Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather Page 6

  She’d had a rough evening. I can’t say she seemed very enthusiastic.

  ‘Of course, darling . . .’

  ‘How did you and Dad first meet?’

  She raised her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Oh, well . . . Listen, darling, maybe this isn’t the best time . . .’

  I put on my good little boy face, the one you use when you’ve just done something naughty, but not really very naughty.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know; give me time to digest all this. All right, darling?’

  ‘Some other time?’

  ‘Yes, some other time . . .’

  She leaned down to kiss me.

  ‘Don’t read for too long, darling.’

  She didn’t wait for me to answer. She got to her feet quickly, afraid I might ask her another question. Slam!

  When I switched off the light on the night table, I could hear the clicking of the ice falling against my windows. The sky had seen that I was trying to help myself, so it went on helping me. It felt good, knowing someone was thinking about me. I got up to look out of the window. The landscape was turning into something strange. The little tree across the way was bending under the weight of the ice, its top about to touch the ground.

  I looked down the street: it was completely deserted. The light from the windows was reflected on the ground, in the ice. Suddenly there was a bright glow from the opposite side of the street. And then it was almost completely dark. The lights in the building across the way had all just gone out. I went over to my bedside lamp. Click. It came on.

  What on earth was the sky up to now?

  IT’S A MIRACLE!

  The flame from the gas stove curled against the base of the aluminium saucepan. The water in the pan was boiling: one litre, no more, no less. Boris Bogdanov plunged a thermometer into the water and held it there with a trembling hand. The mercury rose slowly. The boiling water was beginning to burn his hand.

  ‘Crisse de marde!’

  That’s how you can tell the landed immigrants – they swear in Québécois. Boris wasn’t surprised to see the water boiling, once it reached a hundred degrees. That was something he’d learned in his second year at the Yuri Gagarin Primary School. He immediately extinguished the flame. He needed exactly a litre and, given the atmospheric pressure, he knew that the evaporation would be six centilitres a second. He only had ten seconds to transfer the liquid from saucepan to aquarium, because there, too, you can lose tenths of a degree.

  Taking care not to burn any of his fish, Boris methodically poured the hot water into the aquarium. It took only nine seconds! He put the saucepan down and picked up the thick notepad where he had recorded the trajectories of each of his fish. His worried gaze moved in succession from each of his complicated drawings to each of his simple little fish. Suddenly the young Russian’s face lit up. Not one of his fish had changed course!

  ‘Da . . . Da . . . Da . . .’

  Boris’s joy was short-lived. He looked at his gas canisters, then his watch. He got up and went over to the bookshelf crammed with hundreds of books. He hunted for a moment and found a little battery-operated radio.

  ‘No sign of improvement in the weather for Montreal and the South Shore, where the ice is continuing to fall. At the current rate of precipitation, we can expect roughly a million households in Quebec to be without electricity by tomorrow morning. Already several school districts have announced that schools will be closed tomorrow, and the same will apply to—’

  Click. Boris Bogdanov didn’t want to hear any more; it was clear enough. He knew that it was going to be a long, long night. He looked at his three gas canisters. A flash of hatred went through him, for Canada Dépôt, for the manager and for all those Quebecker customers with their damned solidarity. If the temperature of his aquarium started to drop significantly, years of work would all come to nothing. If his fish died he’d have to start all over again with his theory. For Boris Bogdanov this meant, incontestably, that he would have to establish the profiles of four new fish, which would require several weeks’ observation for each one. Before he could prove that Melanie wees standing up, he would first have to prove all over again that Melanie exists. And he had four Melanies. He stood up and hurled the saucepan to the floor in a rage.

  Crash bang!

  ‘Fucking faggot up there! Can’t we have five minutes’ peace around here? Asshole!’

  Yes, there had been some noise, but it was surely the first time the upstairs neighbour had made any. Alex had been listening to the news before going to bed. He dropped off to sleep in a pleasant cocoon, knowing that school would be closed the next day. He had taken an extra blanket in case the power cut lasted a while, and he put the other blanket on the sofa; he’d drape it over his dad later.

