Meanwhile, Georgi patroled the tee, watching for figures that might be lurking in the trees that bordered the fairway. He seemed unfazed by his employer’s ritual, which now comprised an elaborate review of the golf swing’s twenty-four basic components. Ziparelli carefully rehearsed his grip, plane line, plane angle, address, left-wrist hinge action, shoulder turn, hip turn, foot action, power-package loading action, power-package delivery path, and other parts of his swing as if each were a clearly separable act, apparently to anchor them in that interface of mind and body he called his “fourth-dimensional muscles.” At no point during this elaborate exercise did he appear the least self-conscious. Only later would I realize that he was already inducing the hypnotic state that would bring him to a full actualization of the golf machine and thus to the splendors of hyperspace.
Three or four minutes had passed, but his ritual wasn’t finished. As if they were parts of a steam engine, his right fist pumped methodically while his left arm swung in perfect arcs, up and down, up and down. Now I was swinging with him, holding my driver with my left hand, pumping my right arm and fist hypnotically to his relentless beat. “So now we begin,” he said at last. “But please, after you, Signor Murphy!”
A little dizzy but strangely energized, I teed up my ball and looked down the tree-lined fairway. According to the scorecard, the hole was a 300-meter four-par with a slight dogleg right, but it seemed longer than that. Ziparelli’s ritual had filled me with images of my swing’s many parts, and a vivid apprehension of its immense complexity. Standing back, I surveyed the fairway again. It had to be longer than 330 yards. Maybe the Russians who managed the place only gave distance approximations. As I addressed the ball, my golf stroke seemed impossibly complicated. Ziparelli’s ritual had dismembered my sense of its unity.
When I swung, my elbow jabbed my side, my wrists at the top of my backswing flapped, and my power-package delivery path burrowed into the ground. A divot flew farther than the ball, which rolled about twenty feet, and I thought for a moment that one of my ribs was broken.
Ziparelli said nothing as he came to the tee. Holding his driver with his right hand, he let his left arm dangle; then, with great care, gripped the club and took a swing which I still find hard to describe. One could call it “cubistically fluid,” or an “act of dismembered unity,” or simply a triumph of self-interruption. For, between address and finish, it had five barely perceptible pauses, the first immediately after takeaway, the second halfway through the backswing, the third at the top of the backswing, the fourth after impact when the club was extended, and the fifth near the finish of the follow-through. Calling it to memory reminds me of golf books with long rows of photographs depicting the phases of famous swings. Ziparelli’s golf stroke was, as much as anything else, like a series of freeze-frames, and I can still disassemble it in my mind as he did while warming up.
At that moment, however, I was stunned. I’d seen eccentric swings before, but never one like this. Was it ugly, beautiful, swift, or slow? I couldn’t tell because it was so unfamiliar and powerful. The ball split the fairway on a low climbing path, then faded with the dogleg right until it bounced and rolled to the green. Tossing back his long hair, Ziparelli picked up his tee, handed Georgi his club with a lordly air, and extended an arm to suggest that I play my ball from where it lay. Taken aback by this strict adherence to the rules, I picked up my golf bag and walked to the white tees. “Is your pistol loaded?” I asked the caddie with sudden irritation.
When he didn’t respond, I turned to Ziparelli.
They exchanged words in Italian, then he nodded to say that it was. “With armor-piercing bullets,” he said, his round eyes narrowing to a menacing squint. “It is not completely safe here, Murphy. No more KGB. No more militia. But play.” My irritation gave way to alarm. If there was danger lurking, he might indeed be a mafioso.
It took me two more shots to reach his ball, where I was forced to wait while he again rehearsed the swing’s twenty-four basic components. But this ritual was different from the one on the tee. Instead of his drive, he rehearsed his chip shot, segment by segment, frame by frame, anchoring each movement in his fourth-dimensional muscles. When he finally hit the ball, it ended six inches from the cup.
He turned to me with a dashing smile, dropped his club, and threw his arms in the air exultantly. “You like it, Papa?” he shouted, looking to the sky. “It is for you. For you!” It was hard to tell whether he was joking or expressing genuine religious sentiment. Was he talking to himself, to God, to the Pope, or to his deceased father?
