Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather Read online

  Published in Great Britain in 2013 by Canongate Books Ltd,

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  www.canongate.tv

  This digital edition first published in 2013 by Canongate Books

  Copyright © Pierre Szalowski, 2007

  Avec l’accord des Éditions Hurtubise. Tout droit réservés.

  Translation copyright © Alison Anderson, 2012

  The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 85786 162 7

  eISBN 978 0 85786 888 6

  Typeset in Plantin Light by Palimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire

  For Antoni, Tom, Sophie.

  For yesterday, today and always.

  ‘In life, there is nothing to fear and everything to understand.’

  Marie Curie

  Contents

  Thursday, 25 December 1997

  CHRISTMAS GOES BY SO FAST

  Sunday, 4 January 1998

  THEY’RE ONLY KIDS!

  FISH CHANGE DIRECTION IN COLD WEATHER

  THAT’S WHEN I UNDERSTOOD

  THEY LOVE EACH OTHER

  AND I PRAYED TO THE SKY TO HELP ME

  BÉBÉ . . . JE T’AI, TOI, BÉBÉ . . .

  Monday, 5 January 1998

  YOUR PROBLEMS CAN’T BE THAT BAD

  WHEN SHIT HAPPENS, HUMAN NATURE SHOWS ITS TRUE FACE

  I COULDN’T THINK OF ANYTHING BETTER TO DO

  IN LIFE, IT’S EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF

  WHAT ON EARTH WAS THE SKY UP TO NOW?

  IT’S A MIRACLE!

  Tuesday, 6 January 1998

  CAN THINGS LIKE THIS REALLY HAPPEN?

  WHAT A BEAUTIFUL THING, A MAN WHO SAYS HE’LL BE BACK

  THEY’LL BE FINE HERE!

  STOP IT, YOU’RE HURTING ME!

  Wednesday, 7 January 1998

  BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

  I WAS NO ONE NOW

  NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING

  I DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT

  HE WAS ABOUT TO FIND OUT

  CAN YOU FIX IT FOR ME?

  Thursday, 8 January 1998

  SOMETIMES LIFE IS JUST LIKE THE MOVIES

  WE QUEBECKERS STICK TOGETHER!

  IT’S ALL THANKS TO A NATURAL DISASTER!

  Friday, 9 January 1998

  I DIDN’T PUT ANY MORE LOGS ON THE FIRE

  IS THERE ANYTHING MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN LOVE?

  ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

  Nine years later

  Nowhere and everywhere in Montreal

  Thursday, 25 December 1997

  CHRISTMAS GOES BY SO FAST

  ‘Wait a little longer. Your dad’s asleep.’

  The clock said nine nineteen. I went and sat back down on the bed. I’d already been awake for two hours, waiting in my room. We have this family tradition. Every year Dad orders me not to show my face until after Santa Claus has come and gone. But I’m eleven years old and I stopped believing in Santa Claus five years ago already!

  Five years, that’s a secret; my parents think it’s four.

  I was six and a half when Alex, my only friend, came and told me the sad news with a big smile on his face. I was suddenly thrust into a world where there was an explanation for everything. To get over my disappointment, I did the same thing as Alex, at school. I got a kick out of telling the younger kids that Santa Claus was just something our parents made up. At home I dropped a few remarks to try and make Mum and Dad understand that it was about time they stopped telling me that if I wasn’t a good boy Santa Claus wouldn’t bring me anything. But when I saw the panicky look my mum gave my dad, I gave up trying. I didn’t want to make them unhappy. Sometimes you have to lie to your parents to keep them happy.

  ‘He’s really cool, Santa Claus, because normally there’s no way you can get an electric car that’s a metre long to fit down the chimney!’

  The following August, when I was out fishing with my dad at our summer cottage, I stared at the water for a long time.

  ‘I don’t believe in Santa Claus any more!’

  He turned to look at me, and I turned to look at him. He stared at me for a minute, with a fatalistic little smile, then he put some bait on my fishing rod.

