Anwar Montasir

He chose the restaurant, the three p.m. meeting time. I arrived and he waved from a table in the back. A carafe of wine sat before him, drained. The waitress replaced it as I took my seat.

“Nice place,” I said.

“Yes, they treat me kind.”

I recognized his accent from TV interviews, but it startled me all the same. One rarely imagines French giants. Napoleon’s influence, I suppose.

“Do you always eat this early?”

“Most of the time.”

“Avoiding crowds?”

“That’s part of it. People stare, you understand.”

I nodded. Few famous men have stood 7’4″, 520 lbs. An elephant might comparatively pass through a room unnoticed.

“Part of it is the training regimen,” he continued. “I eat only one large meal, in the afternoon. Nothing after dark, especially the day of a match.”

“Is that typical?”

“For many of the bigger guys, yes.”

The waitress returned. She uprighted my wine glass, filled it from the carafe.

“Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

“I haven’t looked at the menu,” I said, unfolding it as I spoke. To André I added, “You go first.”

“Mister Rusamov is a regular here,” she said. “But I can come back.”

“That’s alright. Spinach omelet, please. With salad.”

She emptied the wine into my companion’s glass before exiting.

“Mister Rusamov?”

“It’s pronounced Roussimoff, actually.”

“Your last name. Somehow it never occurred to me you had one.”

“You assumed it was Giant?” He laughed deeply.

Our waitress brought more wine, bread for the table, soup and salad for the giant.

“So,” he said, tearing open a roll. The bread halved at the merest suggestion from his ample wrist. “Shall we talk wrestling?”

“If you like–that is, if you’re not tired of it.”

“Tired of it?”

“Many people find their jobs trivial to discuss.”

“I must be lucky, then.” We smiled at this. “Why, what did you have in mind?”

“Anything.”

“My love life? The books I’ve read? My childhood desires?”

“Why not? I mean, what did you wish for as a child?”

“Hmm.” He chewed a mouthful of salad thoughtfully. “To be invisible.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always wondered how it would be to get lost in a crowd.”

“So anonymity, then. Not true invisibility, like a superpower.”

“No. Though maybe every boy wonders what he’d do with proper invisibility? Steal candy, raid cash registers, sneak into ladies’ dressing rooms?”

I laughed in agreement, adding, “I suppose you wouldn’t make the most inconspicuous thief.”

“Good thing I found honest work,” he responded, grinning slightly.

He finished his salad, began his soup. His motions were astonishingly elegant for a man his size. Just as in the ring.

“Okay, I am curious about one match,” I admitted. “Your most famous, I believe.”

“Detroit? Me and Hogan?” He swirled his broth with his spoon before continuing. “It was strange, turning heel. It’s supposed to be more fun, acting the villain. Not for me.”

“You moved the crowd.”

“I play the role I’m given. Still, my heart is more like the lover than the killer.”

“Like the tale of the Big Friendly Giant?”

“Yes, yes.” He paused, smiled. “You wanted to ask me?”

“The body slam.”

“‘The Irresistible Force topples the Immovable Object,’” he quoted with a flourish.

“You,” I said, extending my hands, gauging the man’s proportions. “He lifted you. Over his head.”

“A very uncertain thing. Hogan didn’t know until that moment whether he was capable. The adrenaline helped, of course. The crowd, the hundred thousand pleading voices.

“As for me, I had back surgery not six months before. I’m usually fearless in the ring, but I don’t mind saying the Hogan fight made me nervous. Yet when he slammed me, I felt no pain; the hurt came later, in the dressing room, as I lay on the floor. Excruciating.”

“But how is it possible? There’ve been accusations–”

“What, needles? Pills?” He fingered the rim of his wine glass. “Not me, not ever. Others.”

“No, I didn’t mean. Obviously not you.”

“Others did. Had to. Not me.”

“No.”

Our main course arrived. My order came on a single plate, the salad and the omelet with its side of herbed potatoes. For the giant, the dishes were many: roast chicken with mashed potatoes and green beans, filet of sole with wild rice and asparagus, fettuccine in a mushroom cream sauce. A salad, identical to the one he finished earlier. A fresh basket of bread, and the promise of more wine.

“Bon appétit,” he said, raising his glass. I ate slowly, watching with fascination as he moved from one plate to another, attacking each one with evident joy.

“You like it here,” I observed.

“It’s hard to eat enough, to feel satisfied. Here I can.” He gestured over the array of food with his fork. “You like?”

“It’s excellent.”

“Good, good.” He clasped his hands together, pointing the utensil at some obscure corner of the ceiling. “Listen. You brought up steroids.”

“Was I wrong to?”

“Not at all. We spoke earlier of superpowers; is this not what the audience expects of us? To fly through the air, to move mountains, to perform with a speed incompatible with our size. To embody absolute good, or absolute evil.

“Roland Barthes said the key to the contest is the body of the wrestler, that the public must be overwhelmed with the obviousness of our roles. Naturally, wrestlers were able to achieve this obviousness before steroids, but hardly to the same degree.

“Were I a smaller man, I imagine I’d be tempted by steroids. As it is, my body suffers enough under its own mass.”

“Have you thought of quitting?”

“Only every morning. If it takes an hour to lift myself out of bed, I spend that hour weighing retirement.”

“But you’re still at it.”

“It’s not easy to leave things you love behind, even when they cause you pain.”

