Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather Read online

  ‘Contrary to all expectations, the ice storm that has been raging for the last two days seems to be lessening in intensity. Hundreds of Hydro-Québec team workers are hard at it, restoring power to as many households as possible. They estimate they will be able to reconnect close to three hundred thousand today.’

  She just muttered, through clenched teeth, ‘Isn’t that typical Hydro-Québec? When you call them, they take forever to come, and when you don’t call them, they come before they ought to.’

  Julie sincerely hoped that every apartment in Quebec would soon have comfort and electricity . . . with one exception.

  You don’t quit a job where you’re making five hundred dollars a night only to find yourself, the next morning, living with the fear that someone is going to leave.

  Just then, Boris walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No, no, everything’s fine . . .’

  ‘No, there’s something wrong, I can tell!’

  When his fish were swimming happily around the tank, Boris’s life went swimmingly, too. There had been something handsome about him when he’d been sad and afraid. And now that he was joyful, he was even more handsome. Yesterday he had told her about how he first came to Quebec, his short career in the junior hockey league. She thought it was terrible that he’d been let go after his first inter-team match, after scoring four goals, three of which were during short-handed play. But Julie knew that Boris must be lying about his talent. She’d seen dozens of hockey players at Sex Paradisio, and they always came in threes. Apparently it relaxed them, after a match, to go to a strip club, especially when they were in the NHL. She saw right away that Boris had neither the build nor the eagle eye of a great champion.

  ‘I thought of something, this morning . . .’

  ‘Yes, Boris.’

  ‘Here, you have power, which is great. But it could stop at any time . . .’

  ‘Anything can stop at any time, you’re so right, Boris . . .’

  ‘Hold my arm, please.’

  Some people view male chivalry as nothing more than a condescending attitude towards the weaker sex. Julie liked chivalry not only because she was fed up with slaps on the bum but above all because there was a lot of ice and it really was slippery. From the moment they left the house, she did not let go of her knight’s arm. What astonished her was the way other men were looking at them: in their eyes it was no longer, ‘God, I’d like to do her!’ that she saw, but, ‘What a lucky guy!’

  As they walked, she thought again about the night before and the lovely, ordinary little meal they’d had, like a real couple. She’d cooked, he’d done the washing up, and they’d talked about other things besides ice hockey.

  ‘I left Russia because I had no future there. Under communism, researchers were the elite of the country. They were offered big apartments, good salaries, good working conditions. But after the collapse of the Soviet Union all those privileges disappeared. I shouldn’t tell you this, and you keep it to yourself, but not everything was so bad under communism . . .’

  Julie had promised she wouldn’t tell a soul. But she didn’t tell him that as far as she was concerned, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet empire suited her fine. For one thing, she was very happy that millions of people would now know what it was like to live in a democracy. But the most important thing was that, thanks to Gorbachev and his perestroika, Boris had been able to leave the country and move in across the street.

  Then Boris told her about the rationing that had been their daily bread until 1990, how you could only buy goods from the state shops, where poverty was rife.

  ‘It was awful, inhumane – just like Canada Dépôt!’

  Seeing Boris so sad, as he recalled all the worst things about daily life under communism, Julie decided to suggest to her Russian a little trip together, to the very place where he had thrown in the towel earlier.

  Clinging to Boris’s arm like a mussel to its rock, Julie knew just what to do. She was better than anyone at defending an individual’s rights, since she herself had so often suffered from a total disregard for her own rights.

  ‘Can you show me where it says that I can only buy two gas canisters?’

  ‘It doesn’t say so anywhere, Miss! It’s an order from the manager.’

  ‘I want to speak to the manager!’

  ‘There’s no point, he’ll only tell you the same thing.’

  ‘I want to speak to the manager!’

  ‘You have to take others into consideration . . .’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that!’

  While Boris looked on, stunned, Julie began to empty the shelf of gas canisters. She left the floor manager no option: he grabbed his walkie-talkie and now the entire store knew what was going on.

