January 10, 1991.

Nicolas, my youngest son, and I are walking on ice with big
boots. It is hard and we say, wouldn't it be nice if we had
skates. Suddenly, we are wearing skates and we glide, glide
gracefully across the skating rink like the best skaters in the
world.

I am in the entrance to our yard in Elie, my home town; the front
entrance. In the hall, my cat is dead. She lies stiff as a
board by a circle of pine branches. Someone rings the doorbell.
I open the door. It is an Algerian man, a cabdriver. He says:
"It's $3.25, maam." Behind me, I can see my adoptive mother
Marcelle and Grandmaman, her mother, standing in the parking lot
my adoptive father Reg's patients use. They look at me
imploringly. I refuse to pay the cab driver and I scream at him:
"You're the one who killed my cat!" He denies it. I accuse him
once again, screaming at him with all my streght. He admits his
crime, enters the house and suddenly, the cat gets up and leaves.
She has ressucitated.

The Algerian falls in love with me. He says: "Say something to
me," with a lot of passion in his voice. I ask him if he has
read any good books lately. The image of a paper cross appears.
We are then in a shopping mall. We run together, hand in hand
from one bookstore to another. From time to time, I give him a
dispassionate little kiss on the cheek because I know that's what
he wants and needs.


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