FEZZIK
Turkish women are famous for the size of their babies. The only happy newborn ever to weigh over twenty-four pounds upon entrance was the product of a southern Turkish union. Turkish hospital records list a total of eleven children who weighed over twenty pounds at birth. And ninety-five more who weighed between fifteen and twenty. Now all of these 106 cherubs did what babies usually do at birth: they lost three or four ounces and it took them the better part of a week before they got it totally back. More accurately, 105 of them lost weight just after they were born.
Not Fezzik.
His first afternoon he gained a pound. (Since he weighed but fifteen and since his mother gave birth two weeks early, the doctors weren’t unduly concerned. “It’s because you came two weeks too soon,” they explained to Fezzik’s mother. “That explains it.” Actually, of course, it didn’t explain anything, but whenever doctors are confused about something, which is really more frequently than any of us would do well to think about, they always snatch at something in the vicinity of the case and add, “That explains it.” If Fezzik’s mother had come late, they would have said, “Well, you came late, that explains it.” Or “Well, it was raining during delivery, this added weight is simply moisture, that explains it.”)
A healthy baby doubles his birth weight in about six months and triples it in a year. When Fezzik was a year old, he weighed eighty-five pounds. He wasn’t fat, understand. He looked like a perfectly normal strong eighty-five-pound kid. Not all that normal, actually. He was pretty hairy for a one-year-old.
By the time he reached kindergarten, he was ready to shave. He was the size of a normal man by this time, and all the other children made his life miserable. At first, naturally, they were scared to death (even then, Fezzik looked fierce) but once they found out he was chicken, well, they weren’t about to let an opportunity likethat get away.
“Bully, bully,” they taunted Fezzik during morning yogurt break.
“I’m not,” Fezzik would say out loud. (To himself he would go “Woolly, woolly.” He would never dare to consider himself a poet, because he wasn’t anything like that; he just loved rhymes. Anything you said out loud, he rhymed it inside. Sometimes the rhymes made sense, sometimes they didn’t. Fezzik never cared much about sense; all that ever mattered was the sound.)
“Coward.”
Towered. “I’m not.”
“Then fight,” one of them would say, and would swing all he had and hit Fezzik in the stomach, confident that all Fezzik would do was go “oof and stand there, because he never hit back no matter what you did to him.
“Oof.”
Another swing. Another. A good stiff punch to the kidneys maybe. Maybe a kick in the knee. It would go on like that until Fezzik would burst into tears and run away.
One day at home, Fezzik’s father called, “Come here.”
Fezzik, as always, obeyed.
“Dry your tears,” his mother said.
Two children had beaten him very badly just before. He did what he could to stop crying.
“Fezzik, this can’t go on,” his mother said. “They must stop picking on you.”
Kicking on you. “I don’t mind so much,” Fezzik said.
“Well you should mind,” his father said. He was a carpenter, with big hands. “Come on outside. I’m going to teach you how to fight.”
“Please, I don’t want—”
“Obey your father.”
They trooped out to the back yard.
“Make a fist,” his father said.
Fezzik did his best.
His father looked at his mother, then at the heavens. “He can’t even make a fist,” his father said.
“He’s trying, he’s only six; don’t be so hard on him.”
Fezzik’s father cared for his son greatly and he tried to keep his voice soft, so Fezzik wouldn’t burst out 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 thumbinside 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.”
“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.”
“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.
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!!!”
“I don’t care what anybody says,” Fezzik’s mother told him one winter afternoon. “You’re my son and you’re wonderful.” It was gray and dark and they were hotfooting it out of Constantinople just as fast as they could because Fezzik had just demolished their champion before most of the crowd was even seated.
“I’m not wonderful,” Fezzik said. “They’re right to insult me. I’m too big. Whenever I fight, it looks like I’m picking on somebody.”
“Maybe,” Fezzik’s father began a little hesitantly; “maybe, Fezzik, if you’d just possibly kind of sort of lose a few fights, they might not yell at us so much.”