  ‘I’ve got an emergency over in Camping Goods! Will the manager please come to Camping Goods!’

  Boris, worried, rubbed the back of his neck and turned to Julie, who was still filling the shopping trolley.

  ‘Ten canisters should get us through the night . . .’

  ‘Don’t you start, you’re not in Russia any more!’

  ‘Now what?’

  Boris turned and found himself face to face with the manager, who was looking around, disappointed not to have more of an audience. In fact, there was no audience at all.

  ‘You again! I thought I explained how things work here! So, you take two gas canisters, you go to the till, don’t forget your Canada Dépôt tokens, and you don’t come back until tomorrow!’

  Julie chose that moment to turn around.

  ‘Are you the store manager?’

  ‘Bambi!’

  Now the manager was looking left and right, relieved he didn’t have more of an audience. For a moment Julie stared at the gas bottles, then took one and jiggled it in her palm.

  ‘Tell me, Freddy, does your wife work here too?’

  Freddy understood right away. You can be store manager at Canada Dépôt and like pretty girls. That’s not a crime; at worst, it might be a sin. But if the wife finds out, it’s not a crime, it’s far worse than that.

  ‘So how are your fish doing?’

  The cashier immediately recognised Boris and greeted him with a big smile and a wink. Julie did not appreciate such aquariophilic familiarity. The manager’s gaze was darting around the shop, terrified. Was he afraid his wife might show up, or was it that a customer might notice he was allowing a massive sale that completely contradicted his grand speech about Quebecker solidarity? Boris was like a kid, watching admiringly as the gas canisters piled up in his shopping bags. The cashier was jubilant.

  ‘Two plus two, plus two, plus two, plus two . . .’

  ‘That’s enough now, we get the point!’

  In a moment of utter defeat, a manager rarely has any manners, so he picks on those who are weaker than he is.

  ‘Hurry up now! Good jobs are hard to come by these days!’

  The cashier said no more, looked down, and finished totalling up in silence. But then she spoke, loud and clear.

  ‘That’s twenty-eight canisters at a dollar ninety-nine for a total of sixty-four dollars and nine cents. Cash or credit?’

  ‘Maybe you could give us a discount for buying in bulk?’

  ‘You’d do better to hold your horses, you Russian!’

  ‘Freddy! His name is Boris and I’d like you to give him a nice discount.’

  The manager went up close to Julie. He really did not want anyone to overhear.

  ‘Okay, Bambi, you calm down right now.’

  ‘Actually, you never answered my question, about whether your wife works here?’

  ‘I would never have thought you could do something like this.’

  ‘Freddy, I’ll let you in on a secret . . . Neither did I!’

  The manager stepped back, surprised. He turned to the cashier.

  ‘Ten per cent!’

 
; ‘I meant a big discount, honey!’

  ‘Twenty . . .’

  The cashier, typing away, began to whistle as if everything were perfectly normal.

  ‘Fifty-one dollars and twenty-seven cents!’

  Boris paid, beaming. The manager, on seeing the notes, moved closer to Julie again with a greedy expression on his face.

  ‘Well, I want my little discount tonight, too . . .’

  ‘Too late, I quit.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Until this moment, the ice storm had been a gift of fate. The best sales ever in two days, better even than Boxing Day. And the little cherry on the cake was that he could lie to his wife with impunity, using the pretext of long nights stocking shelves in order to go and relax at Sex Paradisio. Freddy turned to look at his staff. He saw the first cashier whispering to the next cashier, who in turn went to whisper into the ear of yet another cashier. Intermittently they all turned to look at him. He put on his loud manager’s voice.

  ‘Are you going to go on staring at me like that until the spring sales? Go and serve your customers!’

