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Fiction

Unagi

By Dominique Fortier
Translated from French by Paloma Vita
Dominique Fortier's alienated wife struggles with secrets and sashimi.

On July 16, 2009, a young woman who was dining out with her husband in a Japanese restaurant in downtown Montreal died instantly when a concrete block fell from the front of the building and landed exactly where she was seated. This is not her story.

She looked at her watch (5:15 p.m.), then brought to her lips the glass of water the waiter had just set in front of her. There was a small stain on the cuff of his white shirt that could have been soy sauce. The smell of chlorine filled her nostrils; she raised her hand to order a bottle of Perrier.

Around her, in the half-filled dining room, businessmen eating alone, a few couples, and some tourists, who were easy to identify from the combination of elation and slight bewilderment on their faces and, for some, the sunburn on their nose. Of course, in a hotel such as this, there were hardly any children. The Perrier was barely tepid but she gave up on the idea of calling the waiter again and studied her neighbors—two Asians, a man and a woman in their early twenties silently sharing a colourful sushi platter that looked like an assortment of candies.

On the other side of the window, Maisonneuve Boulevard, traffic slowly oozed by as rush hour lingered. The skyscrapers were now empty but the still-lit windows studded their gray surface with a multitude of small dim rectangles. She checked her watch again (5:23 p.m.) and rubbed the back of her neck. An air-conditioning vent installed right behind her spewed cold air, and she regretted having left her coat at the bank. She had come early once again for fear of being late, even though this had not happened in years. Only a handful of seats had been occupied when she arrived; the maître d’ had first showed her to the center of the main dining room to a table where a little laminated paper sign read “Reserve” in printed characters to which had been added the letter D in blue pen. She had frowned, then pointed to another smaller and mostly empty room that was separated from the main dining area by a set of steps; it looked like a glass sunroom lined with large windows through which shone the last shimmers of daylight.

“Would you have something over there?”

The maitre d’ had looked upset for a few seconds, then went to find the manager; both of them had held a long discussion during which they had turned around to examine her, alone in the middle of the dining room, shifting from one foot to the other. She had been on her feet all day wearing new shoes, first at her bank teller counter and then in the metro, and her little toe was hurting. Finally, the manager had rushed over to her with a big smile that had appeared so suddenly it looked like he had slipped on a mask, and had offered her a table by the windows, gesturing as he pulled out a chair for her, being careful not to touch the seat. As soon as she sat down she noticed the cold draft on the back of her neck. 5:29 p.m. She felt a tickle in her nose. She could not tell whether this was caused by the industrial cleaner used to clean the carpet or because she felt a rising urge to cry. She picked up the purse she had propped against one of the table legs, set it on her lap, and pressed her thumbs on her closed eyes; red circles started to dance behind her eyelids.

He arrived almost immediately, sat down and declared, “I am hungry!” He took her hand and lightly brushed her fingers with a kiss. He was wearing a blue shirt with the top button undone, and his wavy hair curled on his temples. His cheeks were still flushed from running to make sure he got there on time. They had been married for over two years and had dated for about three years before that, and still, every time she saw him she was almost surprised, and her heart did a funny little somersault. This was all that mattered; everything else was trivial, short-lived . . . accidental. She just had to tell him. He would understand.

The bottle of sake he ordered arrived wrapped in a thick napkin. She covered her cup with her hand as he started to pour; a single drop fell at the base of her thumb. She licked it off. The sweet yet slightly tart liquid was the exact same temperature as her skin. He had already started to check the menu and was making suggestions out loud. To be completely honest, she had never really liked sushi, those little pieces of cold fish wrapped in sticky rice. The way their soft flesh gave under her teeth made her feel like she was biting into something that was not completely dead, or that had never truly been alive. It always conjured images of swollen fish guts and made her think about slimy, slippery underwater creatures, like the ones that slither between your legs when you go wading in the ocean or some murky lake. She did enjoy the vibrant colors, though. Coral pinks, mustard yellows, and the contrast of creamy avocados against the white rice and the green seaweed, so dark it seemed black; little wheels edged with golden or chocolate-brown sesame seeds that reminded her of the candy sprinkles used to decorate children’s birthday cakes. The best way to proceed was to swallow each piece whole, without chewing, and admire the delicate flowery shapes of the sculpted vegetables.

Outside, a light rain had started to fall and the drops traced snail trails on the window panes. Traffic had eased a little and pedestrians hurried under their umbrellas. On the ground everything had turned the same gray tinge; the buildings stretched their concrete silhouettes toward an almost yellow sky that shed a strange light on the city. Maybe a storm was brewing. More patrons had filled the restaurant and the muffled hum of their conservations rose from the tables; the melody of their voices blended with the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the glass roof.

“I’m thinking hamachi, uni, masago, tako, maguro and unagi; how does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Do you even know what those are?”

“No, but I trust you.”

Which was true. She smiled at him. Not yet. Let this moment last a little longer, when their thorniest issue was deciding what kind of raw fish to order.

The Asian couple had finished their meal and were now deep in conversation; she did not understand a single word but the singsong quality of their speech reminded her of a lullaby. They were now drinking tea; wisps of aromatic steam wafted from the teapot into the room. The woman held the tiny cup in her hands as if to warm them. These two looked like brother and sister.

“I have some bad news . . .” he blurted.

She looked up to meet his eyes, feeling oddly hopeful.

“What is it?”

 “Terry officially quit today. He’s accepted a job in Vancouver. We were kind of expecting it but still . . . We’ll probably have to postpone our trip to the lake by a week. I checked with my parents and they said it was no problem . . . I’m sorry.”

Her in-laws owned a log cabin on the shores of Pink Lake, which they were welcome to use for a week or two every summer. When she thought about them, this is always how she pictured them: sitting together on the covered porch overlooking the lake; the wail of the loons rising from the mirror-still water and ringing through the misty dusk. One summer, a long time ago—maybe when they were the same age she was now—the two had sat on their rocking chairs to watch a thunderstorm raging over the lake. They had told this story a thousand times. The rain was falling in thick sheets and thunder clapped so near and so loud that it kept shaking the porch and they could have sworn it was coming from the ground. The sky was streaked with huge disjointed lightning bolts that hit the ground like giant pitchforks, casting, for a split second, a supernatural glow on the surrounding forest. Her father-in-law had spent the day tearing down a half-rotten shed and was now having a beer on the porch, still in his work clothes, when he was struck by lightning. A thin white finger had come down from the sky, irresistibly drawn to the steel of his work boots’ reinforced toes. He had been thrown backward and his head had hit the log wall behind him. At the time, his wife’s first thought had been to tend the head wound he had received, as copious amounts of blood trickled down his neck. Once at the hospital, the staff wouldn’t believe their story and thought it must have been some sort of domestic dispute gone wrong; the nurses and doctors changed their mind when they saw the charred soles of the work boots he was still wearing.

