205 / 238
205
“What isn’t bollocks?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought about that. The Trojan
War.”
I wasn’t going to argue with him as we were at the shooting
range, which lulls you, there’s no agitation there, shooters
are phlegmatic, not Robin Hoods, – yogis, more like. When
you’re at the firing position the rest of the world disappears
and there’s just you and the target, one on one – that’s all
that exists, and you are meditating, readying yourself, not
just to hit the bullseye – that’s not what matters for a real
shooter – what matters is to make the perfect shot – and
that’s much more than just accuracy. It’s like a prayer
addressed to what you’re aiming at.
“Perfection in intent, perfection in performance,” as coach
Vladimir put it. His nickname was The Hat and he was a
great guy. He was wasn’t too sure-footed with people, – like
a sailor who’s come down from his ship’s deck to dry land, –
a bit of a wonk, slight stutter, but reliable, decent, cool as a
boa constrictor and, very much to the point, effective. I was
surprised to learn that, on top of everything else, The Hat
found time to restore old cars: in his garden, instead of a
vegetable plot, he had a garage with half-dismantled
Pobedas and Volgas from the late 1950s, and when his first
grandchild was born, he had every skill that could possibly
be needed; the clothes hangers in his house were
handmade and carved (El gave him a power jigsaw for his