Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather

by Pierre Szalowski

  ‘All right, but not for long!’

  I sped to my bedroom for the box, brought it back, opened it and set out the banknotes on the coffee table in the sitting room. My dad took the top hat as his token and left me the car. He handed my mum the thimble.

  ‘Off to a good start . . .’

  ‘Who’ll put the dice on my cast?’

  ‘I have to sort my money, Dad!’

  He held his palms in their casts out to my mum.

  ‘Which one do you want to play with?’

  ‘The white one!’

  She looked up at the sky – the ceiling, rather – then put both dice on my dad’s right cast. I saw the way my mum looked at him when he tossed the dice. Then suddenly we heard an animal-roar.

  ‘Double six!’

  My dad landed on Chance. I took the card from the pile and, not looking at it, set it down in front of him.

  ‘You take top prize in a beauty contest, collect one thousand dollars from each player!’

  I took a thousand from my pile of money and placed it on my dad’s pile. My mum picked up the dice. My dad gave her a gentle shove with his cast.

  ‘You owe a thousand dollars to the best-looking guy in the gang.’

  ‘Here! Take your thousand bucks. Bad debts make bad friends. We need to talk about that, actually . . .’

  I couldn’t help but look at the sofa. Still pleased with her answer, my mum cupped her hands around the dice. My dad acted as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘It’s still my turn, I threw double. The dice!’

  My mum handed him the dice without a word. I know what she was thinking: Monopoly is a barbaric game that fosters nothing but greed and stupidity.

  ‘Double six!’

  ‘Could you try not to burst my eardrums every time you throw the dice?’

  ‘Sorry, darling!’

  My father was the only one who didn’t hear what he’d just said. My mum watched the white plaster pushing the top hat onto Community Chest. I didn’t wait for Dad to ask, and I put the card from the top of the pile in front of him. My mum looked at me, she knew I’d heard, but above all she’d noticed that I could tell it had annoyed her.

  ‘This is your lucky day, receive a thousand dollars from every player!’

  Maybe my dad got a little too big for his breeches after that.

  ‘Luck smiles on those who know how to make the most of it! Roll the dice!’

  He shut up when he had to go straight to jail without passing Go. Three doubles in Monopoly is fatal. He looked a bit sheepish, to my mum’s great satisfaction.

  ‘You’ll see, you’ll like it there.’

  He started whistling, to make light of it all.

  ‘It’s definitely nicer here than at the cottage!’

  My feelings exactly.

  As for my mum, those were anything but her feelings when my dad asked her to help him get washed.

  ‘I can’t wash with my casts! I’ll ruin them!’

  ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘I haven’t been able to take a shower in two days, I can’t go on like this!’

  I could hear them while I was putting the money away in the box. My mum had won. Even at Monopoly, it’s the thinkers who end up winning.

  ‘No way. I will not help you wash!’

  I heard my mum opening a cupboard in the kitchen. Then she came back into the sitting room.

  ‘Have you got any tape in your school things?’

  She wrapped my dad’s hands in two plastic bags from Canada Dépôt. She was careful to make sure everything was hermetically sealed. My dad followed her all the way to the bathroom. She turned on the water in the shower.

  ‘And how am I supposed to take my shirt off with these Canada Dépôt mittens?’

  You can be smart and still not think of everything. She didn’t get angry; she could see it was funny. But just because something is funny doesn’t mean it will change your mind.

  ‘Let your son help you!’

  Slam! She left the two of us together. My dad leaned forward and I started pulling off his shirt. We struggled to get it past the casts. His T-shirt was a little easier.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Dad.’

  ‘Me too. I’m glad to see you again.’

  He reached for his belt. Even with his fingers in plastic he could still manage to do a few little things.

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘If you need me, just shout.’

  ‘I’ll shout. Otherwise, what’s the point in having a son?’

  One good thing about having a son is that he’ll hold the hairdryer over your wet cast. Since my dad couldn’t manage with the face flannel, he took a towel to wash himself. After a while the tape came off but he didn’t notice that his cast under the wet towel wasn’t protected any more.

  ‘It’s not burning?’

  ‘No, far from it, it feels gentle and warm.’

  I was glad to be taking care of him. He kept looking around, sometimes at me, sometimes over towards the kitchen. Then all around the sitting room, but his eyes no longer came to rest on the television. He hadn’t even switched it on.

  ‘Pasta’s ready!’

  At the table, it didn’t take long for my dad to convince us that he couldn’t hold his cutlery.

  ‘I already undressed him and dried his cast!’

  So my mum held his spoon, and from that point on we didn’t say much. The minute he finished one spoonful my dad opened his mouth wide, while my mum slurped hers down in between mouthfuls for my dad. I kept looking at them as if everything were perfectly normal, but in fact it wasn’t. My mum was feeding my dad as if he were a little kid, but really I was the little kid, and eating all by myself. After a little while they got into a certain rhythm, and everything seemed to be running smoothly. They didn’t need to speak any more, they understood each other. But all good things must come to an end. And here the end came between two mouthfuls.

  ‘You should film your mum and dad with your video camera.’

  ‘Martin! I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  ‘You don’t think this would make a funny video?’