“One chance in a million,” is what he kept repeating over and over, “It’s like winning the lottery!” Hearing him talk about it, you’d think these two unlikely events were mysteriously linked. He had kept his steel-toe boots but she had never seen them. To this day, and in spite of the numerous coats of paints that had since been applied to the porch, the circular shape etched by the heat of the lightning was still visible.

The nigiri and sashimi platters were brought to the table, a complex array of fish and seafood piles that threatened to fall apart as soon as they removed the first piece. She now thought the stain on the waiter’s cuff might not be soy sauce after all, but a drop of brownish dried-up blood. The octopus tentacles on her large rectangular plate were arranged in a star pattern, their tiny suckers like so many unblinking eyes staring back at her. With his chopsticks, he picked up a piece of pink salmon streaked with thin lines of fat. She tentatively poked at a piece of cucumber with the tines of her fork. Through the window, a siren could be heard, then another, close by. She realized there was no good moment for this kind of thing. She had thought it would be easier to do this in one of his favorite restaurants, as if being in a public place could protect her, or him; or somehow avert, lessen or undo what she was about to tell him.

Terry was moving to Vancouver, on the other side of the country; might as well be the other side of the planet. At least, his leaving came as a relief. It changed everything, and it changed nothing. She needed to think, some peace and quiet, a little bit more time to set her thoughts in order.

“Did you know,” he started, “that after spending many years in salt water, salmon return to the river to spawn, at the exact spot where they hatched?”

She vaguely remembered having seen a documentary about this on TV or hearing about it in biology class at school.

“When they built all the big hydroelectric dams, they blocked many of the creeks and streams; this created insurmountable obstacles for them; thousands . . . maybe millions of salmon died trying to swim upstream. I’ve seen pictures . . . dead salmon as far as the eye could see.”

“Why didn’t they go back where they came from?”

He shrugged. “They were probably not programmed for that.”

“So why didn’t they spawn at the foot of the dam, then?”

He thought about it some more and admitted he had no idea why; he then picked up a purple slice of octopus with the tip of his chopsticks. She put a piece of avocado in her mouth; a bit of barbecued eel had been hiding under it and the slippery texture of its grayish flesh made her gag. She spat it out in her napkin.

”Are you OK? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

She got up and almost ran to the bathroom, sat down in one of the stalls—not before carefully placing pieces of toilet paper all around the seat—and forced herself to take deep breaths. There was no hurry. They were married. That counted for something. Everyone is entitled to make mistakes. This kind of thing happens every day. That’s life—unpredictable and fraught with perils, a succession of random decisions. She grabbed the plastic tube she had been carrying in her purse all day and went to throw it out in a metal trashcan that read “Napkin Disposal Only” when a wave of dizziness hit her and made her lean on the rough and cool surface of the paper-towel dispenser. The slender plastic tube fell to the floor; she blocked its path with her foot, picked it up and cleaned it off carefully. The white-tiled room smelled dank; in the stall next to her, the toilet gurgled and sounded like a neverending sigh, or like faraway waves breaking on a shore. Through a vent near the ceiling, she could hear a muted cacophony of utensils and barked orders in which she could pick up a word here and there. One chance in a million. She returned the plastic tube to one of her purse pockets and closed the zipper; she blew her nose, left the stall, reapplied her lipstick, and let the water run in the sink. The pink soap coming out of the metal dispenser in long opalescent filaments smelled of bubble gum. All she had to do was wait . . . that’s what she had to do. Nothing at all. Some sign would come along to point the way. She pushed the bathroom door open and almost collided with a busboy. The huge brown container he carried was filled to the brim with food scraps, dirty plates, and teetering towers of translucent fingerprint-smeared glasses.

She made her way back to the table. The rain had stopped; Maisonneuve Boulevard gleamed under the streetlights. The sidewalk mirrored the skyscrapers’ oddly distorted silhouettes, tilted and quivering as if they were about to collapse in the middle of the street and shatter in a thousand pieces. She sat down in front of him and declared, “It’s OK by me if we have to postpone our holidays by a week. While we’re there, maybe we should spend some time fixing up the porch, it’s long overdue.” She could see herself stripping and sanding the damaged wood to remove the charred mark before painting it anew. Nothing would show.

He took her hands in his again; they remained still for a long time, without saying a word, their interlaced fingers in the middle of the table; a few grains of rice and the wilting rose of the pickled ginger were the only things left on the sushi plates. The waiter soon came to clear the table and asked if they wanted to order something else.

“I would like one of those almond cookies,” she said, “the ones with the fortunes.”

The waiter looked at her with a blank stare.

“Those are Chinese, hon,” said her husband, “. . . this is a Japanese restaurant.”

“Then I’ll have some of that tea,” she replied, pointing to the now empty table where the young Asian couple had dined.

“Kombucha,” announced the waiter with a slight bow as he set before them a teapot from which emanated a strong fruity and musky fragrance.

“What is it?” asked her husband to the waiter as he poured the amber liquid.

“Green tea and honey fermented with a mother.”

They looked at him inquiringly.

“Just like vinegar,” he explained, “it’s made from a bacterial culture mixed with yeast that is sometimes referred to as Kombucha mushroom.”

Right away, images of mold came flooding in, cells growing uncontrollably and multiplying to birth limp and fuzzy alien creatures. Disgusted, she pushed her cup aside and looked up at her husband, who was carefully sipping from his.

“Healthy bacteria,” explained the waiter with a slightly insulted look before quickly leaving their table

Her husband swallowed a small mouthful. “It’s delicious. But there are things we’d rather never know, right?”

“I agree.”

