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“That’s it, I’ve got the mother!” my friend Steve cried out . To be honest he should have cried “she’s got me” because the carp who found the piece of bread (perfidious lure) to it’s liking (baguette, 90 cents) was dragging the poor man like a furious doberman would unceremoniously drag a legless invalid.

More than a half hour later, I helped Steve net the enormous carp. She was truly magnificent with large orange tinted fins, lips rose and violet and huge scales like a Teutonic Knight.

“Great, but it’s not over” announced my comrade wiping the sweat that glistened on his face, “I’m taking this little baby home.  She’ll look great in my garden pond!”

“What? Are you crazy, this poor creature in a small pond? Why don’t you throw in a dolphin or a rhinoceros while you’re at it?”

Nothing worked. Before you could say Jack Robinson the gray 4×4 was tearing down the forest trail kicking up dust.

And me, there I was, like a jerk with a bad taste in my mouth, the taste of treachery, the taste of unqualified infamy, the taste of red hot shame.

Then, last week, Steve invited me to lunch: “Fleche, it’ll be great if you can come, my wife Regine just discovered a new dish, a chiffon of apples in a can.

When I got to his house the poor devil absolutely wanted to show me his pond. Good gracious, what a horror! The famous pond measured 2 meters in diameter and the carp, who had barely enough space to turn around, was casting a dark evil eye at him. (The dark, evil eyes of carps are among the darkest that I know!)

“Surely you’re not going to continue to torture this poor creature?” I implored. I even went on my knees to defend the cause of the carp. Grace of my (almost sincere) tears, in the end I played my role so well that after finished our canned apple sauce we went to return the fish to the spot where we shamefully caught it.

The next day I returned to the river, curious to see if everything was OK; I entered the water and suddenly I was surrounded by at least a dozen huge carps who rubbed up against my legs, leaping like crazies, throwing me big smiles and flirty winks. Steve’s carp was among the lot and I have to admit that something quite powerful passed between us and from that day until this, Fabienne (that’s the name that I have her) and I have a relation a lot more intense than just friends. It would require the talent of an Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) to relate the frenzied liaison and the carpal leaps that unites us daily in the river.

As for the sadly celebrated “Deep Throat”, well, next to the greedy eroticism of Fabienne’s lips… I have nothing to say!