Tench

by Inge Schilperoord

  Towards ten he pulled his waders on in the utility room and went back outside. He crossed the yard to the shed, which served as a storage room. It was less than five paces across and gave off a permanent, vague smell of mould. Old newspapers covered the floor. A lot of the windowpanes were broken and shards of glass were sticking up out of the putty like razor-sharp fangs. It was horrible. He could hardly bear the sight of it and had been planning on getting it fixed up for years. There was just never any money. And now the house was going to be demolished and it was too late.

  In the semi-darkness he patted the wall until he found the switch. The bulb on the ceiling flicked on. Fine dust floated through the light.

  This was where he’d hidden that afternoon. The afternoon he was going to be arrested. He knew what was going to happen, that there was no point in hiding. But he still hid behind a few crates containing old pumps he’d been meaning to fix. There was a stabbing pain behind his eyes. Betsy and he had even walked back home together side by side, silent, her head trembling even more intensely than usual. “Don’t tell your mum, OK?” he’d said. “Our little secret.” Such a coward. He’d hated himself for it.

  He held his breath for a moment and listened to the silence surrounding him. All those thoughts he had, from now on he’d turn them round. “You have thoughts”—he repeated what he’d read in the workbook—“but your thoughts are not you.”

  In the dim light of the bulb he studied the rods that were hanging here, tidily, from small to large, on the brick wall. The only one that didn’t really belong in the series was the bamboo rod he’d made as a child. He just couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

  He wanted to catch something big today and chose a light feeder and a casting rod. For hooks he chose a blue Aberdeen 8 and a 10: razor sharp, very strong and thin. He threaded a line through the rods and leant them against the wall, ready to rest them on his shoulder. He wanted to take the binoculars too, the hand net and the bucket.

  Then he walked across the yard and back into the kitchen to get the bait ready. If he wanted to catch a big, strong perch or rudd, good bait was essential. He put on some water, peeled three potatoes, boiled them and cut them up into equal cubes, opened a tin of sweetcorn, shook the square grains out into a container and sweetened them with some sugar. Then he cut off a piece of cheese and took some of Milk’s dry food with him. He got his rucksack from upstairs and stacked all the bait containers into it. Finally, he collected the rods, bucket and floats and he was ready to go.

  The sky was light and dazzling. It was warming up fast. His mother stood near the back door in her housecoat, fanning herself with her Bible. She squinted out at the heat, anxiously studying the high, cloudless, already quivering sky. Each time she took a puff from her inhaler, there was a brief, dry rattling sound. She pointed up. “It’s going to be a stinker today.”

  “I’m only staying until I catch something good. For my aquarium, maybe something good to eat.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  It was quiet for a moment, but he felt there was something else she wanted to say. He held his tongue, fiddling with the rods.

  “What are you after out there?” she asked eventually. Her voice didn’t sound annoyed, like he’d feared. And again. “What on earth do you do there all the time? All by yourself at those deserted little lakes?”

  He coughed and let his breath escape through his nostrils. The arteries in his forehead were throbbing from the heat. Meanwhile he thought about all those indescribably quiet afternoons he’d spent out there alone, how happy he’d been. He couldn’t explain to her how everything out there was frozen even when it was moving. Time didn’t exist. There wasn’t any past or future. The only thing he needed to do was breathe in and out, sit and watch. Nobody wanted anything from him.

  “I’m just going fishing, like always. That’s what I do there. I fish. Alone.”

  “In a couple of hours you won’t be able to stand it out in the dunes.” She tapped the back of her inhaler, raised it to her lips, but lowered it again.

  He thought of what she always said about life being an ordeal. Maybe this was her ordeal. Always being stuck at home without having anywhere she could go to be at peace, like him.

  She stood there appraising his face.

  “A nice day’s fishing,” he said. “Tomorrow back at work. And who knows what I’ll catch. Maybe I can fry up a pike-perch for you for tea.”

