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Rio. 2016.
The synchronized men's diving final is indoors, where everyone is squished just a little closer together. For the 10 m platform the pool had been in a partially open stadium. Henry is used to being indoors but being outdoors feels just a little easier. He tries not to focus on feeling confined.
Shaan has ushered him into the correct seat at the correct time. Henry—he would have gotten there himself without Shaan. That’s true. He’s made punctuality and presentation a focus recently, because if you’re on time and presentable no one will worry about anything else and if you don’t talk as much as before they will chalk it up to noble breeding.
The pool is overly air conditioned—the divers must be freezing—and chlorine hangs heavy in the air.
Henry’s thinking about the pool at Uni. He starts thinking about driving back from Uni to pick up Bea—
No, he's not thinking about Bea. He’s just thinking about Basil and Bertie, and the last time they had an easy polo match on a Saturday. And then he’s thinking just about Basil; Basil has this confidence about him that just makes everything easier. Easy to follow along, easy to laugh in the right places.
Basil hadn’t gotten tickets for this year’s games because, as he said in his crisp, polished accent that just hinted a little at smugness, “You trust Brazil to do the games justice, do you? I’ve heard it’s all hand over fist corruption down there. Probably won’t finish half the stadiums on time. I shouldn’t bother if I were you. Wait until it comes back to France, or to Sweden.”
And it is absolutely half-done. The buildings are up but the para-olympic games are on hold; the olympic committee used--stole--misplaced--all the money set aside for the para-olympics, which is insulting in the extreme. First Sochi now Rio. Cities without adequate management really shouldn’t be given the ticket--
There, across the way in the opposite bleachers, sit the square headed Russians, who are sat next to the ugly Americans in their too short shorts, who are next to the Asians in their thin blue masks, as if to say ‘if my country has problems with pollution, all countries have problems with pollution’. And he’s noticing the dry wall coming unstuck in the corner and thinking Basil was possibly right. Why had he come. That was a ridiculous question. It was the same answer it was before. Because Gran wanted him to. She hadn’t considered Bea, for reasons, and Phillip was on a ship halfway around the world for his tour, and so that left him. Henry.
For a moment when the word came that he was to go with her to open the Rio games he had felt an ounce of excitement. They had been all together for the Beijing games. They'd been together for the London games, too, but Henry only remembers the London games as being stressful; they were always on with the world focus so solidly trained on them. But in Beijing--there was an element of freedom for everyone in Beijing.
Phillip, almost 17, was still letting himself get excited about things and in private quarters ran around with his chest stuck out anytime Great Britain got into the top five, as if the empire was going to rise from the grave on the back of a cyclist.
Bea was enamored with the rhythmic gymnasts and had procured a ribbon wand from somewhere, and would frequently pull Henry into her room or to the room she had taken over to pretend to be a coach and judge and sometimes a duet partner. He loved her like that. All her wildness and wispiness focused on the game, on the play.
During the Beijing Olympics Henry found himself snug on the bleachers between his mother and father. He was content to watch all the people, their bodies taut and shining, leaping in the air in front of him.
Years later, Henry would pin down the attraction and awe he felt as the kind of explosions of power that athletes utilized.
That’s what he loved about polo—the horses just burst forth and turned and everyone clapped politely even though it was really just a rush of thinly veiled madness. Working with a horse that powerful--partnering with the horse, and Henry felt very strongly that it was a partnership-- was like sitting on top of a volcano, and somehow the volcano listened to you. Somehow the volcano was willing to pause when you paused. It was heady and impossible.
All of these athletes were like that. They all had that element of explosion inside of them and he couldn't stop watching.
And his father—in Beijing his father had seemed to understand. He pointed to someone throwing a discus and said, “Imagine, Henry—it only weighs two kilos but still, imagine throwing that again and again.” He pressed his palm into Henry’s, resting on the seat, and Henry had imagined it, the full weight, the full metallic weight of it in his hand. He imagined pulling back, imagined every muscle in his body exploding as he flung it far far far. And he imagined it flying flying flying. “Imagine just throwing a ball with that guy,” his father said. “He practices six hours a day, eight hours a day. His focus—"
Henry, 11-year-old Henry, had suddenly imagined himself in the athlete’s hand. He imagined the power underneath him, holding him, imagined being thrown into the sky over and over and over and coming down, landing on the soft grass, to be picked up and held again.
