Jason Fontenot: THE INTERLOPER • Cleaver Magazine

Fiction by Jason Fontenot
THE INTERLOPER

Kacem hobbled into the fish market, basket dangling from his arm, seagulls crying out above him. The market air was sour as vinegar. He cleared his throat and ambled through the stalls, his gait rocking him from side to side, gray beard swaying as he greeted vendors by name, buying nothing.

At the base of the market walls, iron grates drank a trickle of pinkish runoff—a thin broth of blood, dirt, and seawater that slicked the slate floor. It seeped down from the stalls, sheathing the corrugated flanks of bream and bass, scaled bellies hanging in rows like smiling teeth, before slipping off entrails, off tarp edges, and down into channels that coursed through the tiles.

Around him, the fishmongers were mostly adolescent boys, thin as antennae, their gandouras pulled up to their thighs. They whistled and yelped, cajoled customers, recited the day’s catch, and begged for tips. In the backrooms of the square’s perimeter, grubby-aproned merchants chopped fish by the bundle. The whole market was like the aerie of a giant bird. Layers of fish, trays of fish, racks and wires of fish, drawn and dressed, some butterflied, some sliced open, their milt spilling into washtubs. Livers and stomachs mounded like wet sand. Heads with clouded eyes displayed on ice chips. Collars dangling from clotheslines like trinkets. Cheeks fanned ornamentally.

The market perfumed the town. Once past its archway, the smell became a tangible thing. The fishmongers only associated with each other, so incorruptible was the smell.

Kacem drifted toward Fatima’s stall. She sold whelks gathered in piles on a bare cedar table beneath an awning. Kacem picked up a whelk and rolled it in his hand, studying its swirling striation, the shell’s spines stippling his palm.

Fatima’s husband hauled the whelks in from the dock every morning. In an earlier decade, Kacem had worked beside him as weighmaster’s assistant, tallying boat hauls. Though unschooled, Kacem prided himself on a strong mind for figures. He multiplied with his fingers and made precise measurements with string. But the weighmaster—a sickly little man, more bone than flesh—let Kacem go after buying an abacus from an Egyptian trader. Kacem had pointed out that the pebbles ran backward, going left to right, but the weighmaster assured him it was the only assistant he needed.

Then Kacem noticed a commotion. Looking up, he saw a man he’d never seen before in all his years walking the market square.

Half a dozen stalls away, Sidi Omar, the town’s Muqaddam, stood before a small crowd of fishmongers. He was dressed in a formal black-and-white burnous, black shawl coiled around his throat, linen trousers bright as talc. His face was painted in a large smile, his mustache curled in the manner of a French bureaucrat, right hand laid proprietorially on the stranger’s shoulder. His left hand gestured to the vendors gathered round. He spoke loudly to all of them.

“Everyone. This is Tahar. He’s taken over the permit for Slaoui’s stall. Make him welcome.”

Tahar, the newcomer, stood next to the Muqaddam with his hands clasped behind his back, drinking in the morning sunlight like a stretch of white sand. His olive linen kaftan magnified the protuberance of his belly and the creases of his neck. His beard was long and black and dignified, a white stripe running down the middle. On his head, he bore a finely stitched kufi with rows of blue diamonds. He smiled and nodded gravely at the vendors.

Kacem’s eyes lingered on the hand on Tahar’s shoulder. Seventeen years Kacem had known Sidi Omar, had occasionally intercepted him on his errands. At first, the Muqaddam was willing to bear Kacem with a frown before offering a curt goodbye. But the last time Kacem approached him, Sidi Omar clicked his tongue and urged him to mind his business. Now, as Kacem stared at the stranger and the imperial welcome he was receiving, a memory took over his mind.

A few years prior, on the northern wall of the docks, Kacem found two rings of salt bloom and rust that arranged themselves into a face. Some mornings the face looked solemn, others full of pent-up anger. He returned to it often on his walks. Then one day the wall was scrubbed clean, the face erased, and Kacem felt as if something in himself had been erased with it.

“So, Kacem? What’ll it be?”

