The Fish

For the past few weeks he had spotted a large fish in its hole at the side of a rock. In the beginning he thought that the fish just went into the hole to hide from him, but after a few days he realised that the hole was the fish's home. Most of the times he had seen it, it was in the hole, its head poking out a little bit. You would not have been able to guess it was there unless you had watched it going in at some point. A few times the hole was empty, so he guessed the fish had gone hunting or else it was hidden deep inside. The idea had been spreading in his mind for a few days now. Firstly he thought how great it would be if he could catch it. And then he thought how he would look in her eyes if he were to catch such a large fish and present it to her. And then how she would look, the expression on her face when she saw him with the fish. Once when he was a little boy he saw a fisherman bringing back a huge grey, ugly fish, so large and so heavy that they had to put it on a little trolley and pull it all the way to the fisherman's house. The kids had pushed a large red carnation at the side of its head and a cloth over it, so that it looked like an old dancer reposing after her act. Everyone stopped and looked and cheered at the huge fish and the fisherman had become a kind of a hero for a while for managing to catch such a monster of a thing. He remembered the fisherman's wife, all red and shiny cheeked, with her large bosom bouncing up and down, as she fussed and complained at how she was ever going to cook such a monstrosity and what a hassle it all was, when all the while she was glowing and flushing with pride and hidden joy at her husband's achievement.

The hole was about four to five meters down, in an area full of small rocky formations, grey and sharp, that all looked pretty much the same. If you floated above the hole without moving, you would soon be carried away one direction or the other and you would have to relocate the hole all over again. He had chosen a few marks on the bottom of the sea as references, a large cement brick and an old piece of rope, which were both near the hole. From above it was easier to know where to dive, as the tip of the large rock the fish was using as a home was protruding outside the water surface and had an old rusty metal chain attached to it. But he was more concerned about the practicalities of how he should present her with the fish. They met every Wednesday evening at five in the village square. He was not sure if it was appropriate to bring the fish with him to the meeting. It would be convenient because he would come straight from the sea, as if he had just caught it there and then by chance on that particular day. It would all look as if it was meant to happen that way, as if it was part of their fates. On the other hand he would not be nicely dressed, clean and smelling well. Also how should he carry the fish itself? Surely not in a plastic bag. In a basket maybe, or better in a net-bag. That would be best. He thought that ideally he could rush quickly home, if he caught it fast, then wash and change clothes and then go to the village with the fish but clean and proper. But would that sadden his mother that he would give such a catch to someone else and not leave it at home for them to have?  

He decided to take with him to the rocks some extra things, his clean clothes, a towel and a flask of water. This way he would rinse and dry himself after catching the fish, he would change clothes and then leave the old ones and the flask, the snorkel and the mask and the trident in a bundle, hide them in the rocks and collect them the next day. The problem with this is that he ended up carrying a whole lot of stuff, like a tourist, when all he normally needed was his mask and snorkel. But that was a sacrifice that had to be made. When he reached the spot with the rusty chain he undressed quickly and put on his mask and snorkel. It was two o'clock and the sun would have been unbearable had it not been for some silent misty clouds hovering above the rocks. He left the trident on the rock with the chain. Entering the water was a relief, a small sigh of gratefulness escaped him as he finally left the hot rocks above and all the dilemmas they harvested. After he savoured the cool water for a few minutes, diving deep and somersaulting to the bottom, he suddenly remembered the fish and quickly looked for the hole. The hole was empty. He went up for some air and dived again all the way down to have a better look. The hole was definitely empty. He went up again and hovered above the spot thinking that he should make sure the fish was not hidden deep inside the hole. He spotted a broken tree branch on the sea floor and went to catch it. He poked inside the hole to see if the fish was there. He was really surprised to find that the hole was not deep at all and that the fish would not be able to hide there entirely. The bit of its head would always stick out a little. He went up for air again and stayed there hovering above the spot. He had not really anticipated this. He must wait for the fish to come back. But would it come back before four o'clock? He would not be able to leave any later than four to quarter past four from the rocks or he would be late.

As he hovered above the area with the sharp rocks, he felt himself drifting away from the hole towards the deep sea. He let himself go for a while and then felt the urge to swim without the stupid mask and snorkel. He swam back to the rock with the chain and took off his mask and snorkel and left them there together with the trident. He swam away towards the open sea, dived deep and came up fast, his torso coming out of the water surface, his mouth spitting out water. He hovered facing the sky, like he was asleep, with arms and legs all spread out. He swam sideways, like a dolphin, keeping his legs merged together as if he had a mermaid's tail. He dived again and breathed most of his air out so that he was down for longer, heavy, looking upwards at the surface of the sea from below. The surface became a mirror, a shiny solid thing and he rushed up to shatter it with a sudden thrust of his legs. When he looked around he saw that he was now well away from the rocks, drifted at least a hundred metres away. He swam rapidly back as if he was trying to win an imaginary race and he laughed and cheered himself when he reached the rock, just as if he was the worthy winner. Once there he put on his mask and snorkel again and this time he took his trident with him.

