I put on my gloves and the toque that will serve as a hairnet. I used to wonder why criminals in movies always wear leather gloves. It’s not a taste for luxury or style. Leather grips better than cloth. I do a little tour of the basement, quiet as a mouse. Half of it, with a bare concrete floor, is home to the hot water tank, the heating system, and some old hockey gear. I count no fewer than fourteen pairs of skates in this clutter. There’s also what I imagine must be a white plastic Christmas tree, with hundreds of little red lights built right into its translucent branches. A needle-less albino tree that looks like it belongs in the depths of the ocean. I am stupefied that such a thing exists. I plug it in. It lights up like the neon sign of a bordello.

The other half of the basement displays this selfsame special blend of poor taste and opulence. Beige carpeting. An entire mirrored wall inscribed with a gilt diamond pattern. Three long, curved plaid sofas moulded to the corners of the room. A black bearskin spread out before a gas fireplace. A massive bar is the centrepiece of this scene, with eight wooden barstools lined up in front of it under orange rattan lampshades. On the golden mirrored wall behind the bar, a katana hangs above bottles of Scotch and crème de menthe. This elegant object, slender and light, couldn’t be more out of place in this den that looks like a 1970s porn set. A stuffed swordfish would have surprised me less. Clearly I should check out people’s houses more often.

Liberated from its black and red sheath, the blade cuts through the air with a satisfying whoosh. I swing it a few times in the dark room, watching my reflection in the gilded mirror on the wall. The blade shines almost blue in the weak light filtering through the rectangular windows near ceiling-height. I take a break from my part in this drama to listen for a minute. Nothing. Four minutes have elapsed since I came inside. I’m hot in my toque. The katana slices the sofas easily. You can barely see the long incisions in the psychedelic brown patterns on the cushions. I also make a few cuts in the carpeting near the walls and then put the katana back in its spot with a pang of regret. I didn’t come here to save objects from the gaudiness of their owners’ taste.