one
He thought the smell of the jacket that has not been washed in years would make him throw up. He wanted to walk up to the man wearing it and ask him how dare he torture them like that. Clothes needed to be washed when they started to smell too much of people. It was simply unbearable; he thought he would collapse. Still, he was in a metro full of strangers and he could no longer think or speak in another language (baby, my English is terrible tonight). With the little patience he had left, he looked forward to leaving the underworld and breathing in the fresh October night he knew waited for him up there.
There was more; since time immemorial he was assailed by the same thought in a crowd, among the thronging multitudes. Standing surrounded by the bodies of strangers, pressing him all around, feeling their tiniest movements against his body, he often imagined one of them, most probably an ordinary man in his thirties, with a face revealing that he had not experienced much love on his skin, though from time to time he saw and heard that it existed, suddenly takes out a knife and randomly slashes at everything in his immediate vicinity. He imagined himself to be just one of the many people slashed, all of them standing in a circle, faceless victims of the man whose face is clearly visible, every feature standing out and becoming familiar to the general public that will read about him in tomorrow’s papers. And he feels that everybody, him included, is insignificant, just sheep someone decided to slaughter, and wondered what that would be like, to be born to make someone else’s face stand out in the crowd, to bring someone relief through an act of cruelty which he thought made him visible by gaining a twisted kind of identity at the expense of the invisible ones who just happened to stand there in the narrowest radius, mourned immediately after, and soon forgotten, completely irrelevant.
He believed that one of the reasons he got into fencing was the need to feel more comfortable in the presence of blades, to wrest some control over the dangerous object and over his fear of injury. Though the fear was just partially gone, never in his wildest dreams did he expect such a brilliant career to be born from such a motive, a whole world of performance drawing hordes of audiences to come and see him in action, to feel the thrill of the sport of the future. Fire fencing became more than a sport, it was his story, it was him.
Despite it all sometimes he simply could not escape anxiety and its persistent efforts to infiltrate every atom of his body. He resorted to medications then, though he tried very hard to take them only when absolutely necessary or when lack of sleep could have a negative impact on his results. He also never managed to successfully deal with his mild phobia of the parts of stores where meat is cut, where people went to buy it by the gram, carefully sliced into strips, thinner or thicker, cut to taste. The very thought of the metal disc, turning rapidly and uniformly, while chubby women wearing little white caps or nets over their hair collected in dishevelled buns, feed it chunks of meat for further processing. He would simply avoid that section, especially when he was under stress. He never walked into a butcher’s or prepared meat in his kitchen. Half the world knew his name, people watched him wield a sword in a field of fire with tremendous admiration, but had no idea that this man blanches at the very idea of a knife cutting into a simple chicken fillet and that he would have a very poor diet if no one occasionally took the effort to treat him to all the meat dishes he actually loved so much.
two
When he spoke to the reporter last Tuesday, he told her that the sport was the only place he could find a sanctuary of sort for his risk and thrill-seeking needs. And that was only partially true. She did not know about the supermarkets, crowds, cold blades and the invisible faces of the subway lambs.
The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. He loved women with bobbed black hair, that is how he imagined (what a cliché, yes) Frenchwomen whom he believed looked dramatic and exciting even as they bought their breakfast in a neighbouring patisserie. It was only later that he noticed that her face was much less striking than he remembered, the next time she found herself waiting outside for his training to end, with no special reason this time as she had already completed the interview.
three
It was late afternoon. I walked into a small hall leading to a bigger one, specially designed and equipped for training purposes. Through the shatter-proof glass I could see a big oval room in the centre of which a man and a woman were fencing. They were training. An almost perfect circle of flames, three to four meters in radius, spreading and encompassing, surrounded the two figures in silvery-white dilussium bodysuits, attacking one another in elegant dance-like moves, and stepping back as needed, twisting in a game that looked at the same time completely harmless and a little aggressive. Instinctively, a person would want to save them from the fire, but the spectator knew that it was alright, that nothing is left to chance and that they do not even feel the fire because they are wearing special protective suits. They say there has been only one accident to date and that was because the suit was faulty, but the competitor suffered only minor injuries and was soon back in training.
When he left the hall and took his mask off I felt paralysed. I could feel that my weakness that the presence of this kind of person stirred to life, would grow with each successive minute. The most horrible thing will happen, unlike for me, it will all be easy for him, and I will not be myself; shackled by fear I will watch him leave, disappointed by what is on offer, while something he might like lies numb somewhere deep inside me, powerless to show itself, take part in the exchange, communicate… We did not even manage to shake hands and I seemed to have put an end to the whole relationship in my head.
