Swimming (24 page)

When things calm down, he acts all normal as if the night/day/ afternoon were not ruined, asking politely:
How’s your fish? as
if everyone in the waitstaff/restaurant were not staring at us with unconcealed displeasure and I say:
Fine
even though my fish is a piece of leather sole that’s been dipped in the lemon polish the nuns use for the pews.

Once, a car parks too close, closing him in, and it takes ten minutes of bumper pushing to pull out. He gets out of the car without saying one word and bends the antenna with his bare hands as I watch with what has to be a stupid look on my face.

You just bent that guy’s antenna
.

I know what I did
.

I stare at him with an amazed face and no words, but the bent antenna rotates in my mind. I can see it now, a very sad antenna with a little metal head twirling aimlessly on the hood. Loyalty requires silence during these moments, and I’ve already learned that if I say something, he’s one of those people who’ll blow.

He wears sweet perfume, the sticky kind that makes both the leather in the car and me sweat.

I say:
You smell kind of like a girl
.

What?

You smell kind of like a girl. I don’t know what it is, but it’s … sweet
.

I don’t think so
.

What … is it Russian or something?

No. It’s for American men. American men wear it
.

Yeah, well, you smell like an American woman
.

When he’s annoyed, he fights nonviolent, nonverbal, no-eye-contact fights that last days, the silence pounding the air between us. He stays on his own, calls not. It wears me down, the tension. I dive into the pool and it’s still there, inside. I sleep poorly, eat not, swim sad thrashing sets until E. Mankovitz feels compelled to give drawn-out speeches on focus that involve heavy sighs, clipboard slappings, veiny neck movements, international name-dropping followed quickly by international time dropping. He says:
Let’s keep our personal life out of the pool
.

But all in all, the Russian guy is a very loyal black-and-white sort of person who is highly suspicious that anyone else’s loyalty can match his own or that shades of gray exist in this colorful world.

You were dating someone when we met
, he says one evening, after he sends back his steak.

I brace myself, biting into a grilled mushroom the size of a small hat.
We weren’t dating … We were seeing each other in a very friendly, light kind of way
.

So you can do that, see more than one at a time?

You
asked
me
out
, I say, chewing.

I was just checking
.

I swallow.
Just checking. What was all that saluting and squinting and waving?

He leans in.
You know what that was about
.

I lean back, cross my arms.
No. I don’t
.

Come on! Miss Olympus
. He laughs a mean laugh.

Miss Olympus
. I’m upset, hide it.
I’m one hundred percent accessible; everyone says so
.

You’re one hundred percent accessible if you know you’ll be worshipped
.

I suck my breath in.
That’s so not true
.

Mmmmmm
.

Quit it with the fucking mmmm. Why did you bother if I’m such a …

Curiosity
.

He uses the voice he uses when he watches the stupid news or reads something crazy in the newspaper or hears someone say something that he finds particularly idiotic. It is a voice that separates him from all other human beings, as though he’s forgotten we’re all walking on two feet straight to old age, then on to death. It is the voice he uses when he tells people what’s wrong with them: merciless, infinite, containing an inarguable Truth that leaves no room for discussion, worse than Sister Nestor’s when she was in a mood.

He starts using it on me, occasionally, here then there.
Is that bra pink? Are you really watching that? Does that come from Kansas? Is that something a nun would say? How about we cool it with the yams?
There’s something about the tone, his shoulder posture, the way his eyeballs sit steadily in his head, that for someone who does not believe in a god or anything even remotely godlike, he sounds exactly like a secular pope. It does something to my pituitary gland, my hormonal, spleen, spinal, chakra, energy balance; it tweaks the internal organs and the nerves that support them; it takes the sympathetic nervous system and twirls it, making speech impossible for me, but when I calm down, I forgive him because he’s Russian and everyone knows that Russian people are crazy.

Gigantic Gargantuan Fantastic

I’m wearing a dark blue silk dress with a Grecian neckline that the Russian guy bought for me. I love the dress but I loved the box first. No one had ever given me a box like that. It transformed me; I became one of those women who receive things in rectangular chocolate brown boxes with thick, pale pink velvet ribbons. They untie the ribbons with a swoosh, say
Oh wow! I love it!
even before they know what it is. We are in New York sitting in a well-lit glass box of a hotel that overlooks the city. The world is shining up and out; a gazillion lights beaming through the darkness, a chorus of noise rising above it softly like bubbles.

The Russian guy is standing in front of the window.
I love this place
.

I’m
Sports Illustrated’s
female athlete of the year. It will be the only night in my life where I will dine almost entirely surrounded by people taller than myself.