  ‘Precisely. That’s why I don’t want to be filmed.’

  She put an end to the discussion by shoving the spoon in my dad’s mouth and they went on with their little game until his plate was empty. Then my mum got up.

  ‘You’ve got to start physiotherapy first thing tomorrow or find some other solution, because I have no intention of doing this every day.’

  My dad still had his mouth open, then he closed it, then he opened it again. He did a good impression of a goldfish for a few seconds. My mum was already in the sitting room.

  ‘It’s bath time!’

  I picked up the spoon, but my dad gestured to me to go ahead. I turned the tap on in the bath and let the water run while I went to the sink and wet my hair. I didn’t want it to last too long. So it didn’t. When I went back out, I knew from the clacking of the keyboard that my mum was back on the computer. Naturally, as soon as she saw me she closed the accounts file.

  ‘Did you have a good scrub all over, darling?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Go and put on your pyjamas.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘After that go and tell your father to come and help me light the fire.’

  ‘With his casts he won’t be able to.’

  ‘He can just tell me what to do.’

  I went past my room but I didn’t go in, I just continued on to the kitchen. I heard a faint clatter, and went slowly closer. Not only had my dad managed to pick up a fork, he’d also found a way to hold a knife in the other hand. He had taken a piece of cheese from the fridge and was chewing on it greedily while he sliced himself some bread. I stepped back so he wouldn’t see me.

  ‘Dad! Mum needs you to light the fire!’

  He shoved the cutlery out of sight. Gling! Glang! He must have had loads of cheese still in his mouth, and definitely some bread, because he had a hard
time talking.

  ‘In the state . . . I’m in . . . I’ll do . . . what I can . . . And my cast . . . isn’t dry . . . yet.’

  It’s not just kids who lie when they want to be looked after.

  When I left the sitting room, wishing them good night, my dad was sitting next to the fireplace. He was holding his casts above the hearth. My mum was sitting on the sofa, not far away, let’s say just behind him.

  ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a foolish thing?’

  ‘I was alone with the ice. After a while you’re fed up to here with it!’

  ‘So you decided to de-ice the roof . . .’

  They looked at each other and smiled, a smile of complicity for once. The light from the flames was glowing on their faces. They were so beautiful. It was like at the cinema. I always closed my eyes when two adults kissed in a film, because it was embarrassing. But this time I wouldn’t close my eyes if they kissed. I waited. I wanted them to kiss for a long time, with the words ‘The End’ floating above them in big white letters. I was sorry I didn’t have my video camera.

  But life isn’t like the movies. My mum switched on the light.

  ‘I’ll get you everything you need for the sofa, but I warn you, I will not help you change channels on that television every three seconds!’

  It would have been nicer to film a kiss.

  ‘Why do you want me to watch television?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . You always do, don’t you?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll manage.’

  For the first time, I understood what the sky was trying to tell me. The ice storm hadn’t been able to stop my dad from leaving the house, but it had fixed things so he would come back. Being frozen had changed him. My mum found it hard to believe. I could see it in her eyes when she brought him a blanket and a pillow.

  ‘It’s as if . . . you’re not how you used to be.’

  ‘That’s quite possible . . .’

  ‘I can understand that you’re glad to be here, but don’t forget our mutual agreement.’

  She handed him a printed piece of paper. It was the spreadsheet. About the sofa, and all that stuff.

  ‘I hope this won’t keep you awake.’

  In bed I did a lot of thinking. My mum, for a start, hadn’t been deep-frozen. And as long as she wasn’t deep-frozen she wouldn’t change. I got up, and looked out at my friend the sky.

  ‘Can you fix it for me?’

  Thursday, 8 January 1998

  ‘The ice storm has renewed its intensity. Every record has been broken. In the region of Montreal, pylons have been collapsing one after the other. A total blackout is feared for the island. The majority of businesses in the centre of town closed down at noon to save electricity. There are concerns about a possible shortage of drinking water. The Canadian Armed Forces have been called to the rescue. At the end of today already a million households, or roughly two and a half million people, are without power.’

  SOMETIMES LIFE IS JUST LIKE THE MOVIES

  ‘Watch out!’

  Without warning the branch bent beneath the weight of the incessant freezing rain. Boris grabbed hold of Julie with both hands to throw her to the ground, protecting her with his body as the huge branch fell on top of them. Crash! Boris was pinned to the ground, and could not pull away from Julie.

  ‘Julie, are you all right?’

  ‘Mmmmm . . .’

  Julie’s eyes were closed. A blissful smile lit up her lovely face, which was framed by a few stray strands of hair. Pure mathematics research does not include first aid classes, but the state the young woman was in was not unlike the one Boris had been in at Val-d’Or at the time of his pathetic performance in the Quebec Major Junior League.

  ‘Julie, wake up!’

  ‘Mmmmm . . .’

  Boris realised the situation was serious. Pressing with his hands, he tried to push the huge branch away. But even for a natural born physicist, wood is just plain heavy, and ice is even heavier. The branch moved only a few inches, and then resumed its previous position. Boris’s strength gave out, and he found himself lying against Julie once again. When she opened her eyes, her expression was one of total purity.

