Tim Winton: Breath

They summered in Malibu where half the surfers were junkies and the whole scene made him sick. He got reading and took on new ideas about diet and training regimes and meditation. When it came to training Eva still preferred the party method. Sando said she relied on bravado more than technique. He told her she travelled on pure entitlement, not achievement. There was an almighty blow-up and she threw him out. He slept on the beach, surfed, ran all day. She took him back and got fit. He worked her hard.

Next winter he travelled with her as coach as well as lover.

His mental discipline fortified her. And she flourished. She went from being a gifted but lazy competitor at the fringe, just another moneyed dilettante, to becoming a serious name. Periodically Sando flew to Hawaii or drove down to Baja for waves. She understood how he needed it. He came back brown and scarred and happy. Those days, said Eva, they were the life.

In those days freestyle skiers were the wild bunch, a scene unto themselves. At night they got drunk and skied off chalet roofs, attempting whole alpine villages, skidding rooftop to rooftop. They skied bridges and the guardrails of mountain roads. They bounced off cars and plummeted down sketchy ravines. In aerial competition they scared the shit out of people. Because nobody would insure them, theirs was still an amateur circuit; they were like mad-dog skateboarders. People dreamed about a World Cup and sanctioned events at the Olympics, but the skiing establishment was welded to tradition. The old-school was about keeping your feet on the ground and looking sophisticated — a European thing; a martini and Ingrid Bergman deal — whereas hotdoggers wanted to rock and roll, to get some air, to be upside down, to be scary-good rather than just pretty. People said they were nuts, brats, wreckers, degenerates. And they were right, said Eva fondly — we kicked ass.

The same day she fell at the Intermountain, a guy from Montana broke his neck, and although she'd never believed such pain was possible she realized she'd gotten off lightly. Unlike the other guy, she wouldn't be drinking through a straw the rest of her life. You could put a knee back together. But the reconstruction was botched and after the second unsuccessful attempt there was, thanks to her father, a lawsuit. Which was when everything began to unravel.

In Utah new avenues of litigation were plotted, but things got ugly between Sando and the old man and Eva began to feel like a medico-legal experiment. There was a vicious quarrel and the couple flew out to Australia in the hope of some respite. Sando took her west where he'd surfed in the sixties. They bought a piece of coastal bush and he started building a house but before he could finish it Eva convinced herself she was better and they flew back across the Pacific for the new season. But the knee hadn't come right. The first moment she was back in skis she sensed weakness, but told herself she'd manage. Yet it only takes a sliver of doubt to make you vulnerable. When you're fifty feet in the air your only armour is conviction. Regardless of how hard you've trained, the moment your self-belief wavers, you are in danger. And because she was anxious she hurried slightly. That's all it took — rushing the manoeuvre — and she nearly got away with it. But the landing was heavy and unbalanced, so that one leg took the bulk of the impact — wrong angle, wrong leg — and the knee collapsed. She cannoned, wailing, into the crowd. She hadn't skied since.

Eva said that the moments before she landed were her last happy ones. I didn't want to believe her, but she was adamant. She wanted me to understand. Being airborne. Sky and snow the same colour. Her skis a defiant cross against the milky blur.

When she spoke about those ghostly, quiet moments she wasn't bitter or wistful, but the awe in her voice unnerved me.

I miss being afraid, she said. That's the honest truth.

n time there was neither much sex nor talk to be had at Eva's. We smoked hash and gazed out at the rain and I wondered if she'd decided that she'd already said too much. For a while there'd been such angry, urgent passion and then a lightness between us, as though Eva's rage had subsided. It was then that I got to know her better, when she began to tell me about herself; I felt I'd been chosen all over again. I was enlarged by her trust. It felt like love — or friendship at least. But our fellow-feeling grew thin. Eva became restless again, and mean along with it. She needled me, she seethed and provoked. She took more pills, smoked so much hash she seemed absent half the time. If she looked my way she made no effort to disguise her indifference. Those rare occasions when she took me back into her bed she shouted Sando's name in my face. We fucked until I was in pain and she was in tears.

One Saturday morning, after such an unhappy encounter, she got out of bed to go to the bathroom and when she returned I saw the shape of her belly. There was a new tilt to her pelvis. She saw me staring.

What?

Nothing.

I'm puffy, she said.

Nah.

It happens every month.

Really?

Jesus, Pikelet, don't you know anything?

No, I conceded miserably. I don't know anything.

Poor baby.

Well, I know you're bored with me. Yeah, she said. But it's not really your fault. I felt tears coming. I clenched my teeth against them. Listen, she said as though offering me a lifeline. I have a game we can play.

From the bottom of the wardrobe she brought out a strap and a pink cellophane bag. The strap had a collar and a sliding brass ring. I snorted nervously, waiting for the joke, but Eva handled these new props with a reverence that brought a falling sensation to the pit of my guts.

I don't get it, I said.

I'll show you, she murmured.

What if I don't want to?

Then I'll be disappointed, I guess.

Eva sat on the bed beside me. She drew the leather across her thigh while I lay there considering the likely ramifications of her disappointment.

So, I said. Show me.

You know how to hyperventilate, right?

I nodded warily.

Well, it's kinda like that.

I looked at the padded collar and the brass ring that did the work of a slipknot. From where I lay I could smell the sweat and perfume in the leather.

You hang yourself?

Sure. Sometimes.

Fuck. Why?

Because I like it.

But why do you like it?

Because, little man, she said flipping it at me playfully. It makes me come like a freight train.

Far out, I muttered.

She smiled. I tried to take it in.

So, how do you know when to stop?

Practice, I guess. You should know.

Me? Gimme a break.

Come on, Pikelet, she said soothingly. I've heard you guys talk. Spots, stars, tunnel vision.

You want me to… hang myself?

No.

Well, there's no way.

Of course not.

So, what then? What d'you want me to do?

Eva became girlish for a moment. She put her fingers through my hair.

I just want you to watch.

Geez, Eva.

It feels better; I can't tell you.

I dunno.

And it's safer. Like having a dive buddy.

I sat up in bed, anxious and revolted. I hated the sharp leather smell already.

I can't, I said. You shouldn't ask me.

She sighed. Okay. Sure.

Eva swept her props off the bed and began to dress. I felt the sudden weight of her disappointment. The day was over already. I'd be home early.

I'm sorry, I said.

Sure, she murmured, pulling on a tee-shirt.

It's just —

I'll make do on my own, Pikelet. I'm a big girl.

But it's not safe.

Well, no guts no glory, huh?

Sensing that I'd been dismissed already, I watched her rake a brush through her hair.

What'll you do?

I have a mirror, she said, misunderstanding me. I can watch myself.