He proffers his hand. I always do that – I try to see myself through his eyes, but I am not doing too good. I stand knee-deep in the same hope that thousands of women immerse themselves in when in the presence of a gorgeous man, thinking: maybe he would find someone as symmetrical as himself boring, maybe he wants someone… real?
“Two types of people watch the same movie. You know the kind… An azure day, the guy realises that he should give up on whatever he might have been striving to achieve, and accompanied by a melody subsequently to gain cult status, turns and leaves while the camera pans out. The movie ends. One part of the audience thinks that it is a beautiful ending. It did not come too soon and it maintained a certain level of sophistication”, he surrounds the phrase with air-quotes, “because a single extra shot would have gone overboard. The other part feels betrayed and thinks that the movie is boring and worthless. They go home. Am I wrong in thinking that you might like to go see that kind of a movie? Of course, if you are free…”, he invites me in a voice that implies that he really wants me to join him.
“Only if you are still not sure what part of the audience I belong to.”
four
Night-time drive to the seaside. One more journey, one more competition, one more burst capillary on my calf, a souvenir of an endless array of uncomfortable travels. The huge expanse of land we cross, the dark interior that will seem like a bad dream tomorrow when I hear the sound of the waves, is still relatively easy to handle with the realisation that it will take only one night and no longer. The thrill of discovering the farthest establishments, a look on the faces of the people working there, the budding questions – where are they from, do they live nearby and do they find the craggy mountains surrounding them in this godforsaken place too oppressive? The bad taste of black coffee, the cold and filth and an unusually strong feeling that you are not there by accident, in a place like that, in the dead of night. Like the smelly taverns hidden in the hills have always been there, whether you knew it or not, deprived of your presence, but you are still glad that tonight you know what goes on in them. Like nothing could pass you by in the nightmarish valleys of the back of the beyond, because that is exactly where you were supposed to be that night, there and nowhere else. Imagining what the backwoods look like in daylight, guessing where the woman with the tray got that scar above her lip and the bruise partially obscured by her skirt, thinking about how you would live if by chance you happened to be her, and whether you would just call it quits at some point. These are some of the musings of the perennial traveller, expert in all the pockets of night. When at loose ends she entertains herself by concocting stories and turning the people she encounters on trips like these into friends with whom she shares her impressions in her weary thoughts.
Some people would not consent to this kind of life. To follow. I no longer think about it. Then again, what does it mean to consent? It is not as if someone offered me their fists and said Choose: left or right? It is not as if I were told to decide yes or no. In that case, it is difficult to determine who is to blame, draw a line and say This is where it started to go wrong. Generally, when I think about it, where it’s difficult to draw lines, circles seem inescapable, everything turns in circles around and around and around…
Maybe it would not be that bad if the circle were seen as a line that just needs some extra effort, to be grabbed firmly in your hands, unravelled and not allowed to curl again. Stretch it and put it where we like, find its beginning as well as its end, not let it chew on its own tail and our patience, over and over again.
The effect the fencer has on other women is crystal clear, but I do my best not to react. Cold like water, I have been living with the strange man that spends a quarter of his time in fire. Sometimes I think that I understand what fire gets from water – it extinguishes it, suppresses, cools and prevents it from spreading and destroying more than it intends, but what does water get from fire except that once it extinguishes it, it splashes across the floor and remains spilt like it knows no better.
It was not long before his self-importance started to become more and more obvious. He seemed to be living a philosophy we, other people, could not comprehend. Everything was subordinated to him, He had to go, He was cleaning his equipment, He is getting ready, He knows what he is doing, He cuts, He swings, He talks to everybody, explains things and most important of all – He wants to be liked unconditionally. Other lady reporters interview him, repeating the same questions and leading endless discussions with him before Paris, after Edinburgh, while in Berlin, weeks before Ljubljana. And all the competitions are equally important, each is the first and the last, the one to live for. Or die. Whichever one prefers.
I am sitting in the hotel lobby, watching people come in or check out, partly following his conversation with a reporter who happened to be there. She walked up to him brimming with enthusiasm, to say that she was there on vacation and stayed, talking, hoping she was not imposing, just wanting to exchange a few words with The legend in dillusium, as the media sometimes called him. She finally grabbed a little notebook, promising sweetly that she would not bother us long, but she thinks that an interview with him would be more than interesting, even though she works for My Garden. I have no idea what flora has to do with the floret[1], but who am I to question it. I hear him say the things I have heard many times before, but they seem to make him just a tiny bit more fathomable every time, the man, his inner-workings, his grandiose self and his handicap all rolled into one.
