Duck Hunting with Grisha

See, how it works, Keith says, gesturing with his beer can, you have to aim a little bit ahead of the duck.

Because it takes a little time for the bullet to get there, I say.

Right! Keith is proud of me; I learn fast. He’s proud of himself, too: Clearly, he is a fabulous teacher!

We are not actually duck hunting. We are lounging on a pine-covered knoll amid mountain peaks, toying with physics or ballistics or something. We converse like New Englanders: long stretches of silence broken by syllables.

So what is happening is, the duck is flying into the bullet, I say.

That percolates in the thin air 8,000 feet up the mountain.

So, actually, you’re not shooting the duck, I say. You’re just putting the bullet in its path.

Keith watches the clouds contentedly.

You’re really leaving it up to her to fly into it, I say.

I watch the clouds contentedly, too.

She could mess up your shot …

A cloud pauses before the sun and, just like that, the air goes cold.

… entirely, I add.

She could

dodge the bullet,

so to speak,

I say.

It’s really all up to her.

I can tell from the meticulous way Keith pours out the dregs of his beer, flattens the can and slips it into his back pocket, that he’d like me to stop now.

No, he says. It’s not up to the duck. You watch the duck and you see how it flies, and you time your shot to it, Keith says.

I pour and flatten and slip. Open my arms to the sky like a duck.

If she doesn’t do her part, you’re screwed, I say.

Keith throws his arm across my shoulders as we hike on.

You count on the duck to know how to fly, he says. Indulgently. Perhaps a touch too much so.

Keith is a nice guy. I do not wish to torment him, so I keep quiet. But I am thinking.

Geese are reliable; in flight they are rhythmic and steady. I am not so sure about ducks. They seem more, well, flighty. They seem as if they could be the victim of sudden gusts of wind. Also they seem nervous; they could be easily startled, and that would throw everything off.

I am not going to push it with Keith. But I believe I am right.

* * *

Years pass.

Grisha and I are working on milonga. It’s very quick, with sudden bursts of speed.

“Wait for me,” Grisha says.

We work on tango, with startling twists and turns.

“You’re late,” Grisha says.

In the vals, turns with sacada, a little bit scary.

“Go!” Grisha says.