  ‘That’s life.’

  Dad’s not much of a one for talking. Mum says he’s a man of few words. He came out with it as if he had known all along I would eventually find out, but he didn’t want to be the one to tell me. He didn’t try to find out who had told me, either, which you’d think would be instinctive for a policeman – well, former policeman. Now he was an instructor at the police academy. The doctor, who’d seen his fair share of brave folks, had diagnosed a mild case of burnout. What’s so stressful about issuing parking tickets for the ladies who lunch on the rue Laurier! Besides, you shouldn’t feel guilty, it’s their husbands who pay, he’d said.

  Mum says that the pressure comes from within. Only you can know why you’re putting that kind of pressure on yourself, since you’re the one who’s doing it. My dad went on telling me bedtime stories anyway, about nice policemen who arrested naughty motorcyclists. Then one evening two years ago he quit. Every year, mid-January, my mum freaks out when the time comes for him to send his letter explaining why he doesn’t want to go back to patrol work. I don’t enjoy it any more, and besides I get paid the same!

  After our fishing expedition, when we got back to the cottage, my dad whispered something in my mum’s ear. She just pursed her lips. In her first grade class she’d seen plenty of kids who’d had to deal with learning the bitter truth about Santa Claus:

  ‘Why are you crying, sweetie?’ she’d ask.

  ‘My dad told me off ’cause I broke my Christmas present and he hadn’t finished paying for it!’

  But there in the cottage it was her own kid. Something had just ended forever. I’m an only child. Never again would she be able to play Santa Claus with my dad. That’s when I realised that Christmas is as much about parents having fun as it is about kids.

  Nine twenty-nine. Last night dinner went on forever. There were six of us around the table – me, my parents and Julien, my dad’s best friend. Julien came with Alexandria and Alexandra, his unbearable twins. They screamed non-stop and since they look the same, it felt like it was always the same kid screaming. My mum was even more annoyed than I was.

  ‘Alexandria! Alexandra!’

  Then they linked arms and started dancing and singing. ‘The sirens in the port of Alexandria, still sing the same melody . . . woo woo . . .’

  ‘Julien, couldn’t you have given twin sisters different names?’

  ‘Yeah, but then I would have had to have met their mum somewhere other than at a party devoted to Claude François and his song about Alexandria . . .’ For the umpteenth time he was going to tell everyone about their names. ‘Hey, and let me remind you . . .’

  Every year Julien would explain that we didn’t need to call them twin sisters, just twins, because one twin is bound to be the sister of the other twin – provided they’re both girls, of course; they mirror each other.

  ‘Say, who’s prettier?’

  I could never tell which of the two pests was asking me this question. That was understandable as they were absolutely identical, so one or the other, same difference. The only good news was that Julien was divorced.

  ‘I never wronged my wife, I just chose the wrong wife!’

  So Alexandria and Alexandra sang the same melody only every other year. I never understood why he and his ex-wife didn’t just share the t
wins. Since they had two just the same, they could each have taken one. But apparently twins can’t live without each other. They’re like parents, or my parents, anyway.

  I wasn’t supposed to know, but the twins had almost been my sisters. Julien was my mum’s fiancé when they were both students at the teacher training college. Then he made the dumb move of introducing my mum to my dad, who was as handsome as they come, with his uniform hugging his abs, and his shoulders wider than his hips. He’d just joined the force. Love at first sight, she said. Dad said the same. As for Julien, he’d tried to mix business with displeasure.

  ‘Hey Anne, hey Martin . . . I won’t bother you any longer . . . Just stay there, I’ll switch off the light!’

  When the twins finally collapsed on the sofa in the living room, my mum came over and gave me a kiss.

  ‘Bedtime . . .’

  ‘But Mum, it’s Christmas . . .’

  ‘The sooner you go to bed, the quicker you’ll have your presents in the morning!’

