Milk(29)

            —This is it, Martin said.

            He turned left down a narrow gravel road. The grass was high between the tracks and brushed the car’s undercarriage.

            They coasted into the driveway and parked next to an old truck with crates of fruit stacked on the trailer bed. On the right was a whitewashed farmhouse, to the left a shed with a rusted pipe sticking up from the roof.

            Martin and Anne got out of the car. The air smelled of apples and smoked fish.

            —We used to come here quite often when I was a kid, Martin said.

            He went up to the farmhouse.

            —Let’s see if anyone’s here.

            At the side of the house there was a little garden and behind that an orchard. The grass was tall and green, even though it was late summer.

            Anne remained standing in the middle of the driveway.

            Martin knocked on the door, which had a square window shaped like a diamond. He peered in, but the room behind the door lay in darkness. He waited a moment, then returned to Anne.

            —Let’s look over here, he said.

            Martin walked towards the shed. The door was ajar, and he looked in. Long rows of trout hung under the ceiling. The walls of the little room were smeared black, and the light from the door opening didn’t reach the back wall. The fish gleamed with oil, the skins golden and brown, the fins almost black.

            —Have a look. This is where they smoke them.

            Anne came over and stood next to Martin. She put her arm around his waist.

            —That’s trout, he said.

            —Is it?

            —I hope somebody’s here. Maybe they’re in the back.

            Martin turned and worked himself free of her arm.

            They walked down a short path that began to the right of the shed. The ground was damp, and there were nettles on either side.

            At the end of the path were the fishponds, five of them constructed in rows with several feet of grass between each. Martin and Anne could see all the way down to the end.

            They moved to the edge of the first pond and looked into the water. The surface was calm, mirroring the sky’s moving clouds; it was only after their eyes had adjusted to the light that they could see down into the dark water. The fish stood still. Once in a while there was one that moved, and the silver-colored fins and white belly shot a spark of sunlight back up through the dark-green water.

            —Trout, Martin said. Let’s see what’s in the next one.

            Anne stayed where she was and looked down into the water.

            —Martin, she said.

            —Yeah?

            —Let’s go. I don’t like this place.

            —Hold on a minute.

            Martin walked to the edge of the next pond. Here the fish were packed in tighter. He strained his eyes to see the bottom, but he couldn’t.

            Then he went back to Anne.

            —That was trout too, he said.

            —I don’t know what it is, she said. I think it’s too quiet here.

            —That’s all right, he said.

            They walked back along the path, and this time she walked ahead of him. Martin snapped off a long blade of grass and tickled her arm with it just above the elbow. Anne drew her arm back. He tickled her again, and again she moved her arm away. Then he tossed the grass down.