  In the end, a store manager’s true nature always prevails. After glaring defiantly at his staff of cashiers, some of whom could not stop laughing, Freddy walked past the empty shelves where the gas canisters used to be. Satisfied, he rubbed his hands. The freezing rain had stopped falling this morning. He had a gigantic stock of gas canisters to sell. Twenty-eight in one go, that really helps to empty out the stock room. And this evening at Sex Paradisio he’d find someone to replace Bambi soon enough. Come to think of it, Cassandra had big tits, too.

  Business is business.

  I WAS NO ONE NOW

  ‘Must be a really cool sofa!’

  I should never have told Alex about my mum’s spreadsheet. Normally he never said anything about other people’s private lives. That’s what I liked about him. The only reason I’d told him was because I didn’t expect him to say anything.

  ‘How else did you expect them to go about it?’

  His matter-of-fact tone hurt.

  ‘When you split up, you have to share what you have, right?’

  Maybe I hadn’t made myself clear that I felt like I was being compared to a sofa. My first thought was to get revenge. I looked at Alex, but the truth is that he hits too hard, so I only said it in my head:

  Your mum left with nothing, and your dad’s been left with not much at all. And the not much at all – that’s you!

  He saw I was giving him a nasty look, but he smiled as if he could see why I was angry. He was like some priest in a movie. I looked out at the street. The little tree was now bent double with the weight of the ice. Its top was touching the ground. Like me, it had no way to defend itself. In the end I’d been right to ask the sky to stop. Poor little tree . . . Would it right itself, or would it stay broken in two for the rest of its life? It was too sad; we had to talk about something else.

  ‘How are things going with the two brothers?’

  ‘Well your dad got it wrong, that’s for sure . . .’

  My dad couldn’t even get something as simple as gossiping about the neighbours right.

  ‘They’re a homosexual couple.’

  ‘Queers?’

  He looked at me the way only a professor of ethics could.

  ‘A homosexual couple, I said!’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘No, it’s not the same thing . . .’

  ‘Since when is it not the same thing?’

  ‘Since my dad told me so.’

  He smiled, happy. He was proud to be able to tell me that his dad had finally taught him something.

  ‘He really likes Simon. I think it was something he needed, like, to have a friend. You can tell him everything . . .’

  He looked at me, as if to apologise.

  ‘But in return, he can tell you everything, too . . .’

  I realised he was talking about the sofa again.

  ‘This morning my dad had completely changed. He woke up in a good mood.’ Alex looked serene. ‘So that put me in a good mood.’

  He gave me such a sweet look; I didn’t know he could be like that. He raised his eyes heavenwards, as if to thank the sky. Then suddenly he was just like a kid again.

  ‘Why has the ice stopped falling?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Alex was sure I was lying. He had seen me at work with the educational director.

  ‘Have you lost your magical powers?’

  ‘It wasn’t magical powers.’

  ‘So why has the ice stopped falling?’

  A Hydro-Québec truck pulled out of the side street. Inside were three men who looked pleased with a job well done. Too pleased for Alex . . .

  ‘What have you done!’

  He turned around all of a sudden. The light in the stairway of his duplex was on. The power had been restored to his building.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’

  ‘I didn’t do anything—’

  ‘I know it was you!’

  In just a few seconds he’d gone back to being the old Alex. He always had that tone of voice when he was about to strike. I looked away, defeated.

  ‘I asked it to stop.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It wasn’t doing anything for me.’

  ‘Did you ever wonder whether maybe it was doing something for other people?’

  I could have reminded him about all those people who’d lost power. But the truth was, I’d asked for the ice storm for my sake alone. Now Alex, twisting my collar in his fist, was doing the same thing – thinking only about himself.

  ‘You’d better make that effing ice start falling again. Got it, shortarse?’

  He gave me a shove, then got up and opened the door that led to the stairs to his house. He switched off the light. He looked at me to make sure I’d got the message. In his eyes I could read the list of all the risks I was taking. He went across the street and knocked on the door where the homosexual couple lived.

