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crying. But it wasn't easy. "Honey," Fezzik's father said, "look: when you make a fist, you don't put your
thumbinside your fingers, you keep your thumboutside your fingers, because if you keep your thumb
inside your fingers and you hit somebody, what will happen is you'll break your thumb, and that isn't
good, because the whole object when you hit somebody is to hurt the other guy, not yourself."
Blurt. "I don't want to hurt anybody, Daddy."
"I don'twant you to hurt anybody, Fezzik. But if you know how to take care of yourself, and theyknow
you know, they won't bother you any more."
Father. "I don't mind so much."
"Well we do," his mother said. "They shouldn't pick on you, Fezzik, just because you need a shave."
"Back to the fist," his father said. "Have we learned how?"
Fezzik made a fist again, this time with the thumb outside.
"He's a natural learner," his mother said. She cared for him as greatly as his father did.
"Now hit me," Fezzik's father said.
"No, I don't want to do that."
"Hit your father, Fezzik."
"Maybe he doesn't know how to hit," Fezzik's father said.
"Maybe not." Fezzik's mother shook her head sadly.
"Watch, honey," Fezzik's father said. "See? Simple. You just make a fist like you already know and then
pull back your arm a little and aim for where you want to land and let go."
"Show your father what a natural learner you are," Fezzik's mother said. "Make a punch. Hit him a good
one."
Fezzik made a punch toward his father's arm.
Fezzik's father stared at the heavens again in frustration.
"He came close to your arm," Fezzik's mother said quickly, before her son's face could cloud. "That was
very good for a start, Fezzik; tell him what a good start he made," she said to her husband.
"It was in the right general direction," Fezzik's father managed. "If only I'd been standing one yard farther
west, it would have been perfect."
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"I'm very tired," Fezzik said. "When you learn so much so fast, you get so tired. I do anyway. Please
may I be excused?"
"Not yet," Fezzik's mother said.
"Honey, please hit me, really hit me, try. You're a smart boy; hit me a good one," Fezzik's father begged.
"Tomorrow, Daddy; I promise." Tears began to form.
"Crying's not going to work, Fezzik," his father exploded. "It's not gonna work on me and it's not gonna
work on your mother, you're gonna do what I say and what I say is you're gonna hit me and if it takes all
night we're gonna stand right here and if it takes all week we're gonna stand right here and if it "
S
P
L
A
T
!!!!
(This was before emergency wards, and that was too bad, at least for Fezzik's father, because there was
no place to take him after Fezzik's punch landed, except to his own bed, where he remained with his
eyes shut for a day and a half, except for when the milkman came to fix his broken jaw this was not
before doctors, but in Turkey they hadn't gotten around to claiming the bone business yet; milkmen still
were in charge of bones, the logic being that since milk was so good for bones, who would know more
about broken bones than a milkman?)
When Fezzik's father was able to open his eyes as much as he wanted, they had a family talk, the three
of them.
"You're very strong, Fezzik," his father said. (Actually, that is not strictly true. What his fathermeant was,
"You're very strong, Fezzik." What came out was more like this: "Zzz'zz zzzz zzzzzz, Zzzzzz." Ever since
the milkman had wired his jaws together, all he could manage was the letterz . But he had a very
expressive face, and his wife understood him perfectly.)
"He says, 'You're very strong, Fezzik.'"
"I thought I was," Fezzik answered. "Last year I hit a tree once when I was very mad. I knocked it
down. It was a small tree, but still, I figured that had to mean something."
"Z'z zzzzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."
"He says he's giving up being a carpenter, Fezzik."
"Oh, no," Fezzik said. "You'll be all well soon, Daddy; the milkman practically promised me."
"Zzzzz zz zzzz zz zzzzz z zzzzzzzzz, Zzzzzz."
"Hewants to give up being a carpenter, Fezzik."
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"But what will he do?"
Fezzik's mother answered this one herself; she and her husband had been up half the night agreeing on
the decision. "He's going to be your manager, Fezzik. Fighting is the national sport of Turkey. We're all
going to be rich and famous."
"But Mommy, Daddy, I don't like fighting."
Fezzik's father reached out and gently patted his son's knee. "Zz'z zzzzz zz zzzzzzzzzzz ," he said.
"It's going to bewonderful ," his mother translated.
Fezzik only burst into tears.
They had his first professional match in the village of Sandiki, on a steaming-hot Sunday. Fezzik's
parents had a terrible time getting him into the ring. They were absolutely confident of victory, because
they had worked very hard. They had taught Fezzik for three solid years before they mutually agreed that
he was ready. Fezzik's father handled tactics and ring strategy, while his mother was more in charge of
diet and training, and they had never been happier.
Fezzik had never been more miserable. He was scared and frightened and terrified, all rolled into one.
No matter how they reassured him, he refused to enter the arena. Because he knew something: even
though outside he looked twenty, and his mustache was already coming along nicely, inside he was still
this nine-year-old who liked rhyming things.
"No," he said. "I won't, I won't, and you can't make me."
"After all we've slaved for these three years," his father said. (His jaw was almost as good as new now.)
"He'llhurt me!" Fezzik said.
"Life is pain," his mother said. "Anybody that says different is selling something."
"Please. I'm not ready. I forget the holds. I'm not graceful and I fall down a lot. It's true."
It was. Their only real fear was, were they rushing him? "When the going gets tough, the tough get
going," Fezzik's mother said.
"Get going, Fezzik," his father said.
Fezzik stood his ground.
"Listen, we're not going to threaten you," Fezzik's parents said, more or less together. "We all care for
each other too much to pull any of that stuff. If you don't want to fight, nobody's going to force you. We'll
just leave you alone forever." (Fezzik's picture of hell was being alone forever. He had told them that
when he was five.)
They marched into the arena then to face the champion of Sandiki.
Who had been champion for eleven years, since he was twenty-four. He was very graceful and wide
and stood six feet in height, only half a foot less than Fezzik.
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Fezzik didn't stand a chance.
He was too clumsy; he kept falling down or getting his holds on backward so they weren't holds at all.
The champion of Sandiki toyed with him. Fezzik kept getting thrown down or falling down or tumbling
down or stumbling down. He always got up and tried again, but the champion of Sandiki was much too
fast for him, and too clever, and much, much too experienced. The crowd laughed and ate baklava and
enjoyed the whole spectacle.
Until Fezzik got his arms around the champion of Sandiki.
The crowd grew very quiet then.
Fezzik lifted him up.
No noise.
Fezzik squeezed.
And squeezed.
"That's enough now," Fezzik's father said.
Fezzik laid the other man down. "Thank you," he said. "You are a wonderful fighter and I was lucky."
The ex-champion of Sandiki kind of grunted.
"Raise your hands, you're the winner," his mother reminded.
Fezzik stood there in the middle of the ring with his hands raised.
"Booooo," said the crowd.
"Animal."
"Ape!"
"Go-rilla"
"BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
They did not linger long in Sandiki. As a matter of fact, it wasn't very safe from then on to linger long
anywhere. They fought the champion of Ispir. "BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" The champion of Simal.
"BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" They fought in Bolu. They fought in Zile.
"BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]