  On the way to my bedroom I saw my dad and Julien opening another bottle. My mum wasn’t there. Things looked serious because when I went by and waved to them, neither one gave me a smile. They even looked a little sad when they caught my eye. They must have drunk another bottle afterwards because when I woke up during the night to go for a wee they were still whispering in the living room.

  ‘Women fall in love because they think you’re different. And then they do everything they can to make you just like everyone else . . .’

  Nine thirty-nine. Knock-knock. My mum opened my bedroom door. She looked in and she wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Your father is awake . . .’

  I didn’t jump out of bed the way I usually do on Christmas morning. I could hear the sadness in my mum’s voice. At the time I didn’t notice that she’d said ‘father’ instead of ‘dad’. It was just her sadness that struck me.

  When I left my bedroom I saw in the kitchen that it wasn’t one more bottle my dad and Julien had drunk but two. Dad was waiting for me in the living room, slumped in his armchair in front of the television, which wasn’t switched on, as if he’d made some sort of major concession for Christmas morning. He forced a smile and rubbed his head. I wondered if there were any other empty bottles hiding out on the balcony.

  Christmas may come only once a year but that’s no reason to break with tradition. I was surprised my parents weren’t sitting together. My mum wasn’t perched on the arm of my dad’s chair but on the sofa, further along. Separate.

  Even when you’re eleven, you always open the biggest present under the tree first. I knew at once that the chemistry kit was Mum’s idea. She always buys me educational toys. For her a present should be useful. I’m a year ahead at school because she taught me to read when I was four. I was the star at daycare. Now I’m the bookworm who’s a full head shorter than everyone else.

  There were three presents left, almost all the same size. In this situation, you open the heaviest one next.

  ‘This is Dad’s little surprise . . .’ He was staring at me.

  I pretended not to see the dark look that Mum had just given him. I tore off the wrapping paper and my eyes popped out. Unbelievable! A video camera! I turned to my dad. All I could say was, ‘Wow, Dad . . .’

  He settled back in his chair, pleased. My mum clenched her jaw. I couldn’t let her stay sad like that.

  ‘Thanks, Mum, you too! Thank you, both of you . . . Thank you, Santa Claus!’

  Her smile was strained. The video camera hadn’t been her idea. I quickly opened the other two presents: first came a box of Lego, another of my mum’s ideas, intended to help develop my fine motor skills. Actually, I’m so developed in that department that I can pretty much take a watch apart wearing a pair of hockey gloves.

  The last package was a clock radio shaped like a football. It was from Julien. I’d told him last year that I was fed up with presents that had to do with baseball.

  ‘But that Yankees bathrobe looks great on you!’ he’d said.

  I think he would have liked to have a boy. Maybe not two, but at least one of the two. Having to buy Barbie dolls in duplicate all the time must be frustrating for even the best dads. So he kind of made up for it with me.

  ‘At least an alarm clock is more practical than a bathrobe . . .’

  ‘You mustn’t forget that it’s not the present that counts, but the thought . . .’

  I could tell my mum wasn’t really talking to me, but to my dad. I went back to the box with the video camera. I sat on the floor with my back to them. I could sense that they didn’t agree but, with such a beautiful toy in my hands, that didn’t seem like my problem. I took out the instructions. My parents were whispering. I pretended to read, and I overheard everything, intentionally. I didn’t know my mum knew how to swear.

  ‘Shit, Martin. A thousand bucks for that camera! Don’t you start playing that game.’

  ‘He’s been wanting one for a long time, and have you seen his report card?’

  ‘He always has good report cards!’

  ‘Aren’t you the one who said we ought to encourage him?’

  ‘If you buy him a camera when he’s only eleven, how are you going to encourage him when he’s sixteen? With a car?’

  My mum got up and left the room. Hearing them argue because my present was too expensive made me sorry I didn’t believe in Santa Claus any more. Especially since I had already heard way too many arguments this year. They almost always began with the same sentence: Don’t you ever feel like you’re wasting your life, sitting there glued to the television?

  I turned to my dad. He was trying hard to smile. Then he stood up, slowly. No, very slowly.