  ‘Come on in, Alex my boy! Finished your little walk already?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Look how happy Pipo is to see you!’

  Alex went in. The door closed behind him. Why was the ice storm changing other people’s lives and not mine?

  I didn’t even have time to think before the door opened again. I was hoping it was him coming to say sorry, but Pipo bounded out of the door. Alex, with the lead in his hand, gave me a really mean look, then he watched as Pipo had a long wee.

  ‘Pipo, sit!’

  Once he’d finished, Pipo did as he was told. Alex twirled his hand above the little dog.

  ‘Roll over!’

  Pipo began rolling over on the ice. Alex snapped his fingers and looked at me with his cruel little smile.

  ‘Crawl!’

  Pipo was the one who obeyed, but I knew that Alex was really talking to me. I had only one real friend in life, and I didn’t want to lose him. I stared at Alex and then I raised my eyes to the sky. I looked at it for a long time. Then I shouted, to be sure Alex could hear me.

  ‘Abracadabra! The sky will win!’

  It just came to me like that. I didn’t want Alex to think I wasn’t doing things properly. He gave a smug little smile, then he leaned over to Pipo, who was still crawling like crazy.

  ‘Good dog, good dog.’

  I looked at Alex. I was waiting for my reward, but he just lowered his gaze. He wasn’t proud.

  No one was proud of hurting me, but they all did it anyway. I didn’t give a damn what the sky did now. It had never done anything for me. On the contrary, it had destroyed me. I was worth the same as a stupid sofa, and my only friend was treating me like a dog.

  I was no one now.

  NO ONE CAN UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING

  After he’d cleaned out Canada Dépôt’s supply of gas canisters, Boris insisted on inviting Julie to lunch in a little Russian restaurant, to thank her for her valuable help.

  ‘I don’t know what you said to that manager, bu
t you sure know how to talk to men!’

  ‘Not all men, Boris . . .’

  It was the sort of place you could find only in Montreal, a little corner of authentic Russia thousands of miles from the Volga. Here, if you were Russian, you could drink vodka the way you did there. The cooking was just like the cooking there. And, just like in Russia, there was a thriving black market. While a Russian might manage to get out of Russia, Russia never got out of a Russian. They couldn’t help it: whatever they could buy on the black market was bound to be better than anything you bought at a state-run store. As a sort of gesture of respect for the motherland, no self-respecting Russian immigrant shopped at Canada Dépôt. At this little bar you could buy candles, batteries, generators . . . but no gas canisters.

  If Boris had known this, he would have invited Julie to Belle Province for poutine.

  With a trained eye, Igor, the proprietor, watched the couple come in, their arms laden with plastic carrier bags full of gas canisters. He led them quickly into the kitchen. At the stove the chef – canary blond with raven-black roots – looked up and then went back to cutting slices of a splendid carp with her huge knife. Julie caught a whiff of the onions in paprika that were sizzling in a huge stewpot.

  ‘What’s this yummy thing you’re making?’

  ‘Breaded carp onions!’

  ‘I’m not wild about onions, what else do you have?’

  ‘Breaded carp onions!’

  You don’t argue with a Russian chef, especially when she’s giving you a dirty look. Julie turned back to Igor and Boris. Even without understanding the language, she could tell that Russian brotherhood had just been sacrificed upon the altar of greed. From their tone and their gestures, Julie understood everything. Igor wanted to buy the gas canisters. He was holding out two twenty-dollar bills to Boris.

  ‘Daï!’

  ‘Nyet???’

  With a rueful smile, Igor pulled out a ten-dollar bill and added it to the two twenties. From Boris’s gestures and the passion flashing in his eyes, Julie could tell he was expounding on his topological theory. Igor grabbed Boris by the neck.

  ‘You want your four fish to join Olga’s carp in the stewpot?’

  Olga gripped the knife handle harder and stared calmly at Julie. It was the sort of calm that makes it abundantly clear that a shift from word to deed would be a mere formality.