by Amos Talshir
Now, as he strode determinedly toward the naked woman, he decided it would be the first thing he would do once they returned home. He would invite Annette to swim in his sea. Simon focused his eyes in the direction in which he was going, at the woman freezing to death. He ignored the ninety thousand throats screaming “Ass-walker” at him, telling himself, Ninety thousand people are wrong. I have to make sure that woman doesn’t freeze to death. He had a few dozen yards to go and was reciting his statement to himself. Just like in elementary school, when his back was still crooked, and the kids in the yard would call out, “The hunchback of Notre Dame,” and he would silently tell himself, There’s something special about me. That was how his father had taught him to think about himself the entire time his back was crooked, and even after it had straightened almost completely. In fact, Simon recalled, Dad had always told him to think about what was special about him. There’s something special about you, Dad would teach him to think. After his hunched back came insults about his unusual height, and then about his tendency to look into details that seemed trivial to the other boys. And his constant smile. That, too, evoked insults. “The smiling hunchback,” they’d called him in middle school. And he thought about what Mom had said—God is smiling through you.
A few more yards to go, and he could see her clearly. The growling of the audience became a mighty roar, accompanied by the thundering of their celebratory drums and dismissive whistles. He leaned in toward the tan body and noted her faint breathing. Wispy steam billowed from her nostrils, and she opened her eyes abruptly as his presence registered.
“Estoy tan feliz,” she said. I’m so happy, Simon understood.
Her body seemed bolstered by his presence. Once again, she tried in vain to tuck away her nakedness, all so close to Simon. He observed her from the height of his six-foot-five-inch frame, smiling at her. She tried to smile back but could not overcome her chattering teeth. Simon knew exactly what he was going to do with her. From afar, and despite the camera’s zoom, she had seemed like a mature woman to him. Perhaps due to her ripe limbs. The large breasts, mainly. Not that he had any experience, but he thought it was the type of body that an adult woman had. His smile expanded when he thought back to the two words written in white on her ass.
She succumbed to his smile and managed to summon a faint smile of her own. He watched her face as he lowered the backpack he was wearing onto a patch of turf at his feet and leaned fully toward her. She managed to sit up. A murmur of relief rose from the audience watching them tensely from every stand.
He saw her face, the high cheekbones that made her eyes slant somewhat. A Native American rather than an Asian slant. And he was now convinced that she was a lot younger than she had looked as she’d streaked across the field. Older than him, but really, not old at all. Maybe twenty, he thought; even less, he hoped. He produced the yellow-and-red checkered blanket, which he had carefully folded at home, from his backpack. This was the blanket his mother had brought from her own home in the Coalition of the Northern States before he was born, as she’d told him. This blanket had helped him get used to falling asleep in a sitting position, and later on, he was no longer able to fall asleep without it, to live without it. He’d pack the yellow-and-red checkered blanket for all his trips with Dad, taking it with him even to playing fields. When he returned home from the trips, Mom would wash it with the usual fabric softener whose scent he loved, placing the folded blanket on his sleep recliner.
Simon gestured with the blanket in his hands to signal to the woman that he was about to enfold her in it. She nodded, a motion requiring a major effort. He placed the center of the blanket on her head, just as he’d planned to do while still standing on the bleacher and filming her collapsing within the center circle. Just like his mother would enfold him when he fell asleep sitting in his recliner. Slowly, he pulled her to him, rested her against his chest, then swept up one edge of the blanket and tucked it under her rump. Wild applause echoed from the aisles, along with encouraging calls to the girl, who had slowly begun to move her limbs.
Simon could not ignore his contact with the buttock bearing the word Free. He thought she might be soft. But he’d been wrong, due to his lack of experience, of course. He’d never touched a woman’s behind. He leaned her against his chest, like in the nature films he’d watched online about people who rescued neglected animals in forests that had burned down. Sounds of support and encouragement rose from the stands. She loosened her elbows, which had been hugging her breasts, and reached out to grip his neck. He could now clearly see her breasts, which he considered especially large, and for a moment, all the water from Annette’s lake that day infiltrated his lungs once more. Simon gulped in the cold air, trapping his breath inside his lungs, which were threatening to burst. He tried to feign nonchalance but could not manage to tear his eyes away. Streaking naked had caused her breasts to look very ripe, but now he was glad to see them—not as large, but gleaming brightly with the dark tone of her skin. She had truly beautiful breasts, the kind he so enjoyed gazing at on various websites, sprawled out in the recliner under the yellow-and-red blanket before going to sleep. It had already been a year since he’d seen Annette’s small breasts underwater, and now a strange question surfaced in his mind: had those breasts grown since then? Perhaps he’d see her when they returned home, and her cute breasts too. He wrapped the other edge of the blanket around the woman’s rump and tucked it in carefully. His fingertips felt the cold when he touched the tan skin of her body. She gazed at him with frightened eyes, wrapped in his blanket.
“Te necesito a mi lado,” she said. I need you by my side, Simon understood.
