As closed as a nun’s proverbial, Sheephead Morton said when they arrived.
Nikitaris’s was shut—the doors were locked, the shop interior lifeless, the lights all off save for those that illuminated the long fish tank at the front of the shop. The fish swam round and round in the window. A couple of flatheads, a trumpeter, two silver trevally and a leatherjacket. Other than them staring in at an aquarium, the night-slicked street was empty.
Well, Sheephead Morton said. You can’t say they look exactly unhappy.
Maybe in the camps we didn’t either at any given moment, Jimmy Bigelow said.
They stood around, hands in pockets, shrugging shoulders for warmth, hopping leg to leg, as if waiting for a midnight train to arrive. Or leave.
Nothing as clueless as a mob of drunks, Gallipoli von Kessler said. Even chooks do something.
Jimmy Bigelow felt himself all appearance with nothing inside. He had trouble feeling. He wished to feel, but it was not something one could have by wishing for it. He picked up a rock and rolled it around in his palm. He looked up at the shop window. It was a big plate glass number, all beautifully painted with NIKITARIS’S FISH SHOP on it, very flash and fancy. He brought his hand back past his shoulder and, without warning, threw the rock as hard as he could at the window.
They heard the glass crack. Not all at once. But, like time, a long fracture slowly opened with a sigh. Jimmy Bigelow was smiling as if someone had sliced his mouth at the corners.
Then they were all throwing rocks, the window broke apart and fell away, and they were in. Gallipoli von Kessler, with an orchardist’s gift for improvisation, grabbed a chip fryer and used it to scoop the fish out. After a few mishaps they had all the fish in two mop buckets, and they walked back down to the docks, trying not to slop the water away.
There were some cray and couta boats rocking in the long swell that penetrated even this far into the harbour, and a cruel wind beyond the cove. Standing at the edge of Constitution Dock, Sheephead Morton put his head into a bucket and yelled:
You’re fucking free!
And tipped the bucket.
The fish fell into the sound of water.
6
AT THE HOPE and Anchor the next night, the story was told with gusto, albeit beset by a growing shame. Finally, Jimmy Bigelow said they had to go and see Nikitaris and fix him up for the window. It was still early and the shop lights were on. The window had already been replaced, though it was not yet painted.
Inside there were some old women working the fryers and a boy in the fishmonger’s part of the shop, scrubbing the display stand. Sheephead Morton asked if Mr Nikitaris might be about. The strap disappeared and returned from out the back with a small, old man, whose wizened body preserved intact the quiet resolution of the stonemason he had been as a young man. His hair was silver and his skin had the colour of a stain someone had tried to bleach out and failed. There was about his dark eyes a damp emptiness. He smelt of tobacco and aniseed.
Mr Nikitaris, said Jimmy Bigelow.
What you boys up to? the old man said. His accent was heavy. He sounded weary and annoyed. I’ve had a shocking day. What do you want?
Mr Nikitaris, said Jimmy Bigelow, we—
Just place your order with the lady over there.
We—
Mrs Pafitis there, he said, pointing with a knobbly finger. She’ll fix you up.
We’ve come to say sorry, said Jimmy Bigelow.
We had a mate, began Sheephead Morton. And this time the old Greek said nothing. He was so stooped it was hard to see his eyes, which roamed the black and white tiled floor as Sheephead Morton told him their tale.
When it was done, Jimmy Bigelow said that they wished to pay old man Nikitaris for the broken window, for the fish and any other damage.
The old Greek was a time in replying. His eyes looked up and around, and as his head roamed, taking in each man in turn, it nodded slightly.
He was your cobber?
Like all immigrants, he seemed to have an unerring instinct for the oldest, truest words in his new language. The way he said the word, it felt free of the treacherous weight of mate.
He was, said Sheephead Morton. Our cobber.
Sheephead Morton took out his wallet. How much do we owe you, Mr Nikitaris?
My name is Markos, he said. But call me Marco.
Mr Nikitaris. It was your window and we broke it.
He put out a shuddery old hand and shook it.
No, he said, put it away.
He asked if they were hungry and without waiting for an answer said they must eat as his guests.
Sit down and eat, said the old Greek. It’s good to eat, boys.
The men looked at each other, uncertain about what to do.
You are my guests, he said, pulling out a seat and putting a hand on Jimmy Bigelow’s shoulder. Please, he said. Sit down. You must eat.
And so the men sat down.
You like wine? I have some red wine you might like. I am not supposed to serve it so don’t make a show of it, but have as much as you want, boys.