Fish in the Sky (7 page)

Outside my front door, a girl steps out of a taxi. She’s sixteen or seventeen or something. She opens up the trunk and takes out a huge suitcase and a bulging sports bag. The cab leaves, and the girl stands by the front door and presses the doorbell. It’s like she’s coming from a warmer climate. She’s wearing a very short skirt, black tights on her long legs, and open shoes with thick soles. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder, and besides that, she is wearing a black T-shirt that is far too tight and short; her belly is bare. On her arms are loads of bracelets that jingle when she moves, and in one ear is an earring that dangles at her neck and reaches down to her shoulder. The door opens, and she scrambles inside with all her belongings.

As I silently let myself in, I hear a fast-talking girl’s voice chatting to my mom, telling her news from up north. You can tell by the way she talks that she’s chewing gum. In between are greetings from this or that relative who sends their best and is really grateful that Mom can help the family in these difficult times. Mom occasionally drops something into the nonstop stream of words, saying things like “Bless her,” and “Oh, that’s no problem,” and “How is she, anyway?” before the girl continues her stories with her giggles and sighs. Before I know it, my ears have dragged me to the kitchen door.

“Now, this is my Josh,” Mom says happily. “Josh, you remember your cousin Gertrude,” she says, and looks me straight in the eye with a fake smile.

The girl turns to Mom and corrects her. “Trudy,” she says. “I want to be called Trudy.”

Mom is quick to realize. “Trudy, I meant to say. Now, be polite and greet her properly.”

The girl looks me up and down, and I stretch out my hand. She is obviously unimpressed. But I don’t care. The feeling is mutual.

“Hi,” she says. Her handshake is limp.

“Gertrude is going to stay with us until spring,” Mom says as if to emphasize that I accept the fact at once.

“Trudy,” the girl corrects her again.

“Oh, sorry, dear,” Mom says, and I realize that this cousin of mine is already some kind of favorite. Mom never uses this tone when she’s speaking to me.

I turn in the doorway and go up to my room.

“Oh, he’s becoming such a teenager,” I hear Mom say apologetically. I can feel all the nos inside me jump up and throng in my throat, getting ready to hurl themselves out in one instant. So, to do something, I slam the door behind me and throw my schoolbag into a corner.

Teenager. Is that’s how she apologizes for me to strangers? And what’s being a teenager? I know perfectly well what it is: it’s carrying your mom around on your back over thin ice that’s cracking with each step, and all the help she gives you is to tell you off for stepping too heavily on the ice. Teenager: that’s having no one. The only thing I have in all the world is this bed I’m lying on.

I’m like a shipwrecked man, clinging desperately to his raft, unable to see any land after drifting for thirteen years on the ocean. Now my cousin has moved in, and my room will become a kind of hallway for her. This arrangement my mom has made must be a breach of some kind of human rights. I’m sure there must be at least twenty million boys like me in the world that have seventeen-year-old cousins. Somewhere in China or Africa, there must be a boy like me who has a cousin like Gertrude. So why does this necessarily have to happen to me but not him? And why can’t Gertrude be a boy? Then at least I could imagine he was my older brother, and we could have fun together. But no; she had to be a girl. And it doesn’t matter what I feel about all this. No, I’m just “becoming such a teenager.”

The door opens, and Mom stands there with a warning look in her eyes and a stiff smile on her lips.

“Well, Joshua, dear, now we just have to go through here a little.”

“My name is Josh,” I mumble into my comforter, but she acts as if she doesn’t hear.

Gertrude follows her, dragging her suitcase and bag over the floor. She gives my room a glance. Maybe wondering why this isn’t her room. Yes, she’s probably thinking just that, the bitch. She shoots a glance in my direction and sends me a cold smirk. What’s the meaning of this? Is she making fun of me or is this how teenagers smile?

While they put all of Gertrude’s stuff in its place in her room, I leaf through a crime novel from my father’s library and sink myself into a juicy and horrible description of the methods of a murderer who stalks teenage girls. I read and I read in a burning rage until I suddenly become very sleepy. This boiling inner conflict that finds no outlet consumes my energy, and I fall fast asleep on the book.

In a dream, I’m fighting to keep the door to my room closed, but there’s always someone who opens it up again. I’m becoming so mad and irritated that I can’t control myself. I stack furniture against the door, going berserk, and stand in the middle of the floor with a machine gun in one hand and a double battle-ax in the other, ready to face whoever tries to get through my barricade. The furniture moves and crashes on the floor, the door opens, and I raise the machine gun, but it’s only an old woman standing there. A tiny little thing, at least five hundred years old. She walks up to me and smiles, strokes my chin gently, and says something I don’t hear. Then she takes my hand and leads me to the door.

“You need some fresh air,” she says, and for a long time I stare into her friendly face with a million wrinkles, glowing with warmth and kindness.

I wake up to my own mumbling — it’s like I’m gagged. My face is flat on the book, and a few pages are wet with drool. I sit up with a heavy head, confused, my hair messed up on one side. The door to Gertrude’s room is open, but there’s nobody in there. Then I hear something behind me, and when I turn, I see my cousin kneeling beside my bookshelf, reading the titles of my father’s books. I put my feet on the floor and clear my throat loudly. She looks up and smiles.

“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No,” I say, and feel uncomfortable that she was sneaking around my room while I was sleeping. She obviously can’t be trusted.

“Can I borrow this one?” she asks, and takes a spy novel from the shelf, looks at the cover intently, and chews her gum. When she’s standing above me like this I notice for the first time that she has rather large breasts.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, and stand up from the bed.