  This seemed to please her, because he saw that she was now smiling at him. “You’re a funny feller. Just be careful, OK?”

  “Of course.”

  He whistled the dog, who was stretched out in the shade of the shed. He had to do it a couple of times, but then Milk came shuffling over with his stiff-legged gait. Jonathan patted him on the head for a moment, then attached his leash.

  Just before he left, the girl’s face popped into his thoughts. The look in those peculiar eyes. There was something sad about her. But he still found her inexpressibly beautiful. He quickly suppressed the thought, getting rid of it as fast as it had appeared.

  Moving warily, he took the dirt road, which had clumps of grass growing in it here and there, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. After a few metres he hesitated, stopped and looked over his shoulder. The girl was playing with a ball in the distance. Immediately he turned and carried on.

  With the old dog limping along behind him, he headed west along the edge of the village. Now too there was nobody around. By the time they reached the dunes Milk had fallen behind. Jonathan slowed down and waited until the dog had passed him and was walking in front, with his head down, his quivering snout pointing at the ground. The sun rose quickly, spreading relentless heat. Getting closer to the ponds, Jonathan kept looking up and peering at the sky. Sometimes he felt lost for a moment, as if he was dissolving in that emptiness. But he stopped the feeling in its tracks.

  He took the northernmost, shortest path to the ponds. It was covered with shells that crunched under his feet. The sun was burning the top of his head. At the old sandpit he pushed through the reeds and cut some with his pocketknife to clear a spot where he could sit with the dog. He called him with a short whistle; Milk stood still for a moment, unsure of what was expected of him. Then, with his eyes squeezed shut, he pushed his trembling snout out towards the water and ambled over. He lay down by the waterside, crossed his front paws and dozed off. Jonathan gave him a good scratch on the head and wiped some gunk out of his eye with a corner of his hankie. A cloudy film had formed over his eyes in his old age. “There you go, buddy.” He put some dry dog food in the feeder and attached it to the biggest float. Every few minutes he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  When he still hadn’t caught anything after a couple of hours, he broke a branch off a bush and poked around in the mud and sludge, dredging up a handful of water snails, bithynia, which he put in a jar with some water. They floated in slow circles, occasionally brushing the glass with their tails.

  He resumed his position next to his casting rod and sat there waiting. No longer directly overhead, the sun had begun its descent to the west, but there was still no sign of the day beginning to cool off.

  The trees on the far side of the lake seemed to be moving in the shimmering air. He poured some water into his cupped hand to give the dog a drink, then took a slug from the bottle himself. He’d replaced the dog food with sweetcorn, but when he still hadn’t had a bite an hour later, he changed back to dog food and then cheese. Now and then he saw the shadows he’d seen yesterday gliding over the bottom, but for a long time absolutely nothing happened. He still stared at the water and his float the whole time. Images of the girl from next door flashed through his mind now and then. Her broken tooth, the lock of hair falling over her forehead, her ear. And then he quickly refocused on the ripples in the water.

  It got even hotter. He threaded a snail onto his hook. Cast it out and waited. His back was itching from the heat. He pulled off his T-shirt and let the sun burn his skin until he couldn’
t bear it, gathered up his things and fled to the shade of the pine Milk had already sought out and fallen asleep under. After a while he went back to the water’s edge.

  With every sigh of wind the reeds behind him rustled. He looked back a couple of times but there was nothing to see. Once a jackdaw landed on a branch of the hawthorn, looked out past him for a while, spread its wings and flew off.

  He put out the feeder with a lump of bait and waited. Now and then he had a bite. With quick movements he pulled up the line and enjoyed the splashing water sparkling in the light. A few times he pulled in small, wriggling fish, common bream, one silver bream, looking at them briefly but carefully in the sunlight, studying the curve of the line from their gills to their tail, their small eyes.

  Towards three one of the big shadows came floating up from the depths. Immediately Jonathan sat up straight and crept forward, making sure not to move the rod in the water. He saw a powerful silhouette with a broad head. It swam slowly around the bait without biting. Waiting.