Fatima sat under the awning, wrapped in her djellaba, back resting against the damp sandstone. Her daughters had married off years ago, and she had no sons. In the mornings she’d help her husband pull the cart full of whelks from the dock to the market. Under her hood, her leathered skin hung like a mask, and her tiny dark eyes glistened.

Returning to himself, Kacem said, “Oh, I’m not sure…measure me off a rotal, I suppose.”

Fatima rose from her stool, which added nothing to her height. She grabbed a spoon and sectioned off a generous handful of whelks, ladling them into Kacem’s basket.

“Some fresh ones here. I saved them for you. They’ll make a good broth.”

“Yes…could use a good broth.”

Fatima pursed her lips as she worked.

“So what do you make of the newcomer?” she asked.

Kacem’s heavy eyebrows went up. “What could I possibly know?”

She trained her dark eyes on him. “None of us knows what to make of him. Slaoui is gone. God knows where to. Maybe his hometown? But this man, no one has seen him before.”

Kacem started to frown slightly. “But how did he get the stall? The Mabrouks, did they not have their permit ready?”

“I’m sure the Mabrouks did. We’re all guessing as to how he got the stall.”

Kacem drank the news in a protracted silence.

“Why don’t you go introduce yourself?” she said. “Get a feel for him. You can tell me what he’s like next time you stop by.” She smiled politely and sat on her stool, and Kacem knew she was done talking.

He nodded farewell and walked slowly off. Every corner of the market reminded him of someone who no longer stood there. He thought of Slaoui working hard for a decade with his apprentice, Abram Mabrouk. He proceeded slowly toward Slaoui’s old stall, mulling over some sea bass, inspecting a bucket of bones he might use for the broth. He finally stopped at the stall of a boy named Younes. Younes was seventeen but had assumed full responsibility for his family. He had a withdrawn, dehydrated look, with serious and somber eyes for a man so young. He was chopping cuttlefish with a cleaver in a methodical rhythm. Drag, chop, rotate, chop, flip, chop. Kacem observed him for a couple minutes without moving or talking.

“Did your catch arrive late today?” Kacem asked.

Younes chopped more forcefully. “My father. He overslept. I sat here for three hours with nothing. Went looking for him at the dock but couldn’t find him.”

“Is he well?”

Younes stopped chopping and sighed. “Well enough, I think. Can I help you?”

Kacem looked down at the broken cuttlefish. “I’m going to say hello to the new vendor.”

Younes wiped a bead of sweat off his eyelid with the back of his hand. “Tahar? I met him this morning.”

“And?” Kacem asked.

“Nothing and. He and his brother arrived on their own boat a couple nights ago.”

“And they got Slaoui’s spot? Just like that?”

Younes grabbed a new fish from the bucket and slapped it down before him. “Is that your business? I suspect they paid for it like everyone else.”

Kacem scratched at his beard. “I’m just curious about what happened with his apprentice, Abram.”

“You’re as nosy as ever,” said Younes, bringing the cleaver down. “It was Fatima put you up to this. Don’t lower yourself to entertain her.”

“And you shouldn’t blame an old woman for an old man’s vices. You don’t think it’s strange? That you could apprentice a stall, have your permit ready, to have it bought from under you? What of your livelihood?”

Younes grunted. “My family has always owned this stall. It’s Sidi Omar who determines who’s best for the business of the market. I’m not surprised he didn’t give it Abram.”

“What do you suppose Abram will do now?”

Younes shrugged and kept chopping and paid no more attention to Kacem, who remained watching for several long minutes.

The rhythm of the chopping stirred old memories. Kacem recalled Abram Mabrouk hard at work. Abram loathed being observed and had an instinct for knowing when Kacem was watching him, whereupon he’d shoot a look of disapproval. But Kacem marveled at the strange contortions of his face when he was focused. The tip of Abram’s tongue would hang from his lip like the tail of a rodent he couldn’t quite swallow. His unibrow would undulate like an earthworm in a flood. Abram was rarely sociable. But once, Kacem snapped his fingers to break Abram’s focus and pointed to something interesting. A market boy was creeping up on Younes’ sleeping father, who napped on a rug stretched across the ice fridge. The boy had a chicken feather in one hand and a fistful of fish guts in the other. The fishmongers all stopped what they were doing to watch. The boy slipped the guts into the man’s slack hand and tickled his nose. Younes’ father smeared the mess all over his face. The tile of the market floor echoed with laughter. Abram had laughed hardest of all. He stopped working, wiped his eyes, smiled at Kacem, and said he was going for a walk on the dock.

