The Fishmonger

Sonia Fenske

One of the most remarkable things about a face is the story it tells. Deep creases of sun baked skin show work of the elderly. Plump, smooth cheeks and bright eyes tell of a life away from physical hardship, youthfulness. The fishmonger had a face aged by the salty winds of the east sea. Cakes of white salt gathered around the corners of his eyes, nose, and lips, cracking as he smiled. This look was not repulsive in any way, no, but told the story of a man sixty or so, seasoned by the salty sea.
The fishmonger was known for the fish he caught, skinned, and sold. He sold the fish faster than they were caught. The northern cod went first, popular among the locals. Then it was the trout, fresh and wet pink. His stand near the dock was always crowded, though at least three kilometers from the city centre. It was always bustling with people eyeing the rainbow of white, pink, and yellow fish and multicolored shellfish. Mothers, with their children tugging at their sleeves, purchased the dinner meal. Local chefs searched the fresh catch of the day for both the finest restaurants and smallest fish and chips shops.
I went to visit the fishmonger. I wanted to know why the fish he caught were popular, so fresh and clean cut. I first met with his assistant who hurriedly turned to a customer next to me once he realized I wasn’t there to purchase anything. I then asked the fisherman,
“Why do you cut the fish so clean and so well?”
He said, “I had to, taught myself. Needed to find what was left of me son.”
“A son?” I asked.
“Aye, years back we went out for an early morning catch. The sky still pitch black and the stars white and bright. The sea was calm. But here, the weather likes change.”
He picked up an oyster and cracked open the shell with his silver pick.
“Just us two and the old dog out that night, took the wee boat. My son was smiling and happy. Beaming bright as the stars that night. He was newlywed and thinking of his lass, rubbing his wedding ring between his thumb and forefinger, distracted.
“We set out through the bay waters. By the time the land had disappeared in the distance, smoky clouds began to cover the stars. Rain came with the wind. The boat began to rock with waves growing and pushing the boat side to side. One wave came over the edge of the boat and splashed our boots, knocked the old dog on board off his feet. The next wave swept the dog off the deck. Me son ran to the rail to throw the buoy to the old fella. As he did this he paused and stood for sometime peering over the wood rail into the water. Then there was a bump on the boat. Not from the waves though. Something else, big.”
The fishmonger took his eyes from the split oyster to mine and stopped. His eyes were glazed and distant. He looked down and continued
“These last few events are a bit of a scramble, nothin’ I can remember clearly.
“Now, as me son looked into that sea of white-wash to see what it was that hit the boat, he slipped and went half over into the water. His legs were dangling frantically over the edge. I was messing with the boat cables and couldn’t help. But the old dog seemed to manage his way back on deck, four feet grounded. He gave a sharp ‘yelp’.
“Same time me son was grounded he lifted his hand from over board, where old dog once had been struggling, and cried,
‘My ring! My wedding ring’s gone.’
“Blood and saltwater streaked his left arm. All that was left of his ring finger was a short stub. He grimaced as the salt met flesh. Next, one of the cables I was trying to fix, snapped and hit me son, throwing him over board into a large wave that crashed onto the boat. He was swallowed whole. Lost in the wave.”
I stood for a moment and blinked. I was confused.
“Your son—”
“But I didn’t answer your question did I, no.” The fishmonger was quick with his words.
“I was looking for his ring finger. The missing finger. The one with the ring. Somehow, being a practical man and believing in the food chain, I knew that the ring would end up in one of these fella’s bellies.” He pointed at the fish in front of him.
“Possibly in a fish that was eaten by whatever got a hold of him. Gold doesn’t fall apart too easily, not in the belly of fish.” He gave me a wink. “Likes to find it’s way into unusual legends too.”
“So, did you find it?” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“The finger with the gold wedding band. Your son’s finger? Did you learn to cut your fish so well that you finally found the ring?”
“You’ll be surprised as to what’s in a fish’s innards. Rusted nails no longer sharp, wrist watches that no longer tick…lots of fingers…”
“With gold rings?”
He just smiled. “So what would you like? Sea Bass? That’s a nice fish. You want a Sea Bass?”
More confused, I said, “Sure.”
“Fred,” the fishmonger looked over to his assistant. “Pass me the two pound Bass.”
The young assistant wrapped a large silver-grey fish in parchment paper and handed it over to the fishmonger. The assistant’s left hand was missing a ring finger.
“B-But…” I said staring at his hand. The fishmonger handed me the fish. I was trading glances from the fish to the assistant’s hand to the fishmonger. The assistant took no notice of my confusion and he proceeded to wrap up another order. The fishmonger formed his cracking lips into a smile.
“Good fish. My treat. Possibly the best you’ll have if you know how to cook it,” he said.
The fishmonger then moved on to the next customer as quickly as he began his story. I walked away, stunted by the fishmonger’s response. Looking back, I saw a young woman come up to the stand, a baby balanced on her hip. She first gave the fishmonger a fresh peck on the cheek and smiled at the assistant, embraced him lovingly, and kissed him gently. I thought about how I would cook my Sea Bass.
Good fish, good story, but maybe just a little fishy.