‘Stop moving or I’ll nick you.’
If he was nicked, he would bleed. And if he bled, a scab would form, and he would feel it in the water, he would sense it as he was swimming. It would be just a small sensation, just a niggle. But it could be enormous. Like a fly landing on his naked shoulder over summer, when it became all he could think of. All you could think of was that small, trivial thing, but before you knew it, it would be the scab he was thinking of in the water the next day, the feel of it as the water rushed past it, an itch that would want to be scratched, that would make him pause, for a third of a third of a third of a second. But that was all it took, the Coach said it all the time, for that third of a third of a third of a second to make you lose concentration and then you would slip back, fumble a stroke, and then you would find yourself a quarter of a body length then half a body length then a whole body length behind. He couldn’t be nicked, he couldn’t dare be nicked.
He stood absolutely still.
She had shaved both his legs and still the race hadn’t started.
As she changed the water he ducked into the next room to check the TV. There were ads, then interviews with former Olympians. All they wanted to talk about was Perkins. Would he, wouldn’t he? Did he have it in him? Most of the commentators were dubious. He had barely scraped through the heat, one of them warned; another started listing the swimmer’s old injuries. The third disagreed, said proudly that just going for an Olympic medal brought something special out of a true athlete: Perkins could do it. The other commentators couldn’t answer that; they hadn’t been there, didn’t know what it felt like. To be in the pool, to be going for an Olympic medal. To have everyone in the world watching you.
Danny wanted to hear about Kowalski. It would be Kowalski’s medal. Danny knew exactly what Kowalski would be thinking: that this time he could get there, step out of the other swimmer’s shadow, that this time the race would be his. Why wouldn’t they talk about Kowalski?
‘I think Daniel Kowalski will win this.’ The other commentators nodded their heads and one of them was about to answer when Danny’s mother called from the bathroom.
He pretended he hadn’t heard. He wanted to hear them talk about Kowalski.
‘Danny!’
Regan raised her head, looked over at him.
‘In here, now!’
There was fresh warm water in the tub. He slipped the towel off his shoulders and stepped into the bath. His mother had fitted a new blade into the razor.
‘Lift your arm.’
He raised his right arm and she began to lather his armpit.
‘Has it started?’ he asked.
‘Nah,’ Regan called. ‘It’s boring. Just stupid men talking — can’t we change channels?’
‘Regan,’ his mother cautioned, ‘don’t you dare change the channel.’
‘I won’t let her, Danny.’
Danny smiled at his brother’s reflection in the bathroom mirror and Theo grinned back. Danny knew what his brother was thinking, he could read him as clearly as if there were actual words going from his brother’s brain straight to his, like telekinesis might be. Theo was thinking that it would be his brother there one day, where Perkins and Kowalski were. That would be Danny one day.
‘Ouch!’
The razor scraped the inside of his armpit. It was tender there.
His mother slid the razor carefully against the thicker hair. ‘Sorry, Danny, this will hurt more.’
‘Don’t cut me, Mum.’
‘I won’t, but you have to stand still. I know what I’m doing.’
Did his mother do this for the women whose hair she cut? She had wanted to use wax on him as she did for her clients. But he had been fearful of the wax, thought it might burn, and if it burned it might blister. And blisters were worse than nicks. Blisters niggled worse than anything.
His mother was close to him as she shaved him. He could smell her, the perfume that smelled like fruit but also had the hint of something unpleasant, too sweet. It made his nose twitch. His legs were all pink from being shaved. They didn’t look like his legs anymore. He turned away, impressed by what the mirror revealed. They were strong legs. Almost imperceptibly he tightened his buttocks and glanced back. He could see the muscles of his thighs, stretching, flexing, clearly defined. His calf muscle was like steel.
‘Don’t move,’ his mother scolded. She wiped the black hairs onto a small washcloth. He wanted to scratch; the itchiness stung now. He stood absolutely rigid, looking at his legs again in the mirror. He would not scratch, he would not scratch. He disappeared into the words, spelled them forwards and backwards. I space W-I–L-L space N-O-T space S-C-R-A-T-C-H space H-C-T-A-R-C-S space T-O-. .
There was an excited cheer from the TV in the next room.
‘Is it starting?’
The letters disappeared, but the sting under his armpit was still there. There was a strong odour, like meat mixed with earth, coming from his mother. He had never been close to such a smell before and he knew, as if by instinct, that it only belonged to women.
‘Mum,’ he whined, ‘it’s starting.’
‘Kids, are they anywhere near the starting blocks?’
‘No,’ Theo answered. Nevertheless he was excited about something, he could see something that Danny couldn’t see, because he was now kneeling on the bed and looking at the screen.
‘There,’ his mother announced, satisfied.
The flesh under his arm was red, inflamed. She rubbed him with lotion but the sting didn’t quite go away. He flinched and she gave him a mocking smile and unexpectedly kissed him on the brow. ‘Now you know what we women go through.’
What? He didn’t understand. Then he remembered from when he was a small boy a summer picnic in Whittlesea, his mother lying on the grass smoking, a glass of wine in her other hand. She had been wearing a sleeveless dress, and whenever she raised the hand with the cigarette in it he had caught a glimpse of coarse short black hairs growing back in her armpit. It had disgusted him, like seeing stubble on an old woman’s chin.
He raised his other arm for his mother to shave him there.
Danny was saying the names to himself like a kind of prayer: Kowalski, Perkins, Brembilla; Kowalski, Perkins, Brembilla. That was what he was hoping for, Kowalski, Perkins, Brembilla. There was a hush in the motel room, and even the television announcers fell silent. The first youth was called to his block; he raised his arms and the South African flag appeared in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. Ryk Neethling; Danny didn’t think anything of Ryk Neethling, for it wasn’t possible that he could win. After Neethling was Hoffmann from Germany — he was a chance. Neethling, then Hoffmann, then Akatyev from Russia. Danny leaned forward as the young man approached the block. He hadn’t seen Akatyev before. He turned the name around in his mouth, liking the sound of it: A-KA-ty-EV. It was a much better name than Kelly.
And then it was Kowalski. Who tried to smile, who waved at the cluster of Australian supporters waving their flags in the stalls, but Danny could see that all Kowalski was thinking about was the race ahead, the race that was his, that now belonged to him. It is yours, it is yours, Danny whispered deep into himself, because he knew that everyone else, everyone in the world wanted Perkins to win, to shrug off the lack of form, the illness, the bad year, nearly missing out on a place in the finals. Everyone — except Danny — wanted Perkins to win. But it was Kowalski’s race. Danny hardly registered Graeme Smith, the man from Great Britain, take to his block; he was still seeing the strain on Kowalski’s face as he tried to smile. A feeling of unease crept up from Danny’s gut. The strain on Kowalski’s face seemed a premonition of bad luck.