He was the great illusion of my life. That such a self-destroying fool could be so indestructible. And though I was sad to have lost that big girl, I liked Merrill Overturf a lot. 'Goodnight, Merrill,' I whispered in the dark.

As I eased myself out in the hall and latched his door behind me, he said, 'Thank you, Boggle.'

And there in the hall, all alone, was Biggie.

She had her parka zipped up; there was no heat in the upstairs of the Tauernhof. She stood a little stiffly, putting one foot on top of the other, shuffling; she looked a little bit angry and a little bit shy.

'Let me see the poem,' she said.

'It's not finished yet,' I told her, and she looked at me aggressively.

'Finish it, then,' she said. 'I'll wait ...' Meaning she'd been waiting all this time, with a look to tell me I had some good work ahead of me to salvage this.

In my room next door to Merrill's, she sat on the bed like an uncomfortable bear. Little crannies and confined places took her grace away. She felt too big for that room and that bed, and yet she was cold; she kept the parka zipped up and wrapped herself in the puff while I goofed around by the night table, pretending to be scribbling a poem on a piece of paper with the words already on it. But they were German words, left by the last guest in this room, so I crossed them out as if I were revising my own work.

Merrill thumped his head against the wall between our rooms; his muffled hoot came through to us, 'Oh, he can't ski, but he's sharp with his pole!'

On the bed, without a change of expression, the large girl awaited her poem. So I tried one.

She is all muscle and velour

crammed in a vinyl sheath;

her feet, set in plastic,

clamped to her slashing skis;

under her helmet, her hair

stays soft and hot ...

Hot? No, not hot, I thought, aware of her there on the bed, watching me. No more hot hair!

The woman racer is not quite soft.

She is as heavy and firm as fruit.

Her skin is as sleek as an apple's,

and as tough as a banana's. But

inside, she's all mush and seeds.

Ugh! Can bad poetry improve? By my bed, she'd found my tape recorder, was shuffling the reels, fondling the earphones. Put them on, I indicated, then dreaded what she might hear. Expressionless, she punched buttons and changed reels. On with the poem!

See! How she holds her poles!

No, good God ...

When she cuts the mountain, she's

packed like a suitcase, neat and hard.

Contained, her metal leather plastic

parts perform; her grace is strong.

Her legs are long? God no!

Tags: John Irving Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net