The wife whirled on the husband. “The boy is eleven and already you want him to throw fights?”
“Nothing like that, no, don’t get all excited, but maybe if he’d even look like he was suffering a little, they’d let up on us.”
“I’m suffering,” Fezzik said. (He was, he was.)
“Let it show a little more.”
“I’ll try, Daddy.”
“That’s a good boy.”
“I can’t help being strong; it’s not my fault. I don’t even exercise.”
“I think it’s time to head for Greece,” Fezzik’s father said then. “We’ve beaten everyone in Turkey who’ll fight us and athletics began in Greece. No one appreciates talent like the Greeks.”
“I just hate it when they go ‘BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!’ “ Fezzik said. (He did. Now his private picture of hell was being left alone with everybody going “BOOOOOOOOOOO” at him forever.)
“They’ll love you in Greece,” Fezzik’s mother said.
They fought in Greece.
“AARRRGGGGH!!!” (AARRRGGGGH!!! was Greek for BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!)
Bulgaria.
Yugoslavia.
Czechoslovakia. Romania.
“BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
They tried the Orient. The jujitsu champion of Korea. The karate champion of Siam. The kung fu champion of all India.
“SSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!” (See note on AARRRGGGGH!!!)
In Mongolia his parents died. “We’ve done everything we can for you, Fezzik, good luck,” they said, and they were gone. It was a terrible thing, a plague that swept everything before it. Fezzik would have died too, only naturally he never got sick. Alone, he continued on, across the Gobi Desert, hitching rides sometimes with passing caravans. And it was there that he learned how to make them stop BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!ing.
Fight groups.
It all began in a caravan on the Gobi when the caravan head said, “I’ll bet my camel drivers can take you.” There were only three of them, so Fezzik said, “Fine,” he’d try, and he did, and he won, naturally.
And everybody seemed happy.
Fezzik was thrilled. He never fought just one person again if it was possible. For a while he traveled from place to place battling gangs for local charities, but his business head was never much and, besides, doing things alone was even less appealing to him now that he was into his late teens than it had been before.
He joined a traveling circus. All the other performers grumbled at him because, they said, he was eating more than his share of the food. So he stayed pretty much to himself except when it came to his work.
But then, one night, when Fezzik had just turned twenty, he got the shock of his life: the BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!ing was back again. He could not believe it. He had just squeezed half a dozen men into submission, cracked the heads of half a dozen more.What did they want from him ?
The truth was simply this: he had gotten too strong. He would never measure himself, but everybody whispered he must be over seven feet tall, and he would never step on a scale, but people claimed he weighed four hundred. And not only that, he was quick now. All the years of experience had made him almost inhuman. He knew all the tricks, could counter all the holds.
“Animal.”
“Ape!”
“Go-rilla!”
“BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”
That night, alone in his tent, Fezzik wept. He was a freak. (Speak—he still loved rhymes.) A two-eyed Cyclops. (Eye drops —like the tears that were dropping now, dropping from his half-closed eyes.) By the next morning, he had gotten control of himself: at least he still had his circus friends around him.
That week the circus fired him. The crowds were BOOOOOOOOOOO!!!ing them now too, and the fat lady threatened to walk out and the midgets were fuming and that was it for Fezzik.
This was in the middle of Greenland, and, as everybody knows, Greenland then as now was the loneliest place on the Earth. In Greenland, there is one person for every twenty square miles of real estate. Probably the circus was pretty stupid taking a booking there, but that wasn’t the point.
The point was that Fezzik was alone.
In the loneliest place in the world.
Just sitting there on a rock watching the circus pull away.
He was still sitting there the next day when Vizzini the Sicilian found him. Vizzini flattered him, promised to keep the BOOOOOOOOOOOS away. Vizzini needed Fezzik. But not half as much as Fezzik needed Vizzini. As long as Vizzini was around, you couldn’t be alone. Whatever Vizzini said, Fezzik did. And if that meant crushing the head of the man in black . . .
So be it.