I caught a fat big fish the other day.
I was walking down Gran via street with a fishing rod in my hand that I had bought the other day in El Rastro. At the time of purchase I thought it was a bit silly to sell fishing rods in a market in the middle of Madrid. Anyway, I sat on one of the benches somewhere between the numerous cinemas and theatres and I cast the line into the sprawl of rushing people. Some passersby looked at me strangely. Others ignored me thinking, “oh well, just another freak.”
I was sitting there for well over an hour in rubber boots that came up over my knees and matching waterproof trousers and jacket. Both were in a green that matched my eyes and I felt as if I looked well. It was thirty 30º c outside and 40º c inside my plastic outfit. I started to doze off under the heat. Suddenly my fishing rod took on a life of its own. I had to hold on to it firmly or risk being pulled violently off the bench into the footpath. The line was dragging off beyond a nearby kiosk that sold newspapers so I couldn´t make out what I had caught. I pulled hard. The line flung toward me. I got slapped in the face with a greasy toupee. A small round man with a moustache Mendelson would have been proud of, sauntered up to me and slapped me across the jaw. “How dare you.” he roared. Then he grabbed the toupee and adjusted it badly back on his swollen red head.
A week later while fishing away in the middle of Gran via I was joined by the little round man. He was dressed from head to toe in fishing tackle and he cast his line into the crowd. He saluted me with a nod. We sat there fishing and not saying a word for the whole day.