Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather Page 2

  Meow!

  There was the kitten, in the arms of a boy about twelve years old. Towering on her heels, Julie seemed disproportionately tall. The child’s head came no higher than her breasts. Julie leaned down towards the cat in her young neighbour’s arms. Her flimsy bathrobe gaped open slightly.

  ‘Brutus! What are you doing out again?’

  The boy’s eyes zoomed in on Julie’s half-naked breasts.

  ‘He got out again!’

  ‘That’s the third time this week . . .’

  Julie, who was well acquainted with the ways of men who look at women, immediately understood what her providential cat-rescuer was playing at. She leaned forward again and reached out for the kitten. Her bathrobe opened even further. The child didn’t move. One of Julie’s breasts was now almost completely bared.

  ‘It’ll catch cold . . .’

  The boy, mesmerised by her hardening nipple, didn’t budge.

  ‘Alex, I’m talking about the cat. That’s your name, right? Alex?’

  ‘Yes, Julie.’

  She leaned lower still to take Brutus. Alex, transfixed by the pair of breasts floating before him, practically touching his face, didn’t seem to be able to let go of the kitten.

  ‘Alex? It’s not just the cat who’ll catch cold . . .’

  Meow!

  Alex relented and handed Brutus to her, and the kitten immediately curled against his mistress’s indubitably warmer chest.

  ‘Thanks, Alex.’

  ‘If he runs away again, I’ll bring him back.’

  Julie, amused, stared for a moment at the young boy: she liked his boldness.

  ‘I’m sure you will!’

  The door closed with a slam. Alex, proud as any prepubescent boy would be, turned to face the street. He raised his thumb with satisfaction – mission accomplished, victory! But still curious, he turned back to the glass in Julie’s door, for a glimpse of her bottom disappearing down the corridor. Suddenly he recoiled and rushed down the steps. He had seen the man.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘A young neighbour just brought Brutus back . . . Although I’m pretty sure he came for the view!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He couldn’t stop looking at my tits, is what I mean.’

  ‘Well, there’s definitely something to look at!’

  The moron had reverted to type. Depending on what he expects from a woman, a guy can change all the time. Last night he’d played Pretty Woman, this morning it was It Happened One Night and just now, Failure to Launch.

  ‘And did he pay, just now, to have a look?’

  The look Julie gave him wasn’t dark. It was pitch black. Blacker than black.

  ‘And did you pay for last night? It cost you three dances, a bottle of wine from the corner shop and two hours of lying.’

  To take a stripper home and get into her bed was the Holy Grail of the entire straight male population, the ultimate goal of a game where you bluff your way in, just like in poker. But the important thing at the end of the game is to slip in a harmless word, something to defuse the atmosphere as you leave the table, after you’ve cleaned up.

  ‘Christ they start young these days!’

  ‘Fuck off! They’re only kids!’

  FISH CHANGE DIRECTION IN COLD WEATHER

  Four exotic fish, lit by a white neon light, were swimming in circles around an enormous aquarium set up right in the middle of the room. A plank set on two trestles was sagging beneath the weight of books on pure mathematics. Scattered over the books were sheets of paper covered in scribbled equations and obscure calculations. Other papers were strewn across the floor, some of them crumpled. In a corner was a sports bag bearing the logo of the Val-d’Or ice hockey team. Three hockey sticks had been set on top of it – sticks for a left-hander, with a very curved blade – an attacker’s blade by the looks of it.

  Across the street a door opened. Julie appeared on the ground floor landing, still wearing her very short bathrobe. She tossed an empty wine bottle disdainfully into the blue recycling box and it smashed. A man rushed out next to her, looking left and then right. He gave a slight wave that Julie did not return. She went in and slammed the door behind her. End of love story.

  Boris Bogdanov had looked up from his reading – a book by Andreï Markov, not the hockey player but the great Russian mathematician. From his window he had seen everything. An enigmatic smile spread over Boris Bogdanov’s face, as if he knew something his neighbour didn’t.

  Was Boris Bogdanov in love with his neighbour?

  Nyet! Boris Bogdanov had never been in love, because in his entire life the only things that had ever interested him were himself and his fish. He had arrived from Russia in 1990 at the age of eighteen, dreaming of changing his life on the ice of Quebec’s arenas. He was offered a chance to do just that, a spot at the beginning of the season at the training camp for the Foreurs de Val-d’Or in the Major Junior Hockey League. The recruiters thought this young Russian must be a rare pearl. And he’d fulfilled his promise, just not quite in the way that they’d expected.

  Connoisseurs know that Russians don’t like to play rough, but that they are very talented and born scorers. Boris Bogdanov had told the recruiters a few little lies about his past as a player for the Dynamo school club in Moscow; not big lies, just two dozen goals or so a year – half of them when his team was short-handed!

  The first day of camp, during the rookie match, everyone quickly realised that he wasn’t a real Russian player as far as his talent was concerned, but he was a real Russian player when it came to playing rough. During the first match, playing short-handed, Boris soon caught the attention of a big beefy player from Alberta who was out for his place in the sun. For this muscle-mountain, hard play was his meat and potatoes, the key to everything, the only corporal expression he was capable of. So this colossus did what all great predators do. He was a blue, so he looked at the backs of the reds for the weakest prey. The swiftest gazelle always gets away from the lion. For the slower ones, it’s every gazelle for himself. And for the slowest of the slow, it’s amen.