Kacem pulled up his hood, took up his basket of whelks, and slipped into the shade of the market wall. He stopped beside a storage awning across from Slaoui’s old stall, behind a stack of flyblown barrels leaking a reincarnated fluid. From there, he could clearly see Tahar. He stayed in the shade, watching furtively.

The Muqaddam had left. Tahar remained where he was, planted before the stall, hands clasped behind his back, watching the market’s clamor with a calm gaze. He nodded absently to those who passed. Behind him, sardines lay languishing in the sun.

Kacem walked through the archway onto the medina thoroughfare. Across from the entrance of the market, a narrow clothing stall was carved directly into the sandstone wall. It was little more than a recess with shelves, bolts of fabrics, and a rack of clothes that poked into the street. Inside the stall on a low pillow, Abram’s younger sister, Hadiya Mabrouk, sat darning an undershirt. Kacem approached and cleared his throat in greeting. She didn’t look up from her work.

“Your brother, Hadiya?” he asked. “Do you know where he is?”

“You’re brusque today.”

“I, yes…” Kacem mumbled. “I have something to talk to him about.”

“Perhaps this is your version of ‘Hello, Hadiya. How are you, Hadiya.’ Would you be more interested in me if I reeked of fish?”

Kacem frowned.

“I’m playing with you, old man.” She jerked her head toward a wooden door behind the clothes rack. “Abram’s inside. But he’s miserable. He’s in no mood to talk to anyone.”

“Yes…I’m sorry about what happened.”

Hadiya looked down at the ground. “My brother has always scorned others. He invites misery onto himself. But if I see Sidi Omar…I’m not sure what I’ll do to him.”

Kacem bowed his head, not knowing what to say. He moved toward the squat door, forced to shuffle sideways between Hadiya and the clothing rack. She sighed with annoyance. Without knocking, Kacem opened the door, revealing a tiny storage closet. He bent at the waist to peer inside. It smelled of mud and mildew. In the dark, Abram lay stretched across a pile of clothes.

“Abram. It’s Kacem. Forgive me. We haven’t spoken in a while.”

Abram raised his head and blinked at the influx of light. “What in God’s eternity are you bothering me for?”

“Just a few questions. Some curiosity.”

“Curiosity? About what, my wretched life? Is there nothing to occupy your idle brains in their dying days? No pigeons to feed?”

“I fed the pigeons this morning, brother.”

Abram dropped his head back down on the bundle of clothes. “It’s up to God whether you’re clever or simple.”

“Abram. Be serious. Slaoui left town suddenly. Do you know where he went?”

“To a land of milk and honey where traitors prosper? How could anyone know?”

“You didn’t know he was leaving?”

“If he told me of his plans, I would’ve squeezed the life out of him right then and there. He was paid off by that bastard Tahar, so he left secretly, hiding his shame.”

“You know this?”

“What’s to know other than what I see? Seven years I chop Slaoui’s wood and carry his water, and he leaves in a puff of smoke. I ask our honorable Muqaddam what’s to become of his stall, of my stall? I ask if he would honor my permit I saved all these months for? And that snake can’t even look at me.”

“You spoke with Sidi Omar?”

“You are simple, aren’t you? Shall I repeat everything I say?”

Kacem tilted his head and nodded thoughtfully. “If Tahar has that kind of money to spend, well…why would he care so much for your stall?”

Abram’s eyes remained closed as he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking about it. And I figured him out. I suspect that pig and his brother sail up and down the coast, bribing for stalls. It’s all a front, if you ask me. Who knows what they have stored on their boat, or where it comes from? My cousin’s husband. He lives up north a few leagues. Warehouses are being robbed on the docks, he said. They follow the Spanish gunboats like vultures and make their heist after a shelling, while everyone’s shuttered inside.” He spat into the dark. “People are volunteering to watch at night. It’s happening more and more.”

