A Promise at Boiling Point

The fish auction at the harbour started at five in the morning. At four, Boris was already there. He wore boots, a thick coat and a sleepy face.

Boris was fifteen. He had a Saturday job at the auction. He carried boxes and swept the floor. That day he also carried a promise.

Kirsten waited for him by the ice machine. She was the auctioneer's daughter. She held a big silver thermos in both hands.

"Boris, I need a favour," she said.

"Another one?" Boris said. "Last week it was a box of crabs."

"This one is more important," said Kirsten. "My father has no voice today. He has a cold. He must call the sale at five."

"He can't call a sale with no voice," said Boris.

"He can with this." She lifted the thermos. "It is lemon and honey. My mother made it. It fixes any throat."

Boris looked at the thermos. It was very heavy.

"So what do I do?" he asked.

"Make my father drink it before the first bell," said Kirsten. "He says he will not drink it. He says it is a drink for children."

"He never listens," said Boris.

"He is the worst," said Kirsten. "Promise me, Boris. Say it."

Boris sighed. "I promise. He drinks it before the first bell."

"Thank you!" Kirsten ran off to help her mother. Boris stood alone with the thermos. It was half past four.

He found the auctioneer on the high platform. The man wore a wool hat and a scarf. His nose was pink. He held a paper with the day's list of fish.

"Good morning," Boris said. His voice sounded loud in the empty hall.

The auctioneer pointed at his throat. Then he shook his head. No sound came out of him at all.

"Kirsten sent this," said Boris. He held up the thermos.

The man shook his head again. He made a face. Then he turned away and looked at his list.

Boris did not stop. He opened the thermos and poured some into the cup. Steam jumped out like a small white cloud. It was thick and it smelled of lemon.

The auctioneer looked back. He took the cup. He put his lips to the edge. Then he pulled his head away fast. His eyes went wide.

He waved his hand in front of his mouth. He pointed at the cup and then at Boris. He seemed to say, "It burns!"

"Sorry!" said Boris. "It is very hot. Let us wait a little."

They waited. The first trucks arrived outside. Men carried in boxes of silver fish. The floor became wet and loud. Boris checked the cup every minute.

It did not cool. Steam still rose from it. It looked like a small kettle.

At ten to five, Boris had an idea. He ran to the ice machine. He filled a bag with ice and ran back. He dropped three cubes into the cup.

The cubes made a hissing sound. They were gone in five seconds. The drink was still too hot to touch.

"What is in this thermos?" Boris said to himself. "A tiny sun?"

He tried again with more ice. He tried to blow on the cup. He poured the drink from one cup to another, back and forth. Nothing worked. The thermos kept its heat too well.

The buyers started to come in. They wore heavy coats and they talked in loud voices. Some of them looked up at the platform. The auctioneer stood very still. His face said, "Where is my voice?"

Boris looked at the big clock. It was four minutes to five. His heart jumped.

Then Kirsten appeared at his side. She saw the cup and the steam. Her mouth opened.

"You did not let him drink it?" she said.

"It is too hot," Boris whispered. "I broke my promise. I am sorry."

"It is always this hot," Kirsten said. "My mother says it stays hot for hours."

"We do not have hours," said Boris. "We have three minutes."

He looked at the steam again. It rose from the cup in a thick line. It floated up toward the auctioneer's face.

"Wait," he said. "Does steam help a sore throat?"

"My mother says it does," said Kirsten. "She puts her head over a bowl when she is ill."

"Then he does not need to drink it," said Boris. "He needs to breathe it."

Boris climbed the steps to the platform. He held the cup under the auctioneer's chin. "Please breathe in," he said. "Slowly. Through your mouth."

The man looked at him. He looked at the buyers. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in.

Boris stood there with the cup in both hands. His arms began to shake. The man breathed in again. The steam wrapped around his scarf and his nose.

Kirsten held up a hand. She counted down the seconds. Two minutes. One minute.

The auctioneer made a small noise. It was like a door that opened a little. He cleared his throat. He tried again. The noise was bigger now.

"Ah," he said. It was a rough, tiny sound, but it was a real sound.

The first bell rang. Five o'clock. The buyers went quiet and looked up.

The auctioneer took one more deep breath of steam. Then he lifted his chin and called, "Good morning, everyone! Our first fish is a box of cod!"

His voice was low and a bit rough. Still, it filled the whole hall. A buyer shouted a number. Another shouted a higher one. The sale began.

Boris laughed, and his arms stopped shaking. He sat down on the top step with the cup beside him. Kirsten sat next to him.

"You did it," she said. "You kept your promise."

"Not the way you wanted," said Boris. "He never drank it."

"He did not need to," said Kirsten. "It was better this way. My father hates sweet drinks."

They listened to the sale for an hour. The auctioneer sold every fish on the list. At six o'clock the cup was still warm. Boris held it up to his own nose and breathed in. The lemon smell was lovely.

When the sale ended, the auctioneer came down the steps. He stopped in front of Boris and Kirsten. He pointed at the thermos and smiled.

"Papa, will you drink some now?" Kirsten said.

The auctioneer took the cup. He drank it all at once. His eyes went wide again.

"Still hot!" he said in a small, rough voice. "Kirsten, next time, please make it in a bucket. At least a bucket cools down."