Читать книгу Fish Change Direction in Cold Weather - Pierre Szalowski - Страница 15

BÉBÉ . . . JE T’AI, TOI, BÉBÉ . . .

‘Ten to twenty millimetres of rain, now that could cause a few problems . . .’ The man on the television screen was relaxed and in a cheerful mood. He strolled along through a light rain, in his loose green raincoat, doing his usual banter. Bad weather was his moment of glory. That was normal – he was the television weatherman. It went without saying that the sky held no secrets for him. He didn’t give a damn there under his umbrella. The anchorwoman seemed to think it was pretty funny.

‘Go and dry off! We want to see you again at the end of the programme. You must be completely frozen now!’

‘He can go piss himself, that’ll warm him up, fucking faggot.’

Alex didn’t say anything. He didn’t laugh. Or smile. In fact, he didn’t even notice his dad’s sarcasm. Ever since Doro – his wife, his love – had left him without warning, Alexis saw faggots everywhere. And when they weren’t faggots, they were Jews, rarely both at the same time.

Alexis no longer looked at women and he didn’t try to attract their attention. So no women were attracted to him. And yet at forty-five he was still a good-looking man . . . but he didn’t like himself any more. Hating others was what kept him afloat.

‘All fags! Fucking Jews!’

Around his son he was different. He had a gentle side, nurtured no doubt by his sense of guilt. Alex’s hair was as black and frizzy as Alexis’s was straight and fair and blondish-grey. Only their names were similar. Just the kind of bad idea a dad would have.

‘In Alexis, there’s Alex!’

Every so often Alex asked Alexis to tell him who his mother was and why she’d gone away.

‘I just can’t, Alex. It’s as if she no longer exists.’

It’s not something you can talk about, a thing that doesn’t exist. So Alex never asked again.

‘What bullshit! They never told us yesterday that there’d be black ice, and now there is, and I’ll bet you tomorrow there won’t be any. Can you imagine, if I worked the way they do?’

Alex looked at his dad. It was at moments like this that he most missed having a mother. She was the one who should have been glaring defiantly at Alexis. She was the one who should be making him see reality, asking him, ‘Would you look at yourself?’

Alex had often wondered if he’d really had a mother, if you could just come from nowhere. He had no memory of his early childhood. All he knew was that Alexis had been a musician, a singer-songwriter and guitar player. Alex remembered how when he was younger he used to spend long days at the recording studio. He could remember those huge mixing desks, and how he would sit sprawled on a sofa watching his dad behind the big pane of glass, his guitar strap over his shoulder. He may have been just a kid, and not meant to understand everything, but he had a fairly good idea what was happening.

‘Alexis! It’s always the same thing with you! Can’t you just play what we asked you to play? C minor is C minor, and A minor is A minor . . . And we’re paying you to play C minor!’

‘After a C minor you never play an F sharp, didn’t your music teacher teach you that?’

‘Alexis . . . All we’re asking is for you to play the damn score, we don’t give a fuck about your opinion.’

‘No F sharps after a C minor!’

‘You’re impossible . . . Just get the hell out of here.’

‘You don’t know who you’re losing! You’ll be sorry!’

That was how the final sessions always went. Not one of the studios was ever sorry they’d lost Alexis. But he was blindly stubborn, so he didn’t give up on his career. When you’re sure you have talent, sure that you have the keys to success, you don’t walk away from the profession that could turn you into a star. You just have to change direction.

‘I’ll make them understand what music really is!’

And so Alex followed his dad onto the streets of Old Montreal. Alexis busked, playing his guitar all hunched over, more mumbling than humming, as if he were only playing for himself and didn’t care whether anyone heard him or not. When you don’t have anyone to love, it’s hard to sing love songs. Lovers would walk past him, give him nothing, then go and smooch on public benches. From that point on Alexis’s condition deteriorated.

‘All fags! Bleedin’ Jews!’

So music had ditched him, too. But with a child to support, you have to eat. He began painting; not pictures, but walls and windows, then ceilings, too. Everyone agreed he was a good worker. But too often he would forget to turn up, or he would quarrel with his co-workers, who couldn’t stand listening to him any more.

‘They’re all fags, those carpenters! Fucking plumbers! Bloody Jews!’

It always took him a few days to get the feel of a new construction site. It was better for him to work on his own. Alexis was a drinker, of course. Not a chronic alcoholic, but at night he’d drink as many beers as he needed to get to sleep. The number varied.

When you’ve only got one person to love, and that person loves you, however badly, you love them back. Alex loved his dad. And he wondered why he’d been given this life. He knew his future was all plotted out. The educational director at school had said as much: You’ll come to a bad end, you will!

Alex hadn’t protested. He behaved the way all children do. It’s not what parents say that matters, but the example they give. Looking at Alexis, no one could believe that his son had a happy fate in store.

‘Night, Dad!’

‘Are you going to bed already?’

‘Got school tomorrow.’

‘Already?’

‘Yeah, Dad, it’s the fifth of January, we go back to school.’

‘You’re too serious for your age.’

Alex wasn’t serious at all. He fought with everyone. The shopkeeper at the corner shop didn’t want to see him there any more, because he nicked things. Alex lied to his dad. He faked his signature. He copied his tests off his best friend. He never told his dad when there were parent–teacher meetings. And anyway, his dad was beyond caring about any of that. All he looked forward to was falling asleep on the sofa. First he snored, then he mumbled a song, always the same refrain.

‘Bébé . . . Je t’ai, toi, bébé . . .’

Alex pulled a blanket over Alexis.

‘Bébé . . . Je t’ai, toi, bébé . . .’

Alex never tired of hearing those gentle words. He often stayed next to his sleeping dad until late at night. It was so rare for him to hear anything about love.

‘Bébé . . . Je t’ai, toi, bébé . . .’