The Carp

             In Aberdeen ‘Arrivals’ lounge, you smooth your crumpled linen Yves St. Laurent suit, and check your reflection in a chrome panel. As an advertising whizz kid, you know image is mega, and your very job depends upon a looming pitch.

           You start to move towards the ‘Exit’, to what would for sure be a fast growing taxi queue, but your reflection rivets you, not that you are vain but more you have become a chameleon with your bleached ash blonde hair and colored eye lenses. It is still with an intense feeling of one-upmanship you have successfully metamorphosed into a shiksa. ‘Fresh Grey’ has been your color choice in contact lenses: less of a stereotype with blonde hair than ‘Aqua Blue’, and such a change from your natural brown.

           You hurry on, but you are now feeling guilty. Nobody at your firm, apart from Sarah Christie, now your current quarry, knows you are Jewish.

           It has hurt to deny your Jewishness, but an Internet search prior to your job interview at MacAlpine Advertising Agency had turned up your prospective boss was a UKIP bloke, and worse, his Facebook showed ‘Far Right’ leanings and Palestinian sympathies. Burning ambition to succeed in business had muted your pride in being Jewish, and so here you are today, the ‘full dream English rose in Bonnie Scotland but really a Jewess’ as bloody Sarah had said, when you had told her the truth, one ‘girls’ night out’ when too much wine had loosened tongues.

           Reaching the taxi rank, you drag your thoughts back to your assignment. You must persuade Sarah, your one-time flat mate and former colleague, to return to MacAlpine Advertising Agency in Edinburgh. To MacAlpine, Sarah is irreplaceable. He had once said,

‘Sarah could sell sand to Arabs and even to that bloody penny-pinching Jew devil, Scrooge.’

You want to blast Dickens for resurrecting medieval prejudice against Jews. Worse, the almost universal negative image of the Jew had only been based upon a misinterpretation of the Hebrew Bible, in which Moses was said to have two horns because of mistaking “sent forth beams” (karan) for “grew horns” (keren.) Even Michelangelo had fostered the notion Jews were Devils by painting them with horns.

           Sarah had smirked when she had learned you are a Jewess. You should never have told Sarah anything. Sarah is a born bitch. The damned woman had recently quit her job, left you struggling to pay a steep rent alone, and had shot off to “seek out her roots” in Torry, a fishing village near Aberdeen. Infuriating Sarah had a Jewish first name, when your mother had named you ‘Winona’ after Winona Ryder, who is a Jewish success icon.

‘Winona?’ Sarah had said, on their introduction in MacAlpine’s office.

‘It’s of Sioux origin. It means ‘firstborn daughter’, and, to cut to the chase, I was named after Winona Ryder, my mother’s Jewish idol.’

Sarah’s eyebrows had instantly shot up, a pair of hairy silver caterpillars launching into space.

‘She’s not JEWISH, is she?’

‘She considers herself that, although her mother isn’t, and in Judaism one's religion is based on one’s mother. Her father’s Jewish, which makes her to some folk half Jewish.’

Sarah had been exasperated.

‘Nobody gives a stuff, these days.’

‘It depends on what country you’re living in. Scotland’s okay about immigration. Nicola Sturgeon’s an ace woman, a feminist,’ you had said.

Sarah had again smirked.

‘Still don’t see why you told MacAlpine you’re half-Greek, Winona.’

‘A smokescreen for my nose. It’s so Barbra Streisand.’

‘You’re paranoid. Christ! I don’t give a fig about my ancestry. Anyway, look at us. Quite the twins with our ash blonde hair and grey eyes.’

‘True, and MacAlpine has started calling us his ‘silver darlings’.’

‘Then the bloody men had gone on to make a pun about our fishnet stockings. He’s an asshole, a real misogynist.’

‘You pun all the time. Nobody can make a pun but you, Sarah?’

Sarah wagged a black fingernail that resembled an evil medicine spoon.

