Ah, well. He read. There were the expected greetings and small talk, all the pleasure and entertainment inherent in a predictable letter. Then …
“By the way, Luis, there’s an old fisherman in the village who persists in going out with a rotting purse seiner every week, despite the fact that Fisheries Control has been harvesting nearly 300 kilometers north
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WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE . ,.
of here for years now. He’s a .good fellow, but stubborn as a brick and too set in his ways to change.
“As you can imagine, his antics serve as a large source of humor for the rest of the village, most of it good-natured joshing. He’s got a granddaughter though, the most exquisite little thing you ever saw, who absolutely dotes on him. I see no harm in the relationship, but the parents wish she wouldn’t see so much of the old man, considering her impressionable age and his terminal illness.
“Love, however, doesn’t subscribe to the rules of reason. I tried to explain to her, very simply, why her grandfather can’t catch sardines anymore. All I did was get her to spend most of a hellishly hot day on her knees hi the church, praying to San Pedro for one last catch for her grandfather. I told her it would take a miracle, not thinking she’d.take me at my word.
“Then our days at school came back to me. If I remember right, you and Martin Fowler himself were quite good friends. I didn’t know the man—never even met him. Only read about him in the school paper. But it occurs to me that if anyone can do anything to fulfill even a little part of this child’s dream, even if it’s only dumping a few dozen sardines in her grandfather’s fishing grounds by airdrop, it would be Fowler.