The Aquarium
written by: Dmitry Berkut
The pet shop on Rua de Costa Cabral opened at ten. They showed up at five to. Maria said they’d better wait outside a bit, so they wouldn’t seem too eager. Miguel smoked by the entrance, staring at a faded dog food ad.
Inside smelled of sawdust and damp. Tanks with dull, greenish light lined the walls. The clerk, a skinny guy in a store-logo T-shirt, was dozing behind the counter.
“Goldfish,” Maria said, stopping at the first tank. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
“They eat too much and grow huge.” Miguel tapped his nail on the glass. The fish didn’t react. “Better get guppies. Easy keepers.”
“Guppies are guppies. Everyone has them.”
The clerk stretched and got up.
“How about neon tetras? Great for starters.”
“We’ve had an aquarium before,” Maria said.
“It’s been ages, though,” Miguel added.
The clerk nodded, as if that explained it all. His badge said Tiago.
“Then you know the nitrogen cycle. First couple weeks are critical. Bacteria need to grow. Keep the pH between six and seven. Temperature—twenty-four to twenty-six. Feed lightly, once a day.”
Miguel nodded, not really listening. Tiago’s tone was flat, like a memorized script. Maria watched the fish. Miguel watched the price tags.
“We’ll take three neons,” she said.
“And two catfish,” Miguel said. “Cleaners.”
Tiago fetched a net. Catching them took some doing—the neons darted through the leaves. Maria picked a twenty-liter tank, a simple pump, and a bag of gravel. Miguel packed everything in a cardboard box without a word.
“Fifty-five euros forty,” Tiago said.
Miguel handed over three twenties. Tiago counted back the change. Maria watched him slip the fish into a plastic bag, pump in oxygen, twist it shut, and snap a rubber band around it.
They walked home slowly. The midday sun was hot, but Maria shivered. Miguel carried the box, she carried the neons. The fish beat against the corners of the bag. Praça do Marquês was buzzing with a flea market—boxes, rags, vinyl, old books. They moved through it all without a word.
Not until they passed the stairway with the flower mural and turned onto their street did Maria say:
“We’d better hurry while the water’s still warm.”
On the ground floor, clippers buzzed—Senhor Souza was trimming Saturday customers. The sound followed them as they closed the door upstairs.
At home, Miguel set the box on the kitchen table. Maria slipped the bag of fish into a bowl to keep it warm.
“In the living room?” she asked. “There’s more light.”
“Better in the bedroom.” Miguel was already unpacking the tank. “We’ll fall asleep watching them.”
“The bedroom’s cramped enough.”
“It’ll fit on the nightstand.”
Maria checked. The nightstand wobbled—one leg shorter than the rest. Miguel folded up yesterday’s newspaper, shoved it under the leg, tested it. It held.
They rinsed the gravel in the bathroom. At first, the runoff was gray and cloudy. Then it cleared. Maria held the colander while Miguel poured with a ladle, trying not to make a mess. Downstairs, Senhor Souza had turned on the radio—a football game was starting, the commentator’s voice leaking through the water noise.
“That’s enough,” Maria said. “It’s clean now.”
They spread the gravel, set the pump. Miguel brought a pot of warm water and let it run down the glass wall in a thin stream, so it wouldn’t stir the bottom. Maria tried to bend the plastic plants—they were stiff, awkward.
“Like the ocean,” he said.
“These aren’t saltwater fish.”
“I know.”
They switched on the pump. It bubbled—uneven at first, then steadied into a rhythm. Maria lowered the bag into the tank to even out the temperature. The neons huddled at the top. The catfish lay still on the bottom, whiskers twitching.
They put water on for coffee. Waited in silence, staring at laundry flapping in the courtyard—sheets billowing like sails. Fifteen minutes later, they came back. Maria untied the bag and eased the fish into the water. The neons shot to the corners. The catfish sank into the plastic leaves.
“Beautiful,” Maria said, smiling.
Miguel slipped an arm around her shoulders. They stood watching. Blue flashes flickered in the cloudy water.
They went to bed at eleven-thirty. Miguel turned off the light, and the tank’s glow was all that remained. The neons swam at the surface, stripes glinting in the dark.
The pump kept up its gurgling. Steady, with little pauses—bubble-bubble, pause, bubble-bubble-bubble.
“Like somebody gargling mouthwash,” Maria said.
Miguel lay on his back, hands folded on his chest.
“Give it a couple of days, you won’t notice. Like trains—first they bother you, then you get used to it.”
“We don’t live near the tracks.”
“It’s just an example.”
She turned on her side, back to the tank. The sheet rustled with her every move. A door slammed upstairs—the blogger from above, the Russian guy, was back. They heard him muttering into a recorder. Then quiet again, just the pump.
One o’clock found her up for water. She padded to the kitchen, careful not to make noise, though Miguel was awake—she knew from his uneven breathing. She stood by the window with a glass. A lone streetlight burned in the courtyard, vegetable crates scattered beneath it. She went back to bed. Miguel didn’t move, the pump still gurgled.