‘Let’s make a pact to work together, Winona. We could become partners in some venture, be our own boss. In fact, we might become celebrities because of our looks. Image is all. We could be ‘the very silver darlings’.’

But Sarah’s promises had been like the snow, vanishing at the first sunbeam, and now Sarah had vanished to Torry. Still, you are on her trail.

           The ride to Torry in a jalopy of a taxi does zilch to dispel your anxiety. You have entered another world, a scruffy one.

‘Torry,’ the taxi driver mutters, clanking his vehicle to a halt.

The whitewashed cluster of cottages are postcard material, but the sky’s gloom is everywhere. ‘Sarah the Flamboyant’ putting up with this daily diet of pervasive greyness? Here, Sarah would be a fish out of water. Getting Sarah back to Edinburgh is going to be easy. Sarah must be bitterly regretting her exile from her luxurious Edinburgh lifestyle

           You bang the brass fish doorknocker, and Sarah opens. A voluminous floral frock hides Sarah’s svelte figure, and a pair of brogues encased feet that for years have only known Gucci.

‘Winona, you come floating in Patou’s ‘Joy’!’ Sarah exclaims.

‘I indeed arrive in a cloud of thousands of jasmine blooms and the elegance of twenty-eight dozen Bulgarian roses.’

You step straight into a living room dominated by a filthy cast iron fireplace. Where is the bloody hall? Houses are supposed to have halls.

‘Look around,’ Sarah says, noting your dismay.

           ‘That should take two minutes. Toilet?’

‘Outside. Sorry it’s such a piddling place.’

In this instant, you hate Sarah’s famous puns. But much to your disgust, punning seems contagious, and you are sometimes punning yourself.

‘We’ve now a sleep pod in the office, Sarah.’

‘I can snooze more peacefully here after a hard day’s work,’

‘What work in this hole? MacAlpine wants you back pronto.’

‘This is the jumping off place.’

‘Explain.’

‘My family, the Christies, came from Torry. The urge to live here was mega.’

‘Are you for real? You told me once you didn’t give a stuff about your ancestry.’

‘And you’re a fake Jewess.’

‘How so?’

‘You’re denying your roots by bleaching and wearing colored contact lenses. Oh, is a pun in there somewhere?’

Sarah does not wait for your answer, but points to a photograph.

‘That’s Maggie Christie. She’s one of the last Aberdeen fishwives and my great grandmother.’

You are aghast. Sophisticated Sarah came from such impoverished roots?

           You stare at the photograph. In the frozen second of the shutter click, Maggie had been stock-still, but must have been forever working her fingers to the fishbone.

‘Great-grandfather lost his legs in a sea accident, Winona. Maggie used to trudge miles to sell cod, ling and herrings in Aberdeen.’

‘Ah, herring, the very silver darlings. Come back to civilization, Sarah.’

‘No.’   

What is going on with Sarah? The bloody woman had once been a true Darwin girl with ‘Survival of the fittest’ her motto. What survival is here?

‘Maggie’s just a donkey with that fish basket on her back, Sarah. I thought you were a feminist.’

‘Feminism doesn’t enter the equation. That was the only way of life. No choices. But her life was real, Winona. Folk around here still talk about her courage. Anyway, I’ve a kinship with the sea.’

A nervous breakdown? The only kinship Sarah had ever felt for the sea was via luxury cruises.

‘Remember when we sailed along the Riviera, Sarah?’

           ‘I miss my old life sometimes.’

This is a good sign. You will get right to the point of your visit, strike when the iron is hot.

‘Sarah, to get to the nitty-gritty, an American gambling syndicate’s headhunting for a UK-based advertising agency girl to launch a multi-media advertising campaign in Scotland. MacAlpine says you’re the only one for that.’

‘Ah, I’m poised for designing posters about poker for the local bus stops, and prizing cash from poor folks.’

You are bewildered. An empathetic Sarah is not a woman you know.

‘What’s your job, here?’

