THE JACKAL AND THE CRABS

Víctor Lowenstein

 

He cast the nets before the sun rose in the East and sat down to wait. His was the patience of an old fisherman. Then he lit his corn-cob pipe with his good hand; he had lost the other at Tannenberg fighting the Germans in the Second World War. After the first puff he sighed deeply and gazed at the blue, endless horizon.

In the village they called him “Sea Wolf.” He would smile that sad smile everyone knew and correct them:

“Ship’s Jackal… call me that!”

A veteran of the merchant navy on the western coast, he retired after doing his part on the side of the Allies and invested his pension in the fishing boat that gave him both livelihood and refuge in the solitude of the sea.

He lived in a modest shack by the riverbank, some distance from the village, with a young Indonesian woman he had bought from some gypsies along the copper route. She knew how to cook stews and smile meekly. He never loved her, but he never treated her like a slave either. Amila—he called her that in memory of a beloved prostitute.

The morning Samuel Méndez appeared on the beach; the old man was struggling to push the half-sunken boat off a sandbank with his chest and his good hand. The young man’s strong arms helped him, and his voice entrusted him with a story: he was fleeing from a terrible stepfather; he had no money and nowhere to live.

The old fisherman did not believe him, but he invited him aboard and offered to share the fishing. Samuel would keep a tenth of the catch and could stay in an abandoned bunker on the beach.

“Amila will give you blankets and candles so you can stay there”, he said.

“Who?”, the young man asked.

The arrangement suited them both. Samuel would earn a humble wage, enough to live on, and even have a roof over his head each night. The old man could use a helping hand and even began to think of the boy as the son he had always wanted. At the very least, they became friends.

He often took him to his hut so the boy could have a proper meal now and then. Above the steam rising from the soup, the old man thought he saw the young man’s gaze turning toward his wife who, bent over the kitchen utensils, revealed the healthy bronze of her body.

Saturdays are made for seamen to rest, drink, and enjoy themselves. The old fisherman would go to a tavern where he met his dearest companions: Lars the Swede and Kolchak the Pole. They drank until dawn and laughed over the sea stories of their lives.

Samuel, spruced up like a young dandy and already used to village life, went to the canteen to dance with girls and make friends. One evening, seeing him pass by the tavern, the old fisherman pointed him out as his assistant, and the other two exchanged worried glances.

“He’s young, and like all young men today, he’s arrogant. Look at the way he walks.

“Be careful, Jackal”, whispered Kolchak.

The old man looked at them through the tobacco smoke but said nothing.

On Monday morning, already out at sea, the old fisherman pulled three crabs from the net and dropped them into a wooden bucket on the deck.

“Look at them”, he said to Samuel.

“I don’t see anything”, the young man replied.

“You will, but not for long. When one of the crabs tries to climb out, the others will drag it back to the bottom. That’s how these animals behave.

And so, it happened. They watched the curious spectacle twice in a row. Each time one of the creatures raised its claws and tried to climb over the rim of the bucket, the others seized it by the sides.

“Do you understand the lesson they teach us?”, said the old man.

“You’re crazy!”, Samuel laughed.

“Laugh if you want, boy. A wise man would understand that men are like crabs: there are rules that must be respected, even if we don’t like them”.

The young man had strength, the old man knew it well. But the old man had patience, which the young one mistook for senility.

Many mornings passed, fishing afternoons, boisterous Saturdays. Old sailors do not measure time in hours. They measure it in waves of thought that cover entire days, weeks, and months… often years.

The old fisherman watched the horizon with narrowed eyes. He listened to the sea and the wind. And he thought. He listened to Lars and Kolchak without saying a word. And he thought.

One evening he stretched his good hand over the side of the boat and dipped his fingers into the water. It felt colder than usual. He knew what the Mediterranean currents brought. The western wind carried its salty announcement.

“It will rain tomorrow”, he said.

The young man looked at the clear sky, without a cloud, and burst out laughing.

“Crazy old man…”

That night was unusually cool. The fisherman told Amila to bring blankets to Samuel’s bunker. She took a long time to return. He noticed her disheveled hair, the hasty with which she adjusted her skirt as she entered, the blush on her cheeks.

He said nothing.

In the morning…

“Shall we sail today, old man?”

He had never called him that before.

That morning, when the old fisherman threw the gear onto the deck, his eyes met Méndez’s. It was true about his arrogance; youth and strength allowed it. He looked at the world –and at him– the way one looks at a stranger. At him, a fisherman and war veteran who had hoped the stranger might become the son life had brought him.

He dared to look back at him the same way: as one looks at a strong young man, a lover of life, impatient to live it. A bad companion for a lonely old man.

By midmorning the rain broke out. At first lightly, with storm clouds rising along the cloudy line of the horizon. The wind rattled the timbers of the old boat.

“Let’s go!”, Samuel shouted, already beginning to lower the sails. The idea of a storm at sea terrified him.

Again, his eyes met the old fishermen, and a chill ran down his spine. The old man was looking at him with mercy, almost with pity.

Samuel shouted again. The old man neither answered nor moved.

“You’re completely mad!”, he shouted above the gusts shaking the boat.

When he turned to gather the nets, he saw the old man pulling a revolver from his coat pocket.

“But… what are you doing?”

In the middle of the sea a shot rang out.

Méndez’s body fell into the water with a brief splash. The wind began to calm its fury and the rain stopped. The old man and the sea knew storms, and they were not surprised to see the sky turn blue again.

The fisherman put away his gun, wiping away his tears. He finished lowering the sails, gathered his gear, and set course for the village harbor.

Víctor Lowenstein was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, on January 19, 1967. He is the author of six books of fantasy short stories. He has received two honorable mentions from the Argentine Society of Writers (SADE) and first and second prizes in the short story category of the "Siembra de Letras" contest and the "Soles de América" ​​anthology. He has contributed to more than twenty-five anthologies and a dozen online magazines. He writes fiction, horror, weird fiction, and essays on modern literature. Some of his books include: Paternóster, a short novel, 2014, and Artaud, el anarquista, 2015.