  Jonathan bent forward and peered into the water through the shadow of his own face. Slow and cautious, the fish circled. For a while it stayed still next to the float, its tail moving calmly. Its beautiful arched back glowing red in the sun’s rays. What was it? A carp, after all?

  “Show yourself, boy,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

  The fish was still hardly moving, just its tail swinging softly from side to side, and otherwise suspended motionless in the water.

  “Come on, don’t be scared.”

  He was starting to worry about the fish. It seemed so lethargic. I can make you better, he thought. You’re going to die here. He bent further forward, sliding on his knees until he was as close to the edge as he could get, then stuck his hands into the water. He spread his fingers and fluttered his hands, before lying on his stomach and sliding forward and down towards the fish, hanging over the water, so close he could almost touch it. All this time the fish stayed still in the water, gently moving its tail. Then all at once it sank down into the depths, was gone for a moment, then appeared again even closer to the bank.

  Jonathan quickly backed up from the bank, crept over to the shaded spot where he’d left his fishing gear and grabbed his net. Once again he lay down on his stomach on the side of the pond. And waited. Cautiously he inched the net closer to the fish, which kept swimming away from him, before coming back again. Finally, he felt it was the right moment. He tensed his back, managed to get the net under the fish’s body in one smooth movement and pulled it up and out.

  He could hardly believe it. He’d got him. The fish twisted and wriggled for a moment, but then lay big and still in the net, gleaming in the afternoon sun, its head and back golden red. A tench. He recognized it immediately. The round fins, orange-red eyes, tiny, deep scales and thick paintbrush tail. Tench didn’t do well in the heat, he knew that; maybe that was why this one was so weak.

  “Haven’t you been able to hunt, boy?” he asked, slowly lifting the net out of the water. “Are you hungry?” He saw that it had a nasty gash on its belly. From a bird, he thought, probably a cormorant or a large gull.

  “Does that hurt? Something got you there.” With me you’ll never have to be hungry again, he thought.

  The dog yapped around his legs excitedly. “Not now, Milk.” Ruffling his coat with one hand, he managed to calm him down and went back to talking to the fish, softly, admiring it while he was at it. It was a male. He could tell from the large pelvic fins with the thick outer ray. And perfectly clean. No tubercles and the skin, so often slimy with tench, nice and smooth. He held the heavy fish in his arms. To his surprise he felt his tear ducts filling. He sniffed and swallowed.

  Wanting to get home as fast as possible, he bundled up his things and headed off. Trotting through the dunes, along the alleys and narrow streets behind the harbour, the fish in the bucket. He tried to walk tall with his chest out, proud of his catch, but his shoulders drooped and the tension in his neck and back increased, as if he was expecting a blow to land any moment.

  Meanwhile his eyes were screwed almost shut against the light. It was so hot now it was like fine, white dust falling on the village.

  His heart pounded in his chest. A tench. Or a “doctor fish”. That was what they used to call them, he didn’t remember why, but he’d read it somewhere. He’d look it up later in his nature encyclopaedia. Doctor fish. A nice name. He repeated it a few times under his breath while giving little tugs on the leash to keep the worn-out dog moving. Thinking about the tench and the prospect of its quiet company every day from now on, company he wouldn’t have to share with anyone, he started walking faster. I’ll make sure you get your strength back, he thought. He would keep this big strong fish with him for a long time.

  He encountered the girl just a few metres from his house. She was alone, playing in the sand. He saw right away that she was wearing the same clothes as the day before: the running shorts with stitching that had once been white, the crumpled top with a flower on it. She was bent over to draw, her space hopper behind her, tracing shapes in the dust with her fingers. Every now and then some whirled up. There was an exercise book next to her on the pavement. She must have been concentrating hard because she didn’t seem to hear him.

