River Nights on the Arno

By James McMannis

Florence

I had been in Florence for exactly twenty-seven days when I met him—Il Pescatore, though everyone just called him “the Fish Man.”

I wasn’t even hungry.

My roommate, Dani, had dragged me out after a long day of classes, saying we had to try this “hidden trattoria” her Italian art professor told her about. It was tucked away in a crooked alley that smelled like old bread and history. The sign just said: Trattoria del Mare. Below that: “FRESH FISH ONLY.” All caps. Aggressive. Fish-forward.

A little bell jingled as we entered. The place was dimly lit and cozy, with netting on the walls and framed black-and-white photos of boats and fishermen who looked like they’d never smiled in their lives.

And that’s when he appeared.

Out from the kitchen burst a man with a gleam in his eyes and the energy of a caffeinated game show host. He wore a stained apron, a thin mustache, and a commitment to seafood that bordered on religious.

“Buonasera, signorine!” he cried, arms flung wide like we were long-lost family.

“Hi,” I said, already scanning the menu for anything vegetarian.

He snatched the menus from our hands. “No! No menu tonight! Tonight is fish. Fresh. Just arrived. Caught by my cousin. With his hands.”

“With his hands?” Dani echoed.

“Si! No hook. No net. Only passion!”

I opened my mouth to protest but was immediately cut off.

“You eat fish, yes?” he asked me, staring into my soul.

“Um, sometimes,” I hedged.

He gasped, horrified. “Sometimes? No, no, tonight you eat fish. You will cry. You will forget your mother’s name.”

“Okay…”

Before we could object, he disappeared into the back like a man on a mission. We sat in stunned silence. A basket of bread appeared. Then wine. Then, from a hidden speaker, My Heart Will Go On began playing softly.

Ten minutes later, he returned, carrying a silver platter with a whole fish. Not a filet. A fish. Staring at me with eyes that definitely still remembered the sea.

“This,” he said dramatically, “is Luigi. He was swimming this morning. Now—he is your destiny.”

I looked at the fish. Then at Dani. Then at the Fish Man, whose hands were clasped like he was praying for me.

I took a bite.

It was good. Annoyingly good. Like the fish itself had accepted its fate and wanted me to enjoy it. It flaked perfectly, tasted of lemon and garlic and, somehow, trust. I chewed slowly, afraid he might be watching—

He was watching.

Standing right over us, nodding silently, his hands crossed behind his back like a sommelier of sadness.

“See?” he whispered. “The ocean is inside you now.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded.

He bowed and vanished once more.

We finished the meal in silence, unsure if we’d been blessed or cursed.

When the bill came, there was a handwritten note at the bottom:

Luigi thanks you for honoring his journey.
Come back soon. There is more fish.

We walked home that night unsure of what had happened, full of good fish and even better confusion. And every time I passed that alley afterward, I half-expected the Fish Man to jump out, holding a trout and shouting about fate.

But he never did.

I guess he knew…
You only need one fish to change someone’s life.