The fish was still not there. The hole lay there dark and grey and menacing, but no tip of fish head was protruding from it. A crab was moving around the hole entrance as if to check it out, but was reluctant to go all the way in. He felt for the first time that day the sense of excitement turning into a disappointing weight and he shivered with a cold wave of lost anticipation. His fingertips had started to acquire that alien, soaked surface on them, like old raisins drunk in alcohol. He felt his teeth starting to shudder a bit and contemplated getting out for a while and waiting in the sun. But a new thought crossed his mind just then; would it not be more appropriate to collect shells from the sea floor for her? He knew how much she liked shells, she often collected them at the beach herself. He dropped the trident a meter or so away from the fish hole and started to look around for shells. A bit deeper in, around five to six meters down, he saw a beautiful large nautilus with its marks yet unaffected by salt deposits. It was bright and shiny and for a moment he wondered weather the creature was still within it. He just caught it with the first dive, but his ears did not decompress properly and he came up with a gasp for air and a little painful cry that surprised him. The shell was heavy and beautiful but kept his hands full. He went all the way to the rock with the chain and left the shell there. The sun hit him on the face and instead of warming him up the sudden difference in temperature made him shiver for a moment uncontrollably.

He went off again without checking for the fish. He looked for more shells further out, but was unable to find any more big ones. He found a cluster of spiky shells, more interesting for their shapes than their colour, which looked to have been collected there and eaten by an octopus. But the octopus had abandoned its nest, or was out hunting. For a moment he almost thought that he should wait for the octopus to return and that this could be even a more impressive catch if it was a big one. But he came to his senses and remembered the fish. He picked up a handful of shells and then did not know what to do with them. They kept his hands full and he did not really want to go all the way to the rock again. He put them at the back of his swimming pants, but immediately regretted it as the sharp ends cut into his soaked skin. He went to look at the hole again. He could feel a desperate sort of frustration welling up in him, as he guessed the time to be at least half past three by now. The fish was there. He was so taken by that fact that he hovered above the hole for a good few minutes. The fish looked nervous and it kept popping its head out a bit and then reversing back in the hole as if something was not quite comfortable inside. He saw the trident laying on the sea floor at the side of the hole. He needed to retrieve it quickly without much fuss so that he did not scare the fish away.

But then he hesitated. With the trident in his hands hovering above the hole he thought of the shells cutting into his flesh. They were definitely what she would have liked best. But he was not sure any more what he would like to give her best. He thought that giving her both the fish and the shells would be inappropriate, each thing removing the other's importance. And he felt that he was meant to kill the fish as that was what he had set out to do on that day. Not killing it would be unfair to himself and to the fish, like cancelling a pre-arranged agreement. Even if this would bring the fish's death. He thought of all these very quickly as he hovered above the hole and with a deep breath dived and thrust the trident towards the hole. It hit the rock at the side of the hole, breaking part of the rock and lifting a cloud of grey stone and sand around. He caught a glimpse of the fish leaving the hole and in his panic delayed to come up for air. He took small quick breaths spitting the snorkel away from his mouth and dived quickly again to try and find the fish. The panic came over him as the hole lay empty and the fish was nowhere to be seen. He caught sight of the crab near the cement brick. He felt a heavy disappointment and he swore in his wet swollen mouth. Then he saw the fish hiding behind a low rock.  Its grey wet body was still, but its tale was shaking. He felt the excitement coming back and dived for the trident. His right arm had felt heavy, cold and foreign, like a wooden prosthetic arm when he threw the trident the first time. Now he pinched it and poked and hit it with his other hand to bring it back to life and warm it up a bit. He approached the fish from behind and with a controlled exhaling breath he took his time aiming. The trident left his hand and silently hit the fish on the spine. It moved its tail spasmodically but did not really flap around as much as he thought it would have. He had to go back for a breath before retrieving the trident with the fish.

He came out by the rock with the rusty chain. The fish was already dead. He must have caught something in his spine to kill it so fast. It looked smaller than he had imagined, deformed by the glass of the mask, its size enhanced. He sat by the chain numb from the cold. His fingertips were full of cuts from the shells and had been bleeding. The shells were in his pants and had also cut quite deep into his flesh. He could not feel anything with his fingertips, they were so wet and wrinkled. He picked up all the small spiky shells and threw them far in the water.The sun scorched his skin filling it with goosebumps. He shuddered violently but did not move for the towel. The fish still wet and heavy and grey, lay there with its eyes shiny with what he thought resembled a startled expression. The beautiful nautilus next to it was fighting the fish with its presence. So he picked it up and threw it as far away as possible. He could not make a move yet to wash and change his clothes. Suddenly he reached for his shoe and took out his watch. The time was ten minutes to five. A panic came over him and his hands reached to his head and his fingers combed through his hair. He got up fast and and dried himself quickly without rinsing. He put on his clothes that clung to his still wrinkled skin. There was no way he would be in time now. Would she wait for him? He left all his things in an opening in the rocks. He put the fish in the net bag and started to climb up the rocks. The fish looked out of place in the bag and he thought it was getting smaller by the minute the further away he got from the sea.