She finished what was left of her mineral water while he drank the tea she was now refusing to touch, its mere odor enough to make her feel slightly nauseous. The majority of diners who had arrived early had now finished their meals; the tables were instantly cleaned and dressed again for the main service of the evening.

Outside, dozens of emergency vehicles sped past, their sirens blaring. Intersections were blocked to traffic which was being diverted by policemen freshly dispatched at the scene. In the distance, the usually impressive red and chrome fire trucks almost looked like toys. She checked her watch again, 6:25 p.m. The waiter brought them the bill and she realized that they had forgotten to charge her for the bottle of Perrier. She considered mentioning the omission for a second and then decided to keep it to herself, which gave her a certain sense of satisfaction. They split the bill, tip included, and each paid half.

Maisonneuve Boulevard, they pushed their way through the rapidly growing crowd of gawkers trying to figure out what was going on and coming up with the wildest stories: a mini-tornado had touched down at this very street corner; not one, but two suspicious packages had been discovered; a piano had fallen from the twentieth floor. Rushing ambulance and police car sirens could be heard coming from all directions; their spinning, flashing lights cast a supernatural glow on the cityscape. On the corner of Metcalfe Street, yellow tape surrounded a security parameter and a white-gloved policeman blocked their access in no uncertain terms.

“No one can get through, turn around.”

“My car is parked on the corner,” explained her husband as he tried to walk past him.

The policeman didn’t budge.

“But it’s right there,” he insisted, pointing at his car just a few hundred meters away.

The policeman answered by crossing his arms across his chest and staring them down.

They turned around, walked one block up and tried to cross Peel Street but their path was blocked there too. The crowd kept on growing and he had to hold her hand to avoid losing her in the melee. As people streamed in from everywhere to converge on the scene of the accident, they finally gave up, retraced their steps, and went home on foot; she with a slight limp because of her sore toe.

“They would have died anyway,” she said after they had been walking for a few minutes.

“Who?”

“The salmon, they would have died anyway, even without the dams.”

She remembered now: their color changed once they arrived at their spawning grounds, they stopped feeding, their physiognomy altered, their jaws turned into something that looked like a beak, and humps grew on their heads; they morphed into sea monsters like the ones in Middle Age bestiaries. They died as soon as they laid their eggs.

Translation of “Unagi.” Copyright Dominique Fortier. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2011 by Paloma Vita. All rights reserved.

English French (Original)

On July 16, 2009, a young woman who was dining out with her husband in a Japanese restaurant in downtown Montreal died instantly when a concrete block fell from the front of the building and landed exactly where she was seated. This is not her story.

She looked at her watch (5:15 p.m.), then brought to her lips the glass of water the waiter had just set in front of her. There was a small stain on the cuff of his white shirt that could have been soy sauce. The smell of chlorine filled her nostrils; she raised her hand to order a bottle of Perrier.

Around her, in the half-filled dining room, businessmen eating alone, a few couples, and some tourists, who were easy to identify from the combination of elation and slight bewilderment on their faces and, for some, the sunburn on their nose. Of course, in a hotel such as this, there were hardly any children. The Perrier was barely tepid but she gave up on the idea of calling the waiter again and studied her neighbors—two Asians, a man and a woman in their early twenties silently sharing a colourful sushi platter that looked like an assortment of candies.

On the other side of the window, Maisonneuve Boulevard, traffic slowly oozed by as rush hour lingered. The skyscrapers were now empty but the still-lit windows studded their gray surface with a multitude of small dim rectangles. She checked her watch again (5:23 p.m.) and rubbed the back of her neck. An air-conditioning vent installed right behind her spewed cold air, and she regretted having left her coat at the bank. She had come early once again for fear of being late, even though this had not happened in years. Only a handful of seats had been occupied when she arrived; the maître d’ had first showed her to the center of the main dining room to a table where a little laminated paper sign read “Reserve” in printed characters to which had been added the letter D in blue pen. She had frowned, then pointed to another smaller and mostly empty room that was separated from the main dining area by a set of steps; it looked like a glass sunroom lined with large windows through which shone the last shimmers of daylight.

“Would you have something over there?”

The maitre d’ had looked upset for a few seconds, then went to find the manager; both of them had held a long discussion during which they had turned around to examine her, alone in the middle of the dining room, shifting from one foot to the other. She had been on her feet all day wearing new shoes, first at her bank teller counter and then in the metro, and her little toe was hurting. Finally, the manager had rushed over to her with a big smile that had appeared so suddenly it looked like he had slipped on a mask, and had offered her a table by the windows, gesturing as he pulled out a chair for her, being careful not to touch the seat. As soon as she sat down she noticed the cold draft on the back of her neck. 5:29 p.m. She felt a tickle in her nose. She could not tell whether this was caused by the industrial cleaner used to clean the carpet or because she felt a rising urge to cry. She picked up the purse she had propped against one of the table legs, set it on her lap, and pressed her thumbs on her closed eyes; red circles started to dance behind her eyelids.

He arrived almost immediately, sat down and declared, “I am hungry!” He took her hand and lightly brushed her fingers with a kiss. He was wearing a blue shirt with the top button undone, and his wavy hair curled on his temples. His cheeks were still flushed from running to make sure he got there on time. They had been married for over two years and had dated for about three years before that, and still, every time she saw him she was almost surprised, and her heart did a funny little somersault. This was all that mattered; everything else was trivial, short-lived . . . accidental. She just had to tell him. He would understand.

The bottle of sake he ordered arrived wrapped in a thick napkin. She covered her cup with her hand as he started to pour; a single drop fell at the base of her thumb. She licked it off. The sweet yet slightly tart liquid was the exact same temperature as her skin. He had already started to check the menu and was making suggestions out loud. To be completely honest, she had never really liked sushi, those little pieces of cold fish wrapped in sticky rice. The way their soft flesh gave under her teeth made her feel like she was biting into something that was not completely dead, or that had never truly been alive. It always conjured images of swollen fish guts and made her think about slimy, slippery underwater creatures, like the ones that slither between your legs when you go wading in the ocean or some murky lake. She did enjoy the vibrant colors, though. Coral pinks, mustard yellows, and the contrast of creamy avocados against the white rice and the green seaweed, so dark it seemed black; little wheels edged with golden or chocolate-brown sesame seeds that reminded her of the candy sprinkles used to decorate children’s birthday cakes. The best way to proceed was to swallow each piece whole, without chewing, and admire the delicate flowery shapes of the sculpted vegetables.