He supported her shoulders with his right hand, holding her against his chest, while his other hand fumbled inside his backpack and produced the silvered thermos Mom had bought him for that first trip with Dad, when he was six years old. You know Dad will forget to make you hot chocolate the way you like it, so make sure you have it, she’d told him. He always packed the thermos inside the backpack, along with all the other things he took with him. At first, he had been ashamed to drink hot chocolate in the company of other fans his age on planes or while waiting at airports. Later on, he decided that this was one more thing that was special about him, and he took out the hot chocolate even when other people were around. If they asked, he shared it even with those who had initially made fun of him. They always asked.
He slowly unscrewed the stainless-steel cup from the top of the thermos and placed it on the turf near the woman’s knee, poking out through a fold in the blanket. He took care to cover the knee with the edge of the blanket and pressed down on the spring-loaded red lever, allowing him to pour. The woman tracked his motions with an exhausted gaze, her lips gaping of their own accord. He poured the hot chocolate into the cup standing on the turf, very carefully. The trickle of hot chocolate was accompanied by a burst of steam, and the chocolaty smell blended with the scent of wet grass. Her eyelids fluttered as she smelled the hot chocolate. The color of the beverage filling the cup highly resembled her resistant knee, emerging from the blanket once more. He placed the thermos next to the knee, remembering to click the pouring switch shut, and brought the fragrant cup to her lips, which were purple from the chill. Only then did he allow himself to stare directly at her face, seeing that she was beautiful. The brown shade of her skin had chilled into lavender and her lips were trembling toward the warm cup he carefully brought to her mouth. She moistened her tongue, sent out to probe the cup, and after several seconds, began to slowly sip the warm beverage. The rustle of the hot chocolate being drawn into her mouth alerted him to the silence that had fallen over the stands. He did not take the time to look around but sensed tens of thousands of pairs of eyes focused upon them, tracking the occurrences taking place on the turf in the stadium.
The woman continued to sip the thick beverage carefully, rallying somewhat, as he realized when she tried to ascertain once more that her nudity was concea
led. She grasped the cup with the hand previously draped over the back of his neck, while her other hand clutched the blanket against her chest. Simon interpreted it as resistance to his excessive proximity. He retreated slightly, rising to his feet above her. She looked up at him from where she was sitting on the turf.
“Why are you so tall?” she asked in the local language.
“My mom is from the Northern Coalition,” he said, thoughtlessly answering the question that had sometimes been addressed to him in a challenging tone.
“I meant that you’re too far away,” she whispered, gathering her strength. “And where did you get your smile from?” she asked.
“From my dad.”
“And our language?”
“From your sports broadcasts online.”
“Does your language have an expression about dying of shame?”
“Sure. You can die of shame in any language.”
“I felt like I was dying of shame,” she said.
“I thought you had frozen to death.”
“The shame of suddenly being naked for no reason almost killed me.”
Something that almost resembled a smile surfaced on her lips, which had begun to return to their original color, a light, soft shade of cream. She reached out to him, and he helped her rise to her feet. It was still an effort for her.
“I know I can always do more than I think I can,” he said in her language. “Aquí para vos…” I’m here for you, he emphasized.
She managed to rise to her feet while still wrapped in the blanket, leaning against him in order not to stumble. She continued to support herself against him for a while until regaining her strength. Thundering applause from a hundred thousand fans upset her fragile balance. The cries of encouragement and the singing of the local team’s anthem made the stadium tremble. The crowd was applauding her resurrection, and she watched a massive grin spread across Simon’s face.
“Do you know everything?”
“Only what I know.”
“Tell me, why didn’t they chase me to stop my protest streaking?”
“They’re not here.”
“I know them; they’re capable of the worst. Why aren’t they here?”
“They’re doing something else.”
“Why aren’t they opening the exits?”
“I only know that something’s going on here that no one understands, for now.”
“Something scary?”
“I’m not scared. I didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t be scared.”
Suddenly, all at once, all the lights in the stadium went out and utter darkness covered the turf. Thousands of glinting cell phones flickered from the stands. Her tan skin was swallowed by the darkness, and Simon suddenly felt her body clinging to him, her hands pulling his head down toward her. Warm, soft lips, tasting of hot chocolate, clung to his own. To his surprise, the kiss went on and on until he began to feel her tongue touching his. He felt utterly flustered, uncertain what he should do. He only felt the stinging that sometimes assaulted him at the reddened tips of the few pimples on his face.
“I’m Rose,” she whispered. “I’ll find you to return your blanket to you. I can’t walk around in Athletic yellow. I’m a Sportive fan,” she added, melting into the darkness.
“Me cuesta vivir sin verte sonreír,” Simon had time to hear her add—I can’t live without your smile—before her scent vanished as well.
3.
