“No,I will eat at home.Do you want me to make the fire?”
“No,”the old man said.“ But we have.Haven't we?”“Yes,”the boy said.“Can I offer you a beer on the Terrace and then we'll take the stuff home.”
“Keep warm old man,”the boy said.“ Remember we are in September.”
“Let me get four fresh ones.”
“Can I go out to get sardines for you for tomorrow?”“No.Go and play baseball.I can still row and Rogelio will throw the net.”
“Thank you,”the old man said.He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility.But he knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.
“But are you strong enough now for a truly big fish?”
“Two,”the old man agreed.“ You didn't steal them?”
“Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces.Can you remember?”
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep wrinkles in the back of his neck.The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks.The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords.But none of these scars were fresh.They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.