Still Waters

by John Moss

  “What’s this all about?” Miranda asked when she realized he wasn’t going to volunteer an explanation for testing Rex or McGillivery — she wasn’t sure which.

  “What?”

  “Don’t be coy, Morgan. The business about walking on bodies that aren’t there. It’s all a bit eerie.”

  “I was just wondering. It’s something I’ve been reading.”

  “You’ve been reading?”

  “Griffin’s notes. The dog grasped the situation, but the words were irrelevant. He obeyed ‘Rumpelstiltskin,’ he obeyed me. It wasn’t the words. He smelled death. He knew from his training not to intrude.”

  “And?”

  “Griffin was right.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Miranda said, meaning McGillivery. “Nice dog. Why would you name a dog Rex? What about Lassie or Rin Tin Tin? What about Prince?”

  “I said that.”

  “What?”

  “Prince. Seventeen percent of American dogs are called Prince. That’s thirty-four percent of the males.”

  “Did you make that up?”

  “Nope. Eleven percent are called Rex, six percent are called Rusty. Of the males.”

  “What’s the most popular name for a bitch? Ellen?”

  “Six percent. Did you know that forty-seven and a half percent of statistics are bogus. His real name is Schnitzel.”

  “Who?”

  “Rex. That’s what they call him at home.”

  “Schnitzel? I wonder what his registered name is?”

  “Schwangau’s Baron von Schnitzelgruber. He calls himself Dog.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We communed. Some dogs have four names. Fish and cats only have three. I took him for a swim in the pool.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “His idea. And in the process of nearly drowning he told me his name was Dog. That was his final message to the world. Did you know males can’t climb over ice ledges or walls? Their penises get caught.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m lucky. I don’t have a penis.”

  “You’re not a dog.”

  “Dogs, oh. Told you I’m lucky.”

  They sat on the low retaining wall, and Miranda produced the gourmet sandwiches. The coffee was cold, but the sandwiches, which cost more than dinner for six at McDonald’s, were crumpled, with roast beef and bean sprouts and crusty whole-wheat bread and horseradish mustard from a family recipe passed down through millennia.

  “I bought the sandwiches at the Robber Barons. As long as we’re hanging out in Rosedale, we might as well take advantage.” She fished around in her purse, withdrew a wrinkled bag, and announced, “Petit pain au chocolat for dessert.”

  They spread out their lunch on the stone between them, amused by the fish that converged at the surface, begging for crumbs.

  “Did you feed them?” she asked.

  “Yeah, when I got here.”

  “I called Mr. Nishimura.”

  “Who?”

  “Your friend from the koi place. He’s on his way down.”

  While they ate, she told him about Jill. She had informed Children’s Services but insisted she would take responsibility herself, for the time being, as long as Victoria, the live-in, was there. Jill trusted Victoria. The girl asked about a funeral. She knew there had to be arrangements. She wasn’t sure how to do it. She didn’t think anyone would come to a funeral. She was on record as Elizabeth Jill Bray. She was born in Toronto. No father listed, no next of kin. Molly Bray was born in a crossroads village up past Elora. Detzler’s Landing. A general store, a mill, and a post office at the back of a service station. Miranda had driven by but never stopped in, cutting north from Waterloo County to cottage country to visit friends.

  “How on earth do you know these places?” Morgan asked. “I’ve never heard of Detzler’s Landing. Must be on a river, on its own little lake with a name like that. I’m city. I know Canada from one end of Toronto to the other.”

  Morgan waited for a laugh, and she complied. She had heard it before.

  “Old Sunnyside in the west to the Beach down east,” he continued. “Everyone calls it the Beaches, but it was always the Beach. North to Steeles Avenue. Yonge Street, the longest street in the world. And to the south the lake — no, the United States. That’s where the world was real.”

  He still had her attention. Now that they were alone she wanted to talk, but needed even more to listen to his familiar words, his voice. She didn’t want to talk until she was ready.