Outside, a light rain had started to fall and the drops traced snail trails on the window panes. Traffic had eased a little and pedestrians hurried under their umbrellas. On the ground everything had turned the same gray tinge; the buildings stretched their concrete silhouettes toward an almost yellow sky that shed a strange light on the city. Maybe a storm was brewing. More patrons had filled the restaurant and the muffled hum of their conservations rose from the tables; the melody of their voices blended with the pitter-patter of the raindrops on the glass roof.

“I’m thinking hamachi, uni, masago, tako, maguro and unagi; how does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Do you even know what those are?”

“No, but I trust you.”

Which was true. She smiled at him. Not yet. Let this moment last a little longer, when their thorniest issue was deciding what kind of raw fish to order.

The Asian couple had finished their meal and were now deep in conversation; she did not understand a single word but the singsong quality of their speech reminded her of a lullaby. They were now drinking tea; wisps of aromatic steam wafted from the teapot into the room. The woman held the tiny cup in her hands as if to warm them. These two looked like brother and sister.

“I have some bad news . . .” he blurted.

She looked up to meet his eyes, feeling oddly hopeful.

“What is it?”

 “Terry officially quit today. He’s accepted a job in Vancouver. We were kind of expecting it but still . . . We’ll probably have to postpone our trip to the lake by a week. I checked with my parents and they said it was no problem . . . I’m sorry.”

Her in-laws owned a log cabin on the shores of Pink Lake, which they were welcome to use for a week or two every summer. When she thought about them, this is always how she pictured them: sitting together on the covered porch overlooking the lake; the wail of the loons rising from the mirror-still water and ringing through the misty dusk. One summer, a long time ago—maybe when they were the same age she was now—the two had sat on their rocking chairs to watch a thunderstorm raging over the lake. They had told this story a thousand times. The rain was falling in thick sheets and thunder clapped so near and so loud that it kept shaking the porch and they could have sworn it was coming from the ground. The sky was streaked with huge disjointed lightning bolts that hit the ground like giant pitchforks, casting, for a split second, a supernatural glow on the surrounding forest. Her father-in-law had spent the day tearing down a half-rotten shed and was now having a beer on the porch, still in his work clothes, when he was struck by lightning. A thin white finger had come down from the sky, irresistibly drawn to the steel of his work boots’ reinforced toes. He had been thrown backward and his head had hit the log wall behind him. At the time, his wife’s first thought had been to tend the head wound he had received, as copious amounts of blood trickled down his neck. Once at the hospital, the staff wouldn’t believe their story and thought it must have been some sort of domestic dispute gone wrong; the nurses and doctors changed their mind when they saw the charred soles of the work boots he was still wearing.

“One chance in a million,” is what he kept repeating over and over, “It’s like winning the lottery!” Hearing him talk about it, you’d think these two unlikely events were mysteriously linked. He had kept his steel-toe boots but she had never seen them. To this day, and in spite of the numerous coats of paints that had since been applied to the porch, the circular shape etched by the heat of the lightning was still visible.

The nigiri and sashimi platters were brought to the table, a complex array of fish and seafood piles that threatened to fall apart as soon as they removed the first piece. She now thought the stain on the waiter’s cuff might not be soy sauce after all, but a drop of brownish dried-up blood. The octopus tentacles on her large rectangular plate were arranged in a star pattern, their tiny suckers like so many unblinking eyes staring back at her. With his chopsticks, he picked up a piece of pink salmon streaked with thin lines of fat. She tentatively poked at a piece of cucumber with the tines of her fork. Through the window, a siren could be heard, then another, close by. She realized there was no good moment for this kind of thing. She had thought it would be easier to do this in one of his favorite restaurants, as if being in a public place could protect her, or him; or somehow avert, lessen or undo what she was about to tell him.

Terry was moving to Vancouver, on the other side of the country; might as well be the other side of the planet. At least, his leaving came as a relief. It changed everything, and it changed nothing. She needed to think, some peace and quiet, a little bit more time to set her thoughts in order.

“Did you know,” he started, “that after spending many years in salt water, salmon return to the river to spawn, at the exact spot where they hatched?”

She vaguely remembered having seen a documentary about this on TV or hearing about it in biology class at school.

“When they built all the big hydroelectric dams, they blocked many of the creeks and streams; this created insurmountable obstacles for them; thousands . . . maybe millions of salmon died trying to swim upstream. I’ve seen pictures . . . dead salmon as far as the eye could see.”

“Why didn’t they go back where they came from?”

He shrugged. “They were probably not programmed for that.”

“So why didn’t they spawn at the foot of the dam, then?”

He thought about it some more and admitted he had no idea why; he then picked up a purple slice of octopus with the tip of his chopsticks. She put a piece of avocado in her mouth; a bit of barbecued eel had been hiding under it and the slippery texture of its grayish flesh made her gag. She spat it out in her napkin.

”Are you OK? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”

She got up and almost ran to the bathroom, sat down in one of the stalls—not before carefully placing pieces of toilet paper all around the seat—and forced herself to take deep breaths. There was no hurry. They were married. That counted for something. Everyone is entitled to make mistakes. This kind of thing happens every day. That’s life—unpredictable and fraught with perils, a succession of random decisions. She grabbed the plastic tube she had been carrying in her purse all day and went to throw it out in a metal trashcan that read “Napkin Disposal Only” when a wave of dizziness hit her and made her lean on the rough and cool surface of the paper-towel dispenser. The slender plastic tube fell to the floor; she blocked its path with her foot, picked it up and cleaned it off carefully. The white-tiled room smelled dank; in the stall next to her, the toilet gurgled and sounded like a neverending sigh, or like faraway waves breaking on a shore. Through a vent near the ceiling, she could hear a muted cacophony of utensils and barked orders in which she could pick up a word here and there. One chance in a million. She returned the plastic tube to one of her purse pockets and closed the zipper; she blew her nose, left the stall, reapplied her lipstick, and let the water run in the sink. The pink soap coming out of the metal dispenser in long opalescent filaments smelled of bubble gum. All she had to do was wait . . . that’s what she had to do. Nothing at all. Some sign would come along to point the way. She pushed the bathroom door open and almost collided with a busboy. The huge brown container he carried was filled to the brim with food scraps, dirty plates, and teetering towers of translucent fingerprint-smeared glasses.