  ‘I didn’t know that paradise was all white.’

  ‘You’re not in paradise – a huge branch has fallen on top of us.’

  Julie may have been under a branch, but more than anything she was in shock.

  ‘I never knew it could be so lovely to be stuck under a branch; did you, Boris?’

  They had stayed up late into the night watching over the fish, and they’d emptied half a bottle of port and an entire bottle of ouzo that a Greek client had given Julie. She had tried to be open with Boris, to express how lucky she was to have met him. Boris conceded he was also glad to have made her acquaintance. But . . .

  ‘I’ve been working on my theory for years now, I can’t afford to get distracted when I am so near my goal.’

  ‘I understand.’

  A few hundred kilos of wood and ice on her head soon made Julie forget what she had claimed to understand.

  ‘It’s so nice here under this sky full of ice, don’t you think, Boris?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. Perhaps it’s not the best place . . . and it’s starting to get cold . . .’

  ‘Our hearts will keep us warm.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Julie?’

  ‘I’ve never been better.’

  Boris heard other branches creaking. All this creaking and groaning was very stressful. It made you think that the worst could happen at any moment. Crash! Another branch fell only a few inches away.

  ‘I love this music, Boris.’

  Boris didn’t have the heart to joke, or to try to convince Julie that this music might be the opening chords of a mournful requiem in their honour. Like many immigrants, Boris called out in the first language that came to mind – but oddly enough, it wasn’t Russian, but English.

  ‘Help!’

  Julie murmured sweetly, ‘I need somebody . . .’

  ‘Help!’

  ‘Not just anybody . . .’

  ‘Help!’

  ‘I need someone . . .’

  Julie would have loved to go on, but Boris had put his hand over her mouth. There is a time for singing and another for getting out of deep shit. Boris wasn’t sure whether he was in deep shit, but he knew he was in ice up to his neck.

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  The branches went on cracking all around them. For Julie, his refrain was nothing more than sixties nostalgia.

  ‘Won’t you please, please help me . . .’

  She increased the volume by a few decibels.

  ‘Help meeeeee! Please, help meeeee!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miss, we’re coming to help you!’

  Boris Bogdanov felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t anyone heard him? How infuriating – the faintest little peep out of the woman pinned beneath him and along comes a man, just like that. Boris wanted to take things in hand again. Chivalry, even Russian chivalry, has its limits, because for a start it can only be conjugated in the masculine.

  ‘Hurry, quickly!’

  ‘Oh? There are two of you?’

  Boris thought he could hear the disappointment in the man’s voice. The sort of disappointment a guy feels when he’s been watching a woman in a bar for a few minutes and, just when he’s about to go up to her, the lovely loner’s boyfriend comes out of the loo. Boris was probably not very friendly.

  ‘Something wrong with there being two of us?’

  ‘Just the two of us . . . until the end of time . . .’

  ‘I can’t lift the branch, I’ll go for help.’

  ‘Hold me close against your body . . .’

  To get Julie the diva to stop singing, Boris held her tight. He suddenly felt something inside. Or rather, something coming from him. He observed the lovely girl, deep in her romantic bliss. His mathematical pragmatism could allow only one fundamental question: was she having an effect on
him?

  While his brain was trying to banish all things illogical – so inimical to the researcher – his feelings became an exponent, the exact value of which he was duty-bound to determine. While supposing that the body he was lying on was as attractive as it was possible to be, he turned for a moment to address the problem in terms of probabilities. What were the odds he would find himself outside his building lying on top of such a beautiful woman, with an ice-covered tree on his back to boot?

  But before you can prove that Melanie wees standing up, you must prove that Melanie exists . . .

  His uncontrollable erection, to be included in his probability study only with the utmost discretion, confirmed unequivocally that it was a result of Julie’s presence beneath him. Therefore, if his erection existed, Julie must exist!

  Still lying down, he then approached the problem from a vertical standpoint.

  Why was he stuck on top of Julie? Because a tree was holding her there.

  Why had the tree crashed down on them? Because there was an ice storm!

  Given that no similar meteorological situation had occurred since 1961, given that he had been turned down for thirty-nine apartments before he had found this one, given the number of trees in Montreal, offset by the number of trees shattered by ice over the past three days, take as an index the fact that an ice-covered branch requires three seconds, without warning, to fall off a tree – in other words, it had been one chance in twenty-eight thousand eight hundred that this branch would fall just as they were walking beneath it. Multiplying that by the probability of being pinned beneath a branch big enough to hold down two people, Boris Bogdanov concluded that the probability of feeling this sudden erection because he was lying on top of his neighbour from across the street was only one in thirteen million six hundred and fifty-seven thousand one hundred and fifty-nine. The odds were exactly six thousand six hundred and fifty-seven fewer than getting six numbers out of six in the 6/49 lottery.

  Boris shifted his body above Julie to protect her from the little slivers of ice that were falling off the branches. Beneath him lay the possibility, perhaps unique, of no longer living solely for his fish. The branch moved. Then all of a sudden, to a sound of frozen branches unheard since 1961, there came a flash of light.