  ‘Urghh! My head!’

  He went over to the bathroom. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Knock-knock!

  ‘It’s engaged!’

  My mum shouted so loud that he put his hands over his ears. He came back and slumped into his armchair, almost embracing it with his body. Robot-like, he reached for the remote. Click. And on it went, the blahblah of the television.

  It was nine fifty-nine on the news channel.

  Christmas goes by so fast.

  Sunday, 4 January 1998

  THEY’RE ONLY KIDS!

  Only three bulbs twinkled on a tiny string of Christmas lights on the tiny Christmas tree that stood on the coffee table next to two empty glasses and a bottle of wine that had breathed its last. On the sofa two cats nestled together, sleeping on a yellow shirt rolled up in a ball, its bottom buttons still done up. On the floor was a twisted pair of men’s trousers, clearly removed in a great hurry. A short red dress lay carefully folded on the back of the sofa.

  Along the hall, the bedroom door was ajar. In the dishevelled bed two shapes could be seen, both sound asleep. According to the clock radio it was two in the afternoon.

  ‘Psst! Psst! Come on, here you go!’

  In the kitchen, near a little flap at the bottom of the door to the balcony, a black kitten hesitated.

  ‘Here, kitty kitty!’

  The little creature took a step forward, crouched down and put its head through the flap. A hand outside, reaching up from the ground floor, encouraged the kitten, rolling a little red ball from left to right in the snow.

  ‘Who’s this ball for, hmm?’

  The kitten seemed to think it just might be for him. For a moment he stayed poised. Yes, it must be his! He pounced. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. So it wasn’t for him after all.

  Meow!

  On the sofa, deaf to the cry of distress from their kidnapped fellow creature, neither cat budged. The three little lights on the tree went on blinking. In the bedroom, one of the bodies had turned away from the other. A man’s muscular arm emerged from the sheets to hang down the side of the bed, accidentally brushing the woman’s back. She murmured something, then silence returned.

  Ding-dong!

  The man twitched, and sat up with a start. He looked around and in a panic he
turned to the front door.

  ‘Julie! Wake up!’

  ‘Let me sleep . . .’

  ‘There’s someone at the door!’

  ‘You’re dreaming . . . Go back to sleep.’

  Ding-dong!

  The man ran frantically for his trousers, pulling them on even more hurriedly than he had removed them the night before. He bent over the sofa and quickly tugged at his yellow shirt. Two cats flew into the air for an instant before landing neatly on their paws. Buttoning his shirt, the man went to shake Julie.

  ‘Does anyone know I’m here?’

  Julie raised her head calmly.

  ‘No one but me, the cats and you.’

  The man looked hard at her for a second then turned, worried, to the two cats, who were purring innocently. Quite often a man is even more idiotic after lovemaking than he was before. Julie pushed back the sheet and got up. Her body was absolutely perfect. She headed into the bathroom, barely glancing at the man who was tucking his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘You’re married, is that it?’

  The man pretended he hadn’t heard, devoting all his attention to zipping up his flies. Julie reappeared, wearing a short, red, faux-silk bathrobe.

  ‘Luc, honey – that is your name, right, Luc? You’ve got a gift, I must say. Last night you were single, then one fuck with me and by morning you’re married.’

  Resigned, Julie pulled her bathrobe over her breasts. With a quick knot she cinched the belt around her waist, to keep the flimsy robe closed.

  Ding-dong!

  ‘Does your wife have a firearms permit?’

  The moron seemed to have to think about that. Out in the hallway, Julie slid on a pair of high heels. Suddenly taller, she seemed even more slender, even more beautiful, even more perfect. From the way she walked it was clear she was used to perching on high heels. Her bottom swayed beneath the silky material. The man, terrified, hid behind the first thing he saw, a hat stand. His gaze followed Julie as she went to the front door. He might have made love to this gorgeous woman last night, but he wasn’t looking at her bottom now. Julie planted herself firmly in front of the door, then opened it, unafraid. She knew she had done nothing wrong.