Swimming (20 page)

I lean over.
Look at him … He’s hopping like a gymnast; someone should tell him. Maybe one of his motivating buddies or his mother …

She won’t tear her eyes away.
Shhhh … He’s cute
.

His hands are sprouting from his ape arms like a pair of ivory gloves.
He has short bangs, Peggy, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed them, but …

He’s been through a lot … He counsels presidents
, she says, not moving her eyes.

You just want to sleep with him
, I say.

Not really
, she says.

Not really means not right now
, I say.

Shut up
, she says.
Spankovitz is glaring
.

J. Caesar is sitting down on his haunches with his hands clasped in front of him. He’s decided to take it down a notch.

He’s acting like he’s giving us some Big Secret Message or something
, I whisper.

Shut up
, Peggy whispers back.

I will if he will
.

I’m not sitting next to you tomorrow
.

Just answer me one question, one
.

If you’ll shut up
.

How many gold medals has he won?
I ask in Bron’s debater voice.

This surprises her.
He counsels
presidents,
Pip. We swim
.

J. Caesar summons us before daylight to experience the mystery of dawn in front of some of the biggest waves in the world. We’re shoeless, our toes digging into particles of cool black lava. Big waves curl up like a living wall, then collapse in a roar. My hands and feet are freezing. Mankovitz is staring at the water looking like a statue of a hobbit. Babe’s thrown herself into one of the deep hypnotic trances she’s thrown herself into since her third year of med school. Big waves curl up like a living wall, then collapse in a roar. Peggy gets dramatic with fake tears; she’s wearing a see-through tank top and her littlest shorts. I look over at Caesar; he’s looking at me. I shift my eyes to the heart of a big wave as it curls up into a living wall, then collapses in a roar.

He clears his throat, speaks softly.
Ladies, I’m going to tell you something that most of you here already know but that perhaps some of you need to remember. If your mind can think it up, your body can find a way to do it
.

I’m supposed to get goose bumps, don’t.
He called us ladies
, I whisper.

That’s because he’s a gentleman
, Peggy whispers back, shivering.

He has bangs, Peggy
, I say.

We have a lively dinner banquet with a fresh seafood buffet, seven flabby dancers, and a couple of guys jumping around hitting each other with burning sticks. I squint over my pineapple frappé. J. Caesar squints back.

I wait until dessert.
What if your brain thinks up a ton of awful, sick things and they feel real?

His mango has been artfully carved into a pinecone.
You choose where you put your energy
.

I hate this kind of response.
That’s the easy way out
.

It happens to be true
. He holds both hands out, palms open, an international indication of a fake Gandhi.
You put your energy where you want it to go. It’s your choice
.

I get the results I want
, I say.

For how long?
he says, carefully slicing.

Are you trying to psych me out?
I say so loudly the Mankovitz looks up sniffing from his hot lemon tea spiked with a generous amount of cloves.

I’m trying to help you
, he says quietly, his J. Caesar eyes burning with Brutus.

Who helped you?
I ask.

Gandhi helped me
. The hands again.
Jesus helped me
, but no thorns.
Buddha helped me
, I’m breathing.
Nelson Mandela helped me
, I’ve had troubled times.
Bud Lancer helped me
, I am an intellect.
Joseph Campbell helped me
, Zeus, Herod, that guy with the horse body.
Certain parts of the Bible helped me
, Thee, Thou, Thine.
Martin Luther King helped me
, I know no color.
Malcom X helped me
, I can pounce.
Mother Teresa helped me
, the poor will suffer.
Jung helped me
, I dreamt I was my mother and she dreamt she was me.
Einstein helped me
, time is the sum of all light speeding through the portals of one vast mind covered with extra-short hair.

Who helped them?
I ask, and Peggy kicks me under the table so I kick her back and at that the fatty dancers reappear with burning spears and we all clap and whoop in unison.

On the plane home, I sit next to a burnt-nosed E. Mankovitz.
That Caesar guy takes the easy way out
.

He looks up from his reading.
I don’t think so. You should pay attention; he’s accomplished a lot
.

Still. He did go on and on about all that whiskey stuff
, I say.

He looks down at his reading.
He got over the whiskey stuff
.

I stretch my legs.
And that dead father thing …

He looks up.
What dead father thing?

That thing about the dead dad
.

I don’t remember anything about a dead father. But I liked that story about Churchill
.

I don’t remember anything about Churchill.
What story about Churchill?