She glances over the other books on the shelves, then glides her gaze to my fish tank and from there over to the falcon, Christian the Ninth, which stands proudly on my desk, staring at her threateningly with an open beak. It’s like she’s thinking how she would decorate this room if it were hers. I sidestep by the bed because I have to pee, but I don’t want her to be alone in my room.

“Was there something else?” I ask.

“Just looking,” she says, and goes into her room without closing the door, falls into bed on her stomach, swings her long legs in the air, and starts to read. I grind my teeth and run to the bathroom.

She’s obviously settled in here as well. Makeup: lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, blush, face powder. Hair stuff: hair dryer, hair spray, combs, brushes (three types), shampoo, conditioner. Perfume (three types). Moisturizing cream (four types). Nail polish (four colors). Hand lotion . . . and then sanitary napkins placed shamelessly right before my eyes. Then I see the frown of disgust on my face in the mirror. This is an unbelievable collection of all kinds of crap. My mother has never, in her life, gathered anything close to this. But she agrees to all this as if there’s nothing to it. With a smile on her face, even.

I pee with a powerful splash in the toilet, straight into the water in the middle so the stream echoes loudly against the tiled bathroom walls in protest.

The church is a big building with high windows and a long echo. Every Sunday from now on, for a whole year, Mom is going to take me with her to church, whether I like it or not. I will have my confirmation ceremony along with the other unhappy children of hyper-Christians, forced to confirm the vows from their christening, when they were too young to even talk, let alone understand these vows. Not only does religion seem to me to force innocent children to take part in the silly rituals of their insecure parents, but the manual itself also seems to be full of nonsense.

There’s a whole lot about donkeys, sheep, lambs, and camels. Even a camel that can supposedly get through an eye of a needle. What kind of a tale is that? It’s just like all the other nonsense and only shows how little Jesus knew about sewing. He certainly never had to thread a needle for his mom like I have. Sitting on the hard church bench listening to the priest makes me just as sleepy as prying into the small print of the Bible. Mom, on the other hand, listens with all of her face and moves her lips like she’s repeating every word the priest utters, or is she praying silently? God makes me sleepy. And Jesus is just like any other hippie with long hair and a beard where he floats in midair on the altar painting and Roman soldiers throw themselves to the sides like goalies in the World Cup finals. Jesus is a lamb, but still he’s a god and also a man and a shepherd by occupation. How am I supposed to understand this? If he’s a god and almighty as well, why necessarily does he also have to be a lamb? What’s so great about that? Why not a giraffe? Or a camel, for that matter? And how can he be both a lamb and a shepherd at the same time? Finally there’s a psalm, and the priest starts to fumble at the altar, but Mom sings with emotion along with the choir.

Yes, the Lord is fast asleep. And meanwhile the people sit like sacks in his church, not daring but to keep themselves awake, afraid that as soon as they fall asleep the Lord will wake up and be offended and send them on the first plane to hell. Why do people go to church? To make themselves feel bad? And why does God demand that people come to church so early every Sunday morning, when everybody has a day off and wants to sleep in? Why is he the only one who is allowed to sleep in on Sundays? And why does the priest talk in such a way that you gradually stop hearing what he’s saying? And why are these pews so hard that you get a pain in your back from sitting up straight for so long? Isn’t God supposed to be good? My head sinks between my shoulders, and my back arches until my posture is the shape of a question mark. Mom gives me a nudge, and I force myself to straighten up again.

There’s a loose floorboard at my feet, and if I press it lightly with my foot, there’s a tiny creaking sound. I press down on the board a little bit and hold it there and wait for the priest to pause. Then I let go so the board springs back into position with a sound that echoes around the whole church; the eyelids of the Lord open a crack; can I wake him up? I press the board down again and wait for my next chance. Everybody bows their heads in silent prayer, but I bow mine to hide my yawn.

I hold the board down with my foot, waiting for a moment of silence to break so I can force God to wake up.

I wish I could see him come down through the church ceiling and talk to the people who arrive dutifully every Sunday, like Mom, for one more attempt to get a connection with him. God is a little bit like the shopkeeper on the corner, old Andrew. When you come into the shop and look over the shelves, you want and want and want so many things. But he knows you don’t have the money to buy what you want — everything has its price — so he just stands there, tall and thin with his gold-rimmed glasses and the gray tuft of hair around his bald head, in a white coat like a pharmacist, waiting for you to put money on the desk so he can decide what you can afford.

You can only have three chocolate-caramel candies for that, but you want a whole chocolate bar, because that’s so much better. Because as soon as the chocolate from the candies has melted, all that’s left is the tough caramel that sticks to your teeth forever. And it doesn’t help at all if you make a sad face at Andrew when you are just one penny short of the chocolate bar. No, he’s just like God. He gives out the treasures of this world in proportion to your financial situation. Of course God needs to get something back, just like Andrew. Or does he?

Maybe this is all a huge misunderstanding. Maybe God is not in the church at all and has never been there. Maybe the church is the only place where
he
can never be found. Maybe he’s just sitting outside, dead bored, waiting for the people to come out of here, for them to hurry back into their lives outside, into the bright second Sunday of Lent. Maybe he’s right where people are after church, having ice cream in the sun, walking through the park, having a swim, or taking flowers to a relative at the old people’s home.

Mom and I always used to go there after church on Sundays to visit Grandma. She lay in her bed with her smiling face, her silvery hair on the snow-white pillow, her big nose, and her bright eyes. She was always so happy to see me, and her old hands, with the soft loose skin, were so warm. She always had a small bag of candy in a drawer: white pyramids with red stripes. Then she wanted me to learn some old rhymes and to tell Mom about the strange dreams she’d had. She dreamed quite a lot. Before we left, she always made me repeat what she had taught me so I would know it by heart. I’ve forgotten almost everything now, except a bit from the rhyme about the months.