  ‘Fucking weather report! They could’ve told us there’d be freezing rain! What am I supposed to do tomorrow?’

  Alexis never did much of anything when tomorrow came.

  ‘I’m going to call and tell them what I think of the way they do their job!’

  He got up in the dark, not making the slightest move to pick up the phone, even though it was right there. He strode into the kitchen. With a firm hand he opened the fridge, which was very dark inside, and grabbed a bottle of beer. Then he closed the door and went out into the hallway.

  Bang!

  ‘What’s all this stuff lying around, fuck!’

  There was nothing lying around. It was just the doorframe. With one hand on his head he went haltingly back over to the sofa and lay down, pulling the blanket Alex had left over himself. He sucked on his beer to the last drop, like a baby. Then he lay on his stomach to forget everything, hoping he’d dream about Doro.

  Boom ba-dah boom!

  At three in the morning the sound of someone tearing down the stairs briefly masked the sound of Alexis’s snoring. He was fast asleep, murmuring to himself.

  ‘Je . . . t’ai . . . bébé . . .’

  Then he rolled over into a foetal position, snoring even louder, and failed to notice that his son Alex had just tucked the blanket back round him. Outside, the ice was still falling. Then the sound of it on the window was drowned out by a sudden, heartrending, inhuman cry from the street.

  ‘Neeeeeyyyetttt!’

  Boris Bogdanov collapsed, theatrically, on the steps of his duplex. Ice was falling on his head, mingling with his tears.

  ‘What have I done to God that this should happen to me?’

  Boris Bogdanov did not believe in God, and he could not bring himself to accept an irrational explanation for the misfortune that had befallen him. For a mathematician, everything must be susceptible to proof. But he could not find an explanation for this ice. If it existed, it could only be God’s fault.

  Brutus couldn’t understand what was happening, either. If he had only known, he would never have run away from home in the middle of winter, on a day of freezing rain. When he heard Boris moaning, he poked his head out from under the stairs and without a moment’s hesitation jumped up onto Boris’s lap. Boris didn’t even try to push him off. He was weeping in a sort of rhythmic, monotonous chant, which made Brutus purr. A car door slammed.

  The moment Julie’s taxi pulled away she noticed the man lying on the steps of the house opposite, but in the dark she could not see who it was. She opened the door to her apartment and switched on the light in the hall. Warily, she turned around. She heard the weeping and gave a sigh of disgust.

  ‘There’s no point coming over here to cry, go back to your wife!’

  Meow!

  She raised her eyes heavenwards.

  ‘Don’t go trying the cat trick on me either. Leave that to the kids!’

  Meow!

  ‘Brutus?’

  Meow!

  ‘Right, give me back my cat!’

  Julie saw that the man had not moved.

  ‘Look, I’m tired, give me a break . . . No one showed up. I didn’t even make a hundred bucks, and my patience is at the absolute limit.’

  A
s she went closer she could see her kitten on the man’s lap; his head was down and he was still weeping.

  ‘Come on, give me Brutus, then go home and get some sleep!’

  Boris, who had only just realised that Julie was speaking to him, looked up at last. Julie stopped short, feeling foolish.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else . . .’

  ‘I wish I were someone else.’

  You never get men crying in strip clubs. In fact, Julie had never seen a man cry. She was always the one crying. She reached out for Brutus, but he stayed curled on Boris’s lap, although Boris hadn’t done anything to keep him there.

  ‘It looks like he doesn’t want to leave you on your own.’

  ‘Is he yours? He must be cold.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No, I’m not all right.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Did someone break your heart?’

  ‘My fish are going to die . . .’

  As he spoke, Boris could not suppress a huge sob. Although she did have a kind heart, Julie was flabbergasted that a man could cry over a bunch of fish.

  ‘You really love them that much?’

  For a moment Boris seemed to emerge from his sorrow. He grew thoughtful.

  ‘Without them, my life will have no meaning.’

