No quarter

Figueira came to the meeting today. The talk was open, but didn't go past acceptable limits of common decency. Zangrandi seemed a bit more talkative, but also more willing to agree with what Galhardo had said on Monday; not exactly that he and Figueira didn't help, but that they should dedicate more to practice, repeating terms he had used before. Today it was Morales who was silent. Figueira only watched and listened, though he was the target for most of the talk at the moment, especially because of his discharge of hate on the other session. He seemed nonchalant, as if he didn't care, as if he knew everything was pre-decided. That's precisely the kind of notion I must combat. Wrestle with a wrestler. Show him to be a wrestler is fighting not only against other wrestlers, but against the wrestler he's refused to be. It won't be easy, because I know little of their universe as wrestlers, but nobody told me it would.

After the talk, when the kids had already gone to the locker room, I went to Mr. Costa's room, to wait for him, remembering the phone call I made to him yesterday.

I glanced at the clock and it was eight five. Looked away from the clock and stared, from where I was, at the collection of prizes and trophies of the association. It was not small, maybe showing the great tradition and reputation of Corporal in that universe. How many human universes and nations can one get to know? How many, with their gods, their rites, their legends, their villains and traitors, their everything? What amazes me is the amplitude of human doing, the multiplicity of activities that make human beings so magnificent and at the same time so divided into fragments that end up turning them into the dimension of what they really are: a grain of cosmic dust set adrift in the vastness of the universal ocean. A particle of dust lost in the sea of their own self-importance and impossible magnificence. These prizes and trophies and medals speak to me of all those who have passed by this place; those who have been turned into legends, who forged in the hearts and minds of today's disciples the footsteps to be followed, where not even the sky could be the limit, to disappear forever in infinity once accomplished their mission. This Olympus where not everyone will have access. Had everyone had access to it, it would be no Olympus anyway. And what about those who lost everything? I don't even mention those who came here seeking to balance body and mind, trying to keep the moving parts moving in order not to lose them; I mean those who somehow sought something that could be at least an enhanced self-esteem, for the thrill of a new challenge at every step taken, only to meet nothing but the bitter taste of defeat and humiliation, going back to the hole they should never have left. These ones, swept under the carpet of eternal glory are those who fascinate me the most, not such docile lambs, but immolated in honor to the glory of winners. What good would it be telling each and every winner in this world they would never win without a counterpart to overcome? They'd sit aside and laugh at how obvious my idea could be, without seeing any farther than the obvious cover it shows, afraid of facing the reality that, bound there by the chains of common sense, it would never get to their hearts and minds so engaged with the role models directly imported from their own gods. I wish I could see in the gods something before the superhuman grace that makes them inaccessible. What the hell is it that can only make humans out of us when it makes us suffer, stumble, fall and cry? I saw humanity in Figueira's crying at the recption hall at Corporal. I almost saw humanity in the moment Galhardo practically cried for help, even having overwhelmed the beast he had just made out of Figueira. I saw it in Zangrandi's dismay, who preferred to turn it into a positive attitude. But I couldn't find it in Morales' impassible face, watching everything without ever being moved by it. It's just not possible that we have to go down so deep to become human that the only way we have left can be the way up. This is just not what I want to believe in. But it seems to me it is what has been following me, tracking me down for so long.

I wake up from my reflections and glance at the clock again. I can't believe it, it's ten five; I'm still the only one in this room, now that the sound of practice in the hall brings me completely into Corporal. So the door opens, bringing Mr. Costa into the room. Though he's asked me to stay and wait, he looks surprised to see me in his room, trying hard not to let his surprise show.

"Good morning, Miss Grisam", he says, shaking my hand with a smile, "I heard some of the kids have given you a real hard time, is it true?"

"I've seen worse people", I said, what is no rhetoric, considering everything I've seen and lived through.
"Well, it was Figueira, wasn't it?"
 