  “Living here,” he said, “it was like being a smudge on a giant balloon, and inside the balloon was the United States of America, and we couldn’t get in. We could peer through from the surface, but we couldn’t get in. So when I finished university, did I go to the States? No, I went to Europe, and do you know why?”

  “Because you couldn’t get in without bursting the bubble?”

  “I have no idea why. I am not American, but I needed to get away. I am American, and I needed to get away.”

  “You were reading too much Samuel Beckett.”

  “They don’t know they’re inside the bubble-balloon.”

  “I’ve never felt very Canadian,” she said. “No patriot fervour, no national angst. Nationalism is like a bad dye job. It’s probably better if your roots are showing.”

  “And I felt badly for stretching a metaphor! Let’s take a run up to Detzler’s Landing tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s take the Jag.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s … okay, let’s take the Jag.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you think I’m going grey?”

  “Let’s see. No, some lovely pale highlights.” He tousled her hair.

  They ate for a while, quietly, old friends having a picnic. Morgan watched her watching the fish. He felt he had been unfaithful. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her, he wanted to be “masculine” and protect her, and he knew if he tried she would laugh at the cliché and say he was the one who needed looking after. Then he would laugh and say something about women who nurtured, and they would both sputter into embarrassed silence.

  So he said nothing and she, feeling she would love to lean against him in the midday sun, said nothing. She felt strong with him; the revelations of the previous night were gradually integrating into a coherent emotional pattern.

  He felt sad, not for what he had done, but for the distance between them, and for the closeness, and for how the two didn’t seem to resolve.

  As if she were reading his mind, she asked, “Did you go home with Ellen last night.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?”

  “I thought she might —”

  “What?”

  “Take you home.”

  “Take me home! What am I — some kind of door prize? I got a ride as far as her place.”

  “You don’t have to tell me about it.”

  “You asked. What am I supposed to do? Say no, I’ll walk?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care what?”

  “You can sleep with whoever you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  “She’s a slut. You want to be careful.”

  “She’s your friend.”

  “My friend is a slut.”

  “You ever sleep with her?”

  “I’m a woman, for God’s sake.”

  “So?”

  “No. If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “So you might have?”

  “No, Morgan. She’s aggressively heterosexual.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Not aggressively. You’re a jerk.”

  “I didn’t sleep with her. I just went in for a drink.”

  “I don’t care — why not?”

  “What? Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Miranda …”

/>   “I don’t care.’

  “I didn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, it’s been a relief getting this off my chest — the fact that I didn’t sleep with your former best friend.”

  “She was never my best friend. Adults don’t have ‘best’ friends.”

  “Former not-best friend.”

  “Lost your sex drive?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s about delayed gratification, Miranda. At my age patience is an aphrodisiac.”

  “Or an excuse.”

  He looked at her. Her smile was enigmatic, flirtatious, or derisive. It could go either way. “Miranda …” he said with wary affection. “Miranda …”

  “You could do better than her, Morgan. Do you want the rest of your croissant?”

  A voice called from the walkway, and a man emerged out of the shadows. He walked toward the pond, his eyes intent on penetrating the surface reflection.

  “Hello, it is Mr. Nishimura,” he said without looking at either of them. “My goodness, Detective Morgan, you are right. They are nishikigoi, very wonderful.” Reluctantly, he turned to Miranda. “I am Mr. Nishimura. We talked on the telephone.”

  She stood, took his proffered hand, and bowed slightly from the waist. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Nishimura.”

  He bowed deeply. “It is a most honourable occasion.”

  She bowed again, wondering how far political correctness had to go.

  The man remained upright and grinned. “Eugene Nishimura,” he said in a voice cadenced in irony.

  She laughed. “Well, Mr. Eugene Nishimura. Do you even speak Japanese? Where are you from?”

  “Your Mr. Morgan saw through me immediately yesterday. People who pay great sums for fish want all the trimmings. I’d dress like a geisha if it sold koi.”

