what if it was too far away to hear his whistle? The idea filled him with panic as he waded into the sea. The water rose past his knees and climbed slowly up his legs as he went out farther and farther, out towards where the pirogue was anchored on the edge of the deep channel.
And what if it is not even out there, he thought suddenly. What if it has gone away?
He halted suddenly, and his shock was so great that for a moment he was unable to breathe. The possibility lingered in his mind, and he felt an aching, hungering desolation. If the big fish had gone, it meant that it did not love him enough to stay.
For some reason he found himself thinking of the girl, and her mocking voice rang loudly in his ears. A deep resentment filled him. He began to hate the girl, and the big fish, but especially the fish, because it was supposed to be his friend and it had no right to desert him.