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Authors: Domingo Villar
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he cleared out the traps, he placed them in order so as to make it easier to set them the following day. When he’d emptied the last one, he turned off the light and the boat was shrouded in darkness.
‘Well?’ asked Estevez.
‘Well what?’ said Caldas, wondering what his assistant meant.
Estevez indicated the old man’s boat with a flourish.
‘What now?’ he asked.
Caldas looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘Did you think he was going to let off fireworks at the end?’
‘Bloody hell, of course not,’ Estevez replied. ‘But if he leaves the boat tied to the buoy, how is this Hermida going to get here? Swim?’
‘Ah,’ shrugged the inspector. There was no sign of the boy who ferried holidaymakers to and from their boats, or of his dinghy. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
They next saw Ernesto Hermida rowing towards the slipway in the little wooden boat that had been moored to the buoy. A woman who looked as old as him was waiting by the water’s edge, standing on the dark stone exposed by the tide. She wore a white apron over her clothes and held up a black umbrella against the rain. Some of the seagulls had settled on the slipway and stood around her.
As he drew level with her, the fisherman handed her the basket containing his catch. The woman took it from him with difficulty and dropped it to the ground, beside the open umbrella. The old man then jumped ashore and they carried the basket up the slipway, each holding a handle.
‘Are we going in then?’ asked Estevez, indicating the market, which was now lit up.
Out on the water, the other boat had also switched off its light. Caldas looked at his watch. There were still twenty minutes to go before the start of the auction and he thought he’d rather wait in the car.
The second fisherman’s rowing boat appeared among the other craft soon after. It looked smaller than the old man’s, like a toy.
‘That one’s called Arias,’ said Estevez, and added: ‘He’s taller than me.’
Arias needed no help transferring his catch. Seemingly without effort, he started up the slipway with a basket in each hand.
The policemen watched him cross the road and enter the market, then got out of the car.
The Fish Market
The sign above the entrance to the market read in letters set in relief: MUNICIPAL MARKET , 1942. Inside, the single-storey stone building consisted of a light and airy hall with a green-painted cement floor. A long metal table ran down the middle of the hall, beneath a notice that cautioned:
No eating, drinking, smoking or spitting
.
Beside the scales, José Arias was kneeling next to one of his baskets. As the policemen approached, they saw that it contained dozens of crabs. The huge fisherman was taking them out, one by one, grasping them firmly by the back legs to avoid being nipped by the claws. He laid them out on various plastic trays according to size and condition – larger ones on one tray, smaller ones on two other trays and the less valuable crabs (skinnier ones or those that had lost a leg) on yet another. He set a few aside in a plastic bag which he knotted and placed on the floor, resting against the wall. Caldas assumed these were the ones he’d be taking home.
After sorting the crabs, Arias went to the other basket, which was full of hundreds of squirming shrimp. He tipped them out on to three trays and went through them carefully, discarding the dead ones and removing seaweed, small crabs and starfish. As he finished, he placed each tray on the scales for the auctioneer to mark them with their weight. Finally, he set them out on the metal table.
A few feet away, Ernesto Hermida and the woman in the apron were also sorting through the catch, but his traps contained only crabs. They graded and weighed them and then placed them on the table alongside Arias’s. Hermida had also caught some fish – sixpollock and a couple of mackerel – which he laid on another tray, before standing aside with the woman to wait
‘Well?’ asked Estevez.
‘Well what?’ said Caldas, wondering what his assistant meant.
Estevez indicated the old man’s boat with a flourish.
‘What now?’ he asked.
Caldas looked at him out of the corner of his eye.
‘Did you think he was going to let off fireworks at the end?’
‘Bloody hell, of course not,’ Estevez replied. ‘But if he leaves the boat tied to the buoy, how is this Hermida going to get here? Swim?’
‘Ah,’ shrugged the inspector. There was no sign of the boy who ferried holidaymakers to and from their boats, or of his dinghy. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’
They next saw Ernesto Hermida rowing towards the slipway in the little wooden boat that had been moored to the buoy. A woman who looked as old as him was waiting by the water’s edge, standing on the dark stone exposed by the tide. She wore a white apron over her clothes and held up a black umbrella against the rain. Some of the seagulls had settled on the slipway and stood around her.
As he drew level with her, the fisherman handed her the basket containing his catch. The woman took it from him with difficulty and dropped it to the ground, beside the open umbrella. The old man then jumped ashore and they carried the basket up the slipway, each holding a handle.
‘Are we going in then?’ asked Estevez, indicating the market, which was now lit up.
Out on the water, the other boat had also switched off its light. Caldas looked at his watch. There were still twenty minutes to go before the start of the auction and he thought he’d rather wait in the car.
The second fisherman’s rowing boat appeared among the other craft soon after. It looked smaller than the old man’s, like a toy.
‘That one’s called Arias,’ said Estevez, and added: ‘He’s taller than me.’
Arias needed no help transferring his catch. Seemingly without effort, he started up the slipway with a basket in each hand.
The policemen watched him cross the road and enter the market, then got out of the car.
The Fish Market
The sign above the entrance to the market read in letters set in relief: MUNICIPAL MARKET , 1942. Inside, the single-storey stone building consisted of a light and airy hall with a green-painted cement floor. A long metal table ran down the middle of the hall, beneath a notice that cautioned:
No eating, drinking, smoking or spitting
.
Beside the scales, José Arias was kneeling next to one of his baskets. As the policemen approached, they saw that it contained dozens of crabs. The huge fisherman was taking them out, one by one, grasping them firmly by the back legs to avoid being nipped by the claws. He laid them out on various plastic trays according to size and condition – larger ones on one tray, smaller ones on two other trays and the less valuable crabs (skinnier ones or those that had lost a leg) on yet another. He set a few aside in a plastic bag which he knotted and placed on the floor, resting against the wall. Caldas assumed these were the ones he’d be taking home.
After sorting the crabs, Arias went to the other basket, which was full of hundreds of squirming shrimp. He tipped them out on to three trays and went through them carefully, discarding the dead ones and removing seaweed, small crabs and starfish. As he finished, he placed each tray on the scales for the auctioneer to mark them with their weight. Finally, he set them out on the metal table.
A few feet away, Ernesto Hermida and the woman in the apron were also sorting through the catch, but his traps contained only crabs. They graded and weighed them and then placed them on the table alongside Arias’s. Hermida had also caught some fish – sixpollock and a couple of mackerel – which he laid on another tray, before standing aside with the woman to wait
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