第2章 Talking Before the Sea

“He sent two beers.”

He was asleep in a short time and he dreamed of Africa when he was a boy and the long golden beaches and the white beaches,so white they hurt your eyes,and the high capes and the great brown mountains.He lived along that coast now every night and in his dreams he heard the surf roar and saw the native boats come riding through it.He smelled the tar and oakum of the deck as he slept and he smelled the smell of Africa that the land breeze brought at morning.

“I thanked him already,”the boy said.“You don't need to thank him.”

“We're different,”the old man said.“I let you carry things when you were five years old.”

“What have you got?”he asked.

The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and walked in quietly with his bare feet.The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon.He took hold of one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him.The old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and, sitting on the bed,pulled them on.

“I know it,”the boy said.“I'll be right back. Have another coffee.We have credit here.”

“They lost today,”the boy told him.

“Do you remember when he used to come to the Terrace? I wanted to take him fishing but I was too timid to ask him.Then I asked you to ask him and you were too timid.”

“I can remember it,”the old man said.“ I'll waken you in time.”

“That means nothing.The great DiMaggio is himself again.”

He no longer dreamed of storms,nor of women,nor of great occurrences ,nor of great fish,nor fights,nor contests of strength,nor of his wife.He only dreamed of places now and of the lions on the beach.They played like young cats in the dusk and he loved them as he loved the boy.He never dreamed about the boy.He simply woke,looked out the open door at the moon and unrolled his trousers and put them on. He urinated outside the shack and then went up the road to wake the boy.He was shivering with the morning cold.But he knew he would shiver himself warm and that soon he would be rowing.

“I think they are equal.”

“When I was your age I was before the mast on a square rigged ship that ran to Africa and I have seen lions on the beaches in the evening.”

“I have,”the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it.Then he started to fold the blanket.“Keep the blanket around you,”the boy said.You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive.

“In the American League it is the Yankees as I said,”the old man said happily.

“Who is the greatest manager,really,Luque or Mike Gonzalez?”

“Then live a long time and take care of yourself,”the old man said.“ What are we eating?”

“Good night then.I will wake you in the morning.”

The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace.The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper-napkin wrapped around each set.

“They have other men on the team.”

“Que va.”The boy said.“ It is what a man must do.”

The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away.Then he smiled.

“I've been asking you to,”the boy told him gently.“I have not wished to open the container until you were ready.”“I'm ready now,”the old man said.“ I only needed time to wash.”

“Good luck old man.”

“Thank you.You make me happy.I hope no fish will come along so great that he will prove us wrong.”

“I must give him something more than the belly meat then.He is very thoughtful for us.”

“Martin.The owner.”

“I must thank him.”

“Do you want coffee?”the boy asked.

“I know.But this is in bottles,Hatuey beer,and I take back the bottles.”

He walked off,barefooted on the coral rocks,to the ice house where the baits were stored.

They had coffee from condensed milk cans at an early morning place that served fishermen.

“Wake up old man,”the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man's knees.

“Black beans and rice,fried bananas,and some stew.”

“He was a great manager,”the boy said.“My father thinks he was the greatest.”

“I know.”

“Baseball I think,”the boy said.“ Tell me about the great John J.McGraw.”He said Jota for J.

The boy went out.They had eaten with no light on the table and the old man took off his trousers and went to bed in the dark.He rolled his trousers up to make a pillow ,putting the newspaper inside them.He rolled himself in the blanket and slept on the other old newspapers that covered the springs of the bed.

“I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish,”the old man said.“ Has he done this for us more than once?”

“Que va,”the boy said.“ There are many good fishermen and some great ones.But there is only you.”

“Very well,Manolin,”the old man said.“ I feel confident today.”

“I know.It was a great mistake.He might have gone with us.Then we would have that for all of our lives.”

“Sleep well old man.”

“The great Sisler's father was never poor and he,the father,was playing in the big leagues when he was my age.”

They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road,in the dark,barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.

“So do I,”the boy said.“Now I must get your sardines and mine and your fresh baits.He brings our gear himself.He never wants anyone to carry anything.”

“And the best fisherman is you.”

“Your stew is excellent,”the old man said.

“Good luck,”the old man said. He fitted the rope lashings of the oars onto the thole pins and,leaning forward against the thrust of the blades in the water,he began to row out of the harbor in the dark.There were other boats from the other beaches going out to sea and the old man heard the dip and push of their oars even though he could not see them now the moon was below the hills.

“No.I know others better.”

“Come on and eat.You can't fish and not eat.”

When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled sail on his shoulder.

“I don't know,”the boy said.“All I know is that young boys sleep late and hard.”

“I do not like for him to waken me.It is as though I were inferior.”

“There was nothing ever like them.He hits the longest ball I have ever seen.”

“Tell me about the baseball,”The boy asked him.

The old man went out the door and the boy came after him.He was sleepy and the old man put his arms across his shoulders and said,“I am sorry.”

“How did you sleep old man?”the boy asked.He was waking up now although it was still hard for him to leave his sleep.

“I like the beer in cans best.”

“That's very kind of you,”the old man said.“Should we eat?”

The boy was back now with the sardines and the two baits wrapped in a newspaper and they went down the trail to the skiff,feeling the pebbled sand under their feet,and lifted the skiff and slid her into the water.

“He used to come to the Terrace sometimes too in the older days.But he was rough and harsh-spoken and difficult when he was drinking.His mind was on horses as well as baseball.At least he carried lists of horses at all times in his pocket and frequently spoke the names of horses on the telephone.”

“You ought to go to bed now so that you will be fresh in the morning.I will take the things back to the Terrace.”

“There is no such fish if you are still strong as you say.”“I may not be as strong as I think,”the old man said.“ But I know many tricks and I have resolution.”

The old man drank his coffee slowly.It was all he would have all day and he knew that he should take it.For a long time now eating had bored him and he never carried a lunch.He had a bottle of water in the bow of the skiff and that was all he needed for the day.

“Should we talk about Africa or about baseball?”

“I'm not very hungry.”

“I think so.”

“I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing,”the old man said.“ They say his father was a fisherman.Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand.”

“Who gave this to you?”

Usually when he smelled the land breeze he woke up and dressed to go and wake the boy.But tonight the smell of the land breeze came very early and he knew it was too early in his dream and went on dreaming to see the white peaks of the Islands rising from the sea and then he dreamed of the different harbors and roadsteads of the Canary Islands.

Where did you wash?The boy thought.The village water supply was two streets down the road.I must have water here for him,the boy thought,and soap and a good towel.Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.

“Because he came here the most times,”the old man said.“If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager.”

“Supper,”said the boy.“ We're going to have supper.”

“Age is my alarm clock,”the old man said.“ Why do old men wake so early?Is it to have one longer day?”

“We'll put the gear in the boat and then get some.”

“Naturally.But he makes the difference.In the other league, between Brooklyn and Philadelphia I must take Brooklyn.But then I think of Dick Sisler and those great drives in the old park.”

“You're my alarm clock,”the boy said.

“I know.You told me.”