  Broken hearts were Julie’s speciality. She didn’t know you could cry over a few fish but, in the end, the only real friends she had were her three cats.

  ‘If you want, I can keep them at my place.’

  ‘I can’t leave them alone.’

  Julie smiled: of course. Another girl trap.

  ‘It’s not what you think. The water mustn’t drop below thirty-two degrees. I have to submit my dissertation in June. My knot theory is a mathematical revolution. I’m nearly there . . . I don’t want to lose everything!’

  Giving one last sniff, Boris Bogdanov dried his tears with the back of his hand and stared at Julie. He looked so pure, so honest. And even if his cheekbones were a bit too prominent, like all Slavs, he had a certain exotic charm. She’d never seen anyone like him at Sex Paradisio. She didn’t understand a word he was saying about these mathematical fish. She just wanted to believe him, and hoped he wasn’t lying to her.

  ‘How many fish have you got?’

  ‘Four little ones.’

  ‘Is your aquarium very big?’

  ‘It’s average . . .’

  ‘What’s average, in your opinion?’

  Boris Bogdanov merely spread his arms, removing roughly sixty centimetres from the actual length of his aquarium. Julie thought it seemed awfully small to accommodate four fish, but she was moved by her neighbour’s unhappy situation.

  ‘Just one night, then, because I’m expecting some guests soon. I warn you, you stay on the sofa and behave yourself. I’m armed and I’ve done three years of self-defence!’

  Boris Bogdanov leaped to his feet. Brutus wasn’t expecting this and went flying. Like any self-respecting cat he landed on his paws, but slid across the ice. He quickly steadied himself, then ran across the road and, without a meow, straight through the open door into his mistress’s house. He was greeted by two unfriendly meows: he was still not welcome on the sofa.

  Julie didn’t even have time to demonstrate a single self-defence movement: leaping to his feet, Boris Bogdanov threw himself on her and embraced her in a manly, very Slavic manner, patting her warmly on the back as if he would never stop.

  ‘All right, fine, I see you’re happy . . . Go on! Go and get your fish.’

  Boris bounded up the steps to his place four at a time and went straight to the sitting room. He stared for a moment at his four fish, swimming in pairs. He plunged the thermometer into the water: twenty-three degrees! Not only did his fish risk forgetting their trajectories forever, they were now bound for the great beyond, even as they continued to weave their knots. He had to save them!

  Boris spread his arms to pick up the aquarium. It wouldn’t budge an inch. There was far too much water in it, and too many stones at the bottom. He grabbed the saucepan and dipped it in the aquarium, then ran to empty it in the toilet. After a few trips he faced the bitter truth that this manoeuvre would take hours. At this rate his four little treasures would end up frozen. There was only one thing left to do. He grabbed his fishing net.

  Boom ba-dah boom! on the stairs.

  Still sprawled on the sofa, lost in a dream, Alexis didn’t budge. Alex was sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, enjoying every moment.

  ‘Je . . . t’ai . . . bébé . . .’

  Boris Bogdanov pounded on Julie’s door. It had taken him over half an hour to catch his four fish. In any group there’s always one that doesn’t want to follow the others. When Julie opened the door, she was wearing her red bathrobe, the collar carefully wrapped high around her neck. She had just got out of bed.

  ‘I didn’t think you were going to come after all!’

  She saw the saucepan in Boris’s hand and the four fish wiggling around in a terrible knot.

  ‘That’s very kind of you but I’ve had dinner already.’

  Boris Bogdanov had never had much of a sense of humour, and even less so in the presence of his four little treasures who were swimming their hearts out in their iron coffin.

  ‘Can I see your bathroom?’

  ‘Dream on . . .’

  ‘It’s for the fish!’

  Julie felt a bit sheepish. She pointed down the hallway. Without a glance or a thank you, Boris Bogdanov ran to it and locked himself in. Slam! Julie opened a cupboard and took out a blanket, which she left on the sofa, careful not to disturb the two cats sleeping there. Then she went up to the bathroom door.