She made her way back to the table. The rain had stopped; Maisonneuve Boulevard gleamed under the streetlights. The sidewalk mirrored the skyscrapers’ oddly distorted silhouettes, tilted and quivering as if they were about to collapse in the middle of the street and shatter in a thousand pieces. She sat down in front of him and declared, “It’s OK by me if we have to postpone our holidays by a week. While we’re there, maybe we should spend some time fixing up the porch, it’s long overdue.” She could see herself stripping and sanding the damaged wood to remove the charred mark before painting it anew. Nothing would show.

He took her hands in his again; they remained still for a long time, without saying a word, their interlaced fingers in the middle of the table; a few grains of rice and the wilting rose of the pickled ginger were the only things left on the sushi plates. The waiter soon came to clear the table and asked if they wanted to order something else.

“I would like one of those almond cookies,” she said, “the ones with the fortunes.”

The waiter looked at her with a blank stare.

“Those are Chinese, hon,” said her husband, “. . . this is a Japanese restaurant.”

“Then I’ll have some of that tea,” she replied, pointing to the now empty table where the young Asian couple had dined.

“Kombucha,” announced the waiter with a slight bow as he set before them a teapot from which emanated a strong fruity and musky fragrance.

“What is it?” asked her husband to the waiter as he poured the amber liquid.

“Green tea and honey fermented with a mother.”

They looked at him inquiringly.

“Just like vinegar,” he explained, “it’s made from a bacterial culture mixed with yeast that is sometimes referred to as Kombucha mushroom.”

Right away, images of mold came flooding in, cells growing uncontrollably and multiplying to birth limp and fuzzy alien creatures. Disgusted, she pushed her cup aside and looked up at her husband, who was carefully sipping from his.

“Healthy bacteria,” explained the waiter with a slightly insulted look before quickly leaving their table

Her husband swallowed a small mouthful. “It’s delicious. But there are things we’d rather never know, right?”

“I agree.”

She finished what was left of her mineral water while he drank the tea she was now refusing to touch, its mere odor enough to make her feel slightly nauseous. The majority of diners who had arrived early had now finished their meals; the tables were instantly cleaned and dressed again for the main service of the evening.

Outside, dozens of emergency vehicles sped past, their sirens blaring. Intersections were blocked to traffic which was being diverted by policemen freshly dispatched at the scene. In the distance, the usually impressive red and chrome fire trucks almost looked like toys. She checked her watch again, 6:25 p.m. The waiter brought them the bill and she realized that they had forgotten to charge her for the bottle of Perrier. She considered mentioning the omission for a second and then decided to keep it to herself, which gave her a certain sense of satisfaction. They split the bill, tip included, and each paid half.

Maisonneuve Boulevard, they pushed their way through the rapidly growing crowd of gawkers trying to figure out what was going on and coming up with the wildest stories: a mini-tornado had touched down at this very street corner; not one, but two suspicious packages had been discovered; a piano had fallen from the twentieth floor. Rushing ambulance and police car sirens could be heard coming from all directions; their spinning, flashing lights cast a supernatural glow on the cityscape. On the corner of Metcalfe Street, yellow tape surrounded a security parameter and a white-gloved policeman blocked their access in no uncertain terms.

“No one can get through, turn around.”

“My car is parked on the corner,” explained her husband as he tried to walk past him.

The policeman didn’t budge.

“But it’s right there,” he insisted, pointing at his car just a few hundred meters away.

The policeman answered by crossing his arms across his chest and staring them down.

They turned around, walked one block up and tried to cross Peel Street but their path was blocked there too. The crowd kept on growing and he had to hold her hand to avoid losing her in the melee. As people streamed in from everywhere to converge on the scene of the accident, they finally gave up, retraced their steps, and went home on foot; she with a slight limp because of her sore toe.

“They would have died anyway,” she said after they had been walking for a few minutes.

“Who?”

“The salmon, they would have died anyway, even without the dams.”

She remembered now: their color changed once they arrived at their spawning grounds, they stopped feeding, their physiognomy altered, their jaws turned into something that looked like a beak, and humps grew on their heads; they morphed into sea monsters like the ones in Middle Age bestiaries. They died as soon as they laid their eggs.

Unagi

Le 16 juillet 2009, une jeune femme soupant en compagnie de son mari dans un restaurant japonais du centre-ville de Montréal est morte sur le coup quand un bloc de béton s’est détaché de la façade de l’édifice et est tombé à l’endroit exact où elle était assise. Ceci n’est pas son histoire.

            Elle regarda sa montre (17h15) puis porta à ses lèvres le verre d’eau que le serveur venait de déposer devant elle. Il avait sur le poignet de sa chemise blanche une petite tache qui pouvait être de la sauce soya. L’odeur de chlore lui monta au nez, et elle leva le doigt pour demander qu’on apporte une bouteille de Perrier.

            Autour d’elle, dans la salle à manger à moitié pleine, des hommes d’affaires attablés seuls, quelques couples, des touristes reconnaissables à leur air à la fois ravi et légèrement égaré, et, dans le cas de certains, au coup de soleil qu’ils avaient sur le nez. Évidemment, dans un hôtel tel que celui-ci, il y avait peu d’enfants. Le Perrier était à peine tiède, mais elle renonça à rappeler le serveur, et examina ses voisins, deux Asiatiques, un garçon et une fille, la jeune vingtaine, qui partageaient en silence un plateau de sushis colorés qui ressemblaient à des friandises.

