Pescador's Wake by Katherine Johnson Page B

Pereira de Sánchez is watering the potted hibiscus on her small back porch, when the gorrión chick falls from its nest in the apartment’s roof. It is dead on impact and cuts a forlorn picture on the lawn. Blue skin stretches over eyes still closed to the world. The orbits bulge from the meagre skull against a broken, featherless backdrop of a body. The chick’s bent wings and rudimentary tail are reminiscent of the prehistoric fossil skeletons of the archaeopteryx, that Jurassic cross between a dinosaur and a modern bird, which Julia has seen at the museum. It’s uncanny, she thinks, how closely an embryonic form can resemble that creature’s extinct ancestor. Even in humans, the stages of embryonic development (from egg to tadpole-like being, to forms resembling frogs, then lizards, and, finally—a complete, hominid foetus) repeat the sequences seen in evolution (from unicellular organism to fish, to amphibian, to reptile, to mammal). ‘Ontogeny replicates phylogeny’ was the shorthand way she described it to her biology students. It never ceases to amaze her.
    Using a hand trowel, Julia collects the bird’s tiny floppy form and buries it under the single Tipas tree in the shared back garden. The mother bird is nowhere to be seen. Howcan she be so uncaring? Doesn’t she know her own flesh and blood is being buried? Raucous cries erupt from the rooftop nest, interrupting Julia’s thoughts. The mother bird skims overhead, her beak ajar with a fat insect. She’s feeding her surviving chicks, Julia realises. God knows there’s little time for grief when there are other young to nourish. Nature horrifies her sometimes, biology teacher or not. Using a branch of the tree, she hoists herself up from the ground and looks down at the tiny grave before going inside to console herself with a warm drink.
    She takes her favourite ceramic mate gourd from the shelf and prepares the herbal tea, methodically tipping the gourd back and forth until the dried herbs are properly dispersed in the hot water. Before inserting the metal straw, she adds a spoonful of honey, her mind already elsewhere. She ruminates over the phone call she received yesterday from Francisco. He said he had had another conversation with Eduardo and been assured that the Pescador was on its way home. There had been some minor engine trouble, but fortunately all was well again.
    The conversation has left Julia restless. Only another couple of weeks and Carlos would be home. Eduardo too. But the thought of engine trouble turns her stomach to water. She doubts Migiliaro would have spent one more peso on the boat than he had to. If the mechanics fail again, and conditions are bad, the Pescador could go down. Carlos, Eduardo and theentire crew would have only moments to reflect before their lives froze over. Maybe that would be the government’s preference. And Migiliaro’s too, for that matter. No scandal. No court case. Just an unfortunate incident at sea. The catch would be buried with the men, making it impossible to prove whether the vessel had been fishing illegally. Señor Migiliaro would escape fines and, through his middleman, claim insurance on his boat. The Uruguayan government, she suspects, would hide their knowledge of the Pescador ’s illegal operations behind a smokescreen of fabricated concern for the tragic loss of life. It would be in bad taste to sully the dead men’s names with slanderous allegations.
    Julia shakes her head. Here she is worrying herself sick, while Carlos and Eduardo are no doubt still scheming about how to sell part of the catch without Migiliaro finding out. Ever optimistic. Overly optimistic. Eduardo may have promised to keep Carlos out of those arrangements, sparing him—and her – the consequences, but she is angry at the pair of them, and at herself, for agreeing to any of this. She finishes her mate and empties out the gourd, tipping the spent herbs down