Fish in the Sky Read Online Free

the ironing board, and another pile of washing she has to iron. In the old washing basket beside her, there’s a bundle of some really fancy material that’s going to be used to make some really posh people’s curtains, and the material is so fancy that it isn’t even allowed to touch the multicolored web of threads on the floor. The sewing machine hums and plods along, and Mom sits there stooped over it, as if chained to the thing. She runs the heavy green material under the needle as carefully as she can, because you’ve got to get the hemline right first time around.
    “The bee community is one of the most perfect communities in the insect world,” says the narrator in her silky-smooth voice. “Each and every one of them performs the tasks he was born to perform. We can only marvel at the organization and diligence of these bees, who work tirelessly and slave away for the benefit of the others.”
    I write that into my book and watch the busy bees buzzing on the screen.
    The sewing machine stops humming behind me. I glance over my shoulder and look at Mom, who is threading the needle. Mom is like those worker bees. She never stops from dawn till dusk. In fact, she’s the perfect worker bee, and unlike her, they don’t have to pay rent or make money to buy food. The bee sits at the sewing machine in her apron. The bee lifts her heavy black head, her antennae drooping in all directions.
    “What’s this program about?” asks the bee.
    “Worker bees, mainly,” I answer.
    Then the bee looks sadly out of the living-room window and gazes into the darkness awhile. No matter which way you look at it, bees have the advantage of having no worries. And they’re never lonely.
    “The worker bee,” she mutters as the antennae sadly dangle over her head, as if she feels neglected that no one thought of making a program about her, the sewing-machine bee, mother bee, chocolate-factory bee. Then she bows her heavy head over the sewing machine again and presses her foot on the pedal, and the needle zigzags through the thick green velvet material that is too plush to touch our carpet. I wish I knew who insisted on her sewing these yards and yards of thick curtain. It obviously didn’t occur to them that she has to work into the small hours, night after night, to finish this job on time. Why can’t they just buy them from a shop?
    “Have you done your math yet?” Mom asks, looking her old self again.
    “Yeah,” I lie.
    “Your lunch is in the fridge. Don’t forget to take it tomorrow morning, and put all your books in your bag before you go to bed so you won’t forget anything. I’ll wake you up before I go to work.” It’s as if the sewing machine’s eating its way through the material to reach Mom’s fingers, so that it can grab her and gobble her all up.
    I still have to go over my math homework once more. But it’s my birthday, so I’m legally excused. Besides, there’s more to life and creation than math. Would Mom and Dad never have separated if they’d been good at arithmetic? And would Dad have become a managing director maybe, like Peter’s dad, if he’d learned the multiplication table by heart? Shouldn’t I be thankful that neither of them turned out to be math nerds, because I might never have been born? But it’s also because I was born that Mom has to slave away in the chocolate factory and get migraines and rheumatism.
    I’ve got a dad in a shoe box and a mom who’s struggling for her life against a famished, cannibalistic sewing machine.

“Life itself is founded on mathematics,” says the headmaster, who takes our math class. He always teaches as if he were trying to rouse a washed-out platoon to victory in a battle he knows is already lost. Even though Pinko is the headmaster, such is his passion for mathematics that he cannot even consider trusting another teacher with the task of imparting the wisdom of this subject to us, his students.
    “Mathematics is the mother of all arts, the