He looks back down.
You weren’t listening, were you?

I was
, I lie.

He closes his magazine and his eyes at the same time. There’s a picture of a GI with a receding chin on his way to a stupid war. I look out the porthole at the mass of atmosphere simmering below.

Life has already offered up many of its very best milestones: girlhood, womanhood, virginityhood, Olympic goldhood, world recordhood, full scholarshiphood, new Jeepdom, nice boyfriendsinsuccessionship. But nothing big enough outside has happened to make anything inside seem different. I’m still the same: tall, annoyed, loveless, and lonesome in a way I can’t explain, not like I try.

Hey Sister, Seoul Sister

Peggy shakes the water out of her ears, pushing her head to the side at a stupid angle and shaking it like a dog as though there were something inside rattling around. She complains about her muscles, her hair, her teeth, her hair follicles, her gums, her perfect parents, her not-in-love-enough boyfriends. She looks at a freshman swimmer and says, loud enough for her to hear:
When did we start accepting fat girls on the team?

Every time I get faster, she gets faster, like jogging with a pet.

Why does it take me getting faster to get you getting faster?
I ask her over sushi.

A gorgeous awful swimmer recently left her for someone Peggy refers to as a bottled bitch. She is often in bad moods she punctuates with leaps into a sick-seeming joy. Today is not a good day.
Fuck you
, she says without looking up.

I’m just trying to help. It’s your inner game. You can get faster
before
I get faster. You don’t need me to do it for you. I know it
.

You’re so deep
. She sighs.

I don’t want to ask, but do.
What’s wrong?

She looks at me and her eyes say:
I’m sick of all this Olympic shit
, but her mouth says:
Nothing; I’m just tired
.

This is the wonderful atmosphere that leads us to Seoul.

God’s Holy Olympic Fire starts in the temple of Hera to rhythmic drumbeating, braided priestesses humming and swaying, dancing and twirling, old prayers directed to Zeus, old prayers directed to Apollo, old prayers directed to Zeus again, the Olympic flame bursting forth, glowing with hope. It’s carried through woodlands, over hills, past Greek villages set in stone, relayed through the sweating hands of politicians, well-regarded clergymen, handicapped kids with photogenic smiles, really old people with good motor skills, Miss Universe, mayors from the four corners of the earth. It travels on foot, on horseback, aboard ship, in car, by airplane before arriving in South Korea, the land of the morning calm.

This is how calm Seoul is: Ladies in white gowns twirl like magic teacups with dark pretty heads, big-eyebrowed warriors bare long swords, long-gowned yellow girls, long-gowned red girls twirl parasol-size fans,
peaceful loving welcome, universe loving welcome, welcome
. Karate-chopping guys hop, creepy guys with triangle hats chop, white-faced, white-shoed, white-panted, white-tuniced, red-sashed, blood-lipped. Balloons float, firecrackers explode, white pigeons fly, white pigeon shit falls, happy aircraft survey, twenty-one guns salute,
Welcome world, Welcome universe, Welcome
. There are outdoor guides, indoor guides, lounge guides, seating guides, kitchen guides, identification guides. There are entry controllers, exit controllers, inside controllers, enormous Olympic buffets with Western food controllers supervised by the buffet overlords. Communists, Democrats, left-wing neutrals, right-wing neutrals, neutral-neutrals stand patiently in line for the breakfast buffet. Huge Russian wrestlers, necks as thick as living trees, ply trays with Western-inspired food; tiny gymnasts, asses as hard as living rock, ply trays with Western-inspired food. A whole pack of volleyball lesbians from Romania pass, trays swaying with pancake. Peggy tweaks my arm, says:
Get a load of that
.

All human beings go through a period where they are assholes, except for the fake ones who are assholes full-time. I’m a big asshole but don’t know it because being an asshole deadens self-censorship, universal empathy, the ability to recognize when one is lying to oneself. I pretend not to know the people I do know, pretend not to need the things I do need, pretend I possess rare things I do not possess, pretend I am different than I have always been. The only surprise at the Olympic trials this year was an older swimmer, twenty-four, who came out of nowhere, setting a world record in the 800-meter free. She was still crying when I congratulated her, said:
I was swimming so fast, I thought I’d die
. I was nice, said:
But you didn’t
.

I called my mother after qualifying for five events. She was going through a box of Roxanne’s report cards.

I’m so worried. So worried. I have this feeling she’s dead
, she said.
Here, Sister Helena says: “Trouble concentrating.”