At three, she got up again. This time she lingered—drank half a bottle of mineral water, checked the lock, wiped down the already clean sink. When she returned, Miguel asked:
“Is it really that loud?”
“Go to sleep,” she said.
Toward morning, she dozed off. Dreamed she was underwater, someone huge gargling above her. She woke at seven. Miguel was already up, the coffeemaker humming. The pump still burbled. One catfish floated belly-up.
The second night, Maria stayed long in the bathroom. Miguel was already in bed, watching the tank. He’d fished out the dead catfish that morning, wrapped it in toilet paper, tossed it.
Maria came out in her robe, paused at the wardrobe, pulled out a wool blanket her mother had brought from Alentejo, took her pillow.
“I’ll try the living room,” she said.
Miguel watched the neons. They swam alone now, no longer a school.
“Okay,” he said.
She waited, but he didn’t add anything. The pump gurgled. Maria left, shutting the door behind her.
From the living room came the creak of the sofa bed unfolding, her muttering to herself. Then silence. Miguel turned off the light but left the pump. Lay there, listening. The bed felt like an ocean.
He was up first. Made coffee, set out two cups. Maria showed up at eight—rumpled, a pillow mark on her cheek.
“Coffee here or out?” he asked.
“Here.”
They sat across from each other. A garbage truck clattered outside. Maria warmed her hands on the cup, staring at the table.
“Need to buy food,” Miguel said. “Yesterday’s almost gone.”
“Buy it.”
After breakfast, she went to shower. Miguel fed the fish—a pinch of flakes on the surface. The neons rose sluggishly. The second catfish lay on the bottom, fins moving but still. Miguel tapped the glass. Nothing.
That one lasted until Wednesday. Miguel found it in the morning—it was snagged in the plastic plants, the current rocking it side to side. He dug out the net that had sat in the box all week.
“Maria,” he called.
She came from the living room. Hair tangled on one side, mug of cold coffee in her hand. Another pillow mark, this time from the sofa’s corduroy.
“Grab a bag,” he said.
She put the mug on the nightstand, which wobbled. Went to the kitchen, rattled through drawers. Came back with a green grocery bag that said Porto Fresh. She held it open while Miguel worked the net. The catfish’s whiskers snagged on a leaf. He shook it loose.
“Maybe the temperature was off,” Miguel said, peering at it through the bag. “Tiago said twenty-four to twenty-six.”
“Maybe,” she said.
Miguel carried the bag down to the trash. Didn’t toss it inside—just set it on top of the lid. Maria stayed in the kitchen. When he came back, she was rinsing her mug.
Thursday brought the first neon’s death. Miguel spotted it at lunch—he’d gone to reheat leftovers but checked the bedroom first. The fish floated on its side, gills barely moving. By evening, it was gone. On Friday, the second one died—Miguel heard a splash while brushing his teeth.
After that, he stopped calling Maria. He wrapped the fish in toilet paper, like the mummies he’d read about as a kid. Piled them in a bag under the sink.
The last neon held out till Sunday. In the morning, it still swam, tilting sideways; by evening, it floated at the top. Miguel stood with the net, hesitating. Maria slipped quietly into the room.
“The last one?” she asked.
He nodded. Scooped it in one go—it went limp. He didn’t wrap it. They went to the bathroom together. Miguel dropped it into the toilet. The fish drifted in circles—a silver line on white porcelain, like a comma at the end of a sentence. Maria set her hand on the flush.
“Wait,” Miguel said.
They stood looking down. From upstairs came muffled muttering, a burst of laughter. The barbershop radio was still on.
Maria pressed the button. The water swirled, and the neon was gone.
Back at the tank, the pump still gurgled, bubbles breaking the surface. The plastic plants were brown, the gravel dark.
Another week slipped by. The tank sat in the corner, water cloudy, walls filmed with green. The pump kept going day and night—in water no one wanted.
Maria had taken to sleeping in the living room. In the mornings, they crossed in the kitchen—she made coffee, he sliced bread. Just the necessary words: out of oil, electricity bill’s due, Senhor António asked about the rent.
Nights, they split off. She turned on the TV, volume low. He read in bed or sat at the computer. Sometimes he stared at the tank, where only bubbles swam.
On Sunday, Maria went to her sister’s. Miguel stayed alone, drifted through the apartment, moving things around. In the evening, he showered, shaved, put on a clean T-shirt. Brushed his teeth longer than usual.
He got into bed at ten-thirty. Reached for the switch—and froze. The tank gurgled in the corner—endless, like someone breathing heavy. He flicked off the light.
In the dark, the gurgling grew louder. Or maybe just clearer—because there was nothing else. Maria wasn’t moving in the living room. The Russian guy upstairs had flown off to Africa again. Senhor Souza had closed shop and gone home.
Only the pump gurgled. Bubble. Pause. Bubble-bubble.
Miguel lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. In the dark, he could just make out a crack—the same one from the day they moved in. Maria had said it looked like a bend in the Douro.
Tomorrow he’d switch it off. Drain the water. Toss the plastic plants. Maybe sell the tank online. Pay Senhor António. Move to another neighborhood.
Tomorrow. Or the day after.
The pump gurgled.
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