We searched among the shop’s specimens and chose a red Betta with blue fins. We named him Oblomov in the hope that his name would have some positive influence on his temperament. I wondered about this resolve of ours, mine and Vincent’s, to keep buying Bettas. Why did we not, after that terrible ordeal, find a more amicable species? I suppose what we really wanted was a companion for our widower, not another animal that would be pointing out his faults, all that he was not nor could ever be because of his nature. We decided to leave the new one in a different fishbowl. We had heard that two male Bettas living in separate habitats from which they are able to see the other compete by displaying the full range of colors that their genes allow them to develop. Oblomov seemed to flourish in his little container, but that was not the case for our widowed fish. Every day he got worse, and in two weeks he was found, just like his old mate, floating on the surface of the tank. After his death we dismantled the aquarium and brought it to the basement. To fill the empty space we returned to the bookshelf my many editions of The Civil Code, arranging them as they had been before.

Oblomov remained in his glass bowl, located once again in the little corner table in the living room. Neither Vincent nor I was interested in observing his development or behaviors. We fed him, unsystematically, from time to time. It was around then when I decided to leave and go to Bordeaux. I’d look for work, and when I found it I would move there and live with Lila in an apartment I imagined to be very spacious and not far from the city center. In the meantime I would live with my parents. I spoke to Vincent about it. He could come see Lila whenever he wanted. Perhaps, with the distance between us, things would work themselves out and he would decide to move there too. We said this and other lies I no longer remember. As we spoke, I kept looking over at the red fish that was circling his bowl, counterclockwise.