“What is it actually all about?” asks the lady who is a yearning incarnate, aching to throw herself at his feet, grab his belt and fulfil his heart’s desires, prevented only by my paltry presence in the room.
“A dream.”
“A dream…?”
“It is very simple. All of this is a fulfilment of a dream. Today, we commonly use machines that medieval painters and scientists drew by candlelight, we travel in engines described with imagination and passion by authors in their books several centuries before we came along… Everything that once was a dream, is reality today. That is one of the basic formulas humanity operates on, turning individual dreams to common ones, and then into common reality. And of course, the inability to rest before they come true. When we dare to imagine something, we come a step closer to making it real. Although, I am not telling you anything especially new, anything you do not know yourself…”
“And, it is the same in sport?”
“Absolutely. Fire fencing that happens before your eyes today, used to be just a concept at one point. But what is important is to experience the concept in every move of the competitors, to understand that it is still a concept, despite the realisation. Because that is where the potential of this, and many other disciplines that we are yet to see, lies.”
“The founder of the discipline, Morel, liked to say that the essence of fire fencing is triumph over nature, right?” she looks at me from time to time, as if to make sure that I am still there.
“Right. Like many other unnatural disciplines, this is a triumph over nature. Take underwater hockey for example. Fire fencing is similar, but it is definitely a step further, an even more audacious leap for mankind in its efforts to conquer nature, an even more radical triumph over the laws of physics. You will often hear that of all natural disasters, people fear fire the most. It is because fire devours all in its path, peels the paint off of everything, turns everything into ashes and char, negates and annihilates everything in its way. Our triumph as athletes fencing in fire is not just the fact that we do not burn in the fire, it is our visibility in it thanks to our dillusium suits” he spreads his arms in the air, emphasizing the visibility, “we have colour and shape, we are present as a white silhouette in a thin layer of uniform, mere millimetres of material from certain death, that protects us so devoutly and keeps us alive.”
“Fascinating!”
“And how. As is the arena itself where the fire is lit and confined to one area, not allowed to spread or escalate, where it is curbed and put into the use of sport. Of course, many believe this to be pure arrogance, plain and simple, that a, for all intents and purposes, boring discipline was put in a context designed to shock. Older people especially do not understand what we are doing. But, I would like to stress again that the point of the sport is in its simplicity – it could have been some other sport, but fencing was chosen because of its boundless ease, simplicity and elegance. After all, to some degree fencing is flirting with death, no? Eternal walk on the knife-edge. And when two people are locked in the dance, and I call it a dance on purpose”, his forehead puckers to underline the meaning of his words, “because it is a sort of a fire waltz, danger squared, and at the same time something tried and tested, safe and grounded in the careful calculations of the geniuses who crafted the bodysuits and made it possible for us to train and compete without fear.”
“Dillusium is something completely new in terms of materials… It must be very expensive?”
“It is, I often work out a sweat with all the maintenance”, he laughs. “I sometimes think I lose weight cleaning it…”
“So, the essence is conquering… Nature, space, one’s own courage… A sport for a select few, I’d say.”
“A sport for those who decide to dedicate themselves to it, nothing more. I have to say that I am thrilled beyond belief to be living like this… I can’t imagine doing anything else. There is no feeling more powerful than walking into fire.”
“I can imagine… Us watching you do not know of a sport more exciting or beautiful. Still, you do know that some people believe the discipline is not environmentally justified…Any comments?”