The Russian guy is beside himself with happiness, complains about nothing, keeps filling up my glass, his cuffs white, white over his brown wrists, covering my hands with his hot dry calluses from four-hour bike rides in the canyons. He says:
Let’s live a little
. I drink four glasses of champagne and some red stuff that isn’t wine, end up not reading the speech I’d written on yellow paper with blue ink that started out with
First of all, about the absolute honor that has been bestowed upon me
but make a new one up about dogs and loving teammates and coaches with superpowers and the power of positive recollection and the frostiness of snow in Kansas, which has become
Oooo Kansas! My Kansas!
I also grind my voice down and accidentally try to motivate them with my climb-evr’y-mountain speech as the Russian guy and Peggy laugh their asses off. There is near silence followed by cushiony open-palmed applause from the best boxers, gymnasts, football players, basketball players, figure skaters, divers, tennis players, wrestlers, hockey players, baseball players, etc., in the country, thus the universe.

A group of us go to a jazz dive bomb bar and drink vodka with cranberry juice. There’s a combo playing with one mighty woman singing with one mighty voice. I tell her she’s mighty and she shakes her head
no, no
while her mouth says
Why, yes; yes, I am
. I love the negation of the positive, the two meanings contained in one. My eyes interpret her gestures as my ears interpret her words and my mind works it all out like a trick. She does it again when she sings about love, singing
yes yes yes
with her lips while rolling both her hands into tight fists. After midnight, people’s faces give in to gravity and I make the Russian guy take me back to the hotel, where I become a darker woman who flings chocolate brown boxes on the floor, pushing surprisingly drunk Russian guys down with one hand.

But happiness throws me off; every time I notice it, my warning lights turn on and everyone knows that warning lights attract trouble. During the trip home, I lay my head on his chest, feeling the strong beat of his erratic heart as it thumps, do not look out the window, do not speak, but do get jumpy when an ambulance blaring sirens rides through my brain. The Russian guy says:
Why are we so quiet? And
I lie:
We’re not
because I don’t know.

When we get back, he wants to move to New York, where we will become gigantic gargantuans. I feel the great weight of premature grief press down on my vital organs, explain that one doesn’t swim in New York, that one couldn’t wear flip-flops year-round, that it is difficult to have a car, that without a car one couldn’t listen to one’s own music as one drove through the world, and other various
Where would you train? What about your bike?
arguments while he holds my hand across a dark dinner table.

I’m talking about
New York, he says with conviction.

What’s the big biggie about New York? I
say, unconvinced.

It’s the most incredible city on the planet. Everyone wants to live in New York
, he says with conviction.

No one swims in New York
, I say, unconvinced, the great weight of premature grief squeezing my heart.
There are too many people to have any count. There’s no in-between; it’s all about got and not-got. It makes people covet. It’s a very covetous place
.

He sighs, drops my hand.
You’re quoting the Bible again. I wish … We live in California, for God’s sake, California’s a million times more … whatever … Listen, Mena, you’re not a slippy seal anymore. There’s other stuff out there to do besides swimming. You need to start thinking …

Dippin Dolphin and I don’t like New York enough
, I say.
It’s not as nice as I need it to be; all those sad people walking around make me nervous. Look what it did to Roxanne
.

People are sad everywhere and Roxanne did what she did to herself by herself
.

People are sadder in New York. New York made her crazier. Ask her
.

He taps my knuckles with his knuckles, an ancient Russian ritual.
You’ve obviously never been to Minsk
.

It Can’t Be Done
XXV Olympiad
Barcelona, 1992

Nineteen ninety-two is the year of the eight. I haven’t done anything to my hair, am discreet and scientific, focused, my mind in an eight. When journalists smile and ask for grandiose predictions I can hang myself with, I smile and say:
Thanks for the compliment, Sherm, but let’s just say anything’s possible in the best of all possible worlds
.

Sherm looks at me and laughs.
Pip’s all grown up. Where’s that quote from?

It’s French. An ancient Bouvier quote, I believe
.

A Bouvier quote? Wh—

The Superior E. Mankovitz intervenes.
Time’s up, ladies and gentlemen. We have a long week ahead of us
.

Mankovitz and I are going for the impossible by pretending it’s just another item on the list. I’ve been concentrating on laser beams running from the center of my body to the end of my lane. The beam originates between my eyes, cutting through the water, creating a space I ease my body through. Mankovitz has been experimenting with innovative coaching tactics, says:
There’s nothing more beautiful than watching a great swimmer swim
. I feel steady in the water, calm. I let my body’s natural buoyancy hold me in its arms, stretching, rolling, no more fight. I’m less tired after practice, less tired when I race, and my times are going down. I catch the Mankovitz looking at me, his face in an eight. When he catches me catch him looking at me, he smiles and nods. The smile and the nod mean
eight
. I smile and nod back.
Yes, of course. It’s inevitable
.