Maybe he looked uncomfortable. Maybe he suddenly tensed. Maybe a thousand tells. Maybe his father had no idea why he that image was so visceral for him, but he said, anyway, “Anyone would be lucky to be loved as much as he loves this sport.”
.
.
Whatever excitement Henry had felt at the thought of Rio—something normal, something from before—was forgotten long ago. He's all alone, here. With Shaan, but alone. Basil’s words “wouldn’t you quite agree, I shouldn’t think—” just echoing around in his head.
So he tries to pay attention.
He tries to pay attention to the heats, the swimmers and their deep inhales before the jump. Their swimsuits and bodies streamlined together, their tight hips and the skin over their shoulders. The synchronized diving always takes his breath: two people turning as one, flipping as one, moving as one.
The women's synchronized diving is fantastic, of course, but the men's is--more, and Henry has a moment where he berates himself for being so obvious, so transparent. After the first few moments he takes to get used to seeing so much skin, it becomes almost meditative. The climb, the pause, the announcement, the jump-- the swim, the climb, the pause, the announcement, the jump.
Some of the duos move in tandem even on land—the Mexicans are like that. The Americans are like that. He finds himself staring at a duo getting ready—South Korea. They’re shaking out their legs in synch. Do they even notice they’re doing it? Their shoulders, their legs—he’s staring. His head is full of cotton. Moving in tandem with another person like that--it just hurts to look at.
He turns back to the still, clear waters of the diving pool.
He jostles his leg and Shaan’s water bottle clatters down. He waits for Shaan to pick it up. Basil said, “don’t apologize, Henry. No one wants a weak heir.” Gran said as much, too. His father had said—but anyway, coaches and old people in polos and sneakers move around the deck, checking clip boards.
Henry inhales and seems to see the pool as if waking. He’s here, he’s been here, how long has he been here. This is the pool that he’s in, why is he here. When can he leave.
Everyone is watching him. The cameras are taking video of him jostling Shaan’s water bottle. People behind him are talking, laughing, and doing it all in a South African accent, which should be lovely but is just grating, now. Someone threw up last night. Someone picked up a Brazilian hottie. Someone picked up a Swedish hottie but hadn’t gotten their number. Someone had called their sister to say, get down here, but then they, and he was just, and anyway--
A group of loud American teenagers sashay onto the deck right before the last heat, the heat between the Americans, the British and the Chinese, when it would all be decided, and maybe Great Britain had half a chance at this one. They’re in big colors—bright reds, yellows and blues. The girls have skirts that swing and hair that curls, and the boy has a yellow Ipe in his ridiculous Hawaiian shirt pocket. His calves are long and taper gracefully to his ankles, his hair is curling and glossy.
After getting used to the swimmers, the boy's well tailored bermuda shorts are irresistible and terrible in the way that everything out of reach is irresistible and terrible.
The group is laughing at something, talking to a swimmer who’s grinning, and Henry can tell from half a league away that the swimmer is flirting with the boy with the flower and the ankles and the bermuda shorts. And really, who wouldn't flirt with him?
The group turns slightly. Henry knows who they are even without thinking about it. Politics. American. Doing a huge campaign to elect the first female president. They’re the Democratic nominee’s children. After the first African American President the first female president.
England, of course, had female heads of state years ago, but Americans like to think they’ve invented everything. First they invented democracy out of the blue, pulled it from a hat, then they invented ice cubes and now they’re inventing female leadership. Well done.