‘Fish. It’s all about fish in this place.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

           Sarah perches herself on a stool.

‘Winona, my sweet, Prince Charles said Camilla’s favored food is fish. He told a delegation from the Aberdeen Fish Curers and Merchants Association Camilla would happily live entirely on fish.’

‘Just Royals sucking up to locals.’

‘So cynical, Winona?’

           Next morning, you awake at 4 a.m. to a bang of the door. You dress, and search for Sarah, but Sarah is nowhere in the cottage. You spot a note stuck behind a chipped china pig on the mantelpiece, and scan it. Sarah has gone to the Aberdeen fish market. The fish are landed at 4:30 a.m., and Sarah has to be hard at work by 5 a.m. because the fish auctions start at 7:30 a.m. This is crazy. Advertising fish fingers would have been bad enough for the old Sarah.

           You call a taxi, and head for the market. It is bustling, but Sarah is easily spotted in a yellow sou’wester, only needing Winnie the Pooh by her side. Sarah is unbelievably gutting fish. Pink entrails are flying from her fingers into a bucket.

           Suddenly, people are flocking around Sarah. The bitch is a honeypot. Sarah catches sight of you, and waves you over.

‘I’m a fish selector and gutter,’ Sarah says, pre-empting any questions.

The fish stench is suddenly nauseating to you.

‘I can’t stay in this smelly place, Sarah.’

Sarah produces a handful of mussels from a basket.

           ‘Breakfast, Winona?’

‘I prefer oysters with lemon and Tabasco swiftly gulped down by half a bottle of Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.’

‘I love to mussel,’ Sarah says, prizing a mussel open.

‘I’m right away leaving for Edinburgh and civilization, Sarah.’

‘Fine. Nice to see you again.’

           You let yourself into the silent Edinburgh apartment with its echoes of the old Sarah in designer clothes and string of married men. How can you tell MacAlpine Sarah has lost her mind, and is gutting fish?

           Six months pass, and an invitation to the opening of a new restaurant in Aberdeen plops onto your mat. The enclosed menu is silver-edged, as is the restaurant’s name, ‘The Very Silver Darlings’. Sarah has stolen your words! You gasp. The price of a dish, ‘The Christie Cold Seafood Platter’, is £80.00!

           The proverbial light bulb flashes in your brain. Sarah now has all the contacts and knowledge of the Aberdeen Fish Market to launch a chain of expensive fish restaurants. The bloody woman’s great grandmother had been a celebrity in that area, a real enduring salt-of-the-earth matriarch, not one of the flash-in-the-pan Kardashians that will be forgotten tomorrow. Maggie Christie is still lovingly remembered by the locals. But cashing in on one’s own great grandmother? The hustling bitch had even camouflaged herself in floral like one of those fish that hid amongst coral to attack weaker creatures.

           Mountainous waves of electric blue ink at the foot of the invitation hit you.

‘Do come but don’t mussel in’.

The Sarah shark has muscled her way onto a path to a million bucks, and thrown you, Winona, out like small fry. Where is the pact to make it big together? Sarah must have had it figured out right from the start, and had wanted no passengers. Sarah had not even had the decency to let you know, when you had arrived in Torry. Afraid of a fish-fight?

           You write a declining letter signing herself ‘Winona, the not fake Jewess’, and add a postscript.

‘Hope you are cod-ling yourself. Perhaps ‘The Very Barracuda Sweetheart’ for your signature dish?’

           You throw your colored contact lenses into the bin, make a note to buy some black hair dye, and suddenly think of gefilte fish. You will steal Sarah’s restaurant idea, and open a Jewish one in Edinburgh. You could certainly outdo patronizing Sarah. After all, seafood restaurants are ubiquitous in any fish-plentiful area, and especially Aberdeen, but no specific kosher restaurant in Edinburgh; only a vegan restaurant claiming kosher food. Assholes, all vegan food is kosher by default.

