Every day, sometimes even three times a day, the nameless man in that story visits the Jardin des Plantes to stare at the strange little animals in their cramped aquarium, at their translucent milky bodies and delicate lizard's tails, their pink, flat, triangular Aztec faces and
tiny feet with nearly humanlike fingers, the odd reddish sprigs that sprout from their gills, the golden
glow of their
eyes, the way they hardly ever move, only now and then twitching their gills, or abruptly swimming with a single undulation of their bodies.
There in the dark living room where she and the other women sat waiting for the men to return, I heard them telling each other in whispery voices not to smoke because passing planes were able to see the
tiniest glow inside a house, and I wondered whether planes had
eyes.