On the green, there were more surprises. Standing a few feet from his ball while staring intently at the hole, he swung his arms and wrists like a pendulum or metronome. Again he seemed not the least self-conscious, and was completely oblivious of me. After sinking his six-inch putt, he gave me another stylish smile but no acknowledgment of my patience. I wondered what gave him such a sense of entitlement.
Leaving the green, I decided not to watch any more of his rituals. Already they’d affected my swing adversely, and they promised to hurt it badly. But to my surprise, as we left the next tee I found myself walking as he did. In spite of the golf bag on my back, I felt myself gliding with little effort, my head on a perfectly level plane, such is the power of unconscious mimicry. Georgi was also gliding along, as if on a laser beam. This clone-like behavior reinforced my intention to distance myself from them both.
During the nine-and-a-half holes we played, our exchanges were—with a few exceptions—limited to polite smiles, occasional compliments, and gestures to indicate who should hit next. No mafiosi appeared in the woods, though for a moment we thought so. After the second hole, I didn’t keep score. And after shooting 32 on the front nine, the golf machine broke down.
Because in defending myself from Ziparelli I screened my perceptions of him, but also perhaps because his rituals somehow put me into semitrance, recalling our golf round is never an easy exercise. We seem located at a distance, like figures in a movie, and I never quite seem to be myself. For example, I see:
… him on the second tee shouting at Georgi, causing Murphy to fall on the ground because he thinks that someone is about to shoot them.
And Georgi firing his pistol accidentally, making Murphy hit the ground again while Ziparelli continues his ritual unfazed, swinging his putter back and forth while hissing like a piston.
And Georgi chasing a man and woman through wetlands beside the fifth fairway before he realizes that they are searching for mushrooms. As he wades after them through the swamp, waving his pistol above his head, they scramble into the woods beyond.
And Murphy’s drive on the seventh hole—fading, then hooking, then rising at the end as if propelled by psychokinetic forces caused by his growing dismay and frustration.
And Ziparelli addressing his tee shot on the three-par eighth hole, but having difficulty starting his swing. After hitting the ball, he turns to Murphy, as if for help.
And finally, Ziparelli on the tenth fairway unable to stop his review of the swing’s twenty-four basic components. When he finally manages to address the ball, he seems paralyzed. Standing immobile, he looks at Murphy with a helpless expression, and invites him to the clubhouse for drinks.
Ziparelli’s seizure brought me out of my partial trance, so it is easier to remember what happened next. We went directly to the newly constructed clubroom, ordered beers at its polished hardwood bar, and stood in silence to collect ourselves. It is never easy to watch compulsive rituals implode. I was as shaken as he was. But Georgi seemed oblivious. He sat at a table nearby, watching the room intently, his pistol protruding from a pocket of his jeans. It was best, I thought, to let the beer relax Ziparelli. The room was a spacious and airy place, with yellow pine walls and handsome French doors through which we could see the forest of pine and silver birch. A few men were sitting at tables, but no one else stood near the bar.
Ziparelli looked away from me now, his lips moving silently. Was he reci
ting a prayer or a passage from Kelley’s book? I wondered whether his golf machine had ever locked up like this. “Well, Murphy!” he said at last, pulling his shoulders back and standing up straight as he turned to face me. “That was a round! You hit some big shots. Some big ones! I like your golf game.”
Though his expansive air had returned, there were suggestions of fear in his big dark eyes. But I didn’t know how to help him. Certain obsessions are risky to probe, especially when they are supported by disciplines as intense and elaborate as his. Still, I could reach out in small ways. “You worked hard today,” I ventured. “You must play a lot of golf.”
“I am not a professional, but I practice more than anyone since Ben Hogan.” He tossed his hair back, took a long draft of beer, and wiped his lips with gusto. “And I have studied the golf swing for many years. I have theories about it!” He looked at me expectantly, as if he wanted me to ask what they were.
“What are your theories?” I asked.
“They are based on the work of Homer Kelley. Do you know his great book, The Golfing Machine?”
I said that I didn’t.