The son—Alexander—is even more magnetic in person. His voice carries across the pool room. He’s making a joke. He’s reaching out to touch the swimmer’s arm lightly. He’s holding onto one of the women around the waist. The other woman tousles his hair. He kisses her cheek, messy, with a wet smack, and she pokes him in the side with her elbow. They’re all touching him, constantly, and he’s touching them, constantly, and the swimmer is laughing, and Alex is taking the swimmer in his arms, not even caring that he’s just in a tiny speedo, doing a shoddy two step--
Once again Henry has that same sensory hallucination, of being the one held by those arms, touched by that skin, danced and swayed against that body, but this time there’s no room for any explosions of power, no room for imagining. The idea of someone like that close to him is a terrible chainsaw buzz in his head, cutting everything down, he has no room for it on top of Phillip telling him to “get it out of his system,” on top of Gran saying, “arrangements could be made,” on top of Basil saying, “large scale event management is foundational, can't let just anyone--” on top of Mom not even looking at him the last time he spoke to her, and Dad’s harsh breathing under the electric light and the dribble of spit that kept coming back no matter how many times he’d wiped it away, and then whatever South African Berker behind him saying, “Oh, fuck, that guy was so drunk last night, remember, that’s the one—”
He looks back at the diving pool's deep, still waters.
The jets push water into the center, and he imagines the water in a current, flowing along the top, meeting an opposing current, and going down, down down, into the deep heart of the pool, suspended, curling in on themselves, caught in blue light and held. He imagines all the noise from the air muffled in its depths. He imagines himself alone, blissfully unknown and unknowable, cradled, suspended, safe.
.
.
“Hey, Great to meet you. I’m Alex Clairmont-Diaz. My Mom’s running for president.”
Henry looks at him. He is very close. His hand is right there. Alex's hair is over his brow, twisting this way and that. He's young, his eyes still wide and excited, not closed and smirking, like Basil's. Henry has a moment of disconnect where he realizes he forgot what wide, young, eager eyes look like. No one he knows has eyes like that anymore.
Henry says, relying on training, “Yes. Good to meet you. Good luck to your mother.” He hesitates, and then seeing the hand not going anywhere, takes it. Shakes, once.
His skin screams at the touch and he shoves the hand under his thigh. Pressure. Pressure on the screaming parts of himself. Darkness and pressure and –there. His hand is numb again.
Alex’s face has a gigantic smile. Too much of a smile. It’s a smile that requires a smile in return. It’s a smile that requires a deep dive into the world where smiles like that are possible, probable, even.
It is not a smile Henry has in his possession.
He turns to Shaan, sitting between him and Alex, and says, quietly into his ear, “Please get rid of him.”
Shaan nods. That’s all that needs to be said. Shaan points to the time and notes the heat will be starting soon. Alex leaves. It is efficient. Henry cannot ask for one of his anxiety pills here because there are cameras. But no matter, everything is almost over.
The Americans dive and it is perfect. Power and grace and totally synchronized. Effortless.
The British step up, pause, inhale, dive, and Henry knows it’s not as good, but they came into this heat with a higher score, and it’s enough to keep them on top.
The Chinese are not enough.
Shaan and he get up to leave to congratulate the British team, pose for pictures, and offer the standard praise on the queen’s behalf. Henry chances a look at Alex. The trio is still seated. Alex’s face has a pinch in his eyebrows, a pull to his mouth, his eyes pulled tight and Henry turns away.
.
.
Months later, when the BBC announces the first female president of the United States, Henry watches Alex’s speech to the nation, their first son. The power of the speech, the power he puts into his words, flinging them far far far out into the crowd, into the country, to try and touch as many people as possible, makes Henry watch the speech again and again. That boy—man—is a lick of fire getting a taste of the kindling underneath him, and Henry doesn’t fault himself for wanting to get out of the way those months ago, in Rio.
But—but sometimes he is very cold.
That night he takes the memory of Alex on the pool deck and looks for a room to put it in, but all the rooms of Kensington are dusty and dingy. Alex’s shirt is so bright, his smile is so bright, it doesn’t belong in any of the rooms. He can only put it into the garden, where the brightness of it competes with the sun.