            Boulevard Maisonneuve, de l’autre côté de la fenêtre, la circulation se traînait au ralenti; l’heure de pointe s’étirait. Les gratte-ciel s’étaient vidés, mais leurs fenêtres restaient illuminées, découpant sur la surface grise une infinité de petits rectangles blafards. Elle regarda de nouveau sa montre (17h23) et passa une main dans son cou. Une bouche de climatisation ménagée derrière elle crachait un air froid, et elle regretta d’avoir laissé sa veste à la banque. Elle était encore arrivée en avance, de crainte d’être en retard, ce qui ne s’était pas produit pourtant depuis des années. Seuls quelques sièges étaient occupés quand elle s’était présentée, et le maître d’hôtel l’avait d’abord guidée vers le milieu de la salle principale, devant une table où un petit écriteau de papier plastifié annonçait « Réserve » en caractères d’imprimerie sur lesquels on avait ajouté, au stylo bleu, un accent aigu sur le « e » final. Elle avait fait la moue, indiqué une deuxième salle, plus petite et presque déserte, séparée de la première par quelques marches, sorte de verrière percée de larges baies vitrées qui laissaient entrer la lumière de fin de journée.

            « Par là, vous n’avez pas quelque chose? »

            Le maître d’hôtel avait eu l’air mécontent pendant quelques secondes, puis il était allé rejoindre le gérant et tous deux avaient eu un long conciliabule au cours duquel ils s’étaient retournés pour l’examiner, seule au milieu de la salle, à se dandiner d’un pied sur l’autre. Elle avait passé la journée chaussée d’escarpins neufs debout à son guichet, puis dans le métro, et son petit orteil la faisait souffrir. Enfin le gérant s’était rué vers elle avec un sourire si soudain qu’on aurait dit qu’il avait enfilé un masque, et lui avait offert une table près des fenêtres, faisant le geste de tirer sa chaise pour qu’elle puisse y prendre place, mais sans toucher au siège. Elle n’était pas sitôt assise qu’elle avait senti le courant d’air frais dans son cou. 17h29. Le nez lui picotait. Elle n’aurait su dire si c’était à cause du détergent industriel utilisé pour nettoyer le tapis ou parce qu’elle sentait monter en elle l’envie de pleurer. Elle prit son sac à main, qu’elle avait appuyé contre la patte de la table, le déposa sur ses genoux, appuya les pouces sur ses yeux fermés et des cercles rouges se mirent à danser derrière ses paupières.

            Heureusement, il arriva presque aussitôt, s’asseyant en déclarant: « J’ai faim », puis lui prenant la main pour effleurer ses doigts d’un baiser. Le premier bouton de sa chemise bleue était détaché, ses cheveux ondulaient sur ses tempes, il avait encore les joues rouges d’avoir un peu couru pour ne pas la faire attendre. Il y avait plus de deux ans qu’ils étaient mariés, ils s’étaient fréquentés près de trois ans auparavant, et pourtant elle continuait d’éprouver, en l’apercevant, une sorte de sursaut de joie, de surprise, presque. C’est tout ce qui importait; le reste était accessoire et éphémère, accidentel. Il n’y avait qu’à lui dire. Il comprendrait.

            Il commanda un carafon de saké qui arriva enveloppé dans une épaisse serviette de table. Elle étendait la main au-dessus de son gobelet de porcelaine comme il voulait la servir et une goutte tomba à la base de son pouce. Elle la lécha; le liquide à la fois sucré et un peu acide avait exactement la même température que sa peau. Cependant il avait déjà commencé d’étudier le menu, y allant de suggestions à voix haute. Pour dire le vrai, elle n’avait jamais tellement aimé le sushi; ces morceaux de poisson froid enveloppés de riz collant, cette chair qui cédait sous la dent, lui donnaient l’impression de croquer dans quelque chose qui n’était pas tout à fait mort, ou bien qui n’avait jamais été tout à fait vivant. Elle ne pouvait s’empêcher de se représenter les entrailles gonflées des poissons, d’imaginer des créatures sous-marines visqueuses et fuyantes, de celles qu’on sent en un éclair nous glisser entre les jambes quand on se baigne dans la mer ou dans un lac aux eaux troubles. Les couleurs par contre lui plaisaient, bien nettes, roses corail, jaunes moutardés, avocats onctueux se détachant sur le blanc du riz et le vert des algues, si foncé qu’il en semblait noir, petites roues au pourtour constellé de graines de sésame dorées et chocolat semblables aux paillettes dont on saupoudrait les gâteaux d’anniversaire d’enfants. Il n’y avait qu’à avaler sans mâcher, en admirant les fleurs artistement taillées dans des légumes.

            Dehors, il s’était mis à pleuvoir doucement, les gouttes traçaient sur la vitre des chemins d’escargot. Les voitures étaient un peu moins nombreuses et les passants pressaient le pas sous leurs parapluies. Au sol, tout avait pris une même teinte grise, les buildings dressaient leurs silhouettes de béton vers un ciel presque jaune qui jetait une étrange lueur sur la ville. Peut-être y aurait-il de l’orage. Le restaurant s’était quelque peu rempli; il y régnait une sourde rumeur créée par des dizaines de conversations dont aucune n’était audible et qui ensemble faisaient une musique semblable à celle des gouttes tombant sur un toit.

            « Hamachi, uni, massago, tako, maguro et unagi, ça te va?

            – C’est parfait.

            – Et as-tu la moindre idée de ce que je m’apprête à commander?

            – Aucune. Mais je te fais confiance. »

            C’était vrai. Elle lui sourit. Pas tout de suite. Que ce moment dure encore un peu, où il n’y avait rien de plus grave que de choisir quel poisson cru ils mangeraient.

            Le couple d’Asiatiques avait fini leur repas et ils étaient plongés dans une discussion incompréhensible et musicale qui ressemblait à une berceuse. On déposa entre eux une théière d’où s’échappaient des volutes parfumées. La fille prit la courte tasse sans anse dans ses mains comme pour se réchauffer. Ces deux-là se ressemblaient comme frère et sœur.

            « J’ai une mauvaise nouvelle… » commença-t-il.

            Elle leva les yeux vers lui, curieusement pleine d’espoir.

            « Oui?