  ‘I’ve left a blanket for you on the sofa. Don’t think you can sleep anywhere else, otherwise you’ll wake up in the emergency room!’

  ‘Da! Thank you very much!’

  ‘The towels are under the sink.’

  ‘Da! Thank you very much!’

  ‘Where are your fish?’

  ‘They’re here with me.’

  ‘Can I see them? They were all on top of each other in the saucepan.’

  ‘Nyet! I’m too busy!’

  Astonished, Julie reached for the doorknob. She thought for a moment of turning it and going in without warning. This was her house, after all. But this intrusion, so totally unexpected and unlike anything she’d ever experienced, was a change from her usual routine. It was about life, and where there’s life, there’s hope. She went to her bedroom and looked out of the window at the falling ice. Yes, the ice storm had completely emptied Sex Paradisio, something unheard of in that world of men who love girls, but she wasn’t sorry. There were other things in life besides money.

  Day was breaking and Julie hadn’t managed to get to sleep. From the bathroom there came a continuous sound of water running, then stopping, then running again. For the first thirty minutes or so she figured it must be the unexpected, unique nature of the event that was keeping her awake. There was something of a lullaby about it. But even the sweetest refrains, if they’re repeated too often, will get stuck in your head and become unbearable.

  ‘It’s time to calm this mathematician down!’

  Forgetting to put on her bathrobe, Julie rushed into the hallway, wearing nothing but her fine, see-through nightie. She flung open the bathroom door without knocking. This was her house, after all!

  ‘Now you and your fish, you are going—’

  ‘Shh!’

  Boris accompanied his command by putting his finger to his lips. Without knowing why, Julie obeyed. He was on his knees facing the bath, surrounded by flannels and scribbled sheets of papers strewn everywhere, and he motioned to her to come closer. She froze for an instant. Her short nightie wasn’t hiding a thing. Boris wasn’t looking at her, though.

  ‘Come and see, in the bath.’

  Julie obediently knelt down. From behind, the scene was one of torrid indecency. Julie’s bare buttocks bounced next to Boris’s wo
rn jeans. When she leaned forward to peer into the water, her breasts nearly burst out of the thin material of the nightie – but Boris did not notice a thing, preoccupied as he was with his makeshift aquarium. At the bottom of the bath where the plug should have been there was a face flannel. One hundred and nineteen centilitres drained through the cloth per minute. By maintaining a fine trickle of water from the tap at forty-two degrees, at a steady volume, Boris had succeeded in the incredible challenge of keeping the temperature of the water at a constant thirty-two degrees.

  ‘It’s all written on here!’

  Julie took the sheet the Russian genius handed to her, but she hardly looked at it. Thermal equations, with face flannels thrown in, weren’t really her thing. But she did marvel at the sight of the fish swimming in her bath. It was one of the most beautiful things she’d seen in a long time. Even Brutus thought it was a pretty sight. He’d managed to jump up on the sink to watch the aquatic performance. Julie pointed to one of the fish.

  ‘What’s his name, the green one with orange stripes?’

  ‘Number One.’

  Boris paid no attention to her bare leg as he reached under her knee for a little pad of paper. He turned back to the bath, flipped over a few pages and stopped at a drawing where the basic trajectories of each of the fish were pencilled in different colours. He pointed to the path drawn in green and dotted with orange.

  ‘That’s him!’

  Leaning into the bath, his face practically in the water, Boris followed Number One’s progression for a long time. Then he turned to the trajectories of Number Two and Number Three. He finished with a meticulous observation of Number Four. He placed his hands against the edge of the bath to push himself up. Julie turned to him. He did the same, his eyes popping out, and instinctively she covered her breasts. He quickly turned back to the water.

  ‘Look! Look! They’re all on track again!’

  Boris grabbed Julie’s bare shoulders with his manly hands. He shook them unrestrainedly, causing his charming hostess’s breasts to bounce so vigorously that a wardrobe malfunction nearly ensued. But she let him shake her – he wasn’t even looking that way. His big blue eyes were staring intensely at her face.