Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather - Pierre Szalowski

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that Yankees bathrobe looks great on you!’ he’d said.

      I think he would have liked to have a boy. Maybe not two, but at least one of the two. Having to buy Barbie dolls in duplicate all the time must be frustrating for even the best dads. So he kind of made up for it with me.

      ‘At least an alarm clock is more practical than a bathrobe . . .’

      ‘You mustn’t forget that it’s not the present that counts, but the thought . . .’

      I could tell my mum wasn’t really talking to me, but to my dad. I went back to the box with the video camera. I sat on the floor with my back to them. I could sense that they didn’t agree but, with such a beautiful toy in my hands, that didn’t seem like my problem. I took out the instructions. My parents were whispering. I pretended to read, and I overheard everything, intentionally. I didn’t know my mum knew how to swear.

      ‘Shit, Martin. A thousand bucks for that camera! Don’t you start playing that game.’

      ‘He’s been wanting one for a long time, and have you seen his report card?’

      ‘He always has good report cards!’

      ‘Aren’t you the one who said we ought to encourage him?’

      ‘If you buy him a camera when he’s only eleven, how are you going to encourage him when he’s sixteen? With a car?’

      My mum got up and left the room. Hearing them argue because my present was too expensive made me sorry I didn’t believe in Santa Claus any more. Especially since I had already heard way too many arguments this year. They almost always began with the same sentence: Don’t you ever feel like you’re wasting your life, sitting there glued to the television?

      I turned to my dad. He was trying hard to smile. Then he stood up, slowly. No, very slowly.

      ‘Urghh! My head!’

      He went over to the bathroom. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Knock-knock!

      ‘It’s engaged!’

      My mum shouted so loud that he put his hands over his ears. He came back and slumped into his armchair, almost embracing it with his body. Robot-like, he reached for the remote. Click. And on it went, the blahblah of the television.

      It was nine fifty-nine on the news channel.

      Christmas goes by so fast.

       Sunday, 4 January 1998

      THEY’RE ONLY KIDS!

      Only three bulbs twinkled on a tiny string of Christmas lights on the tiny Christmas tree that stood on the coffee table next to two empty glasses and a bottle of wine that had breathed its last. On the sofa two cats nestled together, sleeping on a yellow shirt rolled up in a ball, its bottom buttons still done up. On the floor was a twisted pair of men’s trousers, clearly removed in a great hurry. A short red dress lay carefully folded on the back of the sofa.

      Along the hall, the bedroom door was ajar. In the dishevelled bed two shapes could be seen, both sound asleep. According to the clock radio it was two in the afternoon.

      ‘Psst! Psst! Come on, here you go!’

      In the kitchen, near a little flap at the bottom of the door to the balcony, a black kitten hesitated.

      ‘Here, kitty kitty!’

      The little creature took a step forward, crouched down and put its head through the flap. A hand outside, reaching up from the ground floor, encouraged the kitten, rolling a little red ball from left to right in the snow.

      ‘Who’s this ball for, hmm?’

      The kitten seemed to think it just might be for him. For a moment he stayed poised. Yes, it must be his! He pounced. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. So it wasn’t for him after all.

       Meow!

      On the sofa, deaf to the cry of distress from their kidnapped fellow creature, neither cat budged. The three little lights on the tree went on blinking. In the bedroom, one of the bodies had turned away from the other. A man’s muscular arm emerged from the sheets to hang down the side of the bed, accidentally brushing the woman’s back. She murmured something, then silence returned.

       Ding-dong!

      The man twitched, and sat up with a start. He looked around and in a panic he turned to the front door.

      ‘Julie! Wake up!’

      ‘Let me sleep . . .’

      ‘There’s someone at the door!’

      ‘You’re dreaming . . . Go back to sleep.’

       Ding-dong!

      The man ran frantically for his trousers, pulling them on even more hurriedly than he had removed them the night before. He bent over the sofa and quickly tugged at his yellow shirt. Two cats flew into the air for an instant before landing neatly on their paws. Buttoning his shirt, the man went to shake Julie.

      ‘Does anyone know I’m here?’

      Julie raised her head calmly.

      ‘No one but me, the cats and you.’

      The man looked hard at her for a second then turned, worried, to the two cats, who were purring innocently. Quite often a man is even more idiotic after lovemaking than he was before. Julie pushed back the sheet and got up. Her body was absolutely perfect. She headed into the bathroom, barely glancing at the man who was tucking his shirt into his trousers.

      ‘You’re married, is that it?’

      The man pretended he hadn’t heard, devoting all his attention to zipping up his flies. Julie reappeared, wearing a short, red, faux-silk bathrobe.

      ‘Luc, honey – that is your name, right, Luc? You’ve got a gift, I must say. Last night you were single, then one fuck with me and by morning you’re married.’

      Resigned, Julie pulled her bathrobe over her breasts. With a quick knot she cinched the belt around her waist, to keep the flimsy robe closed.

       Ding-dong!

      ‘Does your wife have a firearms permit?’

      The moron seemed to have to think about that. Out in the hallway, Julie slid on a pair of high heels. Suddenly taller, she seemed even more slender, even more beautiful, even more perfect. From the way she walked it was clear she was used to perching on high heels. Her bottom swayed beneath the silky material. The man, terrified, hid behind the first thing he saw, a hat stand. His gaze followed Julie as she went to the front door. He might have made love to this gorgeous woman last night, but he wasn’t looking at her bottom now. Julie planted herself firmly in front of the door, then opened it, unafraid. She knew she had done nothing wrong.

       Meow!

      There was the kitten, in the arms of a boy about twelve years old. Towering on her heels, Julie seemed disproportionately tall. The child’s head came no higher than her breasts. Julie leaned down towards the cat in her young neighbour’s arms. Her flimsy bathrobe gaped open slightly.

      ‘Brutus! What are you doing out again?’

      The boy’s eyes zoomed in on Julie’s half-naked breasts.

      ‘He got out again!’

      ‘That’s the third time this week . . .’

      Julie, who was well acquainted with the ways of men who look at women, immediately understood what her providential cat-rescuer was playing at. She leaned forward again and reached out for the kitten. Her bathrobe opened even further. The child didn’t move. One of Julie’s breasts was now almost completely bared.

      ‘It’ll catch cold .

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