Français
It was a hot afternoon, hot as only November afternoons can be in the southern part of the state. Mimie Biglow had stopped by earlier with Norah.
After sipping iced tea on the veranda, we were still hot as ever and the air was too thick to cool us down. Mimie struggled to get up from the rocking chair and headed for her car. Without turning around, she called out to us with a wave of her hand: “Let’s go fishing!” It was an order to us, and a few seconds later we were running down the wooden steps and rushing into the car, laughing out loud. Norah had been ready for anything since Marc had left her for Louise, the salesgirl at Hamley’s, and the slightest distraction brought her out of her sadness, so no sooner had Mimie started the car than Norah pulled out of her bag a flask of bourbon that had belonged to her father. Cigarette in mouth, gazing out the window at the scenery.
I closed my eyes and the sun streaming through the trees lit me up like a fairground lamp, alternating puffs of cigarette and sips of bourbon. I liked to feel the warm liquid stinging my tongue and burning my throat, yet sweet as caramel syrup, the warm wind caressed my face and I let my hair dance, I unbuttoned my dress to refresh my chest, I liked not wearing a bra. The girls sang the blues, and Norah couldn’t hold back her tears, while Mimie’s angelic voice ripped our guts out.
We left the road and crossed a long meadow in a cloud of dust until we came to the water’s edge, materialized by a curtain of trees, their tops dancing limply against the too-blue sky. We had parked the car in the shade, not far from another crate also parked under the trees. With the doors open, we stayed there, smoking, drinking, talking about guys who were all bastards after all, and wishing them all the worst diseases in the brothels of New Orleans where they’d just get lost.
Then Mimie decided it was time to go, so we staggered to the trunk where we pulled out some fly rods and, between two fags and the last few drinks, tried our hand at tying our leaders and flies…
Norah was having trouble tying her knots; she had to concentrate, close one eye, stick out her tongue, try to aim the line through the hook, only to find herself on the ground on all fours looking for the fly she’d dropped. And yet our flies weren’t for bleak, they were huge tassels made for trout as big as thighs, imitations of mice, frogs, minnows, all feathered and marabou-like!
We were ready!
Before heading for the river, Mimie glanced at the car parked behind us. She returned with a quick step, put her cane against the trunk and took out a shotgun she used for muskrats, all without saying a word. We watched her walk briskly towards the other car, our canes slung over our shoulders. It was hot and heavy, the air was thick, I could feel the sweat running down my back, a few midges were flying over Norah’s head.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The car door opened, and to our surprise, Norah’s former fiancé Marc stepped out half-naked, desperately reaching forward as if to protect himself, while with the other hand he held back his pants, which fell to his knees. Beside him on the seat, Louise straightened up, barely out of her sleep, seeming to understand nothing of what was happening. Mimie fired once, Marc’s hand and face disappeared in a red cloud, and then another shot from the rifle took Louise, who bounced back on her seat and collapsed in on herself. Birds scurried away.
The silence that followed was resounding,
We were speechless. Norah, wide-eyed, couldn’t believe it, dropping her cane. All I could say was “Oh Fuck! When Mimie reached us, she swapped her rifle for her rod and headed for the river, muttering “Asshole!
We fished well into the night, catching sharp, streamlined trout – we were happy, after all, it was All Saints’ Day.
