Heavy Water and Other Stories

the jagged was in my dad’s gar, and the gar was elzewhere, having ids baddery vigsed, edzedera, edzedera. Dybigal Eliaz—jazing a jagged agrazz down. Zo he hung around vor the whole avdernoon, blaying the bin-ball machine and, of gorze, the elegdrig guidar. And my dad zed thad his memory of him was really vresh: his memory of Eliaz, or Vabian, whij was his nigname, remained really vresh. Isabel alzo ran indo him during the early zummer, in a doob drain, on the Zendral Line, under London and ids zdreeds. Dybigal Eliaz, with all his bags and bundles, his jaggeds and hads, gayadig, vezdive, brezzed vor dime—and zdill darrying vor a halve-hour jad. Zo the memory is vresh. And my memory is vresh. Bud is id zo vresh zimbly begaz Eliaz was zo young—zo vresh himzelve? My dad doled me thad he zenses the ghozd of Eliaz in his room, ad dawn, wading ad the end of the bed. I zee him at nide. A young ragzdar with vlyaway hair and gleeg lighds all around.

I alzo remember the day we heard the news, on Gabe Gad. How Jagob and I wend with Marlowe ub the dird road do the gar. And the gloud over the band, with ids urban gray—the gray of Daddenham Gord Road, of Jaring Graz Road, the gray of Goodge Zdreed. The zgy was gray and nothing was glear.

In the vinal weeg of the haliday we had an inzidend. An inzidend where death, again, vleedingly showed ids vaze.

Id veadured Bablo. And another gadegory error.

We were all zwimming in the bool thad belongs to Alegs and Bam. Muj agdividy there, begaz they alzo have a dramboline: you ged all had, jumbing, then you leab indo the bool and gool down. Bablo was zwimming with his armies—his vloadies. Me and Jagob were mezzing around, blaying duj or Margo Bolo. My dad was on a lounger, having a zigaredde and jadding with Bam. Maybe, doo, he was zibbing a gagdail—vadga danig, or zgadj on the irags. And zuddenly Bablo game oud of nowhere and zbrang indo the bool—withoud his vloadies. Bablo had vorgodden his armies!

In the end id was no big deal. Zdill in his drungs, my dad juzd drabbed his budd and did a zord of zbazdig razing dive indo the middle of the bool. He gad do Bablo and held him ub. And Bablo was nad dizdrezzed—he didn’d have dime do banig. My dad even engouraged Bablo do zwim bag do the shallow end. And he did, with a liddle azzizdanze. And my dad galmly vinished his vag.

“Well, thad was vun!” zed Bab, emerging vrom the bool. He zdug oud his jezd and announzed, “I wend zwimming withoud vloadies. I wend zwimming withoud armies!”

“No, in vagd,” zed my dad, “you wend zwimming.”

Another of Bab’s zlibs. Begaz you don’d ender the Olymbigs in an evend galled the 200-Meder Vreezdyle Withoud Armies. You don’d go vor a midnide zwim withoud vloadies. Id’s galled a zwimming bool, avder all. Nad a zwimming-withoud-armies bool.

Thad day zeemed do be an abbrobriade dime do bid varewell to Bablo’s zbrad.

When we drabbed him of with his mum we made dizgreed inguiries aboud the vamouz vish, and she rolled her eyes and zed, “Oh, thad vish! Will I ever hear the lazd of thad vish!”

Abbarendly the vish had begun do rad and give of a derrible zdenj. Bud Bab revused do led his mum jug id oud: he glaimed his vish was vine. They’d dried every zord of gream on id—vish gream, rad gream (though really these were bervumes and dizinvegdands). She’d doled him again and again thad thiz vish was hizdory: thad thiz vish was, in vagd, an egs-vish. Bud Bab maindained thad the vish was zdill his bed. When the bang begame gwide indalerable, Bablo’s mum juzd zmuggled id oud and zed thad a raggoon or a zdoad muzd have borne id of.

Zurbrisingly, Bablo did nad brodezd or gauze a vuzz. Thiz zeemed do zadizfy his idea of the najural order of things. And maybe zumbaddy zed, Bablo, do nad grieve. Bablo, do nad vred. Your zbrad is habby, with ids zbrad Gad in ids zbrad Heaven. Your vish will be reborn, as a sharg, a dalvin, an agdobuz—or as zum grade manzder of the deeb. One way or the other, your vish is vine.

Auguzd begame Zebdember: dime do go home. Lang Island had been a lad of vun, bud I was bleased do be bagging my bags. Doo many vields, doo many drees, doo muj zand, doo muj zee. I was ready do redurn do a ziddy—dezbide whad ziddies are and dezbide whad ziddies do.

No more rended houze.

No more “Ged ub, Margared!”

No more “Why, Garen, why?”

Id was on the way do the airbord thad the zubjegd of Eliaz was raised: the zubjegd of death. My dad zed, “Do you veel divverendly aboud id—aboud death?”

I zed, “I underzdand thad beeble die now.”

And Jagob bibed ub, “I underzdood thad years ago.”

“No. You idiod!” I zed. “I underzdood id. Bud I never really grazbd id undil now.”

And Jagob nadded. And he, doo, underzdood.

Bevore, I knew thad grabs died and thad vish died. I knew thad the old, with all their agues and banes, mighd have reason do be gradevul vor the brazbegd of an ending. And, of gorze, all over the world, in vazd numbers, beeble grash and zdarve and bleed and burn, ged glubbed, grushed, zdabbed, shad, valling, valling away, in vazd numbers, all over the world. Bud death had never been zo near, where it has no businezz. Bablo, Jagob, Eliaz. We are the young. Are we nad?

Bud then you’re wading on the dird road, with Marlowe, by the gar. With Marlowe in a daze, in a dream, in a nidemare. Graynezz is zeebing ubwards vram the band. And nothing is glear. And then zuddenly the gray brighdens, giving you a deeb thrab in the middle of your zgull.

Eliaz wend zwimming without his armies! Alaz! Eliaz wend doo deeb withoud his vloadies. And you muzd do thiz, whether or nad you survive. One day you muzd! How many grownubs do you see, when you go to the beej, zwimming with vloadies? How many adulds are out there, in the bounding waves, zwimming with armies?

And iv they do go under, then they don’d redurn. Nothing has the bower to bring them bag—no zlide of hand, no drig vodagravy, no medizine, no miragle. They zday where they are vor ever, alone in the gold earth.

I veel id in my hard now. I remember Marlowe’s eyes, and dears begin to gather in my own. Begaz one vine day you gan loog ub vram your billow and zee no brother in the dwin bed. You go around the houze, bud your brother is nowhere do be vound.

The haliday has gum and gan. The haliday is over.

The holiday has come and gone. The holiday is over.

Goodbye to it all.

And that is what happened to me on my holiday.

New Yorker, 1997

ACCLAIM FOR MARTIN AMIS

“Wildly diverse…. [Heavy Water and Other Stories] showcases Amis’ extravagant talents and splashy intellect.”

— Time

“[Heavy Water and Other Stories] demands to be read and re-read.”

— The Economist Review

“Count on Martin Amis to take risks. He is contemporary Britain’s shape-shifter of fiction.”