Story :The Bet

 

The Bet

Fernando Ampuero

 

There are so many people who tell stories and so few who listen to them that it is logical that many of them end up forgotten. Casual listeners, perhaps out of indifference or contempt for the chatter, assume that they are being saddled with any nonsense. And, well, they are probably not wrong. However, something happens in the memory of one or another listener—of an impressionable listener like me, I mean—where the memory of a detail determines that the stories maintain their inexplicable freshness. I am not referring to all of them, of course; I am not Funes, the memorious one. I am speaking only of that kind of strange stories that, in the end, endure like a concern.

 

I am going to tell now a story by my friend Enrique. I usually say of him that he is a simple and down-to-earth man, with no desire to be interesting or to want to disturb anyone; he hates to attract attention. But this last thing is not easy for Enrique: the ordinary world in which he moves sometimes declares itself in rebellion against normality. To me, let's say, he always tells me strange and crazy things; or, to say the least, curious things. In any case, his story does not bring great tragedies or catastrophes; nothing of the sort. They are rather small things, irrelevant things. Like, for example, the story of that passenger in a dilapidated provincial minibus —one of his oldest stories—, whom he met one day while traveling from Trujillo to Lima.

 

Enrique got into that minibus because the vehicle he was driving, his old pickup truck, began to smoke and stopped due to a radiator failure. He then decided to push it onto the side lane of the highway and park it; then, in search of a mechanic's shop, he climbed into the minibus that would take him to Casma, near Huarmey.

 

The trip, according to what the driver told him, took about fifty minutes. The van was full, but he found a free seat in the third row, next to a bearded man with a peaceful expression. He sat on the aisle side and spent twenty minutes in silence, like most passengers, dozing or contemplating the desert.

 

Enrique, by contrast, looked quite awake and restless. It was in this mood that his seat neighbor turned to him and spoke in a low tone of voice.

 

“I have a question to ask,” he said. “How long do you think a fish lives out of water?” My friend was surprised, but managed to moderate his reaction with a friendly smile.

—What a question!

 

—It's a simple question —said the man—. All children ask it.

 

—I don't doubt it —commented Enrique—. Children are always asking that kind of questions.

 

—And other more interesting ones! I suspect that most philosophers of antiquity listened with fervor to the questions of children and, stimulated by these, while answering them, they forged their philosophical ideas. Children are natural philosophers… But, anyway, I would like you to answer me…

 

—What?

 

—The question I asked you… How long do you think a fish lives out of water? Enrique let out a little laugh this time.

 

—I don't know —he replied—. I imagine it's the same time a man could resist in water…

 

Three minutes, four minutes… I don't know the human record under water.

 

—Is that your answer?

 

—Yes —he hesitated Enrique.

 

—Listen, I'll make you a bet... Five soles! It's not much money, but it adds excitement to the whole thing. If you win, you'll remember this forever; and if you lose, you'll remember it too. What do you think?

haking his head, Enrique cheered up.

 

“I accept it,” he said. “Although I can't imagine how I could prove it right now.”

 

“I can prove it right now.”

 

“Oh, really? Let's see, tell me: how long does a fish live out of water?”

 

“An hour, more or less.”

 

“Impossible!” Enrique growled, shaking his head. “I don't believe you… But I'm curious what proof you're going to present…”

 

“The most convincing proof,” the guy emphasized. “Look at me carefully.”

—I can see it.

 

With studied slowness, the man put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket and took it out again, holding a fish.

 

—This fish is proof… Touch it!… Feel how it moves!

 

Stunned, watching the scaly fish with enormous eyes moving in the man's hand, Enrique didn't know what to think, but he stammered:

 

—What is that?

 

—A fish! A tramboyo! And it's alive!… Come on, touch it!

 

My friend touched it and, indeed, felt life in that slippery contact.

 

—How long have we been traveling? —the man attacked—. Almost half an hour! It hasn't been ten minutes or less. And when we get to the town in the next half hour, I assure you, this fish will still be moving.

 

Enrique abruptly asked the man to open his jacket and show him the pocket from which he had taken the fish.

 

"Do you have a bottle of water in that pocket?"

 

"Of course not! Check it out."

After searching his pocket, he didn't find the small water tank he had imagined. He didn't even notice anything wet.

 

"Satisfied?" the guy boasted. Enrique nodded. "Well, you owe me five soles. We'll have a beer at the next stop. You pay."

 

My friend never discovered what the trick was.

 

And then, sitting at a table in a kiosk, he drank a large beer with the guy. Meanwhile, on the table, next to the bottle, the fish was wagging its tail.

With affection,

Ruben