  “And your life history, Mister Nishimura?”

  “Toronto, like Detective Morgan. Parents both born in an Alberta internment camp. Keep calling me mister and we’ll leave that in the past. My grandparents were from British Columbia, same town, all four of them — Tofino. They fished before the war. On a clear day they imagined they could see their ancestral homeland across the Pacific. My great-grandparents were, or some of them were, from Niigata Province. Thus, I have a genetic link to the koi ponds of Japan. And what about you?”

  “Small-town Ontario. Waldron — in Waterloo County.” Turning toward the koi, she asked, “What do you think?”

  “These are some of the best I’ve seen. I buy in Japan once a year. I do speak Japanese a little. I learned at Berlitz, and from my wife. I’ve seldom seen better fish even there. Better, but not a lot better. There’s the Doitsu Showa you brought to me, Detective Morgan. In here he doesn’t stand out. This is an amazing collection, amazing. He must be one of the smallest. The Budo Goromo is smaller. There’s nothing else less than twenty inches. We should do an inventory. Look at that Matsuba — the Gin Matsuba.”

  He pronounced the g hard, as in go. Morgan had been saying the g as in gin, like the drink.

  “Which one is that?” asked Miranda.

  “The purist might find him vulgar,” Nishimura explained, pointing to a fish hovering just below the surface, about two feet long, a deep lacquer red with reticulated scales edged in black. “He’s a living gem, a huge oriental pine cone transformed into the finest jewellery. He seems to radiate soft light from inside — a perfect example. My goodness, you have to love these fish. What a collection! Most people specialize in one or two varieties. He’s got a gorgeous cross-section, the best of everything. Look at that dragonfish. Look at that Tancho.”

  Nishimura was ecstatic, as if he had discovered a treasure hidden from the world. “Tancho,” he explained to Miranda, “see the red disk on the head? The rest of the fish is white and black. See how crisp the colour is? Asymmetrical but perfectly balanced. It’s black with white, not white with black. Except for the red on its head. Look, a perfect blood moon with a bolt of black running down onto the nose. My golly, what am I doing prattling on?”

  “Don’t stop,” said Miranda.

  “I think the Tancho Showa is the single most outstanding fish here. That old-style Showa is stunning. It must be pushing three feet. I’ve never seen such a big koi outside Japan. There was one in England that died at a show — legendary, a new style, more white. There might be a few in the southern states this size —”

  He interrupted himself to look around. “See those stanchions in the ground?” He indicated low concrete posts nestled unobtrusively into the landscape near the pond walls. “You wouldn’t get fish this size if the pool wasn’t heated in winter. He’s had someone bring the walls in to make a giant cocoon, and warm water pumped through from the house, maybe a heater to heat the air, no expense spared. If you want me to manage these guys, I’ll do it. His winterization people don’t know about fish. You know, you can’t have fish like this without word getting out unless you’re obsessively private. Obsessive compulsive. And rich. Fish people like to compare notes. You should read some of the chat lines on the Net. Fish people are gregarious. This guy’s an exception.”

  “His name was Robert Griffin,” said Miranda.

  “Never heard of him,” said Nishimura with a trace of admiration.

  “So what do you think it’s all worth?” asked Morgan.

  Nishimura shrugged.

  “C’mon, Eugene. A hundred thousand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “More?”

  “A lot more. I’ll do a complete inventory. Look at that Sushui!” He pointed at a striking fish with a dark zipper down its back set against pale blue, and large mirror scales along the sides, with a brilliant orange belly that only showed as it carved the water in slow, complementary arcs in response to another blue fish, also with a flashing red belly, and scales edged in darker gunmetal blue so that its entire back resembled articulated armour.

  “The Sushui, swimming with the Asagi?” asked Morgan tentatively. He felt unsure of his authority in the presence of a master. The master deferred. Morgan was inordinately pleased with himself. “They move in response to each other,” Morgan said to Miranda. “And look at the Ogans. They’re like synchronized swimmers.”

