Christos Tsiolkas - Barracuda

No, there wasn’t. There couldn’t be.

It was the best result — Kieren Perkins had made history. But there was a hole in Danny’s stomach. No, no, there wasn’t. This was one of the great moments in sport.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he screamed. ‘We’ve got silver, we’ve got gold. What a hero. What a hero.’ He didn’t look at the screen, not yet, not yet, because he didn’t want to see Kowalski’s face.

‘Look,’ his mother announced, ‘look at Perkins going to shake Daniel’s hand. That’s the first thing he does, that gives you the measure of the man, doesn’t it?’

But Danny couldn’t look, couldn’t look at Kowalski’s face, at Brembilla’s face, at the face of the man who had come fourth — who wouldn’t stand on the dais, who wouldn’t hear any cheers. Only one man won. He could hear the Coach: Only one man comes first . Perkins won. But Kowalski and Smith, Brembilla, Neethling, Hirano, Hoffmann, Akatyev — they all lost. Only one man comes first . ‘Silver and gold,’ he screamed, hugging Theo, hugging Regan, hugging his mother, dancing. But it hadn’t been Kowalski, Brembilla, Perkins. He knew then that he had learned something, something about not letting it show. Not showing the strain of it, the anxiety of it nor the terror of it. He wouldn’t ever let it show. Only losers let it show.

Later, when they had seen Perkins and Kowalski and Smith be awarded their medals, after hearing ‘Advance Australia Fair’, his mother called him back to the bathroom. ‘We haven’t finished, Danny.’

She had filled the bottom of the bath with lukewarm water and this time she lathered his chest, spreading foam down his firm flat stomach to just above the line of his Speedos. Her hands were warm but he didn’t like that her hands were on him, didn’t want to think about how close they were to his bits. He could see a thin knot of black pubes escaping from the top of his costume and he wanted to push her away. He wanted her hands off him. He closed his eyes, screwing them shut so tight there were streaks of red and white light dancing in the blackness. But within the twists and the twirls of the light, he could see the face of Daniel Kowalski, he could see the tightness of his forced smile as he approached the block. Danny would not give in to fear and anxiety. He would learn from Kowalski; he would be as good a swimmer as Kowalski was, but a better competitor. Like Kowalski, he didn’t have the perfect skin, the perfect smile, the perfect pedigree. At the school meets, it was Taylor who got the loudest cheers, whose name was called, who got the other boys stomping their feet in the bleachers. It was Taylor they screamed for— Tazza! Tazza! Tazza! — not Danny. He would fight the envy, he would take it on and give it back to them. He would not swim for the adulation. He would swim to win.

He could feel the cold blade scraping down his sternum. It was only when he could feel that she had finished that he opened his eyes. He went to step out of the bath.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ she chided softly. ‘We haven’t quite finished. Turn around.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s just some hair on your back—’

‘My back! ’ He was furious at her. He hated her and he hated his dad. Who wouldn’t pay for the electrolysis. Who wouldn’t pay for fucking anything.

He saw that Theo was looking up, alarmed by his shout.

‘It’s OK.’ He knew his mother was stifling a laugh. He wanted to insult her, to call her something that would humiliate her. Bitch . You’re a bitch . ‘It’s normal, just some hair on the small of your back. It’s normal, Danny.’

It wasn’t normal for Taylor or for Perkins. It was normal for wogs. Normal for ugly wogs, like her.

‘It’s OK, we don’t have to do it.’ His reaction had startled her.

She wasn’t ugly, she was beautiful. She was going grey but she still looked younger and more attractive than any of the other mums at school; those women were all hard sharp lines: the cut of their hair, the jut of their chins and cheeks, the fit of their clothes. His mother was curves and flesh. His mother was beautiful. She would do anything for him. He watched her work the gel into a lather in her hand. He was the one who was ugly.

He turned around, and let her shave him.

It is your race to win . It was the first thing he told himself that morning when he threw back the blanket and looked down at his new smooth body. It is your race to win. He kept whispering it to himself while warming up in the gym. He repeated it to himself as he flexed his muscles in front of the long mirrors, wishing he could strip, wishing it was like the ancient days when athletes competed naked, wishing it were those days so he could stand in front of the mirror loving his new hairless body that allowed him to see every curve and hollow of each muscle. He worked out — nothing too strenuous that could pull a muscle. At one point Danny put down the barbells. He was sweating heavily, it was a shiny casing over his new skin. No one was looking at him, they were all concentrating on their own bodies, their own future. He slowly pulled up the bottom of his singlet to his upper chest. His abdomen glistened, his chest gleamed. He was all muscle and he was clean and smooth. He looked like Kowalski and Perkins and Brembilla.

He would win the two hundred metre freestyle. He would win it because he deserved it, because it was his to win. It was his race to win.

He kept telling himself that with every lap he swam in his preparations that morning. The water slid by his new body, caressed it. In the water, he could feel his speed and power.

He could feel this speed and this power standing on his block, awaiting the signal to dive in. He knew Taylor was in the third lane but he didn’t think about that again. He thought no more about Taylor, who also wanted to win that race. But Taylor wouldn’t win that race because it wasn’t his to win. It is my race to win . He dived and his body entered the water as if he were in one of his flying dreams. Time once again receded. He knifed into the water and then he was slicing the water that bent and shifted and became his. He breathed more freely than he did in the air. He knew that he was at the twenty-five-metre mark, but time did not exist. He was breathing, swimming, bending and being in the water. He was at one hundred metres and he was breathing and bending and shifting the water. One hundred and twenty-five metres and his muscles, his new body, were doing all that he wanted them to do. With every turn he could feel the muscles in his thighs, in his calves, in his shoulders as his arms lifted and broke and shifted the water. It was one hundred and fifty metres but time did not exist and he was shifting and bending and conquering the water. His hand touched the tiles at the end of the pool and he didn’t even need to look up, he didn’t need anyone to tell him that he had won.

He had won.

In the warm-down pool he found that he was shivering and fighting wave upon wave of nausea. Then the pain started, first in his chest, then in his leaden arms which felt as if the muscles were ballooning. They felt as though they would burst through his skin, but he knew that they were in fact constricting, that the pain would come sporadically throughout the day, and would intensify and deepen in the night. The next morning his body would feel far from new, but he would have to get back in the pool and struggle to make his body bend and conquer the water once again. The water would not love him as it had during the race; tomorrow it would once more be a force to battle, to master, to defeat. He exhaled and the pain lessened. Slowly his teeth stopped chattering, his muscles loosened, and his cramps began to subside. He looked around to see Taylor shivering next to him. The other boy was taller, with a bigger chest and longer arms, but his legs weren’t as strong as Danny’s. Danny suddenly understood that he had won it with his kicks, in the water and at the turns. He felt down to his smooth new thighs and almost groaned as the pain kicked into him again. He raised his arm in a mock salute.