“It’s true,” I said, then added, “You could always do film.”

“Ah.” He speared the last of his asparagus with his fork, as though punctuating the syllable. “You’ve seen The Princess Bride?”

“Many times.”

“That makes me happy.”

“I’ve wondered why so few wrestlers act. It seems a natural transition.”

“All wrestlers are capable actors, yes, but only at the extremes of emotion. Few grasp the subtleties between.”

“What makes you so different?”

“Hmm.” He took his time in answering. “I told this story to Cary Elwes, actually, on the set of The Princess Bride. This happened in France, in the Marne region, at the end of the fifties. I was twelve years old and already six feet tall, two hundred fifty pounds. No school bus could hold me.

“Fortunately, Samuel Beckett, a neighbor and a friend of my father’s, drove a big truck, and was able to give me a lift on his way into town. Most days I learned more in the cab of that truck than I did in school.”

“Wait–the Samuel Beckett?”

“That’s right.”

“You knew Samuel Beckett?” I shook my head, trying to imagine the elder playwright and mammoth youngster side-by-side. “What was he like?”

“A quiet man, but pleasant. Not at all dark, like his plays.”

“And he taught you lessons about acting?”

“Not really. He once mentioned some difficulty in finishing Endgame, that he found our little hamlet distractingly quiet and needed the filth and chaos of Paris in order to write. Beyond that he rarely discussed his work, or anything personal. We mostly talked cricket.”

“Cricket?”

“Sure. Sam was a decent bowler in his youth, starring at Dublin University. He even has his own stat listing in Wisden. But then, I suspect you don’t follow cricket.”

“Nope. What’s Wisden?”

“Sort of the cricketer’s bible.”

“Did you play?”

“I tried, but with limited success. Clearly I was meant for other things.”

“And talking cricket with Samuel Beckett made you a better actor?”

“Not directly, no. But perhaps I’ve a richer wealth of experience to draw upon than other wrestlers.”

The waitress came to clear the table, to refill André’s wine yet again. My companion was sopping up pasta sauce with a hunk of bread.

“Room for dessert?” asked the waitress.

“What are the choices?”

“Chocolate mousse, crème brulee, lemon tart, apple tart.” André recited the list in a singsong voice.

“Crème brulee, please. And coffee.”

Our plates now gone, the giant shifted his weight, stretched a little. Though he sat on a bench built for two, it seemed barely capable of supporting him.

“I’m supposed to lose tomorrow night.”

“Against?”

“The Ultimate Warrior. I’m in the twilight of my career now. The great has-been. Taking on the next superstar, the next Hulk Hogan.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“Nobody can beat me if I don’t let them.”

“Ever tempted to just pin your opponent anyway?”

“I’ve done it before. I can get away with it as long as the match isn’t televised.”

Our waitress brought coffee, my crème brulee, and all four desserts for André. Plus the check, which he insisted on covering.

“This is my great pleasure in life, treating others to fine food and drink.”

“How generous.”

“It’s nothing. You need tickets for tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid I have a class to teach. I saw you the last two times you came to town, though.”

“I fought Big John Studd last time, right?” He concentrated a moment on scraping up the dregs of his chocolate mousse. “The other–remind me?”

“Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts. You bolted from the ring after the match, claiming to be terrified of snakes.”

“I’m not.”

“I figured.”

“Not the most convincing storyline, I suppose.” He shrugged. “But tell me–this class you’re teaching?”

“Some creative writing, some journalism. My wife Debby works during the day, so teaching at night means I don’t see her much during the week. But it helps towards the bills, and gives me time to write.”

“Any kids?”

“Not so far.”

“I wouldn’t mind settling down myself someday. Get married, raise a family. It’s next to impossible when you’re on the road three hundred days a year. I adore children, so the worst for me is seeing them act frightened. I try to say hello after every event, shake a few hands, but some kids are scared to go near me. Sometimes even the women are wary of my size, thinking I might hurt them.”

“Yet word is you’re still quite the ladies’ man.”

The giant grinned, but said nothing.

We passed the rest of the meal in silence. I sipped my coffee while André finished his desserts. It wasn’t until we stood outside the restaurant that he spoke again.

“Are you parked here?”

“I rode the bus.”

“When I was younger, and my back was stronger, I had a knack for lifting cars. My friends would exit a bar or restaurant to discover their car facing the wrong direction.” He laughed aloud at the memory. “But hey, I can give you a ride home if you like.”

“I appreciate that. But haven’t you–”

“Drank too much wine? For a man my size, wine is like aspirin. When I’m serious, I drink vodka.”

“If you’re sure.”

He answered by walking a straight line down the length of a parking bumper. His balance was flawless.

I followed him to his car, a big white Lincoln with the front seat removed. I felt like a child seated next to this enormous man, his dashboard beyond my reach. He drove with exaggerated caution, as though still demonstrating his sobriety. We rode down familiar streets, yet they appeared distant from the strange perspective his backseat offered. I hardly recognized my own neighborhood until we were nearly at my house.

“Thanks for the ride, and the meal.”

“My pleasure.”

“It’s too bad I can’t watch you wrestle tomorrow night. I get the feeling the Warrior doesn’t stand a chance.”

“You may be right.”

We shook hands. His grip was warm, but it was shocking to see my hand disappear completely into his. I felt again like a child.

When I finally came in, Debby was home from work. And I told her everything about my dinner with André the Giant.