At the very top of the rocks he stumbled on a thorny bush and fell sideways with force onto the net bag. The fish got squashed under his ribs and he heard its spine and jaws braking under his weight. He cursed and got up inspecting his white shirt. The previously sharply ironed shirt was wet and wrinkled now and with a fishy grey patch on its side. His eyes welled with angry pressure. He picked up the fish and looked at it to see if it still looked all right. He rushed forwards on the path using the downwards slope to help him, walking fast and feeling a sorry kind of love for the fish. He wanted to present it in a way that did it justice, so that she too would see it as an offering, as part of his dedication to her. But a few metres ahead he stopped dead in his tracks. The fish was not gutted. He could not present her with a fish that was not cleaned. Would she be expected to clean and gut it and de-scale it herself? He very clearly remembered that the fisherman had gutted his fish before parading it through the village and taking it to his wife. How could he not have thought of that? And why did he not have his knife with him? He stood there with the fish in the net-bag looking at it as if it was meant to have the answer. It was hopeless. He could not go to her with a dead fish with its insides still intact. He thought of throwing it away and running to her. Then he thought of going with it as it was but not giving it to her. The first he found immoral. The second he found rude. He sat down with the fish in his lap and his fingers through his hair. He got up, turned around and made his way home. He would gut it there and leave it with his mother. He dragged his feet up hill and looked at the fish in the net bag. He could see her still waiting for him. Slowly her eyes losing their sparkle as he was not showing up. Then she would get up, walking straight and full of her pride, not looking around any more to see if he was approaching, and all the while she would have no idea about the fish.

                                                                         ~

The Fish

Aretousa's The Fish

Aretousa's The Fish at Sea

Snaps

In the end of last week I found myself on the train from Glasgow to London. Initially my carriage was almost empty so I indulged in some quiet time and changed a few seats till I found an unreserved spot that I liked. That seat was part of a four seat arrangement around a table; all other three seats were empty and unreserved. At Carlisle the carriage was suddenly full and people were struggling to find a free seat. A company of three came and occupied the unreserved seats around my table. There were two men and a lady, all past the age of sixty as far as I could guess and all three seemed to be friends or in any case they knew each other already. They each had a fat bundle of Sunday newspapers which they dropped with a thud on the table and started to ferociously read without exchanging a word for a good part of an hour. That suited me very fine, as the increasingly loud background noise was giving me a nauseous headache. After an hour or so, the three people started to converse with each other and I soon worked out that two of them were a couple and the other man knew them relatively well.

I initially tried to not listen to their conversation, but by doing that their talking became just a noise which joined the other loud background noise, only to make my head worse. But if I concentrated and focused on their talk, then the background noise slowly faded away and my hearing cleared. I have had a long time to study their faces and clothes undisturbed already, so I had now the chance to match a voice to each person. The next two hours or so, were a very similar experience to getting to know a new lover. They were quite posh people; the couple seemed to own a large estate off Carlisle which was very close to the other man's farm. They talked about the different ways they had tried to raise money to keep it going and the land and things they had to sell and auction in order to save it from bankruptcy. The other man had a very memorably typical "English" face to me and was talking about being a farmer and his trials during the "mad cow" times. They all had children and grandchildren and houses in France and Northern Italy and by the next hour I felt I had already been to the house in France and met the man's newborn grandson. Next they talked about travelling and where they had gone in the past three years. The couple had done one of my dream trips, the Trans Siberian rail journey through Russia and China, which I was only able to partly complete. Their description of it to the man was as good as being on that train.

It was a very funny, yet oddly familiar feeling. The strangeness of it all in the beginning. New faces and new voices talking about a completely different way of life. Then as you relax and listen and let yourself go, you feel you are suddenly being sucked in, drawn into a completely alien place. At that point you can almost see yourself living like that, like those new people, being a part of this other life. And if at that point you don't get scared of letting go or of the feeling of losing yourself, you have suddenly found yourself joined with this new life, lost in a whirlpool of an otherness. And before you know it that otherness becomes familiar and becomes your reality and you are caught in and living in it, with all its details. I felt I knew their common friend Mary and I felt I knew all the people they were talking about, I could almost smell them at that very point. If you narrowly escape getting sucked in with this new "love", then you probably feel a great sense of relief, of what it could have been, a relief from having avoided entering an alien place. But if you have been drawn in, then what else is there for you than that very thing?

And so there I was, vulnerable by my tiredness and my hearing ache, a complete stranger to them but totally living in their world for almost three hours. The trolley came to our table twice and as if by plan, both times the tea had just finished as the trolley reached our table. The man joked with me about it, how we were never going to get our tea before we reached London, and I felt like my uncle was joking with me at that point and not a total stranger. The three people left very abruptly as the train stopped, I barely had time to say bye or smile at them. I did not think of them again until now, of the "snap" I got into their lives. Today I saw a photo of the Prince of Wales in the newspaper and I suddenly realised that was who that man on the train reminded me of. And then I thought of all the "snaps" people get in their lifetimes and what could determine when they allow themselves to be taken along or resist. It is probably a very fine line between the two, maybe even sometimes a bit of a chance, like when we never got the tea on the train.

Some of the images I am working on for the children's book, include partly obscured views of things. I tried out here some ways of partly hiding images based on the faces of those three people.