The Dive

I first saw him at the city natatorium. Winter had just turned to spring and the air was still cold; on top of that, it was a Wednesday, so few people had come to swim. When he walked into the locker room I had already changed into my trunks and was sitting on the bench rummaging for my goggles. Suddenly, past the smell of pool chlorine, a trace of fragrance slipped into my nose — I looked up, and there he was. His locker was not far from mine. I watched him take off his immaculately pressed shirt and trousers and fold them with care; every movement he made stirred the woody cologne loose, and it drifted through the locker room until the chlorine neutralized it. He seemed to notice my gaze — his head tilted slightly, and there it was: a friendly, well-practiced smile. I had no choice but to return the same smile, then hurried awkwardly out of the locker room.

After a thousand meters I climbed out of the water and sat at the pool’s edge to rest. Before long someone greeted me — looking closely, it was him. He lifted his goggles and sat down beside me. I apologized first for what had happened in the locker room; he waved it off and told me not to worry about it.

“Haven’t seen you here before — just started swimming?” I opened.

“Yes. Today’s my first day at the pool.”

“It’s still cold, and a weekday — not many people come. Every day it’s the same few regulars, all familiar faces.”

“So you’ve been swimming here for a while?”

“Since before the New Year. Though only a few days — the water’s too cold. Those regulars, though — they’re here every time I come.”

“A bit of exercise is always good.”

“I’m not here for exercise,” I said with a wry smile.

“Oh? Then why?”

“I’m only confirming that my body still belongs to me.”

He waited for me to go on.

“I don’t know when it started — I’ve grown insensitive to my own body. Sometimes someone else notices an injury on me before I do. And sometimes the body seems to have a mind of its own.”

“Out of your control?”

“No. It feels like you’re merely an observer — none of the body’s movements come from you.”

“But you can still control it.”

“Right. When I strain to focus and feel myself controlling it, it’s as if I’ve taken the body over from someone else’s hands.”

“Could it be a nervous-system disease?”

“Unclear. Several hospitals, no results. And you? Why do you swim?”

“I don’t swim. I dive.” He pointed at the diving platform on the other side of the pool. “I dive for an important performance two months from now. I’m going to make the most perfect dive of my life there,” he continued.

“Sounds like time is tight.”

“Yes — time waits for no one. I’ll come every day from now on.”

“Then I wish you success in two months.”

He smiled and walked away.

Sometimes talent really does decide everything. By April he was already diving remarkably well — every perfect entry drew applause from everyone in the natatorium. After each dive he rose gracefully from the water, gave everyone his signature smile and a wave of thanks, then immediately put it away, turned, climbed the stairs to the platform, and began a new dive. On the board: first the left leg’s muscles drove, then the right; in that left-right rhythm he bounded toward the tip of the board, and at the very end leapt with all his strength — one turn, two, three — his limbs revolving around his torso, dancing in the air, finally gathering into one straight line, plunging perpendicular into the water, raising a splash.

“Beautiful diving,” I said, running into him in the locker room after my swim.

“Not enough.” He smiled first, then shook his head.

“For someone who’s only been at it a month, diving like that practically makes you a genius.”

“For other people, maybe. I still need more practice.”

“Relax. You’re already incredible. No problem.”

He smiled again.

“Want to get lunch?” he asked suddenly.

“Now?”

“Yes, lunch. You have plans?”

“Not really — wouldn’t it trouble you?”

“No trouble. I always eat alone. Today happens to come with company.”

I packed up first, blow-dried my hair, and waited for him at the natatorium’s entrance. About ten minutes later he came out of the locker room, together with his woody cologne, and we went to the parking lot and got into his car.

It was a gray-white old 911. The outside looked its age, but the interior had been kept meticulously clean — though you could still feel its years in the creases of the leather seats, sitting down you could feel the comfort. He opened the door with his left hand, sat down, started the ignition with his left hand, closed the door with his left hand, then waited for me to get in. I sat down carefully and shut the door.

“Secondhand. Looks good, right?” he said as he drove.

“Good.”

“Saw it, liked it, bought it. It was my neighbor’s — his business went under some years ago and it was about to be pawned off to pay debts, so I bought it.”

“Cleaning it up took some work. Every worn component was replaced; the upholstery got washed or swapped. The only thing I didn’t redo was the paint,” he went on.

“Why leave the paint?”

“To remind me.”

“Remind you of what?”

He smiled and said nothing.

“Is your illness better?” he asked me then.

“I’m afraid it may never be. First, whether it’s an illness at all can’t be determined; second, which illness it might be can’t be confirmed.”

“How do you feel now?”

“All right. It still happens from time to time — but luckily, other than feeling wrong, it causes no other harm.”

“Then why not try obeying it?”

“Obeying it?”

“Yes. It’s your body, after all — it won’t slip away from your mind on its own. Obey it; see where it takes you.”

“What if I can’t come back?”

“That can’t be helped. It’s your body making the choice, after all.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Nothing in this world is not dangerous.” With that, he pushed the car to its roaring limit.

The last time I saw him was in the natatorium parking lot. It was May by then; the weather had turned hot, and being a weekend, swimmers packed the pool. I was surprised to see his car in the lot — he hadn’t come to the natatorium in almost three weeks. I didn’t remember the plate, but looking it over carefully, the car was his. I waited by the car for half an hour; just as I gave up and turned to go, I saw him walking toward the lot. Seeing me, he froze for a beat — then the classic smile, the warm hello.

“Haven’t seen you in so long — is the diving performance done?” I asked.

“No — the performance is today,” he smiled.

“Sounds like you’re fully confident, then.”

“Not exactly. I was anxious before — but today I’ve accepted it. Nothing left to worry about.”

“Where have you been practicing?”

“At home.”

“Home?”

“Yes, at home. I close my eyes and imagine it.”

“Does that work?”

“It works. Imagining one dive is far more tiring than actually diving once. You use your brain to imagine your body; you make your brain believe it is truly, genuinely controlling the body; then you use the brain to control the imagined body through the motions. You of all people should understand — the difficulty of controlling your own body with your brain.”

“I can understand. It’s no easy thing.”

“Yes, it’s extremely hard. But so many people take for granted that they can do it, never realizing their body hasn’t been moving the way they think at all — it only answers to its own inner rhythm.”

“What do you mean?”

“Obeying. After that day, did you obey it?”

“I don’t know. When I try to obey the body, it falls silent. But when I try to control it, the strange voice reappears.”

“Right. You have to understand — that’s its nature: it vanishes when it should come, and appears when it shouldn’t. Only by fully understanding it can you catch it.”

“All right — it’s getting late. I should go prepare,” he said.

Before my next sentence left my mouth, he shut the car door and left. I only remember that I wanted to say something more, but what it was has grown blurry with time.

Evening. Walking down a road where cold buildings stood stern, the setting sun ricocheted between the panes of glass until it dazzled my eyes — and in that blur a straight line fell from the sky. I saw it. It was him. Eyes gently closed — one turn, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. A full eight somersaults, gracefully done; at the same time, his arms, veins bulging, flawlessly completed their motion. Finally he straightened his limbs, became once more a perfectly straight arrow, and shot mercilessly toward the ground — raising, at the end, one small splash.

It was the most beautiful dive I have ever seen in my life.