An irritated growl was heard in the stands. Skeptical muttering rose from the darkness, accompanying Simon as he hurried back to his father. Charlie had observed his son’s conduct with satisfaction, tucking away the question of leaving the stadium for a later time. He was thrilled by Simon’s independent actions but was not surprised that his son was the only one among the hundred thousand spectators to rush to the woman’s aid. However, he did acknowledge the well-known blindness of parents when it came to their own children.
When he was young, Charlie had treated the baby Simon as a genius for managing to produce poop from his rectum. That was during his era of overwhelmed parenting. Over time, due to a lack of proximity to parents of other children, and of “whose kid is better”–type competition with such parents, Charlie became self-critical regarding his sentimental attitude toward Simon. He had witnessed his son’s bursts of initiative previously. He had viewed the boy as possessing special needs, perhaps even requiring special supervision. However, as the boy had matured, Charlie, along with his wife, had learned to see the distinctive aspects of the boy’s behavior, rather than the odd ones. He knew there was an explanation for his son’s unusual development and preferred to leave the intrusive complexity to his wife. She told him that the special attention they had lavished on the baby while he was sick, when his development was being carefully monitored, had created a precocious and intensified process of maturation. There were various additional explanations for his frequent handwashing, and for the meticulous way he organized the toys in his room, which had frightened Charlie.
At first he had been convinced that he would take the boy to his repair shop and teach him to be a boat engine mechanic. After several visits to the repair shop, he had understood that his son did not need such protection. He realized that concern, and perhaps fear, had caused him to think his son could not be more than a mechanic. Later, he felt angry at himself for thinking the way others did, that the boy was a bit retarded. He left Simon, who was tall for his age, next to the engines receiving periodic maintenance and, when he returned, found him programming the computers regulating the tuning of the racing boat engines in his shop. Simon improved the computer screens so they provided a clearer image of engine strokes, fuel injection and stability control. He also changed the screensaver display colors to those of the Athletic Sports Club. That day, he returned the boy home earlier than usual.
“The repair shop’s not a big enough challenge for him,” he told his wife.
“He’s got my tall genes,” she boasted. “The space under the boats is too tight for him.”
“No, I meant…” He blurted something out, still looking at his wife. Throughout the years, he continued to feel as if she were a tourist in his life—a tourist from the northern lands, her soul invaded by the sun. A delicate woman who had chosen him, of all people, perhaps because he had been there on the beach when she needed someone to count on. Someone strong who would support her lanky body, worn out by the heat of tanning, to which she was unaccustomed. He observed her face, free of makeup, and once again saw the distance that had existed between them for years now reflected in its northern beauty. Only the permanent tan upon her fair skin disclosed what they shared: the house on the bluff by the sea.
“I know you meant he’s too intelligent to be a mechanic like his dad,” she chuckled.
He knew she was glad that he, too, had realized they could stop treating their boy as if he were challenged.
***
“I’ve got a weird feeling,” Simon said, surveying the arena of the stadium.
“The better team won,” said Charlie, Simon’s father. “We won. They just lost. People have learned to accept winning or losing easily. That’s why they call it a game.”
“No, Dad, this time something else is going on. I can feel it. Usually, at the end of a game, I can feel a light draft, a relief, because all the stadium gates are opening. This time the air’s standing still, heavy. I feel something else that doesn’t have to do with the game.”
The game had ended in a victory for sixteen-year-old Simon’s team. He was tense before every soccer game. For ten years now, he had been a devoted Athletic fan, and before every game, he was afraid his team would lose. Over the years, Charlie had tried to encourage Simon to be more resilient about the game’s outcome.
“The cool thing about sports,” he told him, “is that you can lose or win, but you’ll always stay alive.”
“Not like war, right, Dad? In war the loser doesn’t always stay alive.”
“That’s right. And the other cool thing about sports,” Charlie added, “is that you can enjoy the journey and still lose when it comes to the score.”
That evening, Simon was glowing ecstatically. It had been a great victory, as far as he was concerned. The tall youth ran his hand over his shaved head, looking down with luminous eyes at his shorter father and smiling in relief. There was a deep resemblance between the two of them, sometimes camouflaged by the different skin tone and the gap in height. The son was fair and taller than his father, who was darker-skinned and of average height. But both had the athletic body characteristic of avid swimmers, and both possessed a winning smile.
“Are you happy?” the father asked.
“What a game!” the boy enthused.
“Simon, who do you appreciate more, the one who scored the goal or the one who cooked it up?”
“Dad, that’s a tough question. I don’t like it.”
“You have to decide.”
“No, Dad, I don’t have to decide. The front midfielder’s pass that actually went back, rather than to the goal box, and the rear midfielder’s swift bicycle kick between the crossbar and the goalpost, it’s the same thing. They’re both champs.”
His immense radiant smile revealed his great happiness, making up for his silence in the company of strangers. Simon had an infectious smile. Anyone heading in his direction couldn’t help but smile at him. He’d been like that ever since he was a toddler. Sparing in his words yet evoking smiles. Such a smile could be misinterpreted. Alienated or hostile eyes might mistake it for a smile of weakness.