“It is a work of genius. Kelley is the Isaac Newton of golf. But no one understands this game completely. No one has a perfect swing. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes.” I replied, grateful that his confidence and high spirits were back. “The older I get, the more I see that. There’s no such thing as a perfect swing.”
He seemed troubled by my remark. “Well, Murphy,” he said after taking another draft of beer, “there is not a perfect swing yet, but one day there might be. If one uses Kelley’s instant-simplification and stroke-pattern concept. You’ve never heard of them?”
I said that I hadn’t.
“Well,” he said grandly. “It is my lifework to advance these principles.”
Again there was silence. Then his eyes widened. “But Vladimir!” he exclaimed. “You have it!” He spread his arms toward a tall, broad-shouldered, long-jawed man dressed in a brown ill-fitting suit.
The man’s smile revealed several gold-capped teeth, and conveyed a vague sense of menace. “It is everything you expect, Horaahss,” he rumbled, handing Ziparelli a cardboard tube. “Everything and more.”
“Have a vodka, Vladimir.” Ziparelli placed the tube on the bar. “This is Signor Murphy, from the United States. Murphy, this is Bondarenko. The great Bondarenko. Bondarenko of the Russian Space Command!”
“Not Space Command! And not vodka!” Bondarenko protested in a voice that seemed to come from his solar plexus. “Strategic materials, Horahss. The ‘Center for Strategic Materials.’ It is private enterprise now. And give me a double Scotch.”
While Bondarenko got his drink, Ziparelli removed a golf club from the tube. It had a silver shaft and oversized gold triangular head. Evidently, it was a driver. Whistling with admiration, Ziparelli waggled it with arms extended. “Titanium?” He nodded toward its shaft. “And the head, Vladimir. Is it real gold?”
“Not titanium,” Bondarenko whispered, glancing around the room. “Something new. A secret. It is only here in Raahsha.” He looked at me, as if deciding what he could reveal. “Only here,” he whispered. “For the Z-bomb. Call it what you like, Horahss. Siberian steel. Virtual diamond. Metatitanium.” He drained his Scotch, and ordered another. “You will hit the ball further than ever, Horahss.” An evil smile appeared on his face. “It has been tested in wind tunnels and on the firing range. It is a weapon. You like its warhead?”
“It is so big!” exclaimed Ziparelli. “But so light! Is it gold-plated?”
“For you, Horahss. It is favor for you from the Director.”
“But why is it shaped like this?” Ziparelli examined its head with distaste. “Except for the gold, it is ugly. It is very ugly, Vladimir. I want a beautiful driver.”
“It is new aerodynamic design.” Bondarenko looked around the room again to make sure that no one could hear us. “It is like a missile during the backswing. You see its conical shape. But in your downswing, Horahss, in your downswing, it is a missile flying backward. It reverses wind flow and acceleration. It both speeds up the warhead and slows it down, compresses it and expands it at once. It is hyperspace weapon, Horahss. It was designed for ballistic missiles aimed into wormholes!”
They traded knowing looks, but I couldn’t tell if Bondarenko was serious. Did Ziparelli believe him? “There is only one way to test this!” he exclaimed. “We must hit balls! Real balls! Talk to the starter, Georgi. Get the first fairway now.”
A moment later we stood on the first tee, with permission to use it as a driving range. Seemingly forgetful of his seizure, Ziparelli used the club to examine his swing components. Plane line, plane angle, pivot, hinge action, shoulder turn, hip turn, hip action, knee action, foot action, lag loading, power-package loading action, and power-package delivery path were quickly reviewed, as the golden warhead zipped back and forth with an eerie whistle. Meanwhile Georgi patrolled the tee, his pistol sticking from a pocket, and Bondarenko watched with sinister self-satisfaction.
Two or three minutes passed, but the ritual went on and on. “With this warhead, you will not need so much practice, Horahss,” Bondarenko rumbled. “Now hit the ball. Please hit it!”
But the swing analysis wouldn’t stop. Now Ziparelli was making right uppercuts and hissing to simulate a piston. “The ball!” Bondarenko said loudly. “Hit the ball, Horahss!”