If she were dead, I’d know it by now
.

But how? Has she contacted you?

No! Are you crazy? I would have told you
.

Then how do you know she’s still alive?

I can’t explain. I just do, okay? I know. Trust me
.

The asshole in me has tiny flags manicured onto my nails, an American flag dyed into my hair, a waterproof eye shadow in mermaid green. For the first time in my life I make big to-dos on the starting block, flopping, hopping, flexing, snowflake smiling, big thumbs-up, number one,
V
for the universally peaceful international vagina, shoulder propellers, lengthy goggle adjustment, water as a holy element adornment ceremony.

There is a chilly menace from the shrouded communists in the north. We are told to keep our heads up, accept no packages, are escorted by small Koreans who smile like realistic toys. They are a slight, white-faced, shy-voiced people, a foot shorter than I. Everything different is becoming similar and the things that remain different seem irrevocably so. We are all wearing the same shoes, hats, T-shirts, listening to the same music, desiring the same food, but we don’t speak the same language.

Thus the outside world fades, is suspended, becomes ethereal like dust caught in a tight strip of sunshine.

Thus I lie on my single bed, watch the ceiling fan turn, wait.

At the breakfast buffet we sit near a table with the fastest person in the world and six synchronized swimmers in full makeup who hold themselves with the pointy inward stance of ballerinas. Everyone is almost exactly the same but oddly different, like sisters with the same hair. Fredrinka Kurds is lying low; I perceive her gliding giganticness at the juice bar, concentrate hard on keeping my gaze away, my heart thrumming like a giant Korean drum.

Thus energy is gathered, hunger restored.

I’ve turned professional, have an agent, Hank, and a family of sponsors who have chosen me because I am positive. I smile an awful smile, make crazy impossible predictions.
Cutting three seconds off my world record! Winning eight golds! I don’t even need a mustache!

Supercoach E. Mankovitz is concerned.
Don’t lose focus. We’ve trained too hard
.

I won’t look at him.
I’m on it
.

This is how I see it: Fredrinka Kurds is burnt out; her muscles have grown large and rubbery, creating drag. She’s so slow the world says
whew
. I, on the other hand, am someone with hunger. I can feel it eating at me. I beat her, badly. So badly I’m kind. When I shake her hand and say:
Gut schwimmen
, I will mean it.

I wait.

I swim.

I wait.

I swim.

The East German Berliners pulverize record after record.

E. Mankovitz bites down hard on his gum, scratches his head.

I wait.

I swim.

I wait.

I swim.

The East German Berliners pulverize record after record.

Kyd lets out a heartfelt sigh.

Peggy gives up.

Babe holds her mouth in a straight line, clicking her nails as she stares at the pool.

I get annoyed.

Fredrinka Kurds looks me in the corner of one of my eyes with the corner of one of her eyes. I keep my face still and hard, slide my gaze away, both eyeballs dipping left, feigning a concentration I do not feel.
You’re going down, East German butt liner
.

She bends over the pool, takes a sip of chlorine, rinses her mouth out with it, then spits:
pah
. This
pah
sticks in my mind all the way to the starting block:
pah pah pah pah
.

Assholes exist because they know something about them isn’t quite right—it is a suit of armor that few feel the energy to crack. I chew on my almonds, but they have no taste. I swoosh them against my teeth, but they make no sound.

I won’t let it go, hold one arm up, jump up and down. I’m giddy.
I’m going to
break zero;
it will be
over
before it starts
. Journalists smile those smiles that say:
They are going to demolish you and you know it, Pip
.

It is when you lose that you know how your mettle is forged. My mettle is placebo mettle. To counteract the placebo effect, I cover it in bug repellent. My mettle is weak, crackled as easily as iced mirror. My mettle is a chocolate-coated suit of armor in a piece of shit life with a puddly pig laughing at the end and I swim in Fredrinka’s wake like a gravity-stricken lead robot with hand-painted $120 toenails.

I’m barely silver.

I’m barely silver.

I’m bronze.

I’m bronze.

Babe gets trounced upon twice by Brigitta Hoffmann. She looks bewildered, says:
Who ever heard of Brigitta Hoffmann?
I’ll never forget the look on her face; tired but deeply, as though an old woman had moved into her body.
I guess that’s it for me
, she says as she rubs her silver medal and I say:
Don’t be stupid
as I rub mine.

