Anton

By Oleg Daugovish

On an island of Fyn, washed by two frigid seas, a town of Svendborg roots. A church by the harbor repels rain’s assault with an armor of red bricks and tile. Inside the gloomy cathedral, a scent of sandalwood coats the dark-haired crowd whispering in Tagalog. The Danish Catholic congregation relies on Filipinos as much as the coastal shipping industry.

A flax-haired four-year-old boy stands by the altar. Anton’s blue eyes dart between his dad, Michael, in his hometown ship captains’ uniform, and his mom, Domi, who left the Polish Catholic Church as a teenager.  Mom’s gentle touch on his shoulder assures Anton that all will be well soon. To the right of the boy is his aunt and godmother, Ewelina, who rebelled against the hypocrisy of the Church teachings and despises the procedure. 

Anton’s godfather? An atheist raised in the former USSR where religion was banned as an “opium for the masses,” a man who have not heard of Christmas until adulthood but could recite Lenin’s thesis in primary school. Me. 

What is my role?

When the monotony of the priest’s murmur pauses and his indifferent eyes focus on me, I respond with a rehearsed “Jeg gør!” After Ewelina repeats the promise, the robed man returns to his muttering.

I remember Oliver Twist’s godfather from the Dickens’ novel I read as a kid. I didn’t understand how this poor boy could have had more than one father, but the character radiated comfort – rare in the story. 

The blessed water runs down the Aton’s cheek like a tear of relief: the procedure is done. We step outside, and the deluge from heaven soaks the rest of the family.

Yellow mountains of steaming potatoes, slabs of pickled herring arranged in a circle and a barge-like casserole loaded with shredded red beets decorate the reception table at Domi and Michael’s house. 

“What did we promise to do in the church?” I ask my sister-in-law.

“It’s only to take care of Anton if something happens to Michael and me.” Domi pauses for a second and then quickly adds: “We’ll do the same for your Sofie, of course.”

A second shot of vodka vocalizes my thoughts. 

“We didn’t baptize Sofie, and would take Anton without it if needed, why the extra hassle?” 

“It is just a tradition.” Domi is ready to change the subject and gets up to get coffee. I bite into a thick slice of rye bread to mute myself.

***

In the thirsty valley between two mountain ranges, a line of trembling cottonwoods and swaying willows hides the snaking Owens River that feeds them. I park by the bridge. Antons and Michael’s visit to California wouldn’t be complete without trout fishing. 

“Put the line through the holes like this.” I thread a transparent filament and tie a glinting spinner at the end. 

“Yes, sir!” My nine-year-old nephew, who only knows English from Hollywood movies, copies every move. 

We slide to a sliver of sand, and within minutes Anton is casting like a pro. I know he is ready and wave my arm pointing upstream.

“Let’s go!” 

We climb on a cow trail and meander through bitter sagebrush and tubular tules. 

I stop on an overhanging grassy bank licked by the moving water below it. The current swirls backward in a dark whirlpool. Leaves, twigs and bubbly foam chase each other in circles as in witch’s caldron. A treacherous place for a newbie.

Michael lowers Anton onto a fallen clump of sod nearby. I instruct from above. 

“Cast into the fast current!” 

Michael translates, Anton executes.

“Now, bring it slowly toward the hole, keep the tension, the spinner needs to play in the current!”

“Spil” is one Danish word I recognize in Michael’s simultaneous interpretation.

“Yes, Spil!” I encourage.

The golden flake with a treble hook dances in the current around the submerged log and to the edge of the deep hole.

“That’s the sweet spot!” I shout.

Before Michael can come up with a Danish equivalent, Anton’s rod arches downward. My mouth does the opposite.

“Keep your rod tip up!” I coach.

“Fisk!” Anton hollers and cranks the reel handle.

“Don’t horse it!” I can’t stop smiling at my serious nephew and my brother-in-law searching to convey this message in Danish.

I jump down next to Anton and guide the line with a wiggling rainbow trout into my hands. A buzz of a Michael’s phone camera documents the achievement. I free the fish and let the boy hold it for another snap, all three of us pose with mouths open.  When Anton passes the precious catch back to me, I lower the colorful trout into the stream. It takes a couple breaths and with a splash of a tail vanishes into the dark depths. 

Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime. 

The sun sinks between the sharp teeth of the mountain peaks as we make our way back, serenaded by an orchestra of grasshoppers. I think of my dad who had patience to fish with me when I was Anton’s age. A connection delicate, but strong like a fishing line. When I grew up, I kept postponing our next fishing trip until it was too late. 

 Maybe Anton will get hooked?

“Any luck, guys?” Domi asks when we return to the hotel.

Before I can open my mouth, Anton gushes about our excursion to the river. Or so I assume, since my name and fisk come up often. When he is out of breath, Domi turns to me. 

“So, you let the fish go?”

“Yes, you release your first fish,” I reply. “That’s just a tradition.”

After completion of Ph.D. in 2001, Oleg Daugovish has been researching the delicate lives of California strawberries. He rushes to tell growers about his discoveries and documents them in peer-reviewed journals. Aside from writing about plants, Oleg completed a 61,000-word manuscript and fifteen ten-minute stories he’d love to share.