“I really do not see what the problem is. Anyway, I am not one to rush to the defence of the environmentalists. Do you think some of the most important constructions in the world would have been built if environmental tenets were taken into consideration? Where would we be if that was our only concern? It’s ridiculous… The champions of dandelion rights joyfully clamber all over the Eiffel Tower, take out a felt tip pen and circle their names, were here, then they kiss the hunk of iron, and scarper for a sandwich stuffed with rockets which, the label says, gave its consent to be crammed between two whole-meal slices. Don’t get me started…”
I re-cross my legs, now the right goes over the left. I hate it when I can perceive numbness setting in, the whole process in its entirety in advance, from the leg slowly getting more and more desensitized, to its coming back to life while a thousand prickles that make it impossible to sit still force me to aimlessly swing my foot waiting for things to go back to normal, knowing it is to follow soon, yet powerless to somehow speed up the annoying, predictable process so frequent in my case. I remember how the fencer puts his legs over mine as we lie in bed before dawn, because he is markedly warmer than me. He says it is because men burn more calories than women. It must be true, but it scares me sometimes because I know that there are warmer women out there whose palms and soles radiate phenomenal warmth and whom I hate because they possess that unwarranted thermal energy, enough to heat entire halls, while my hands, feet, nose and chest remain cold for most of the year. I cannot understand myself sometimes because as much as I think I’ve got it all and feel that the fencer is difficult and unnecessary, I seem to be overcome with this strange gratitude for his acquiescing to cool on my icy feet at night time and time again, when he could, completely legitimately, enjoy someone else’s much warmer feet, and when he occasionally endures more coldness from me than he should have to.
The reporter presses on. “Maybe I am indiscreet, but is it true that you are privately afraid of knives and that is why you avoid cooking? Does your wife always cook for you?” she smiles at me, aware that maybe she should include me in the conversation with at least one question.
I want to jump in and say something to avoid things getting awkward for him, but I am not sure what would be the right thing to say.
It is funny how people can sniff out even the tiniest, absurd phobias, especially when they hide behind incredible achievements and might even be their originators. The way they cannot rest until they find a speck of decay, refusing to be contented with the glossy smooth surface, and finally relish with singular fascination the discovery of the paradox uniting tiny phobias and great achievements.
“Isn’t it strange?”, she continues, “One of the biggest fire fencers in the world shies away from cutting a piece of meat in his own kitchen? What do you say?” her impish smile makes it seem like she is wondering out loud rather than asking either of us, but she finally focuses all of her attention on him, actually expecting an answer.
A moment of uncomfortable silence. I can see he does not know what to say. Only I know how disgusted he is when he sees a kitchen knife cut into the soft surface of meat, the separation of tissue making an almost characteristic sound, the lifelessness of the piece that practically twists around the knife in a strange way and then surrenders, falling onto the wooden cutting board, sticking a little to the fingers and the surface where it will rest. I expected him to say something, defend himself, the wiry man that jumps through a field of fire, whose figure stands out clearly in the flames, who, attacking or parrying, looks powerful, active, strong and fearless, like a superhuman. All I see is a sour little smile as he stands up saying he would be right back and heads off to get a glass of gin. He stands at the bar, exasperated.
“Successful people are always a bit eccentric”, I say with a smile. “That is why we love them, isn’t it?”
She nods pleasantly and agrees with me.
I think of our life together, how at first I had no idea we would last this long, my fear that I would not be good enough for him that faded with time and found respite in his growingly palpable need to include me in every pore of his day-to-day life. Gradual unfolding, insight into his dark moments gained through time and needless fears that only I knew, while for the rest of the world he was a towering giant, sometimes a little lost in his statements and wants close to megalomania, aware that at the end of the day he needed someone’s help after all.
Of course, I do not believe that assuming the role of caretaker is the right thing, but maybe these roles are not assumed after all, maybe they are spontaneously and naturally divided between people so that the real relations of power cannot remain hidden for long, they soon become obvious to the participants in the relationship, and once established they are respected regardless of whether or how visible they are to the people around.
It becomes clear to me that faces really do gain more visibility as soon as they pick up even the tiniest modicum of power in the eyes of the observer and interviewer. I can see that the woman is now a little more interested in me than she was half an hour ago, because I just became The one who cuts the meat for the world famous fencer, and that put me in the focus of her interest; the wife of the legend in dillusium might be a legend herself, that should be investigated. The stories of speed, precision and elusiveness of one of the world’s top fencers are suddenly overshadowed by trivia, for a short while at least, until he returns with his drink or the question is forgotten, but until then her curiosity will try to dissect me, carefully debone, disassemble and reassemble me again, all to gain a better insight into me, my role in his life, and maybe even my life as such.
She turns a new leaf, moves the chair closer to me and her body language lets me know that she is interested in my story as she tries to win me over with a friendly smile, now completely devoid of rivalry, looking me affectionately straight in the eye.
I try to see myself through her eyes, as I usually do, but I am not really doing a good job.
[1] Foil, a fencing weapon where points are scored by contact with the tip. Lighter and more flexible than the epee.
Translated by: Mirjana Slavkovski
VERNAKERA 