            – Luc a officiellement démissionné aujourd’hui. Il a accepté un poste à Vancouver. On s’y attendait un peu, mais tout de même… Il faudra sans doute remettre d’une semaine le séjour au lac. J’ai vérifié avec mes parents; il n’y a pas de problème… Mais je suis désolé. »

            Ses beaux-parents possédaient au bord du lac Vert un chalet de bois rond qu’ils leur prêtaient tous les étés pour une semaine ou deux. En pensant à eux, c’est toujours là qu’elle les imaginait, côte à côte, sur la véranda couverte donnant sur le lac lisse comme un miroir où résonnait, dans la brume de l’aube et du crépuscule, la plainte des huards. Un été, il y avait des années de cela – sans doute avaient-ils l’âge qu’elle avait aujourd’hui –, ils s’étaient assis dehors sur des chaises berçantes pour regarder un orage qui se déchaînait sur l’eau. Ils leur avaient raconté l’histoire mille fois. La pluie tombait en rideaux épais, le tonnerre grondait si près et si fort que la véranda en tremblait, et qu’on aurait dit qu’il montait du sol. Le ciel était strié d’éclairs qui se disloquaient et frappaient la terre en fourches immenses, illuminant l’espace d’un instant la forêt environnante d’un éclat surnaturel. Il avait passé toute la journée à démolir une vieille remise à demi-pourrie, et se reposait tranquillement, toujours vêtu de ses vêtements de travail, une bière à la main, quand la foudre l’avait frappé. Un long doigt blanc descendu du ciel, irrésistiblement attiré par l’acier dont le bout de ses souliers était renforcé. Il avait été projeté en arrière, sa tête avait heurté le mur de rondins derrière lui, et sa femme n’avait d’abord songé qu’à panser la blessure qu’il s’était faite au crâne, d’où coulait le sang jusque dans son cou. À l’hôpital, on avait d’abord refusé de croire leur histoire et préféré imaginer une scène de ménage qui aurait mal tourné, mais infirmières et médecins s’étaient ravisés en découvrant le cuir carbonisé des gros souliers qu’il avait toujours aux pieds.

            « Une chance sur des millions, concluait-il invariablement. Comme de gagner à la loto. » Et l’on aurait dit, à la façon dont il prononçait ces paroles, que les deux événements mystérieusement s’équivalaient. Il avait gardé les chaussures à bout d’acier mais elle ne les avait jamais vues. Sur la véranda, on devinait encore, sous les nombreuses couches de peinture appliquées depuis, le cercle de chaleur dégagé par l’éclair.

            Les plateaux de nigiri et de sashimi apparurent, savant échafaudage de fruits de mer et de poissons assemblés en une architecture complexe qui s’écroulerait dès la première pièce retirée. Peut-être la tache que le serveur avait au poignet n’était-elle pas de la sauce mais une gouttelette de sang séché et bruni. Dans les grandes assiettes rectangulaires, les ventouses des pieuvres aux tentacules disposées en étoiles ressemblaient à des dizaines de petits yeux ronds qui la regardaient sans ciller. Il saisit entre ses baguettes un cube de saumon à la chair rose lardée de fins sillons de gras tandis qu’elle piquait prudemment une tranche de concombre du bout de sa fourchette. Par la fenêtre, on entendait une sirène, puis une autre, quelque part, non loin. Elle se rendait compte qu’il n’y avait pas de bon moment pour ce genre de choses. Elle avait cru que ce serait plus facile dans un restaurant qu’il aimait, comme si le fait d’être dans un endroit public pouvait la protéger, ou lui, conjurer, atténuer ou annuler ce qu’elle s’apprêtait à dire. Luc s’en allait à Vancouver; à l’autre bout du pays, aussi bien dire à l’autre bout du monde. Ce départ à tout le moins était un soulagement. Cela changeait tout, et cela ne changeait rien. Il lui fallait réfléchir, il lui fallait un peu de temps, du silence, mettre de l’ordre dans ses idées.

            « Tu sais, dit-il, les saumons, après avoir passé plusieurs années en eau salée, retournent frayer dans la rivière où ils sont nés, à l’endroit exact où ils ont vu le jour. »

            Elle se souvenait vaguement d’avoir déjà vu un documentaire là-dessus à la télé ou lors un cours d’écologie à l’école.

            « Avec la construction des grands barrages, on a dressé au milieu des cours d’eau qu’ils empruntaient des obstacles infranchissables, et des milliers, voire des millions de saumons sont morts en essayant de remonter le courant. J’ai vu des photos : des carcasses à perte de vue, recouvrant l’eau sur des kilomètres. 

            – Pourquoi ils ne rebroussaient pas chemin? »

            Il haussa les épaules : « Ils n’étaient sans doute pas programmés pour ça.

            – Et pourquoi ils ne frayaient pas tout simplement au pied du barrage? »

            Il réfléchit encore, avoua qu’il n’en savait rien et piqua du bout de sa baguette une rondelle de pieuvre violette. Elle attrapa un cube d’avocat sous lequel se cachait un morceau d’anguille cru, chair grisâtre dont la texture caoutchouteuse lui donna un haut-le-cœur. Elle le cracha dans sa serviette.

            « Ça va? Qu’est-ce que tu as?

            – Rien. Rien du tout. Je reviens tout de suite. »

            Elle partit vers la salle de bain presque au pas de course, s’assit sur un siège où elle avait pris soin de disposer des feuilles de papier toilette et se força à respirer calmement. Rien ne pressait. Ils s’aimaient. Ils étaient mariés. Ça compte pour quelque chose. Tout le monde peut faire une erreur. C’était la vie. Ce n’était rien d’autre que la vie. Imprévisible, hasardeuse, une succession de coups de dés. Elle sortit de son sac à mains le tube de plastique qu’elle traînait depuis le midi, voulut le jeter dans la poubelle de métal où il était écrit : « Napkin disposal only », mais elle eut une sorte de vertige qui la força à s’appuyer sur le rouleau de papier rêche et frais. Le mince cylindre dont l’extrémité se terminait par un renflement roula par terre et elle l’arrêta de la pointe du pied, le ramassa puis l’essuya soigneusement. La pièce carrelée de blanc sentait l’humidité; dans la cabine voisine, la cuvette laissait échapper un chuintement comme un long soupir ou un lointain bruit de vagues. Par une grille au haut d’un mur, elle entendait, étouffés, venant de la cuisine, un vacarme d’ustensiles et d’ordres criés où elle reconnaissait parfois un mot. Une chance sur des millions. Elle glissa le tube de plastique dans un compartiment de son sac dont elle tira la fermeture-éclair, se moucha, sortit, rafraîchit son rouge à lèvres et fit couler l’eau dans le lavabo. Le savon rose qui s’échappait en longs filaments nacrés d’un distributeur métallique sentait la gomme à bulles. Il fallait attendre, voilà ce qu’il fallait faire. Rien du tout. Quelque signe finirait bien par lui indiquer le chemin à suivre. En poussant la porte de la salle de bain, elle faillit heurter un débarrasseur portant un immense bac brun débordant de vaisselle sale et de reliefs de nourriture au milieu desquels les verres couverts de taches de doigts faisaient des tours translucides.

