Chapter 4 (Victor)

I awaken to a beautiful day, the sun shining white into my eyes. Immediately, I'm ready to rise from sleep and dress myself, so that I can sit down to my artwork.

Just as I'm climbing from the bed, my mother pounds through the doorway, waddling towards me.

"I was presuming you would be getting up sometime today," she says, pulling me towards my dressing chest. "Come quickly, Victor. Get dressed and come downstairs. It's a beautiful day outside, and a good day for you to help us gain some."

Somehow, I'm surprised I didn't see it coming.

Before I can open my mouth to object, she pulls out a brown suit and presses it into my hands before leaving, never giving me a moment to speak against her plans. But then again, she wouldn't have approved of what I would say. So, I undress from my nightshirt, and into the suit, never once glancing at my desk, where I was so hoping I could go after I was dressed. But, to no avail.

"Hurry up, Victor!" I hear my mother screech from downstairs.

As though I am under her influence, I scramble down the stairs, almost tripping in doing so, but my long, spindly legs are always doing that to me if I'm in a hurry. Not something I am particularly proud of either, but that came when I was tall and lanky.

Once I get myself under control, I take a step outside, where Mayhew and the other fishmonger are already at work, using a large, frightening knife to slice the fishes' heads from their bodies, sliding the bodies into a large basket. Mayhew stares ahead, smoking a pipe. I frown at him, feeling sorry for the poor fellow. It's not a wonder that he coughs so often; that pipe is giving him his troubles.

My thoughts disappear quickly when Mother gives me an apron, one that has a drawing of a fish, with the van Dort name written above it in large, fancy script. She gently pushes me towards the small table where the fish are cut in half, where I can feel a tiny stomachache boiling inside me. I wince as Mayhew cuts off another head, and I watch the flesh peel from the body. Thank goodness my mother didn't see it, or she would have kept me busy with another lecture. I do not need any of that from her.

"Work hard, and watch how they do it," she says. "Good day." With that, she trots back inside, without so much as a glance backwards.

I heave a deep sigh, dreading what I was about to do. Mayhew steps aside so I can watch him pull the fish from one basket and place it, on its side, onto the table. Then, the fishmonger quickly cuts the head from the fish, and slides it into another basket. They perform their tasks over and over in a kind of mechanical way, never faltering in their work. I do not like it; it lacks life and excitement, how I feel whenever I am drawing something by the bedroom window. And, to think that I'd be doing this for the rest of my life once my parents had passed on.

Forcing myself onward, I pull a fish from the bag and slap it onto the table. While the fishmonger does his work, I pull out another fish. And then another fish. And another. And another.

I only helped to produce a few fish, and it already seems like hours since I had started. I don't dare complain, as I know that I will get in trouble for so much as opening my mouth against this.

Gradually, the process becomes more tedious. Sometimes, I try to imagine myself drawing a fish, swimming along in a great river. I have read of fish living in the river Thames in London, but have never seen drawings of them. Perhaps I could draw some of these fish, and place them in environments unlike what they usually have. I don't think I've ever done something of that kind before, but the idea excites me greatly.

For several moments, I consider what I can do if I am going to attempt something so new, and with the mechanical work I am doing with the fish, my mind begins to wander far away. Swirls of lines and black patterns fly through my thoughts like a swarm of bumblebees, flying high and low in different images; the environment in which the fish could be. I began to see white too, when little flakes of snow start to fall, speckling my brown suit with white. I seem to be the only one to notice the change in the weather, because Mayhew and the fishmonger never look up or stop to brush the snow from their clothes.

I glance up to look around, and notice that several townspeople passing by are pulling up their coat collars and tying scarves around their necks, quickening their pace through the streets. A storm is probably in the air, because the wind begins to pick up, whistling through the balconies and storefronts. I shiver, pulling my coat around me. It's a shame that my parents aren't out here to notice this snow. If they have any mercy left, perhaps they will allow us to cease work for a while. Wishful thinking.

Suddenly, my eyes stop on something- someone- in the close distance. There is a girl- a woman- walking down the cobblestone street in the strangest clothes I had ever seen. She is a woman, and yet, she is wearing blue trousers. A solid blue shirt covers her upper body, tight against her slim figure, underneath a coat made of a faded kind of blue leather I have never seen before. She has long dark hair, which falls around her shoulders like a silken veil made of melted chocolate. Even from this far away, her eyes are shining with a blue tint to them, blue as the Atlantic itself. Although she is dressed so oddly, her beauty is astounding, much above the stiff women I have seen in town.

A cold breeze slowly lifts her hair away from her chest, and I notice that she has a silver key around her neck, hanging from a silver chain. It's a plain skeleton key, but seeing a woman make such a statement in clothes like that is all the more astounding to me. She's one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, with an unsure expression, but a confident stride, never faltering although she looks a little lost. She puts her arms around her shoulders, possibly trying to keep out of the cold air. She must be frozen to the bone.

I gaze at her for several moments, until suddenly, she looks at me. As quickly as she had, I look away, back to the fish on the cart.

The blue in her eyes have caught me; I'm a little afraid of them, knowing that she has seen me. Still, I hope that she would come over to the vendor cart, so I could ask her who she was. Perhaps I can come to know her, and we can be friends. I hope she doesn't mind that I like art...