You throw a handful of peas into the bathtub. Le Fishe eats them, and then smiles up at you as if to say "merci pour les petit pois, mon ami". You’re not too sure what that means, since you failed French at school, but then Le Fishe reaches for his pack of Gauloises and offers you a smoke. You take a seat on the edge of the tub and tell Le Fishe of your recent travails. Soon, the heady scent of tobacco and burning rubber mingles with the Dior for Fishe in the water, and you recall the time you lost one of the kids on the Paris Metro. A gentle laugh escapes your lips, and you relax for the first time in days.