above the door of the pet shop tinkled cheerily as he stepped inside. His entrance was greeted by a chorus of squawking budgies, yapping puppies, mewing kittens, squealing rabbits and cheeping chicks. Only the fish were silent, content to send up the occasional stream of bubbles.
‘Can I help you?’ The assistant was just like her surly voice. Cold and pale.
‘I need a goldfish,’ mumbled Guylain. Need – that was indeed the word. He was truly addicted to the golden creatures. Guylain could no longer cope without that silent, colourful presence gracing his bedside table. From experience, he knew that there was a vast difference between living alone and living alone with a goldfish.
‘What type?’ asked the anaemic girl, opening a fat catalogue. ‘We have Lionheads, Comets with long forked tails, red-capped Orandas, Pompoms, Ryukin, Shubunkin, Ranchu or Black Moors – very original with their dark colouring. Our top-selling variety right now is the Celestial Eye with its double tail and telescope eyes turned upwards. Very trendy.’
Guylain wanted to ask if they didn’t have the standard model, the ordinary goldfish with two little eyes on either side of its head, where they should be. For what it did – swim round and round – that was perfectly sufficient. Instead, he pulled out of his pocket the tattered photo of Rouget I, the father of the dynasty, the one who had started it all, and waved it under the assistant’s nose: ‘I would simply like the same as this one,’ he said, tapping the tired image.
The girl inspected the photo with an experienced eye and led him to the big aquarium at the back of the shop where around fifty potential Rouget de Lisles were swimming around. ‘I’ll leave you to make up your mind. Just call me when you’re ready. I’ll be next door,’ she said, holding out a net.
She had no interest in him and his common-or-garden goldfish. Photo in hand, Guylain gazed at the orange display swirling in front of him in search of the perfect clone. He soon spotted one. Same colour, slightly paler on the sides, same fins, same affable eyes. After three fruitless attempts to net it, he caught it on the fourth. He inquired about a new bowl too.
‘Spherical or rectangular?’ asked the assistant. Cruel dilemma to have to choose between a deadly monotonous circular path or a halting circuit that’s all sharp angles. In the end he opted for the usual glass globe. Even for the most common of fish, there could be no worse ordeal than constantly banging into corners.
Back home, Guylain hurriedly poured in a bed of white sand, laid the previous tenant’s miniature amphora on it and planted the synthetic seaweed. Soon, a new Rouget de Lisle was happily splashing around in this fairy-tale decor. This tiny fish, which was the spitting image of its brothers, exuded a sense of immortality that Guylain found pleasing. For a fleeting second he thought he saw in Rouget VI’s eye the full acknowledgement of his five predecessors.
21
That morning, the old-man-in-slippers-and-pyjamas-under-his-raincoat was wandering around outside number 154 like a lost soul, without his Balthus. Overnight, the dog’s hindquarters had become paralysed. Right now he was under observation at the vet’s clinic. ‘Until he can walk again,’ the old man added. ‘Because my Balthus is going to walk again, isn’t he? They’ll put him to rights, won’t they?’ he entreated, clutching Guylain’s arm, his voice thick with tears. Guylain promised that yes, of course, there was no reason why Balthus shouldn’t recover the use of his hind legs, even though deep down he was convinced that the mutt had probably reached the end of the road and that it wouldn’t be long before he joined Rouget V in the great animal kingdom in the sky. It was a well-known fact, old dogs nearly always began to die from the rear. Guylain took his leave of the old fellow with a parting bow of the head that was more like an expression of
‘Can I help you?’ The assistant was just like her surly voice. Cold and pale.
‘I need a goldfish,’ mumbled Guylain. Need – that was indeed the word. He was truly addicted to the golden creatures. Guylain could no longer cope without that silent, colourful presence gracing his bedside table. From experience, he knew that there was a vast difference between living alone and living alone with a goldfish.
‘What type?’ asked the anaemic girl, opening a fat catalogue. ‘We have Lionheads, Comets with long forked tails, red-capped Orandas, Pompoms, Ryukin, Shubunkin, Ranchu or Black Moors – very original with their dark colouring. Our top-selling variety right now is the Celestial Eye with its double tail and telescope eyes turned upwards. Very trendy.’
Guylain wanted to ask if they didn’t have the standard model, the ordinary goldfish with two little eyes on either side of its head, where they should be. For what it did – swim round and round – that was perfectly sufficient. Instead, he pulled out of his pocket the tattered photo of Rouget I, the father of the dynasty, the one who had started it all, and waved it under the assistant’s nose: ‘I would simply like the same as this one,’ he said, tapping the tired image.
The girl inspected the photo with an experienced eye and led him to the big aquarium at the back of the shop where around fifty potential Rouget de Lisles were swimming around. ‘I’ll leave you to make up your mind. Just call me when you’re ready. I’ll be next door,’ she said, holding out a net.
She had no interest in him and his common-or-garden goldfish. Photo in hand, Guylain gazed at the orange display swirling in front of him in search of the perfect clone. He soon spotted one. Same colour, slightly paler on the sides, same fins, same affable eyes. After three fruitless attempts to net it, he caught it on the fourth. He inquired about a new bowl too.
‘Spherical or rectangular?’ asked the assistant. Cruel dilemma to have to choose between a deadly monotonous circular path or a halting circuit that’s all sharp angles. In the end he opted for the usual glass globe. Even for the most common of fish, there could be no worse ordeal than constantly banging into corners.
Back home, Guylain hurriedly poured in a bed of white sand, laid the previous tenant’s miniature amphora on it and planted the synthetic seaweed. Soon, a new Rouget de Lisle was happily splashing around in this fairy-tale decor. This tiny fish, which was the spitting image of its brothers, exuded a sense of immortality that Guylain found pleasing. For a fleeting second he thought he saw in Rouget VI’s eye the full acknowledgement of his five predecessors.
21
That morning, the old-man-in-slippers-and-pyjamas-under-his-raincoat was wandering around outside number 154 like a lost soul, without his Balthus. Overnight, the dog’s hindquarters had become paralysed. Right now he was under observation at the vet’s clinic. ‘Until he can walk again,’ the old man added. ‘Because my Balthus is going to walk again, isn’t he? They’ll put him to rights, won’t they?’ he entreated, clutching Guylain’s arm, his voice thick with tears. Guylain promised that yes, of course, there was no reason why Balthus shouldn’t recover the use of his hind legs, even though deep down he was convinced that the mutt had probably reached the end of the road and that it wouldn’t be long before he joined Rouget V in the great animal kingdom in the sky. It was a well-known fact, old dogs nearly always began to die from the rear. Guylain took his leave of the old fellow with a parting bow of the head that was more like an expression of
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