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'Well, something ate him, obviously,' Tulpen said. 'So I put the second one in a different tank so he wouldn't be eaten by whatever ate the first one. And, obviously, something else ate this one.'
Trumper put his hand in the tank, groping all around. 'So they ate him!' he shouted. He looked and looked, but there wasn't a shred of turquoise, not even a dollop of the strange plumber's helper which had inspired the little eel's poetry. Trumper slapped his hand on the water surface; the other fish bolted, fled in terror, collided with each other and glanced off the glass walls. 'You bastards!' Trumper screamed. 'Which one of you did it?' He stared fiercely at them - the lean yellow one with a blue fin, the evil-red round one. He stabbed into the tank with a pencil.
'Stop it!' Tulpen yelled at him. But he stabbed and stabbed, trying to lance one of them against the glass. They had killed the poet! The eel had been pleading with them - bubbles for mercy! And they had eaten him, the fuckers.
Tulpen grabbed Trumper around his middle and pulled him over on the bed. He thrashed out at her and snatched the alarm clock off the night table, flinging it at the murderous fish tank. The aquarium was thick-walled; it cracked and began to leak, but it didn't shatter. As the water ran out, the smaller fish were pulled up against the crack by the current.
Tulpen lay still under Trumper, watching the water level fall. 'Trumper?' she said softly, but he wouldn't look at her. He held her still until the tank had emptied over the bookcase and the killer-fish lay flopping on the dry aquarium floor.
'Trumper, for God's sake,' she said, but she didn't struggle. 'Let me move them to another tank, please.'
He let her up and watched her gently scoop them into another aquarium. In the turtle tank, a bright blue-headed turtle ate the thin yellow fish immediately, but left the evil-red round one alone.
'Shit,' said Tulpen. 'I never know who's going to eat whom.'
'Please tell me why you want a baby,' Trumper asked her quietly, but when she turned to face him, she was calm, her arms folded over her breasts. She coolly blew a lock of her hair out of her eyes and sat down beside him on the bed; she casually crossed her legs; she watched the survivor-fish.
'I guess I don't want a baby,' she said.
13
Remember Merrill Overturf?
LEARNING TO SKI, I quickly realized Merrill Overturf's failure as a coach. Merrill is not a deft skier, though he has mastered the stop. At the children's slope in Saarbrucken, I assaulted the backbreaking rope tow. Aside from the children, it was fortunately unpopulated; most adults were at the races in Zell am See to see the women's downhill and giant slalom.
I mastered the bindings with only three cut knuckles. Merrill flayed a path through the children, leading me to the awesome rope tow, the rope slithered uphill a mere foot above the ground, the proper, comfortable height for five-year-olds and other three-foot dwarfs skiing there. But my knickers did not bend well at the knees, and I could barely stoop to reach the tow, then scoot uphill in the painful position of a coolie bearing a trunk. Holding the rope behind me, Merrill shouted encouragements during the endless journey. If it's this hard going up, I thought, what will it be like going down?
I liked the mountains, all right, and I thrilled to the giant cable-cars carrying you way up where the big skiers go; also, I liked the cable-cars going down - empty, with all the window space to yourself, excepting the leering lift operator who always remarked on the absence of your skis.
'We're almost there, Boggle!' Merrill lied. 'Bend your knees!' I watched the bouncy children dancing on the rope in front of me while I carried the mountain on my back - the rope bunching my frozen mittens, my chin hitting my knees as my skis skated uncontrollably in and out of the ruts. I knew I had to straighten up or never use my spine again.
'Bend, Boggle!' Merrill hollered, but I straightened up. All that grief off my back for one lovely moment; I lifted the rope chest-high and leaned back. Above me I saw the little children, their skis completely off the ground, hanging from the rope, swinging like little puppets. Some dropped off, littering the path in front of me; it was clear that they wouldn't struggle out of my way in time.
At the top of the hill, a befurred lift attendant shouted unkindly at me. Below us, the gentle thud of mothers stamping their boots. 'Let go of the rope, Boggle!' Merrill shouted. I watched the approaching tangle of children in the path, skis and poles clashing; stuck to the ascending rope were several of their tiny bright and frozen mittens. The lift attendant suddenly dashed for the control house, perhaps thinking the mittens were hands.
I was surprised at how cleverly I kept my balance as I skied over my first child. 'Let go, Boggle!' said Merrill; I shot a quick look over my shoulder at the child I'd just trampled and watched him groggily rise up and catch Merrill in the solar plexus with his junior crash helmet. Merrill let go of the rope. Then I was surrounded by the tiny creatures, jabbing with their poles and yelping German for God and their mothers. In the midst of them, I felt the rope jerk to a stop in my hands, and I sprawled into a milling nest of them.
'Es tut mir leid.'
'Gott! Hilfe! Mutti, Mutti ...'
Merrill steered me out of the rope-tow ruts and on to the slope which had looked so slight and gentle from below.
'Please, Merrill, I want to walk.'
'Boggle, you'd make holes for the other skiers ...'
'I'd like to make one big hole for all the other skiers, Merrill.'
But I left Merrill Overturf guide me to center slope and aid me in the general direction of the bottom, where the children appeared to be further dwarfed and the cars way below in the parking lot looked like the children's toys. Overturf demonstrated the snowplow stop, then showed off a wobbly stem-turn. Larkish little children flew by us, poling and zigzagging and falling as lightly and safely as little wads of wool.
My skis felt like long, heavy ladders on my feet: my poles were stilts.
'I'll follow you,' said Merrill, 'in case you fall.'
I began slowly enough; children passed by me with obvious scorn. Then I noted I was picking up speed. 'Lean forward,' called Merrill, and I went a little faster, my skis clicking together, swaying apart. What if one ski crosses the other? I thought.
Then I passed the first wave of surprised children as if they were standing still. That'll show the little bastards. 'Bend your knees, Boggle!' came Merrill's voice from miles behind me. But my knees seemed locked, ramrod stiff. I came up on a bright-capped little blonde girl and hipped her neatly out of the way, like sideswiping a squirrel with a train. 'Es tut mir leid,' I said, but the words were blown down my throat; my eyes watered. 'Snowplow, Boggle!' Merrill was screaming. Oh yes, that stopping device. But I didn't dare move my skis. I attempted to will them apart; they resisted me; my hat flew off. Ahead of me, a gaggle of children poled and veered and terror-scampered; an avalanche was after them! Not wanting to gore anyone, I dropped my poles and bludgeoned through them. By the tow shelter at the bottom, an attendant came caterwauling out with a shovel; he had been packing down the tow ruts, but I suspected he would not hesitate to swat me. The lift line broke up; spectators and skiers burst for cover. I imagined an air raid, from the point of view of the bomb.
