HewasanoldmanwhofishedaloneinaskiffintheGulfStreamandhehadgoneeighty-fourdaysnowwithouttakingafish.InthefirstfortydaysaboyhadbeenwithhiButafterfortydayswithoutafishtheboysparentshadtoldhimthattheoldmanwasnowdefinitelyandfinallysalao,whichistheworstformofunlucky,andtheboyhadgoneattheirordersinanotherboatwhichcaughtthreegoodfishthefirstweek.Itmadetheboysadtoseetheoldmancomeineachdaywithhisskiffemptyandhealwayswentdowntohelphimcarryeitherthecoiledlinesorthegaffandharpoonandthesailthatwasfurledaroundthemast.Thesailwaspatchedwithfloursacksand,furled,itlookedliketheflagofpermanentdefeat.
Theoldmanwasthinandgauntwithdeepwrinklesinthebackofhisneck.Thebrownblotchesofthebenevolentskincancerthesunbringsfromitsreflectiononthetropicseawereonhischeeks.Theblotchesranwelldownthesidesofhisfaceandhishandshadthedeep-creasedscarsfromhandlingheavyfishonthecords.Butnoneofthesescarswerefresh.Theywereasoldaserosionsinafishlessdesert.
Everythingabouthimwasoldexcepthiseyesandtheywerethesamecolorastheseaandwerecheerfulandundefeated.
“Santiago,”theboysaidtohimastheyclimbedthebankfromwheretheskiffwashauledup.“Icouldgowithyouagain.Wevemadesomemoney.”
Theoldmanhadtaughttheboytofishandtheboylovedhi
“No,”theoldmansaid.“Yourewithaluckyboat.Staywiththe”
“Butrememberhowyouwenteighty-sevendayswithoutfishandthenwecaughtbigoneseverydayforthreeweeks.”“Iremember,”theoldmansaid,“Iknowyoudidnotleavemebecauseyoudoubted.”
“Itwaspapamademeleave.IamaboyandImustobeyhi”
“Iknow,”theoldmansaid.“Itisquitenormal.”
“Hehasntmuchfaith.”
“No,”theoldmansaid.“Butwehave.Haventwe?”“Yes,”theboysaid.“CanIofferyouabeerontheTerraceandthenwelltakethestuffhome.”
“Whynot?”theoldmansaid.“Betweenfishermen.”
TheysatontheTerraceandmanyofthefishermenmadefunoftheoldmanandhewasnotangry.Others,oftheolderfishermen,lookedathimandweresad.Buttheydidnotshowitandtheyspokepolitelyaboutthecurrentandthedepthstheyhaddriftedtheirlinesatandthesteadygoodweatherandofwhattheyhadseen.Thesuccessfulfishermenofthatdaywerealreadyinandhadbutcheredtheirmarlinoutandcarriedthemlaidfullacrosstwoplanks,withtwomenstaggeringattheendofeachplank,tothefishhousewheretheywaitedfortheicetrucktocarrythemtothemarketinHavana.Thosewhohadcaughtsharkshadtakenthemtothesharkfactoryontheothersideofthecovewheretheywerehoistedonablockandtackle,theirliversremoved,theirfinscutoffandtheirhidesskinnedoutandtheirfleshcutintostripsforsalting.
Whenthewindwasintheeastasmellcameacrosstheharborfromthesharkfactory;buttodaytherewasonlythefaintedgeoftheodorbecausethewindhadbackedintothenorthandthendroppedoffanditwaspleasantandsunnyontheTerrace.
“Santiago,”theboysaid.
“Yes,”theoldmansaid.Hewasholdinghisglassandthinkingofmanyyearsago.
“CanIgoouttogetsardinesforyoufortomorrow?”“No.Goandplaybaseball.IcanstillrowandRogeliowillthrowthenet.”
“Iwouldliketogo.IfIcannotfishwithyou,Iwouldliketoserveinsomeway.”
“Youboughtmeabeer,”theoldmansaid.“Youarealreadyaman.”
“HowoldwasIwhenyoufirsttookmeinaboat?”
“FiveandyounearlywerekilledwhenIbroughtthefishintoogreenandhenearlytoretheboattopieces.Canyouremember?”
“Icanrememberthetailslappingandbangingandthethwartbreakingandthenoiseoftheclubbing.Icanrememberyouthrowingmeintothebowwherethewetcoiledlineswereandfeelingthewholeboatshiverandthenoiseofyouclubbinghimlikechoppingatreedownandthesweetbloodsmellalloverme.”
“CanyoureallyrememberthatordidIjusttellittoyou?”
“Iremembereverythingfromwhenwefirstwenttogether.”
Theoldmanlookedathimwithhissunburned,confidentlovingeyes.
“IfyouweremyboyIdtakeyououtandgamble,”hesaid.“Butyouareyourfathersandyourmothersandyouareinaluckyboat.”
“MayIgetthesardines?IknowwhereIcangetfourbaitstoo.”
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