text: The stranger stood in the open entrance of the market hall, just out of the sunlight, watching as a group of tourists took pictures--pyramids of olives and spices, strings of onions and rabbits. All around him the locals laughed and bargained. Even though he hadn’t been to the old hall since he was a child, it seemed as though nothing had changed. He looked past his new running shoes at the cobblestones, worn so smooth they shone in the light. He heard a boy selling olives and stepped forward to ask the price for a small bag. The boy overcharged, but the man paid without question. The boy was running the stall while his uncle was away and was eager to impress him. The stranger wandered, looking around, eating from the bag of olives. Stalls spilled inward from either side of the tunnel, engulfing everyone in calculated chaos. Fruits and vegetables and meats--one stall sold wine if you knew the right person, but, of course, the stranger didn’t. That wasn’t why he was here. He moved slowly, deeper, noticing the crowd grow thinner and the air colder. The blue-white light bulbs strung along the ceiling were few and far between, allowing the vendors’ candlelight to take command and dance on the walls. He wondered if he should continue--perhaps the docks would better give him what he was after, closer to the open freedom of the sea. But soon the tunnel ended and opened onto a cavernous room with white-painted walls. The air smelled of cigarette smoke and decades of fish, caked into the stone, part of the building itself. Rows of tables crowded the floor, each covered with a bed of slowly-melting ice. It was after noon and the fish market was nearly empty. There were no customers haggling for the day’s catch; there were no tuna, or swordfish heads, or tourists to take pictures of them. The vendors were either preparing to leave or chatting amongst themselves. Most of the sellers were already home, their ice-beds bare. The stranger buttoned his thin wool jacket against the drop in temperature and stepped inside. Immediately his foot plunged into a deep puddle, the frigid water soaking through his shoe and sock in an instant. He let out a shout and all the vendors turned to stare at him, for a moment. Then they all went back to their conversations and their packing--even if there was anything left to sell, they knew he wasn’t here to buy. Face hot, he cursed under his breath and looked down at his shoe, feeling the foul water between his toes. He looked behind him, back into the dark tunnel. The entrance was so far away, past curves and merchandise that blocked out all sunlight. He turned away and continued forward, squelching with every other step. The vendors continued to pay him no mind, except once, when he approached a nearly-sold-out display of crabs, mussels, and shrimp. The seller paused to eye him, just in case, until the stranger turned away. But they were right in their initial judgement and didn’t look his way again. The stranger walked past every table until he reached the edge of the room, where chubby cats ignored him in the semi-darkness. He paused for a moment to look back over the fish market, and then went straight to the only vendor who’d caught his interest. He was scaling and gutting a small pile of fish, moving them from one side of the ice to the other; the only man actively working with the sea in the entire building. He was older, with a greying beard, and he was thin but strong. His skin was dark and tough. He was missing the tip of his left ring finger, and in his right hand he held a wooden-handled knife that seemed to be much older than he was. “I suppose the ice melts quickly,” the stranger remarked, watching his hands move with the fish. The man continued his work. “Did you catch these?” “Yes,” the vendor said. “This morning. Do you want to buy?” The stranger looked closer at the fish, noticing how the artificial light gleamed in their eyes. "Have you always been a fisherman?” The fisherman didn’t respond until he’d finished his cuts and set the fish to the side. “All my life.” The stranger glanced at the fisherman’s face; he wasn’t distracted from his work. His shirt collar was worn, the cloth soiled by many stains. The stranger nudged a small bone lying on the stone floor, to the side with his wet shoe. “Is there much money in fishing?” “That depends.” The fisherman wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of scales on his skin. “Are you here to buy fish?” “No.” The weather-born lines in the fisherman’s face seemed to deepen as he grabbed another fish and began scraping away the scales. “Did you always want to be a fisherman?” “My father was a fisherman. And my grandfather.” “I'd never be a banker like my father,” the stranger said. The fisherman looked up at him, then back down at his work. The stranger stopped smiling. “My great-grandfather was a fisherman as well. And his father.” The stranger looked at the fish in the man’s hands, not taking his eyes away until it was stacked on the ice. “You must feel proud, your family having fished for so many generations.” The fisherman didn’t reply. The stranger reached into his pocket for his wallet. “How much are they?” The fisherman told him. “Which is a good one?” “They are all good.” “Would you choose one for me? I don’t know much about fish.” The fisherman grabbed a fish from the ice and wrapped it in newspaper. The stranger paid, took the bundle under his arm, and left. It was cold and damp; as he walked he felt it seep through his jacket, through his shirt. He kept the bundle where it was. When he stepped back into the sunlight he shivered and looked up and down the street. A few skinny cats mewed and rubbed up against his legs. The stranger turned and walked to a cafe. There, he took a seat, placing the bundle on the table and unbuttoning his jacket. He leaned back in the chair and asked a passing waiter to bring him a coffee. A distracted smile played on the waiter’s lips as he nodded and withdrew. While he sipped his coffee, he gazed out onto the street, at the pedestrians, the cars, and, beyond them all, to the sea. When he stood to leave he left a few coins on the table and did not take the bundle with him.