Page 44 of Must Love Christmas

“That seems pretty fundamental,” she said.

“Aye, it’s like a tennis player’s serve or a golfer’s putt. Once you lose your touch, it gets in your head.” Garen twisted the cap of his vodka bottle, breaking the seal with a crisp snap. “And of course your opponents notice, so they start setting up draw shots for you instead of hits.”

“It’s a mentally orientated game, eh?”

“Totally,” Garen said. “I dunno where my mind is this week—Simon’s condition, the charity event, the state of the world—but it’s not on curling.” He realized he’d forgotten to fetch a glass. “Hang on.”

“Wait, what charity event?”

He raised his voice to be heard as he moved away from the computer. “We’re holding a Christmas curling bonspiel. It’s called Jingle Bell Rocks. Get it?”

“Clever.”

“I know, it’s my idea.” He picked up one of the hotel glasses from the table beside the TV and returned to the bed. “Anyway, the way this bonspiel works is, companies and organizations pay a fee to enter a team of brand-new curlers. They get training ahead of time and coaching on the day of the competition, courtesy of Shawlands volunteers. The charity handles the food and door prizes and all.”

“Which charity?”

“It’s called New Shores.” Garen poured a large dram into the glass. “They give financial and legal aid to refugees and asylum seekers.”

“Ooh, how anti-Brexit.”

“Exactly.” He lifted his glass. “Shall we start?”

“I’m ready if you are.” She picked up her dram of vodka and reached it toward the camera.“Za raditeley,”she said with what Garen assumed was a perfect Russian accent.

He did the same in their annual toast to their parents.“Za raditeley.”

They took long sips, then plugged their earphones into their phones.

“Music ready?” Karen asked. When Garen nodded, she said, “And…go.”

Garen pressed play. A few moments later, the opening notes of Prokofiev’sPeter and the Wolffilled his ears. He picked up his copy of the picture book version, one with text in both Russian and English.

Right on cue, Karen began reading the introduction in Russian, explaining how each character was represented by a different instrument. When Karen had finished that page, Garen reread it aloud in English.

They’d started this tradition—minus the vodka—nearly twenty years ago, when their mum had introduced them to the Russian classic. Ravenous for culture from their birth country, Garen and his sister had latched onto the multimedia tale. Depending on other birthday plans with friends or partners, the tradition often took place before or after their actual birthday, but this year their schedules had meshed.

Soon the story proper began with the jaunty opening strains of Peter’s theme. Garen listened to the Russian syllables roll off his sister’s tongue as he sipped his vodka and took in the book’s soft watercolor images.

The wolf arrived, with a motif that sounded familiar for a reason beyond the usual.

“Wait, pause it!” Garen said.

“What’s wrong?” his sister asked.

“The wolf’s theme…” He hummed it, probably off-key. “They use it inA Christmas Story.”

“Which Christmas story?”

“No,A Christmas Story—you know, that American movie about the kid who wants a BB gun? The first bar of the wolf’s theme is played when the bully Scut Farkus appears.”

“Everything always comes back to Christmas with you.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“Nothing. Whatever makes you happy, lad.” She finished her first dram of vodka and poured out another. “Shall we continue?”

Garen hit play, and the wolf’s trio of French horns continued.

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