  Boris Bogdanov never thought of playing the puck when it went into the corner. He was just trying to get away from the enormous Albertan chasing after him. He heard him grunt. Boris wasn’t as quick on his blades as he’d claimed. He didn’t manage to get very far before there was a terrible ker-runch!

  Boris Bogdanov, who was not all that hefty a guy, dislocated his shoulder when he hit the boards. All in all he had played only forty-five seconds in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, thirty-two of which were spent running away. In Val-d’Or, people like hard men, real men – but above all, they don’t like being taken for fools.

  ‘Don’t count on us to pay for your ticket home!’

  The equipment attendant did let him keep the hockey bag with the club’s colours.

  ‘A little souvenir for your kids.’

  Just because you’ve told lies doesn’t mean you’re an idiot. The fact that Boris Bogdanov is an intellectual is proof of this. But it is a very intellectual stance to think that everyone else is an idiot.

  If Boris did have a fault, that was it. He always went around with a little smirk on his face that meant he knew things others knew nothing about. He was a brilliant scholar and he knew it. Russians don’t just make timid hockey players. They also make great mathematicians.

  Boris Bogdanov was passionate about topology – about one of its disciplines anyway. Knot theory is a complex mathematical science that provides explanations for very simple things in life. When you pull on the yarn of a tangled-up ball of wool, sometimes it comes untangled right away, sometimes the knot gets even tighter. Life’s just like that: little actions can have big repercussions. And the same action doesn’t always have the same effect.

  Boris Bogdanov’s exotic fish facilitated his research for a new theory. A fish in an aquarium always swims around the same course: that’s the yarn. The fish unwinds its yarn according to the presence of other fis
h – friend or enemy – in the aquarium. Whenever a new inhabitant arrives, it must modify its usual path. For Boris, the trajectories of the fish were like so many threads, tangling and untangling.

  ‘We don’t choose our path, others choose it for us.’

  His doctoral dissertation was there before him, in water maintained at a constant temperature of thirty-two degrees Celsius. This was vital. His academic survival depended on that water remaining at the same temperature. If it were to drop, some of the fish might change direction and thereby destroy the entire premise of his dissertation.

  His research came to the attention of the President of the Mathematical Society of Canada, based in Calgary, Alberta, a very cold place.

  ‘Come and see us when you’ve finished with your fish; for us it’ll be a change from thermal mathematics!’

  Through the window, Boris Bogdanov watched as his two young neighbours sat down on the steps outside the door to the building adjacent to Julie’s. One of them was holding a video camera. Their eyes were glued to the tiny monitor. Boris turned away from the window, put his book down on his untidy desk and with one finger dreamily stroked the wall of the aquarium. He could tell by touch alone that the water was at the right temperature.

  Because fish change direction in cold weather.

  THAT’S WHEN I UNDERSTOOD

  ‘This is great! How do you rewind?’

  ‘Let me do it, you’re gonna break my video camera!’

  ‘Let me do it . . . You’re gonna break my video camera . . .’

  ‘I’m not in the mood to mess around.’

  ‘Not in the mood to mess around . . .Whatever! Take your video camera.’

  Alex is like his dad, he always gets annoyed for no good reason. I don’t hold it against him. It can’t be easy to live with a single parent. When he was little, Alex used to say his mum was coming back. Now he never talks about it. It’s a subject you avoid around friends who don’t have a mum. It’s not always easy, because among themselves kids talk about their parents a lot. The hardest time is Mother’s Day. Then I avoid Alex. I wouldn’t know what to say to him. He’s easy to avoid then because he doesn’t go outside. And no one knows whether he’s heard from his mother because no one asks him.

  ‘Why didn’t you zoom? You can’t see how the point got big – like that!’

  I looked at the gap between his thumb and forefinger. Five centimetres! Only Alex would try and make you believe such a thing. At times like this, there’s no point picking a quarrel with him. No matter how hard you try to show him he’s wrong, he’ll find an explanation for why he’s right. It makes things really hard at school, especially with the teachers. The other reason for not picking a fight with Alex is that he is a full head taller than me, even if I’m only one year younger. He knows he can smash my face in, no sweat – I agree with him there. It’s so obvious who’s strong and who’s weak, you can’t do anything but stay friends. Alex gets in a fight at least once a week, on principle.

  ‘Keeps you fit and it’s good for your reputation!’

  I have to confess I like Alex’s reputation. Since everyone at school knows I’m his best friend, no one bugs me. With him arguments are always reduced to basics.

  ‘First you hit, then you think!’

  But while everyone at school has seen him hit, we have yet to see him think. In the school corridors everyone says he’s crazy. And that he’s proud of it. I know him, though, and he’s not crazy, he’s not proud – that’s just his armour. Kids are cruel to each other. He just has to be even crueller. Death to anyone who teases him because he doesn’t have a mum. Sometimes he gets good grades. Well, he would – when he can, he copies from me.