  “Yamabuki Ogans,” Nishimura explained. “Beautiful and bland.”

  “Identical twins,” said Miranda. “Golden reflections of each other.”

  “I like the way those other two relate — the Asagi and the Sushui,” Morgan said.

  “Like us,” said Miranda.

  The hint of a blush rose to Morgan’s cheek, and he scowled. She smiled.

  “If we really want a true evaluation,” Nishimura said, “I’d suggest trying to get Peter Waddington over from England.”

  “He wrote Koi Kichi,” said Morgan. “There’s a copy inside.”

  “He knows more about koi than just about anybody.”

  “I’ve read some of his diatribes on the Web. Bit of a diamond in the rough.”

  “Genius has its privileges,” said Nishimura. “He’s our man.”

  “Do you know him?” asked Miranda. “I’ve seen him at shows, crossed paths with him in Niigata a couple of times,” Nishimura said. “The man exudes expertise.”

  “I thought he was into Kohaku and Sanke,” Morgan said.

  “There’s no koi lover in the world who wouldn’t revel in this wonderful collection, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Okay,” said Miranda. “Will you try to reach him?”

  “Absolutely,” said Nishimura, “but it’ll cost you big bucks.”

  “Eugene,” said Morgan, “let me show you the setup inside.”

  “Sure, but where’s the Chagoi? I need to commune with a Chagoi.”

  “We’ve saved the best for last,” Morgan said. “He’s down in the lower pond with some absolutely exquisite Kohaku.”

  “You’re in for a treat,” said Miranda. “We figure the real collection is down there. The other’s a major distraction, just for sho
w.”

  “I put the Chagoi in to bring them up for viewing,” Morgan said. “These, they’re very special Kohaku he keeps hidden from himself.”

  Eugene Nishimura squatted by the lower pool’s edge. “Bentonite clay. They must have trucked in tons of the stuff.”

  “Around the turn of the last century, late 1800s,” said Morgan, “a son and heir built the place next door and put in the fish ponds, the two lower ones. There’s another over there. They’re probably connected. It’s got koi in it, too. The formal pool came later, maybe put in by the last of the line. Would have been for goldfish back then, prize goldfish. There’s a pipe running down from the pumphouse …”

  “But they’re spring fed!” Nishimura said. “Natural water flow, clay-lined, they’d never freeze over. Ideal conditions.” He paused, then stood back. “Call your fish, Detective Morgan. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Miranda glanced at Morgan. How did you call a fish? But limpid eyes in a massive bronze head were already watching them, responding to their voices. Morgan took some feed from his pocket and hunched close to the pond edge. He reached over and let the Chagoi snarfle a mound of feed from his palm. Suddenly, there were Kohaku swarming like a tangle of kites, mouthing the air for food.

  The fish in this pond were used to gathering natural nutrients from their forest-garden setting — insect larvae and algae and small creatures that swam through the green haze. So food pellets were a wondrous treat. But only the Chagoi had been conditioned to associate food with human voices, most recently with Morgan’s voice.

  “There are some beauties there,” Morgan said.

  “Indeed, Mr. Morgan. There are some very nice fish. Quality nishikigoi. Very collectible.”

  “But?” asked Miranda.

  Nishimura frowned. “These are no better than the fish in the other pond. How many? Two dozen. Perhaps not quite as good. No, not so good.”

  The trio gazed into the shifting pattern of white and red awash in the opaque green as it slowly resolved into separate shadows and the water closed over until only the Chagoi was left, still grasping at the air with its lips, eyes fixed above the water level on Morgan.

  Miranda and Morgan were disappointed by what Nishimura had said. Morgan, especially, felt a little betrayed. They had wanted this to be a treasure trove and a key to their investigation. Neither was excessively bothered that their knowledge of koi was imperfect, but each felt that their forensic skills had been somehow found wanting.