He forced a smile and rubbed his head. I wondered if there were any other empty bottles hiding out on the balcony.
Christmas may come only once a year but that’s no reason to break with tradition. I was surprised my parents weren’t sitting together. My mum wasn’t perched on the arm of my dad’s chair but on the sofa, further along. Separate.
Even when you’re eleven, you always open the biggest present under the tree first. I knew at once that the chemistry kit was Mum’s idea. She always buys me educational toys. For her a present should be useful. I’m a year ahead at school because she taught me to read when I was four. I was the star at daycare. Now I’m the bookworm who’s a full head shorter than everyone else.
There were three presents left, almost all the same size. In this situation, you open the heaviest one next.
‘This is Dad’s little surprise . . .’ He was staring at me.
I pretended not to see the dark look that Mum had just given him. I tore off the wrapping paper and my eyes popped out. Unbelievable! A video camera! I turned to my dad. All I could say was, ‘Wow, Dad . . .’
He settled back in his chair, pleased. My mum clenched her jaw. I couldn’t let her stay sad like that.
‘Thanks, Mum, you too! Thank you, both of you . . . Thank you, Santa Claus!’
Her smile was strained. The video camera hadn’t been her idea. I quickly opened the other two presents: first came a box of Lego, another of my mum’s ideas, intended to help develop my fine motor skills. Actually, I’m so developed in that department that I can pretty much take a watch apart wearing a pair of hockey gloves.
The last package was a clock radio shaped like a football. It was from Julien. I’d told him last year that I was fed up with presents that had to do with baseball.
‘But that Yankees bathrobe looks great on you!’ he’d said.
I think he would have liked to have a boy. Maybe not two, but at least one of the two. Having to buy Barbie dolls in duplicate all the time must be frustrating for even the best dads. So he kind of made up for it with me.
‘At least an alarm clock is more practical than a bathrobe . . .’
‘You mustn’t forget that it’s not the present that counts, but the thought . . .’
I could tell my mum wasn’t really talking to me, but to my dad. I went back to the box with the video camera. I sat on the floor with my back to them. I could sense that they didn’t agree but, with such a beautiful toy in my hands, that didn’t seem like my problem. I took out the instructions. My parents were whispering. I pretended to read, and I overheard everything, intentionally. I didn’t know my mum knew how to swear.
‘Shit, Martin. A thousand bucks for that camera! Don’t you start playing that game.’
‘He’s been wanting one for a long time, and have you seen his report card?’
‘He always has good report cards!’
‘Aren’t you the one who said we ought to encourage him?’
‘If you buy him a camera when he’s only eleven, how are you going to encourage him when he’s sixteen? With a car?’
My mum got up and left the room. Hearing them argue because my present was too expensive made me sorry I didn’t believe in Santa Claus any more. Especially since I had already heard way too many arguments this year. They almost always began with the same sentence: Don’t you ever feel like you’re wasting your life, sitting there glued to the television?
I turned to my dad. He was trying hard to smile. Then he stood up, slowly. No, very slowly.
‘Urghh! My head!’
He went over to the bathroom. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Knock-knock!
‘It’s engaged!’
My mum shouted so loud that he put his hands over his ears. He came back and slumped into his armchair, almost embracing it with his body. Robot-like, he reached for the remote. Click. And on it went, the blahblah of the television.
It was nine fifty-nine on the news channel.
Christmas goes by so fast.
Sunday, 4 January 1998
THEY’RE ONLY KIDS!
Only three bulbs twinkled on a tiny string of Christmas lights on the tiny Christmas tree that stood on the coffee table next to two empty glasses and a bottle of wine that had breathed its last. On the sofa two cats nestled together, sleeping on a yellow shirt rolled up in a ball, its bottom buttons still done up. On the floor was a twisted pair of men’s trousers, clearly removed in a great hurry. A short red dress lay carefully folded on the back of the sofa.
Along the hall, the bedroom door was ajar. In the dishevelled bed two shapes could be seen, both sound asleep. According to the clock radio it was two in the afternoon.
‘Psst! Psst! Come on, here you go!’
In the kitchen, near a little flap at the bottom of the door to the balcony, a black kitten hesitated.
‘Here, kitty kitty!’
The little creature took a step forward, crouched down and put its head through the flap. A hand outside, reaching up from the ground floor, encouraged the kitten, rolling a little red ball from left to right in the snow.
‘Who’s this ball for, hmm?’
The kitten seemed to think it just might be for him. For a moment he stayed poised. Yes, it must be his! He pounced. A hand grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. So it wasn’t for him after all.
Meow!
On the sofa, deaf to the cry of distress from their kidnapped fellow creature, neither cat budged. The three little lights on the tree went on blinking. In the bedroom, one of the bodies had turned away from the other. A man’s muscular arm emerged from the sheets to hang down the side of the bed, accidentally brushing the woman’s back. She murmured something, then silence returned.
Ding-dong!
The man twitched, and sat up with a start. He looked around and in a panic he turned to the front door.
‘Julie! Wake up!’
‘Let me sleep . . .’
‘There’s someone at the door!’
‘You’re dreaming . . . Go back to sleep.’
Ding-dong!
The man ran frantically for his trousers, pulling them on even more hurriedly than he had removed them the night before. He bent over the sofa and quickly tugged at his yellow shirt. Two cats flew into the air for an instant before landing neatly on their paws. Buttoning his shirt, the man went to shake Julie.
‘Does