            Quand elle revint à table, la pluie avait cessé. Le boulevard Maisonneuve luisait sous la lumière des lampadaires, les édifices se reflétaient obliques et tremblants sur l’asphalte, curieusement déformés, comme s’ils s’apprêtaient à voler en éclats et à tomber au milieu de la rue en pièces détachées. Elle se rassit devant lui, annonça : « Ça ne me gêne pas du tout que l’on retarde les vacances d’une semaine. Quand on sera là, si tu veux, on pourra en profiter pour retaper un peu la véranda, elle en a bien besoin. » Elle s’imagina décaper et poncer soigneusement le bois abîmé pour en faire disparaître la cicatrice avant de le repeindre de neuf. Rien n’y paraîtrait.

            Il prit de nouveau ses mains dans les siennes; ils restèrent un long moment immobiles, sans parler, leurs doigts entrelacés au milieu de la table où il ne restait plus dans le plateau de sushis que quelques grains de riz et le gingembre confit qui ressemblait à une rose en train de se faner. On vint bientôt débarrasser et demander s’ils désiraient autre chose.

            « Je voudrais un de ces biscuits, dit-elle, aux amandes, dans lesquels il y a un message. »

            Le garçon la dévisagea, le regard vide.

            « C’est au restaurant chinois, mon cœur, la reprit son mari en riant. On est chez le Japonais.

            – Alors je vais prendre de ce thé », fit-elle en indiquant, du geste, la table où le couple de jeunes Asiatiques avaient mangé, et qui était maintenant déserte.

            « Kombucha », annonça le serveur avec une petite flexion du buste en déposant sur la table une théière d’où émanaient de puissants arômes à la fois fruités et musqués.

            « Qu’est-ce que c’est? demanda-t-il au garçon tandis que celui-ci versait le liquide ambré.

            – Un thé vert au miel mis à fermenter avec une mère. »

            Ils levèrent des yeux interrogateurs.

            « Comme pour le vinaigre, expliqua-t-il. Une colonie de bactéries et de levure qu’on appelle parfois champignon kombucha. »

            Aussitôt se présentèrent à son esprit des images de moisissure, de cellules croissant de façon incontrôlée, se multipliant pour donner naissance à des créatures sans nom, molles et duveteuses. Elle repoussa sa tasse avec dégoût, releva les yeux vers son mari qui trempait prudemment les lèvres dans la sienne.

            « De bonnes bactéries », précisa le garçon d’un air insulté avant de tourner les talons.

            Il aspirait précautionneusement une petite gorgée : « C’est délicieux. Mais il y a des choses qu’on préfère vraiment ne pas savoir, non?

            – Oui. »

            Elle vida ce qui restait de l’eau minérale tandis qu’il buvait le thé auquel elle refusait de toucher et dont la seule odeur lui donnait maintenant une légère nausée. La plupart des dîneurs arrivés tôt avaient fini leur repas, les tables étaient promptement nettoyées et dressées pour le premier vrai service de la soirée.

            Dehors, des dizaines de véhicules d’urgence passaient en trombe, toutes sirènes hurlantes. On bloquait les intersections, où les voitures étaient détournées par des policiers postés à la hâte. Dans le lointain, les camions d’incendie massifs, rouges et chrome, avaient presque l’air de jouets. Elle regarda sa montre; 18h25. Le garçon leur apporta l’addition et elle découvrit, en inspectant le détail, que l’on avait oublié d’y inscrire la bouteille de Perrier. Elle songea une seconde à signaler l’omission et décida de n’en rien faire, ce qui lui procura une sorte de douce satisfaction. Ils divisèrent le total en deux, pourboire inclus, et chacun paya sa moitié.

            Boulevard Maisonneuve, ils durent se frayer un chemin à travers la foule de badauds dont le nombre allait croissant et qui spéculaient sur la cause de la commotion, émettant les hypothèses les plus folles : une minitornade avait frappé ce coin de rue précisément, on avait découvert non pas un mais deux colis suspect, un piano était tombé du vingtième étage. On entendait venant des quatre coins de la ville les sirènes de véhicules d’urgence qui arrivaient sur les chapeaux de roue. Les gyrophares des ambulances lançaient des éclairs qui baignaient la rue d’un éclat surnaturel. Coin Metcalfe, où l’on avait déroulé des rubans jaunes pour ménager un périmètre de sécurité, un agent de police ganté de blanc les repoussa sans ménagement :

            « On ne passe pas. Faites demi-tour.

            – Mais mon auto est au coin », fit-il valoir en voulant le contourner.

            L’autre ne broncha pas.

            « Elle est juste là », insista-t-elle en montrant du doigt la voiture garée à quelques centaines de mètres.

            Pour toute réponse, le policier écarta les jambes, croisa les bras, inamovible.

            Ils tournèrent les talons, montèrent d’un pâté de maison et tentèrent plutôt de traverser la rue Peel, où on leur barra pareillement le chemin. La foule continuait de grandir et il dut lui prendre la main pour éviter qu’ils ne soient séparés dans la cohue. Tandis que les gens affluaient de partout, convergeant vers les lieux de l’accident, ils se résignèrent enfin à faire demi-tour et à rentrer à pied, elle boitillant à peine à cause de son orteil endolori.              

             « Ils seraient morts de toute façon, annonça-t-elle après qu’ils eurent marché quelques minutes.

            – Quoi?

            – Les saumons, ils seraient morts de toute façon, même sans le barrage. »

            Elle se souvenait maintenant : les saumons changeaient de couleur en arrivant dans l’eau douce, ils cessaient de s’alimenter, leur physionomie se modifiait, leur mâchoire devenait semblable à une sorte de bec, il leur poussait des bosses sur la tête, et ils se métamorphosaient en monstres marins tels qu’on en voit dans les bestiaires du Moyen Âge. Ils mouraient tout de suite après s’être délestés de leurs œufs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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