Kacem clenched his jaw. “Well…what you’ve said is interesting, Abram. Take these.” He placed the basket of whelks on the dirt floor. “They’ll make a good broth.”

Abram opened his eyes to look at the basket.

“I can’t stomach anything from that cursed market.” But he remained staring at the basket as Kacem shut the door and shuffled past Hadiya onto the street.

“I’ll cook those tonight, Kacem,” Hadiya said, resuming her darning after he hobbled back onto the thoroughfare.

Kacem tucked his hands in his djellaba and walked back under the archway of the market. He swayed slightly left and right and measured his steps as he looked up at the sky. His sandals left imprints on the pinkish water of the market floor that receded back onto themselves. He made directly for Tahar’s stall. Tahar was still there, unmoved, saying nothing. He now wore a red-blotched apron over his kaftan. Kacem smiled warmly as he walked a few paces from where Tahar stood. The noon sun shone directly on them and lustered the silver in their beards. A cool sea breeze carried the taste of salt.

“Peace, brother,” said Kacem. “Tahar, yes? Are you settling in?”

Tahar squinted his eyes and returned the smile. “Peace, brother,” he responded. “Are you old Kacem? I’ve heard about you already. The pleasure is mine.”

They leaned in and clasped each other’s shoulders and kissed each other’s cheeks like old friends.

“It’s a pleasure for us both…truly,” said Kacem. “A sudden one. I just wish I could’ve bid farewell to Slaoui.”

Tahar bowed his head. “Urgent business, I think. He was eager to sell. We couldn’t thank him enough.”

“He didn’t mention what this urgent business might be?”

“I didn’t know Slaoui. Wasn’t my place to pry. That is, it wasn’t my brother’s place. He came here looking for business and found more than he’d bargained for. He purchased this stall on the spot without telling me. A welcome surprise, though. I’m grateful. And everyone I’ve met is so friendly.”

“Your brother is a fisherman?”

“He caught everything you see here just this morning. With the help of some local boys. They were good hands.”

Kacem scratched his beard. “Do you have stalls elsewhere?”

Tahar cocked his head slightly. “Yes. But we like to establish connections and get things started personally. Who knows? We may like it here. We may stay permanently.” Tahar smiled again. “You are a curious old man. They told me, there goes old Kacem. He loves to chat about this or that.”

Kacem dragged the knuckle of his right thumb across his forehead. “Well, yes…I am curious. I’m curious as to where you get the money?”

Tahar merely blinked.

Kacem continued, “I’ve yet to meet a fishmonger that can afford to be so, I’m not sure how to say it…ambitious?”

“I give thanks to God for His generosity every day.”

“Yes, yes. Not all blessings are distributed evenly. It’s His will.”

Tahar’s eyes narrowed, and his hands dropped to his sides. “Speak your mind, old man.”

Kacem stuck his chin out defiantly. “Are you a thief, Tahar?”

He’d only finished asking the question when Tahar’s swinging fist connected with his chin and a light flashed and his ears rang. His vision went black, and he lost all sense of himself. When his sight returned, he thought he was looking through a kaleidoscope. He could begin to make out shapes and shadows and feel his pulse beat through his skull. Gradually he saw that he was seated on the ground with his legs out in front of him. He saw Tahar before him, on his knees, kneeling as if in prayer, only there were others gathered around him. A local boy and Younes and half a dozen others. They surrounded Tahar, laying into him with blows and kicks. In his olive kaftan, he looked like something they’d dragged in from the sea to be stripped of its scales. Kacem wondered if Fatima was watching from her stool. The crowd finally broke apart and he was looking directly into Tahar’s face, still prostrate, but his beard now glistening with the slick of the market floor, his face colored with bruises and rivulets of blood. They looked at each other for some time.

Jason Fontenot is a New York City–based fiction writer whose work explores place, community, and social tension. His story “The Interloper” appears in Cleaver Magazine. By day, he works in software as a technical writer, and by night, he performs standup comedy, exploring similar themes through a different lens.