  It was his idea that I should hide behind a car and film him while he was taking the kitten back to his neighbour. It was our third attempt. He was never satisfied with the result.

  ‘Why didn’t you zoom in on her tits?’

  Two days earlier he had told me the angle was wrong. Four days earlier the neighbour came out fully clothed. The hard part was figuring out when she’d be in her bathrobe. She doesn’t lead a normal life. She never gets up at the same time, and you never see what time she comes home. Summer’s cool because she stays in her bathrobe for ages and she often goes to sunbathe on her balcony out at the back. Even my dad knows about it. I’ve seen him looking at her.

  Alex gave me a friendly punch on the shoulder.

  ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow.’

  He raised his chin. Just thinking about it made him happy. We looked down the street. The old guy who lives next door to us went out with his little dog. He lives with another guy who looks just like him, with very short white hair and a very long moustache.

  ‘My dad doesn’t like those guys.’

  ‘Does he know them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why doesn’t he like them?’

  ‘Just doesn’t.’

  ‘They’re brothers.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That’s what my dad told me.’

  ‘Has he ever arrested them?’

  ‘My dad hasn’t arrested anyone in a long time . . .’

  Alex didn’t look at me. That’s the advantage of a kid with no mum. He doesn’t want anyone asking him questions so he doesn’t ask any either. The old guy disappeared around the corner. It was beginning to get dark.

  ‘Hey, show me again!’

  I rewound. We saw Julie open the door. It was incredible how you could see her breast when she bent down. Alex was especially interested in her nipples.

  ‘Why didn’t you zoom?’

  If I didn’t zoom it was because I liked seeing the whole breast better.

  ‘What are you two still doing out?’

  Even Alex jumped when he saw my dad standing in front of us. I never knew I could switch my new video camera off so fast.

  ‘What sort of nice things have you been filming?’

  We didn’t move. Alex turned to look at me, and I nodded. We must just keep quiet. After a while my dad understood he wasn’t going to see anything. He turned towards our apartment.

  ‘Is Mum home yet?’

  ‘No, Dad, I haven’t seen her.’

  He looked around, worried. He rubbed his chin. You could tell he was wondering where she was. Then he started walking towards our door. He looked sad.

  ‘Don’t be long, the Christmas tree is waiting . . .’

  ‘Coming, Dad.’

  I got up and turned to Alex.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  He looked at my video camera. I could read his lips.

  ‘Don’t forget to bring it tomorrow . . .’

  I winked at him and followed my dad. But I didn’t leave Alex just because my dad was looking sad. Truth is, I love burning the Christmas tree. When I was little I would watch him do it. I had to wait till I was eight before he let me put the branches into the fire. They catch fire quickly, so it’s true that it can be dangerous. It’s really beautiful when the flame suddenly surrounds the dry needles. But the best thing of all is the sound. I never get tired of hearing that sharp crackling. Once the tree has burned and the decorations have been put away in the basement my mum serves the galette des Rois, the Kings’ Cake. She’s the one who started the tradition in our family. She found out about it during a trip to France when she was younger and went there to study. Nowadays she makes the best galettes on earth. I love her almond filling. She puts in extra because she knows I love it. Then there’s the bean. The one who gets it is the king or the queen. When you’re king you get to choose your queen and if you’re queen you choose your king. So every year my mum has been the queen.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘Out with friends.’

  ‘Aren’t you going too?’

  ‘No, they’re her friends.’

  ‘What’s she doing?’

  ‘She had some things to take care of. She won’t be long.’

  My mum had things to take care of on galette day,
the night before we go back to school? I didn’t believe it for a second. I knew my dad was lying. There was something wrong with the situation. He noticed that I’d gone all thoughtful. I could feel his arm go round me, his hand on my shoulder. We stayed like that for a moment. Then we took turns putting tree branches into the fireplace.

  ‘We make a good pair, don’t we?’

  ‘Dad, can I take my video camera to school tomorrow?’

  ‘Out of the question! That’s the ideal place to get it stolen.’

  He looked at his watch and at the same time squeezed my shoulder even harder. He was worried.

  Slam!

  Mum was home at last. She was out of breath. My dad leaped up as if he’d been caught red-handed with his arm around me. In Mum’s hand was a flat white cardboard box.

  ‘I didn’t have time to make the galette. I stopped to get one at Première Moisson; they’re the best in town. Smell that!’

  I leaned over and sniffed the box. I should have said something like, Mum, yours are the best in town!

  But I was angry at her for not making one.

  ‘You’re right, it does smell good.’

  She seemed disappointed for a second. She smelled the box.

  ‘Right. I’ll heat it up.’

  My dad followed her into the kitchen. I stayed by the fireplace. There were always a few branches that were still green, that had dodged the flames. I held them right up against the embers, one by one, mercilessly, so that none would survive.

  ‘I’m not really in the mood to play the queen this evening!’

  ‘It’s not for us, it’s for him.’

  Gosh, my parents couldn’t even be bothered to keep their voices down. I could hear everything.

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘And your apartment?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s no good.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s no good?’