I spent the afternoon reading on the couch and watching the fishbowl. While they were not scientific works, the books I had borrowed from the library offered more practical information than had the Encyclopedic Dictionary. Both were intended for a younger audience, or at least one not very well versed on the topic. In one of them I found information on Betta splendens. Its author gave details about their care and reproduction; for example, he said the male’s expanding operculum indicated his desire to mate, and he can become violent if rejected. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The books described the fish as highly combative; it’s why they are commonly referred to as “fighters.” In some countries people even use them as fighting animals and enter them into a ring, just like how the Western world bets on cockfights. Reading this I felt something like embarrassment. The feeling you get when you discover the dark facets of those you know well without their consent. Did I really want to know all this about our fish? I realized I did. It was better to be aware and avoid any kind of accident, as far as possible. The book advised against having two males in the same tank, no matter how large. There was a better chance, on the other hand, of a male and a female surviving together, as long as they had enough space. Five liters, at least. I looked at our fishbowl; the amount of water was absurd. “When in distress or danger,” the author continued, “Bettas develop horizontal stripes, contrasting with the color of their body.”

When my husband came in, I had been asleep on the couch for over an hour. Vincent closed the books, careful to mark the open pages, and with caresses woke me up so I’d go to bed. But before going back to sleep, I tried to share with him what I had read about our fish.

“It’s dangerous to leave them in that bowl,” I said to him. “They could really get hurt. What if they kill each other?”

I made him promise to move them into an aquarium, with oxygen and some stones where they could hide when they didn’t feel like showing their faces. He humored me, amused.

“You’ve become obsessed with this,” he said. “When you go back to work you should specialize in animal rights.”

It was several days before we removed the fish from their container. Tense days for them but also for us, as Vincent didn’t relish the idea of cluttering our living room with an aquarium.

“It’s going to look like a Chinese restaurant!” he let slip out once, defeated and knowing full well there would be no negotiating on the matter.