Back then I was certain that, no matter what the reassuring pamphlets said, our Gentilly power station would be the next Chernobyl. The CANDU company that made our friendly neighbourhood reactor came to our school to tell us all about the marvels of nuclear power. Their technical knowledge was so advanced they were certain no accident was possible. The radioactive waste was being dumped under our impenetrable Canadian Shield, well-protected from even the worst catastrophes. I didn’t believe a word of it. I was equally convinced that acid rain would eat away at everything and destroy our lakes. Today we’ve almost stopped talking about it. News is, by definition, a break in the continuity. When people are constantly dying, and have been for generations, the media gets bored. And so do we.

But look on the bright side: I live in an age of wonders, with a plethora of technological marvels and the leisure time to accomplish great things, should I so choose. We’re still free, still entitled to privacy. People with something to hide can still do so. I can deceive and lie with impunity. I frequently put these few powers of mine to the test. The one I’m most proud of is my invisibility.

I make my living exercising a profession that will one day be as obsolete as log driver and telegraph operator. I’m a translator. The day will come when computers will learn to understand irony, context, everyday life, humour, and the other wonders of human nature. Then we translators will go the way of the dodo. For now, though, even bad translators like me can still earn enough to eat and pay rent. Like everyone else, our days are numbered.

2

Fiset

Let me get to the point of my story about the fir tree and the river. His name is Fiset.

There was a drowning in Dupuis Creek that summer. I should mention that I only learned that the trickle of muddy water snaking through the ditch was called Dupuis Creek by reading the newspaper story. We always just called it “the River.” Just like the other river, which we call “the Other River.” Passing on the finer points of local toponymy isn’t a priority of parents around here.

So as it happens, “the youngster Fiset” was in my grade-six class. Another error missed by the newspaper’s fact checkers: see, the boy in question was actually known as “Fat Fiset.” At least, that’s what everyone in my grade called him. As for the older kids, I doubt they had a name for him at all since they had a Fat Fiset of their own. Our Fiset was his little brother.