Finally, Ziparelli swung. “Ave Maria!” he shouted as the ball disappeared down the fairway. “Bondarenko, you are a genius! Tell your director I love him!”
The big Russian’s jaw seemed enormous as he followed the flight of the ball. “It is over the green, Horahss,” he said. “You make the hole a three-par.”
“And myself a hypercube!” said the golf machine. “You do not believe me, Vladimir. I will unzip the world!”
The remark eluded me, but Bondarenko seemed to understand. “You are crazy guy, Horahss,” he said. “Forget hyperspace. Three dimensions are enough. Hit another over the green!”
Ziparelli hit a second ball, which sailed farther than the first. But it curved in two directions. “Is that Raahshan ball?” Bondarenko rumbled. “Horahss, are you hitting Raahshan balls? They are not round! They will not show what the warhead can do.”
“You gave them to me,” Ziparelli protested. “So I use them!”
“You are crazy,” said Bondarenko. “Use American balls. Then you see real Raahshan science!”
“Let me see one,” I asked. “I didn’t know Russians made golf balls.”
“We make balls, we make clubs, we make courses,” said Bondarenko. “We are capitalist nation now.” He gave me an ugly smile. “Khrushchev was right—but backward. We will bury you, but as capitalist nation!”
I examined the ball Ziparelli threw me. Its dimples were oddly spaced, and the single word “golf” was painted above a row of Cyrillic letters. Had I hit one like it on the seventh hole? My drive had curved in two directions.
Ziparelli’s next shot sailed even farther than the others, high into the autumn sky, past the distant pin on the fly. It had sailed for more than 300 yards, perhaps for 350. “Hurray for Russia!” he shouted. “You are a genius, Bondarenko. A genius for all time!”
Bondarenko’s menacing look was replaced by a childlike expression of pride. He smiled broadly, causing sunlight to glance from his golden teeth. “Launch another,” he rumbled. “It will go even farther. It will be intercontinental!” Suddenly he reminded me of the steel-toothed giant “Jaws,” who appears in some of the James Bond movies.
Ziparelli’s excitement had overcome his need to review the swing’s basic components. He teed another American ball, but during his takeaway the club produced an eerie whistle, and at impact two objects flew from the tee. Behind the ball the club head sailed, spinning like a golden discus, until it hovered high above us. Then, slowly and ominously, it turned its pointed side to earth and headed in our direction. We all ran toward the clubhouse for co
ver.
Georgi pulled out his pistol. Ziparelli turned to Bondarenko. But the big Russian waved them both away. “It was good missile launch,” he said proudly. “Did you see how high it flew, Horahss? And how it turned? Now you see it is aerodynamic. No other club head would go that far, or come to earth with such perfect balance. It is beautiful!” He glowered at Georgi, and the caddie ran to retrieve the lost part.
A few minutes later, we sat at a table in the clubhouse. “We need superepoxy, Horahss,” Bondarenko said gravely, inserting the metatitanium shaft into its golden warhead. “And special screws made of strategic materials. This warhead is too strong for normal means of attachment.”
“How many can you make?” His client got down to business. “When can you start deliveries?”
“When the money is in Moscow,” said the Russian in his lowest register. “Two hundred American dollars a club. You can sell it for a thousand.”
“You said one hundred.” Ziparelli narrowed his big dark eyes. “That was not our agreement, Vladimir. We make a deal, we stick with it.”
“The Director says two hundred.” Straightening his back, Bondarenko looked at Ziparelli with menace. “It is that or nothing, Horahss.”
“What would you pay for it, Murphy?” Ziparelli turned to me. “What would you pay in America?”
Glancing at Georgi, who watched gravely from an adjoining table, I said that I’d pay five hundred. Then I glanced at the glowering Bondarenko. But a thousand, I added, if its head was really plated with gold!
No one responded, and I asked what they would call it. A good name might help to raise the price. “It is good question, Murphy.” Bondarenko glanced around the room. “I have studied this. We could call it ‘The Big Warhead’ or just ‘The Big One.’ ” He gave me a sinister look. “Also ‘Fat Boy,’ like the bomb you dropped on Hiroshima.”
The Kingdom of Shivas Irons Page 19