           Down to brass tacks. The average cost at the vegan restaurant is £20 per person for dinner. Not as pricey as Sarah’s, but what if you invented a famous Jewish grandmother with links to the Edinburgh area? Association would up your prices, and many Jews come as tourists, especially at Edinburgh Festival time. The world would be your oyster, then. You smile. You are punning, growing more and more like Sarah.

           You massage your brain cells. Serving gefilte, that tasty ground fish stuffed into fish skin, and then baked is an established Jewish favorite. Carp would be the fish to choose. Introduced to Western Europe in the 15th century, Jews had adapted it to their cuisine. But you must think of a unique approach to draw customers. ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’, or in your case ‘Necessity is an invented famous Jewish grandmother that had lived in Edinburgh’. Claiming Muriel Spark would be going too far, and you would probably end up sued. You will just have to go it alone.

           Months later, you are ready to strike; no more hiding in coral. ‘The Carp Restaurant’ is about to be shelled.

           You stroll into MacAlpine’s office to tender your resignation, savoring the moment. MacAlpine has always favored Sarah. MacAlpine stares at your resignation letter, and says nothing. Is he in shock he has now lost two of his top women?

‘I’ve never been appreciated here. The shadow of Sarah was always over me.’

‘Indeed it was, and soon to be again.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Her restaurants around Aberdeen are floundering.’

You are ecstatic.

‘Shut up with your punning, and I’m over the moon she’s hit a reef.’

           MacAlpine begins flicking his biro nib in and out. Is he about to go ballistic?

‘Did you forget to switch off the ‘File and Printer Sharing’ with Sarah?’ he eventually says.

‘What?’

‘Did you forget your computer is linked to hers, and she knows your passwords? She’s been dogging your every move regarding your restaurant venture. She’s pre-empted you. She opens her first restaurant in Edinburgh, next week. We’ve been moving fast.’

‘We?’

‘I’m her partner. I financed her Edinburgh venture on the understanding she returns to work part-time at this agency.’

You must keep cool. MacAlpine is all bluff. It comes with the advertising territory.

‘Her opening a restaurant won’t bother me. My restaurant is unique. It’s Jewish. My signature dish will be ‘Carp Delight’, an Ashkenazi Jewish dish with a few twists.’

‘Our restaurant is also Jewish. Cheers for the idea. You actually found a niche market. So many tourists from all over the world love fish and hordes come for the Edinburgh Festival.’

You are speechless.

‘Let’s face it, Winona. You’re not ruthless enough for business, and stop looking like a stunned mullet.’

‘Stop carping about me. You and Sarah are thieves.’

‘Stolen Sarah’s and my punning ways? What a coincidence we’re going to call our restaurant ‘The Carp’.’

Is bloody MacAlpine reading your mind? You are certain you had never put your restaurant’s name on paper, virtual reality or hard copy.

‘Sarah’s a fake Jewess. I’ll let everybody know that.’

‘No, she isn’t. Her great-grandmother, Maggie Christie, had a Jewish mother.’

‘I only pretended to be a shiksa because you’re a racist. I saw your Facebook before my job interview with you.’

‘You saw someone with the same name, and assumed it was me. You never did follow through, did you? Sarah, on the other hand, was like a shark hell-bent on a shoal of herring.’

He looks you up and down.

‘You’re a fake Jewess with your bleached hair and colored contact lenses, although I’m pleased to see you’ve tossed the lenses and reverted to brown eyes.’

‘I don’t deserve this.’

MacAlpine shakes his head in disbelief.

‘You’ve learned nothing from us. It’s a fish eat fish world.’

           Blood begins pounding in your temples. MacAlpine resembles a shark circling you, but suddenly only a carp swimming over netted ‘silver darlings’ is visible.

           The thumping of a desk breaks your daze. MacAlpine’s voice is invading your universe, pitching you back to reality, to dry land.

‘By the way, Winona, you’ve forgotten your roots. Get some black hair dye, and do try to get other fish to fry. Plenty more in the sea.’

End