4 minute read
Fishmongers
a short story by Zoltan Tajti
to Ralph, Piggy, and Jack
This story is not about fish. I swear to God, it’s not. It isn’t. It is about something completely different. The story, as it were, unfolds in a constantly present present, in the past that follows a forever lasting future. If you know what I mean.
It also unfolds in a house. It’s an old house, a house you can and will find in all corners of the world. It can be gothic, white, yellowish – colour does not matter. This particular house is equipped with a bunch of chairs, in them a bunch of serious people in neckties and suits, but not all houses are like that. But: they are similar.
“Why on Earth would you want your fish canned, Mr So-and-So?” asked Mr Thisand-That, to which the other replied “Because I like my fish to stay fresh.”
“Yes, but canned fish was also once fresh. We caught it, fresh, so it’s fresh when you eat it,” added This-and-That.
“Don’t tell me that I need to like your preserved icky-yucky fishy fish,” shouted Ms Such-and-Such, facing backwards, looking at So-and-So. “I don’t need stale fish, marinated or else.”
“Why, you do not need to have marinated fish. There is always the option to choose from our spread of dried fish, fish in vinegar with onions, salted fish pieces and salted fish paste. There is a bunchy bunch of methods of preserving fish, all kinds of fish but jellyfish, we’re the Willy Wonkas of fishes,” answered So-and-So.
“You think of yourselves as some sort of magicians then,” replied This-and-That. “You sure seem to live in a kind of la-la fairytale land,” added Such-and-Such. “The problem is,” she continued, “that you fail to walk both feet firm on the ground. People don’t want yesterday’s fish, they don’t want to eat what they had yesterday. No, they want fresh, brand new fish, straight-fromthe-water fish. Always and forever, fish.”
“Always, and forever?!”
“Yes, we very much dum-deedee-do” answered Such-andSuch and This-and-That in unison, or unison, who cares, feet off the ground, same feet facing the centre of the room.
The two kinds of fish-people walked differently. One group walked forward, and the other group walked backwards, with their heads also wrung backwards. Naturally, the backward looking-walking people were the ones who liked fresh fish. Or was it the other way around? Who knows… the point is, they walked in the same direction, but at the same time they did not – it is like: you have your fish and eat it, too. Or something to that extent.
“Well, you’re a bunch of idiots, then. Nuttos, weirdos and downright liars. Have you asked the peoplesy about this? Have you conducted thorough research, picked their brains, surveyed their opinions and gotten their take, or are you just pulling this nonsense out of your hat.
The walkers did not see each others’ heads and mouths, so no one had any idea what the other group was talking about. Nor did they care. They breathed the same air, though. Meaning, the exact same air. Backward facers inhaled what the forward facers exhaled. And again, naturally, the forward facers were the canned fish lovers… or… again: it doesn’t matter. Blinded by fish, all of them.
And they were, in fact, pulling everything out of their hats, preposterous house-dweller fishmonger trash-talkers. The truth is: you leave fish out too long, canned or fresh, it’ll stink up your house. Any house. Get it? Any house.
“We possess the truth,” said one or the other, his-her face facing in a direction. “No, we do,” replied another his-her face facing in another direction of the same direction. “No, we! We do-do-do,” resonated another fisher, and soon the whole stale-aired nuthouse reverberated like a cave of smooth and naked walls.
Meanwhile the fish… well… who cares about fishes, anyway?
