Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather (12 page)

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, but 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.

Boris, clearly shaken, had no choice but to relent. Once Igor had summarily relieved Boris of his carrier bags, reducing his stock to only two canisters, just as if he were back at Canada
Dépôt, Olga stepped in to show who was in charge in that kitchen.

‘You’re not going to let his fish die!’

Sheepishly, Igor handed Boris a bag with eight canisters, and Boris handed back the ten-dollar bill. Women really had a thing about Boris’s mathematical theory. Olga took two plates and
heaped them high.

Boris and Julie sat at a quiet table off to one side and sampled Olga’s carp, on the house. The onions, prepared by this chef who’d come from the cold, were not as strong as Julie
had feared. One thing was for sure: with Boris everything tasted good, and she was never bored. Between two fish bones, she took the plunge.

‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘Not that I know of . . .’

She wanted to shout, Open your eyes, Boris, you know who she is, she’s sitting right here opposite you!

But with her mouth full of carp, that would be a perilous venture. Besides, she didn’t feel like shouting while her breath smelled of onions. So she savoured her food, and took her time.
Love is like a taxi: if it doesn’t stop when you run after it, then it’s already taken. To catch one you just have to wait in the right spot.

‘The power is back on in your place . . .’

‘I must have left the light on when the power went out.’

Boris looked through the window into the lit room. He pursed his lips and turned to Julie.

‘I don’t want to inconvenience you any longer,’ he said formally.

‘You’re no inconvenience.’

‘I know.’

Boris Bogdanov was not a macho man, he was merely pragmatic. She understood this, and his reply didn’t surprise her. When you want to love, you must know how to do it, but to know how, you
have to ask. So Julie threw a fastball straight at the heart of this logical man, this man who seemed to be made of marble.

‘My flat is on the same grid as the old people’s home, but yours isn’t. You may have power at your place now, but there’s no telling when it might go out again. Maybe we
should wait a little before repatriating your fish?’

Boris didn’t quite understand. The equation still contained too many unknowns. Julie’s only chance was to try an inside curveball.

‘The likelihood . . . uh . . . let’s say the
probability
that the power will go out is far greater for your place than for mine.’

Boris immediately rubbed his forehead then started pacing in a circle. He was doing complicated calculations in his head, muttering quotients and square roots in Russian. Then suddenly he fell
silent, but not for long.

‘
Da . . . Da . . . Da . . .
’

‘I can always ask Michel, my neighbour – he works for the weather office.’

‘Do you have something to drink that will warm me up?’

‘I have everything you need to warm you up . . .’

Boris Bogdanov didn’t get it, not at all.

‘
Davai!
’

No one can understand everything.

I DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT

‘Tonight’s forecast has dealt us a nasty surprise: we’re in for more freezing rain.’

The sky had heard me. I’d done it, I really had done it! Now there could be no doubt about it.

‘
We can expect the worst; experts over at Météo Canada are forecasting at least ten millimetres of freezing rain for Montreal and the entire region.
’

What on earth was the sky up to now? I had just asked it to give Alex a hand, but it didn’t have to go so far! Some ice on the building across the street – that would have been more
than enough.

‘
Emergency shelters are expecting thousands of people tonight. Let’s go straight to our report on . . .
’

It gave me a shock to see all those people lying on camp beds, or lining up to go to the showers. It was like pictures from somewhere else, anywhere but Quebec. Normally, human misery is far
away. Then I saw this little kid who was crying because he’d lost his parents at the shelter.

And I started crying with him.

When they said the little kid had found his mummy and daddy that didn’t stop my tears. The thought that I’d caused this pain to others just caused me even more pain. Especially as I
had done what I’d done just so I’d
stop
feeling pain. I should have stood up to Alex, I should have said no. I choked on my tears.

Then I felt an arm around me. I opened my eyes. Through my tears I saw my mum. She looked desperate, terrified to see me crying. Apparently, when a child is hurting, his mother starts hurting
just the same.

‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’

‘It’s all my fault!’

‘No it isn’t, it’s not your fault!’

‘It’s all because of me!’

‘You had nothing to do with it.’

‘I did, I did, I know I did . . .’

‘You mustn’t feel guilty, sweetheart . . .’

‘You don’t understand—’

My mum put her hands on my cheeks and squeezed. I couldn’t finish my sentence. In her eyes there were tears, just about to spill.

‘Darling, let me tell you again, don’t blame yourself, you had nothing to do with it.’

‘I’ll never forgive myself.’

I dried my tears. I took a deep breath. I had to get it off my chest, this terrible thing I’d done.

‘Mum, I’m the one who—’

‘Stop saying that, you’ll make me cry!’

Too late: she was already crying. It was the first time I’d ever really seen her cry. In fact, grown-ups cry just the same as kids. I felt awful, it was all my fault.

‘Mum, please forgive me for what I did—’

She had trouble speaking through her tears.

‘But I told you, you haven’t done anything wrong! So stop saying that!’

With her hands on my cheeks, she gave me a little shake. She really wanted me to agree with her.

‘That’s the truth! None of it is your fault, not any of it!’

I pulled free of her hands and looked at the television.

‘
Hospital emergency services are overwhelmed with victims of the black ice, and are treating a constant succession of sprains, fractures and head injuries. One man is in a deep coma at
Sacré-Coeur Hospital after he fell while trying to de-ice the roof of his summer cottage in the Laurentides.
’