Colum McCann: Fishing the Sloe-Black River

I hear Enrique stir out of bed and move slowly toward the window. At first the noise startles me, but I’m glad he’s awake. I hope he doesn’t cut his feet on the stray glass — the doctor told us that the longer this goes on the harder it will be to stop a cut from bleeding.

Steam has gathered on the glass face of the oven clock. You’re late again, O’Meara, were ya picking petals offa roses? I peel the oranges and arrange them in segments on the plate. Or maybe you were spanking the monkey, is that it, O’Meara? I hear the radio click on and a chair being dragged out onto the balcony. I hope he’s put his scarf on under his dressing gown or else the chill will get to him.

I wish I could have seen him when I was down on the street, watched him sitting there, looking out over the white city, his hair dark and strewn like seaweed, the tufts on his chest curling toward his neck, his face chiselled, the scar on his chin worn like the wrongly tied knot of a Persian rug.

The eggs puff up and harden, sticking to the side of the saucepan. I scrape them off with a fork and then arrange the dollops on two plates. I’ve burnt the bread a little and the water is still not boiled. Amazing thing that, water. The molecules bouncing off each other at a huge rate of speed, passing on energy to one another, giving heat, losing heat. In the warehouse I spend my time thinking about these brutally stupid things, whittling the hours away. There’re lots of people in this town’d be happy to gut fish, bum-boy. I put the bread on a third plate and wait. When the water finally boils I pour it on the teabags, making sure the little paper tabs stay outside the mugs. I hold the three plates in the shape of a shamrock in my right hand — I was a waiter before I met Enrique — and I grab the handles of both cups with my left forefinger and thumb.

The door to the bedroom is slightly ajar and I push it with my left foot. It opens with a creak but Enrique doesn’t turn in his chair on the balcony. Perhaps the traffic is too loud. I see him cough and then spit into one of our flowerpots. He leans back in the chair again. It’s a little more gray outside now, the sun blocked by clouds. I see that he has picked up the last pieces of the jamjar and put them on the bedside table. The pillow has been turned over and there are no visible blood spots, but there is a cluster of stray black hairs on the bedsheets. Twenty-seven is too young to be going bald.

I move soundlessly across the room. His head is laid back in the chair now. The curtains on the French windows swish against my leg and the rings tinkle against the rod. I sidle up behind the chair, lean over him, hand him the tea, and he smiles. His face seems weathered, the eyes run into crowfeet, the brow heavy. We kiss and then he blows on the tea, the steam rising up. Why the hell d’you wear those goddamn bracelets anyway, O’Meara?

“I thought you were gone already,” he says.

“In a few minutes. I thought it’d be nice to have breakfast.”

“Wonderful.” He reaches out for the plate. “I’m not sure if I can.”

“It’s all right. Eat as much as you like.” I put my own plate down on the balcony floor and close the top button on my shirt to keep out the wind. Cars trundle along the street below. Some kids have taken over the hopscotch court. There is a tremendous freshness to the breeze coming up from the sea and it rifles through the trees. Enrique purses his lips, as if to speak, then lets them fall apart, and he looks along the street again, a small smile crackling the edges of his mouth. The bags under his eyes darken.

“I have some smokes too,” I say. “Betty gave them to me. And some orange juice if you want it.”

“Great.” Enrique stabs gingerly at the eggs with his fork and moves the pieces of orange around. Then he reaches for a piece of bread and slowly tears the crust off. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” he says, all of a sudden sweeping his arm out to the street.

“Gorgeous.”

“Radio said that the high would be in the sixties.”

“Grand weather for sitting around,” I say.

“Lows tonight in the high forties.”

“We’ll sleep well.”

He nods his head and shifts his body gently in the chair. A small piece of crust falls down into the lap of his dressing gown. He reaches for it and lays it on the side of the plate. “Nice eggs,” he says.

“Wish I didn’t have to go to the warehouse.”

“We could just sit here and talk.”

“We could,” I say.

I watch him as he eddies the fork around the plate, but his eyes are drooping already. The cup of tea sits on the floor, by the edge of his chair. He leans his head back against the chair and sighs. His chest thumps like that of a small bird. The beginnings of sweat gather on his brow. I watch as the fork slides across the plate and nestles itself against the clump of food. I look down at the traffic passing beneath us, and all of a sudden I understand that we are in the stream, Enrique and I, that the traffic below us is flowing quite steadily, trying to carry us along, while all the time he is beating his arms against the current, holding still, staying in one place.

He sleeps and the breakfast grows cold.

In a few moments I will go to work and gut everything they bring me, but for now I watch this body of Enrique’s, this house of sweat, this weedlot of proteins, slowly being assaulted.

* * *

Enrique once told me a story about starfish.

There was an oyster fisherman down the coast from Buenos Aires who farmed his own little area of the bay. He hadn’t listened to the generations of fishermen who had gone before him, their advice, their tricks, their superstitions. All he knew was that starfish preyed on oysters. When they were dragged up in his nets he would take them and rip their symmetrical bodies in two neat pieces. He would fling them over the side of the boat and continue fishing. I imagine he was probably a bearded man with a rawboned laugh. But what he didn’t know is that the starfish don’t die when ripped, they regenerate themselves. For every one he tore, a second one came about. He wondered why there were so many starfish and so few oysters left, until he was told by an older fisherman. From then on, the fisherman left the starfish alone, although he could perhaps have taken them to shore and dumped them behind some big gray rock or in a large silver dustbin on the pier where the children, on the way home from school, would fling them like stones.

There are times these days, strange times spent among these idle thoughts of mine, when I wonder why my fishermen don’t come to me in the warehouse, amazed, cigarettes dangling from their lips, two fully grown starfish in their hands, saying, Look at this O’Meara, look, for Christ’s sake, can you imagine this?

Some people said that he’d been a chicken-sexer during the forties, a pale and narrow man who had spent his days interned in a camp for the Japanese near the mountains of Idaho. Endless months spent determining whether chickens were male or female. He had come to Ireland to forget it all. At other times, the older men, elbows on the bar counter, invented heinous crimes for him. In Japan, they said, he had attached electrical cords to the testicles of airmen, ritually sliced prisoners with swords, operated slow drip torture on young Marines. They said he had that sort of face. Dark eyes falling down into sunken cheeks, a full mouth without any color, a tiny scar over his right eye. Even the women created a fantastic history for him. He was the fourth son of an emperor, or a poet, or a general, carrying the baggage of unrequited love. To us boys at school he was a kamikaze pilot who had gotten cold feet, barrelling out in a parachute and somehow drifting to our town, carried by some ferocious, magical wave.