He has me take secret ballet classes with a bitch of a ballerina. I weep inside when she stands next to me at the bar, pulling my knee up to my chest and holding it with her stick devil arms. I want to rip out her little chignon with my teeth; she wants to knee me in the sternum. We secretly fight to see who’s stronger.

This okay?
she asks, slowly pulling my arm out of its socket.

Just fine, thank you
, I say, imagining her body on the floor of a pool.

I meditate with a Zen master, sit on his floor staring at the inside of my eyelids so that nothing about my goals feels diluted, delusional, or nuts.

For the first time in many years, my archenemies are one hundred percent female; there are no obvious guy parts in sight except for the well-developed pec. There are some Australians, an immature French chick with shoulders like a baby ape who keeps trying to stare me down with her walnut eyes, a Dutch chick, and a newfangled unified German Democratic chick who bears no resemblance to the East German Berliners of yore—she is the possessor of delicate hands, a normal neck. No surprises.

The Russian guy knows about the eight. He’s the only person other than E. Mankovitz I have discussed it with, but that does not prevent him from giving me the silent treatment ten days before I leave for training camp in Majorca. The anger comes from a secret place inside his head he does not choose to share with me, but his silent treatment drips with
You’re treating me like a boring swimmer you don’t care about
innuendo, and I wish I hadn’t been so forthcoming about my checkered past. I’m too wound up with Olympic energy to soothe him, just say:
Relax, Alex; everything’s good
. A tactical error. His bad mood culminates in a hissy fit at the airport where he turns around and leaves without saying good-bye when another Team USA member, the idiot Randy Urid, grabs my butt.

He grabs everyone’s butt
, I yell to his retreating back.
That’s how he says hello; he’s an idiot. It doesn’t mean anything. Come on. I can’t believe this
.

He lifts one hand in the air without turning around.

Mankovitz notices, says:
You can take care of that later. We’ve got other things to concentrate on
. Then he smiles and nods
eight
.

This is it. I put two roasted organic almonds in each of my jackets. I lie on my bed, massaging my toes, my mind mostly in an eight, but troublesome flashes of Russia flare red, then go out.

Peggy is standing in front of the mirror doing something to her hair.
Did you see that Dutch chick?

I’m half listening.
Yeah
.

Now she’s sucking her cheeks in and making her eyes bigger.
Did you take a good look at the Dutch chick?

Yeah. Yes. I looked at her
.

She’s turning to the side, looking at her profile.
Did you notice anything?

I sit up.
No
.

She looks at my reflection in the mirror. I’m massaging my neck, my mind almost in an eight.
She’s … what, did you think she was naturally that tan with big gluey eyelashes and dark pink lips? … You like thought she was born from supernatural pastel parents?

I look at her reflection looking at mine.
Why do you do this?

She smiles, baring her teeth, the orthodontist’s child still looking for flaw.
What?

Talk about things like this before an important, essential race
.

She turns around and faces me.
I don’t know … it’s interesting, and in this case
, sad.
I mean, makeup and water—what’s she trying to prove?

Maybe she’s in love with a swimmer and she’s afraid if he sees her real face, he’ll leave
.

Did you think this up on your own or is this Sunny talking?

My own
. I put my head on my knees, stretching my back into wicker basket.

I’ve been working with a hypnotist who’s taught me to develop a new feel for the water. It works so well, water feels more vital than air. I’m as focused and as sharp as an elite Japanese barbecue set. I know exactly what’s going to happen; all I have to do is let it unfold. The first gold will be the easiest. It’ll get progressively harder when the press gets hold of the eight and starts applying their retarded pressure. I close my eyes to the vast quarry pit that is my mind, lightning flashing in shades of blood. I bid myself
Rest!
but do not. I look over at Peggy; she’s resting, both legs up on the wall, head angling over the edge of the bed. This is our last Olympics, but we don’t know it. Three years from now, Peggy will be heavy with Barney Rubble’s child and my mouth will be wired shut for my own good. I’m blissfully unaware, almost knee-deep in an eight.
This is who I am. This is what I do
.

There they are, my feet, both of them, clinging to the surface of the starting block. I’m crouched, it’s one thousand degrees, the sun’s burning my shoulders into wood chips, my mind is supposed to be silent but it keeps insisting
Hey. Where’s that goddamn Russian guy?
It’s my fifth final and I’m getting tired.