My final final, the sun is sluicing sideways through the blue glass window above the ready room and falling at our feet in a translucent blue square. I maneuver one of my feet into the blue square and it becomes blue. I relax using the ancient technique of positive self-evaluation, but am so annoyed my toes are curling. The crowds in the natatorium are chanting converging hollow sounds that mushroom out into the heavy, wet air. Fredrinka Kurds is standing in front of me, her eyes fixed on the ground, her shoulders sloped in like those of a person with no self-confidence, perhaps a tactic, perhaps not. She hasn’t put her cap on yet, and her frosted hair sprouts from her head in the form of one big hand as though she slept hanging upside down from the rafters like a solitary bat.

The West German swimmer with the anger-management issues is loudly hocking up a loogie and spitting it into the small drains that lead from the pool to the showers. She makes rough metallic sounds out of her throat. Everyone ignores her at a high personal cost. The Australian chick, whom I personally have no trouble beating, looks over at me, rolls her eyes, and smiles. Assholes ignore random kindnesses; I keep my face facing forward. We all look the same: height encased in muscle encased in Lycra, holding goggles loosely in one veiny hand. The newcomer, a fourteen-year-old from Rotterdam with yellow streaks in her hair and a naked sailor tattooed on her left shoulder, is so nervous she has to bend herself in two to breathe. The Polish chick with the funny lips snarls and barks, shadowboxing the air in front of her.
Polish people know what they want
.

Fredrinka looks over, then away.

We walk out on deck and the roar that ensues is so intense I get goose bumps on hair follicles shaved so cleanly they sting. I jump up and wave a new wave—a U.S. Marine salute with a queen of England twist. Fredrinka stands up glumly in her ho-hum way, putting one hand up tentatively as if to ask a heavy question. I hop up on the starting block, my toes curling white with rage, my muscles curling white with rage, the strain in my mind curling white with rage, Leonard sitting in his chair, still cobwebbed with a Mesolithic hungry hunter face and lean hungry feet. I hear the beep.
Now
.

I sense her nearness even though I’m swimming like a subatomic asshole, breaking the golden swimming rules one by one:
In pace: fuck it. Breathe: fuck it. Turn: tight
. I know that once you start to lose, it’s almost impossible to stop, don’t give a shit if I have to crawl out of the pool on all fours, I’m going to get at least one gold. I lunge hard, breaking two fingers in a snap like table crackers and the twenty-fourth Olympiad is now over for me. I rip the goggles off my face, but the roar is so dense, I can’t focus on anything, just my breathing and the scoreboard. Then I see it,
Lane 4 USA WR
. Joy rises from my gut up into my head in one strong wave and I hit the water with both fists. I feel no pain, although logically, there must have been some.

Gut schwimmen
. She shakes my hand with a hand the size and consistency of a baseball glove.

Thanks. Good swim
. I shake her hand, my fingers screeching in pain.

Mankovitz laughs.
That’ll get them
.

I get my fingers set in a splint, find Peggy back at the village sitting in front of a stuffed suitcase, her hair slicked back with a purple glittery hair mousse.

Let’s party
, she says.

Okay
, I say.
Pass me some of that mousse
. I stand in the mirror and mousse the flag up around my face with my left hand, creating a jagged, interesting effect.

Peggy looks in the mirror.
How do I look?

I look at her, lie.
Very good
. Then we run.

Fredrinka Kurds never swims again. I ask every German I ever meet if they know where she is, what happened to her, but they never do. Oral-Turinabol. That’s what it’s called. Anabolic steroid. When the wall falls, I will scan the dancing Berliners for a glimpse of someone Fredrinka-like, but it’s hard to recognize a swimmer outside of the pool and all I see are sturdy, rubber-nosed Germans exalting, their cheeks flushed with the high color of joy. Oral-Turinabol.
Chlorodehydromethyl-testosterone
. It travels directly to the base of the brain, where it whispers:
You are no longer Fraülein
, setting off a chain of bodily events that will last an entire lifetime. Guy stuff installs: dark wiry hair, voice boxes grind into low gear, budding oranges swallowed up by booming pecs, ovaries frozen mid-twirl, vaginas quiet, wondering
What the hell
, and a flush of adolescent acne that covers the face, the torso, the butt, as if the girl inside were chanting
nein nein nein nein
. They gave it to girls, not yet women, just to see what would happen before testing it on men. Blue vitamins in a large glass jar. When the wall crumbles, I will watch the world change, brick by brick, hundreds of thousands of East German Berliners becoming whole Berliners once again, the world Fredrinka-less.