terrible cracking sound of tongue against teeth and a quick gesture of snapping down with both fists.
The sudden violence of it, rising out of this wretched little man, made Brad laugh. But it left Martha with a sinking feeling of discomfort.
After a while she felt a tug on her line, pulled her pole back the way Brad had taught her, and then lowered it at the same time she began reeling in.
“You got something there—doesn’t look like too much,” Brad said. He never liked anyone else to catch the first one.
But as the thing she had caught came closer to the boat, it broke surface, flapping its wings wildly and giving forth a shrill wail.
“Damn gaviota,” the hunchback said. “Pull in, pull in.”
Martha could feel the bird pulling against her line, thrashing the water with its wings as it fought for life.
“Here,” she said, quickly handing her rod to the hunchback. “No me gusta.” She tried not to watch while the bird was pulled into the boat. But she had to listen to its screams; and when they suddenly became louder and more frightened, she knew it was held fast in the hunchback’s fierce, sun-blackened little hands. She was imagining what he would do to it—twist its neck or slam it against the side—when she heard the sound of what the hunchback was doing to it. It was not too different from the sound he had made with his tongue against his teeth when he had been pantomiming the act before. She kept her eyes away until she was sure it must be over, and then she turned around, just as the limp white body was flung into the sea.
It floated on top of the water with its wings spread out as if it were in flight. Then she saw the bird suddenly bunch forward in a furious effort to rise from itself.
“Brad, it’s still living! It’s alive! He didn’t kill it!”
“Where’ve you been?” Brad said. “All he did was break its wings and throw it back.”
She watched the stern pull away from the crippled bird bobbing in the boat’s wake. The gull was silent now. Its silence seemed even more terrible to Martha than its shrieking.
“Why does he do that? Does he have to do that?”
Brad laughed. “He hates those things like poison. Says it teaches them a lesson.”
The hunchback was setting her line out for her again. Four or five gulls were over the boat now. “I don’t think I want to fish anymore,” she said.
“What do you want to do?” Brad reprimanded. “Let the muchacha fish for you?”
It was easier, she felt, just to sit there holding the line than to let him ride her all the way. She prayed she wouldn’t catch another one, though. She didn’t think she could stand another one.
She could not take her eyes from the white speck that bobbed in the distance. She could feel it struggling to rise with its helpless wings.
Suddenly Brad let out a cry of joy—“Sailfish!”—and the boat came to life. The hunchback’s face was animated with a gargoyle smile, and even the dark Indian mask that the skipper wore for a face was lit with fisherman’s hope and eagerness for the catch.
“I got a good one,” Brad called, fighting it happily. “A good one!”
The hunchback was jabbering at Martha, and Brad shot her an anxious glance, his face red with effort. “Damn it, reel in! Reel in, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted.
Martha had been watching the drowning gull. The hunchback snatched her line from her and began winding frantically to get it in out of the way. But it was too late. The sailfish had drawn Brad’s line across and back under Martha’s and their lines were becoming hopelessly tangled.
No longer able to reel in, Brad gave himself to profanity. “Damn it, that’s the first thing I ever told you! You goddam nipple-head!”
The tangled lines went slack as Brad’s sailfish threw the hook. “He’s gone,” Brad said tragically. “Would’ve hit fifty, maybe sixty pounds …” And his words were a jumble of profanity again.
Because our lines were crossed, I
The sudden violence of it, rising out of this wretched little man, made Brad laugh. But it left Martha with a sinking feeling of discomfort.
After a while she felt a tug on her line, pulled her pole back the way Brad had taught her, and then lowered it at the same time she began reeling in.
“You got something there—doesn’t look like too much,” Brad said. He never liked anyone else to catch the first one.
But as the thing she had caught came closer to the boat, it broke surface, flapping its wings wildly and giving forth a shrill wail.
“Damn gaviota,” the hunchback said. “Pull in, pull in.”
Martha could feel the bird pulling against her line, thrashing the water with its wings as it fought for life.
“Here,” she said, quickly handing her rod to the hunchback. “No me gusta.” She tried not to watch while the bird was pulled into the boat. But she had to listen to its screams; and when they suddenly became louder and more frightened, she knew it was held fast in the hunchback’s fierce, sun-blackened little hands. She was imagining what he would do to it—twist its neck or slam it against the side—when she heard the sound of what the hunchback was doing to it. It was not too different from the sound he had made with his tongue against his teeth when he had been pantomiming the act before. She kept her eyes away until she was sure it must be over, and then she turned around, just as the limp white body was flung into the sea.
It floated on top of the water with its wings spread out as if it were in flight. Then she saw the bird suddenly bunch forward in a furious effort to rise from itself.
“Brad, it’s still living! It’s alive! He didn’t kill it!”
“Where’ve you been?” Brad said. “All he did was break its wings and throw it back.”
She watched the stern pull away from the crippled bird bobbing in the boat’s wake. The gull was silent now. Its silence seemed even more terrible to Martha than its shrieking.
“Why does he do that? Does he have to do that?”
Brad laughed. “He hates those things like poison. Says it teaches them a lesson.”
The hunchback was setting her line out for her again. Four or five gulls were over the boat now. “I don’t think I want to fish anymore,” she said.
“What do you want to do?” Brad reprimanded. “Let the muchacha fish for you?”
It was easier, she felt, just to sit there holding the line than to let him ride her all the way. She prayed she wouldn’t catch another one, though. She didn’t think she could stand another one.
She could not take her eyes from the white speck that bobbed in the distance. She could feel it struggling to rise with its helpless wings.
Suddenly Brad let out a cry of joy—“Sailfish!”—and the boat came to life. The hunchback’s face was animated with a gargoyle smile, and even the dark Indian mask that the skipper wore for a face was lit with fisherman’s hope and eagerness for the catch.
“I got a good one,” Brad called, fighting it happily. “A good one!”
The hunchback was jabbering at Martha, and Brad shot her an anxious glance, his face red with effort. “Damn it, reel in! Reel in, for Christ’s sake!” he shouted.
Martha had been watching the drowning gull. The hunchback snatched her line from her and began winding frantically to get it in out of the way. But it was too late. The sailfish had drawn Brad’s line across and back under Martha’s and their lines were becoming hopelessly tangled.
No longer able to reel in, Brad gave himself to profanity. “Damn it, that’s the first thing I ever told you! You goddam nipple-head!”
The tangled lines went slack as Brad’s sailfish threw the hook. “He’s gone,” Brad said tragically. “Would’ve hit fifty, maybe sixty pounds …” And his words were a jumble of profanity again.
Because our lines were crossed, I
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