I wait, my eyes on the four-meter mark. The beep surges; I charge. The pool stands up like a mountain; I’m hanging off its ledge, water snaking up my arms, trying to pull me back, water pressing at my feet, trying to make them stop. I can feel my sockets strain at the seams, and underneath, a tiny splash of lactic acid fatigue. I ignore the fatigue, roll, twisting both shoulders, pushing as hard as I can off the wall with a deep inner grunt, gliding in on a five. When I touch, the crowd goes wild. I should feel something but won’t. My eyes find the Mankovitz; he’s chewing a tight wad of gum, tapping his thigh with a rolled-up hat one, two, three, four, five. He looks at me, nods:
That’s five
. I nod back, warm down in the warm-down pool, letting the water swash over me like air. I wonder not at the wondrous achievement of hard work combined with crazy desire and a sick competitive streak, just wonder where in the hell that fucking Russian guy is. I’d scanned the stands earlier, found the Peggys in big blue hats with red stars floating on them. I scan the stands now, packed with anonymous people, their faces blank with heat.
Where is he?

I pull my hood up over my head, preparing to pass the press; they’ve gotten a whiff of the eight and are scrambling for news. I wave, smiling calmly, say:
Yes, that’s five
. Then I see him, freeze. He’s standing behind the security fence watching me, one cool piece of metal. He looks tired, says:
You know I don’t like it when anyone touches you like that
. I say:
You get so upset over nothing
. He says:
This swimming thing, it’s too much. It takes over everything
. I say:
I’m just trying to do what I do as best as I can
. He says:
I know how hard it is. You’re swimming beautifully
, then he smiles and his nasty face opens like a window. This is when I love him. I say:
I love you when you’re not mean
and he says:
I love you too and I don’t usually
do that
. My heart lurches into an eight. I smile, take a deep slow breath, my lungs whipping in relief. He looks at me, says:
You can do this
. I look back:
I know
.

And I do know.

I wait, as relaxed as a powerful animal preparing to pounce.

I swim, feeling Russian eyes upon me from somewhere I can’t see.
Six
.

The Mankovitz is deeply excited. He smiles a tight smile and squints
Almost there
as I suck the salt off some roasted organic almonds and put my hand over my heart.

I wait.

I swim, my body lasering a clean trail I slip through, feeling the body of the fastest chick in Italy thrash frantically by my side until I lose her at the turn.
Seven
. Another podium passes in a strange electric blur. I bend my neck to be guillotined in gold as the crowd explodes, and the American flag rises beautifully in the sun.

I go back to the village, dropping into a deep and powerful sleep, my mind humming
eight
as Peggy slips into the room, falls into bed, and dreams until morning.

I wake up early on the day of the eight, open the shades, and look out over the stone and the glass and the steel of the Olympic stadium below, international peoples wandering about aimlessly like wind-up toys. Peggy opens her eyes, says:
You tired? And
I turn:
No
.

I spend the morning not in a dream but not of the world either. Things are quiet at the breakfast buffet, Peggy making eyes at a backstroker from Sweden who carefully ignores her. I feel eyes upon me but when I look up everyone is busy eating.

I wait. My competitors want to beat me so badly, the air is thick with it.
I have to be taken down
. They don’t even care who does it, just that it be done.

We file out to the starting blocks, the stadium painfully, arrestingly quiet. The Mankovitz is standing with a pack of coaches, Kyd by his side. I take my mark, my eyes on the spot I’ll slice through like a knife. The electronic beep resonates and I find myself flying through the air almost as an afterthought. I can feel them behind me in the water, but I know they know what I know.
Eight. It’s inevitable
.

I feel a deep relief easing its way down my body when I climb my last Olympic podium. It’s over. My list is complete; I can now put it away.

I give the best interviews of my life in Barcelona, sitting carefully in my chair. I am exhilarated yet drained of all tension, like a Buddha in a deep wakeful sleep. After all the meets, all the banquets with the slide shows, all the appreciation awards, all the golds, all the silvers, all the bronzes, all the cakes we baked for his birthday, all the Christmas gifts we took twenty minutes finding, all the times spent in his office weeping ourselves into convulsions or staring him down, I saw the Mankovitz cry. I saw them, the tears, two shiny gray ones pooling up from that pouch thing he has under his eyes. When I touched eight, he’d remained crouching at the end of the lane, his head in his hands. It’s changed things. He let me see him feel a closeness he will never mention and I let him see me feel mine.