Just Right (Part 20)
Ivan: Gray, Lidless Eyes
I watch Mr. Chang’s eyes bulge and roll back. His mouth moves, but no words flow across the space between us. A fish out of water, he is. His arms flail against the grip of the Giant. Legs kicking. I wonder who will eat him when he falls still.
Like the days in Norilsk Gulag.
We tear a hole in the ice and pull up the fish with long taut lines and hunger in our bellies. One by one, they drop the burbot at my feet, but I make them wait until the little gray bodies fall silent, the gills stiffen, the white, lidless eyes go black. Only then do I step back and give the command, “съешь,” and they fall on the meal, ripping the little fishes to pieces. They eat the meat raw on days we don’t have fire. The bread alone is never enough.
Mr. Chang doesn’t know he is a burbot, but he is very much a thing between a bottom-feeding fish and an eel. Or he would never admit it.