"Would it make any difference for you if I said it was not? Is there anything between him and Galhardo you haven't told me yet?"
 
"Galhardo expresses his opinions much too often; he is much more open-hearted, straightforward, as Panotti. Morales doesn't open his heart as much, he is silent most of the time, what is one of his characteristics. It doesn't mean he hides so much we can't know what is in his mind and I find it good. I just can't trust anyone who puts a padlock around themselves, that refuses to be explained; maybe it's the same reason why I still keep Figueira at Corporal. Maybe it's the only reason."
 
He paused as usual, as if he was scanning me. "Is it all?", I inquired, thinking I hadn't heard it all.

"No", said Mr. Costa at last, "Galhardo will train Figueira from now on. They will work together, because if Figueira wants to stay with us, he'll have to show what he's here for. I don't want him here paying monthly but going to and coming from tournaments with empty hands. Figueira is to change mentality or is to change associations and that's what it boils down to. After yesterday's training we sat down to discuss the future of the varsity and decided Galhardo will train moves with him and Morales will train moves with Zangrandi in the morning. In the afternoon, it will be Coach Rodrigo. I want them to be proud of themselves and of Corporal and I want Corporal to be proud of them. There is no room here for losers; it's about time they learned this lesson."
 
"Don't you think joining him and Galhardo can..."
 
"I don't want fighters hiding and avoiding each other, Miss Grisam. Either they work as one, as a brotherhood or they'll work no more. I'll keep my champions here and if the two insist on being the rest, they are heading to the nearest dustbin, if their ambitions are leading them there. Here, as in life, each one will get what he desires. Nothing more, nothing less."
 
"Have you finished?"
 
"Not yet, Miss Grisam, but I don't intend to take much of your time. I know you are sorry for Figueira and what happened to him, and I want to warn you not to feel sorry for him. Compassion hurts a wrestler much more than the worst of the locks he would ever receive in a bout. If it gets to my attention you're doing something for him because of compassion, I'll see that you're not working here any longer. Save your compassion for the meek, the underprivileged, the needy. Figueira is strong, but needs incentive, not pity; your compassion will bury the last chance we are giving him. Don't destroy his work. If you really like Figueira, don't you ever feel sorry for him."
 
Another huge and annoying pause after which he said:

"Well, that's all, Miss Grisam", he looked at a pile of documents waiting for a signature of him on the desk, "sorry for not being able to give you more attention, but I've got lots of things here that need to be dealt with, as you can see by yourself."
 
"Would you permit me at least one question? I don't intend to take your time either."
 
"Yes, of course. What's the question?"
 
"Do you have any idea how long I've been here waiting for you?"
 
He looked at me, amazed it was the only question I had to ask at everything he had said.
"Miss Grisam, don't you think the issue is relevant enough to justify the waiting?"
 
"Not at all. Mainly considering my health problem which you already knew when you hired me. Next time you need to pour your stockpile of protopsychological conceptions about Triumph and Disaster on me, use the phone. At least, I won't need to get out of my bed to listen to all this."
 
And I limped back to the door, on my way back home.

Decades
Here are the young men, the weight on their shoulders,
Here are the young men, well where have they been?
We knocked on the doors of Hell's darker chamber,
Pushed to the limit, we dragged ourselves in,
Watched from the wings as the scenes were replaying,
We saw ourselves now as we never had seen.
Portrayal of the trauma and degeneration,
The sorrows we suffered and never were free.

Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?

Weary inside, now our heart's lost forever,
Can't replace the fear, or the thrill of the chase,
Each ritual showed up the door for our wanderings,
Open then shut, then slammed in our face.

Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?
Where have they been?

This is what is waiting for me at home, poetry by Joy Division's frontman Ian Curtis sent by a Finnish friend, by-email. To think it's summer, not winter right now in Finland.

Nix | Violence among the sailors

Radio Universal: The Making Of A Thousand Gods.