  He wavered for a moment, resisting the temptation to whisper her name, Elke, so that she would turn around and he could show her the fish. Don’t do it, he thought. This is what the psychologist would call an impulse. Something you do without thinking. Think things through.

  His hands tightened around the handle of the bucket. Tension spread through his fingers and settled in his knuckles. He looked at her neck, the shadow of her back. He could see the outline of her shoulder blades under her top. I should walk away. In his thoughts he turned on his heel and strode off in the other direction. But before he could move, the dog started barking. Too late.

  The child jumped up, rushed over to the dog and bent over him. Elated, he put his paws on her thighs so she could pat him. When she squatted, he moved even closer and sat to give her face a good licking. She giggled. “Hey, Milk,” he heard her saying, “you gonna come and play with me? You coming?” The dog gave a short bark. “Come and play with me, ’cause it’s so boooring here.” She sniffed. “My mother has to work all the time and I miss you.”

  He now noticed that she spoke with a slight lisp, as if her tongue was making little bubbles of spit against the back of her teeth. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. Her nostrils were trembling. Her cheek was lit from the side by the afternoon sun and only now could he see properly how soft her skin was—her throat seemed even more delicate than yesterday. Just stay there, he said to her in his thoughts. Not too close. Just to be sure he shuffled a little with his feet, taking an almost imperceptible step away.

  The girl was mumbling compliments to the dog, whose whole body was panting in the heat. Although the sun was already low, it was still murderously hot.

  He turned his gaze to the graze on her elbow. It was half covered with a scab but quite large. Why hadn’t her mother put a plaster on it? Or she herself? He couldn’t look at it for too long, it made him feel a bit queasy. For a moment he felt an urge to do something about it, to go inside to get a piece of gauze, a bandage, to clean the wound with iodine or alcohol.

  At the edge of his thoughts he suddenly heard her talking. “What’s that?” she asked. She came closer and looked into the bucket. “Hey, I asked you a question—you listening?”

  “I just caught it in the dunes.”

  I can see you’re alone, he said to himself, imagining how the conversation could go. I can dress your wound and you can help me with the dog and… He didn’t complete the thought. Everything that popped into his mind was now immediately crossed out by the workbook words that came bubbling up. He needed to avoid high-risk situations, that was one of the most important points. And then you had coping mechanisms, ways of dealing with stress. Looking for distractions, hobbies, trying to get your problems ou
t of your system by writing them down. He had to keep scoring high on all those fronts. He nibbled the inside of his cheek.

  “What a beautiful fish—is that a carp?” she asked. She had come up next to him and was bending over the bucket. A very faint smell of perspiration rose up to meet him.

  “No, not a carp.” He was surprised she even knew what a carp looked like.

  As if she could read his mind, she added, “I told you I know all about animals.” Again she held her head at a slight angle and gave him a cautious smile. He saw her damaged tooth.

  “It’s a tench,” he said, “a very special fish. It’s part of the carp family, but a different species. It’s easy to tell it’s not a carp from the tail, see?” He almost started another sentence but thought better of it. He’d said too much already. Just like yesterday. Somehow he talked more than he wanted to when he was with her; she drew the words out of him and he stayed there against his wishes. He squeezed his lips together. It just kept getting hotter. All the way to the horizon the sky was full of white clouds, dense and low. Now and then a gust of wind brought the smell of the harbour. A vague mix of salt and fuel oil.

  “It’s enormous,” she blurted, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other. He looked at her space hopper. “It’s so big, it looks like a pike. Sometimes I used to go fishing with our old neighbour, before, and once we caught a, what’s it called, a grass carp.”

  “Really?”

  He swallowed, anxious to escape the conversation. Her words had threaded together into a net that had been tossed over him and could draw tighter at any moment.

  “Is that your favourite animal,” she asked, “those fish? Mine’s horses.” Those eyes again, looking straight into his. “Or dogs,” she continued, frowning, as if she had to think hard about what to choose. “I had a dog for a while once too, but not very long, and then she died. It was really sad.”