“My doctor tells me that I will live longer if I do not smoke cigars, Dimitri.” Petronovich holds the cigar out and admires it. “I tell him that if I cannot smoke cigars, I do not want to live longer.” He smiles at Dimitri, who wrinkles his nose at the acrid fumes.
“The best part, Ivan,” Dimitri prods.
“Excuse me?”
“You were going to tell me about the best part. Something to do with your negotiations with Kennedy…”
“Ah, yes, thank you.” The old man puffs on the cigar, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the morning air. “As luck would have it, and I did not learn this until after we had concluded the negotiations – although I would appreciate it if you would not share that information with anyone,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes – “it seems that Kennedy is a business associate of the father of Jill Kendal.”
Petronovich pauses for a reaction, but none is forthcoming. “Jill Kendal, Dimitri. Are you not familiar with the name?”
“Of course, Ivan. The marathoner. But I…”
“The former marathoner. Who now happens to be the top American woman triathlete.”
“Jill Kendal, yes, of course, how stupid of me.” Dimitri slaps himself on the side of the head with the butt of his palm. “She is featured in some of the triathlon magazines that you sent to me, but I never made the connection.” Dimitri considers this new information. “Jill Kendal. She is a formidable opponent. A fierce competitor.”
“Yes, Dimitri. Your girls will have their work cut out for them. I assume that the elimination of the drafting restrictions will make things somewhat less difficult for them. But a victory over the Kendal woman will not be easy under any circumstances.”
“Jill Kendal.” Dimitri grins. “So all the time that you were dangling the triathlon as bait for your drug testing proposal, Kennedy was an associate of the father of the best American woman triathlete. And you were not even aware of it.”
“That is correct, my boy.” Petronovich smiles broadly. “I could not understand why he attacked the bait so fiercely. He was like a lamb begging to be slaughtered. At the time, I attributed it to mere stupidity.” He laughs, something between a cackle and a wheeze. “My subordinates, of course, believe it be a brilliant ploy on my part. It has further enhanced my reputation as a formidable tactician.”
Dimitri smiles and shakes his head. “What an amazing coincidence,” he says. “Despite what the Communists used to tell us, perhaps there is a God, after all.”
֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍
“Good morning, Commissioner,” Andrei Abramski says, as he slows his bicycle to a stop. The two men have been talking so earnestly that they did not seem to have heard his approach. “What brings you to this fine place this morning?”
“Where is Karl?” Dimitri demands, looking past Andrei to the empty road behind him. “You are supposed to be riding with Karl.”
“I thought that I was riding with Karl,” Andrei says absently, casting a bored glance over his shoulder. He shrugs. “I guess Karl was unable to keep up with me. Or perhaps he was attacked by some kind of wild animal. This wilderness is full of surprises.”
“Do not be so insolent,” Dimitri’s eyes flash with anger. “We are aware that you are faster than Karl, if that is what you are trying to prove. But you are here to assist him, Andrei. You are not here on holiday.”
Andrei reacts with mock surprise. “Although I am certain that you do a brisk holiday business here in this vacation paradise,” he says, “I am most painfully aware of my purpose here. But I did not ask to come here at all. My training schedule has been interrupted, and my performance in the Olympic Games has been jeopardized. For what purpose? To teach your anemic students how to ride their bicycles?” He spits on the ground. “Did you consider getting training wheels for them?”
“Gentlemen, please!” The Commissioner holds out his cane between Andrei and Dimitri, as if the gnarled staff will somehow restrain them. “Andrei, I am shocked by your attitude and demeanor. It is most unworthy of you.”
Andrei seems to be surprised by the reprimand, as if he has forgotten the presence of the Commissioner. “My apologies, Dr. Petronovich,” he says, contritely. “But you have no idea how primitive this place is. It is impossible to do anything in this environment. The facilities are totally inadequate.”
Just then, another bicycle rolls into view, then quickly passes them. The rider, crouched over his aerobars and intent on the road ahead of him, waves a quick greeting but does not slow down.
“Go, catch up with Karl,” Dimitri says, through clenched teeth. “Ride with him for one more circuit. Then meet me back at the house. We will discuss this further.”
“Dr. Boronov…” Andrei begins.
But Dimitri cuts him short. “NOW!” he roars. His face turns a deep shade of crimson. “Do as I tell you. Immediately!”
Andrei stares back at Dimitri defiantly, but then he glances at Petronovich and seems to reconsider his response. “It is good to see you again, Commissioner,” he says, evenly. Leaning back over the aerobars, he takes off in pursuit of the other rider. Relaxing only gradually, Dimitri stares malevolently at Andrei’s retreating form.
“I believe that I may have detected a hint of animosity between the two of you,” the old man observes dryly. “What is the cause of this friction?”
“The boy is a spoiled brat, Ivan. He has enormous talent, but he is enormously selfish as well. He has no interest in doing what is good for the team; he thinks only of what is good for Andrei Abramski.” Dimitri paces back and forth in distress as he speaks. “I put most of the blame squarely on the shoulders of the athletic establishment. I am sorry, Ivan, but you pamper these athletes, you coddle them like babies, you make them think that they are movie stars. They succeed in spite of your program, not because of it.”
“Has he been of any help to you at all, Dimitri?” Petronovich ignores the criticism of the Russian athletic program; although it occurs to Dimitri that the old man must think it ironic that he, the consummate loner, should criticize Andrei for not being a team player. “Should I take him back to Moscow with me?”
“He has been of some help,” Dimitri admits, grudgingly. “He has motivated Karl to perform even better than I expected. But he has done so by trying to humiliate Karl, rather than by trying to assist him. He is a destructive force here.” Dimitri sighs. “If time were not so short, I would not have tolerated his presence even this long. But I do not believe that he can do too much damage in the next few weeks.”
“Has he worked with the girls as well?”
“The girls are so repulsed by him that they refuse to associate with him at all. And once he discovered that they were not interested in his sexual advances, he did not care to associate with them, either. I have not forced the issue.” Dimitri shakes his head sourly. “Karl detests him as much as the girls do – or possibly even more, because he has to suffer with him so much more. But Karl recognizes the benefit of working with someone of Andrei’s ability, and so he bravely suppresses his own instinctive distaste.”
Petronovich sighs. “Perhaps this triathlon idea was not so brilliant after all. It could backfire, with serious consequences. If we are embarrassed in Qen Phon…”
“Do not be silly, Ivan. I assure you that you we will not be embarrassed.” Dimitri bristles. “Karl may not be as good a cyclist as Andrei, but as an all-around endurance athlete he is unparalleled. He cannot be beaten. He will take the gold medal in Qen Phon. I will stake my reputation on it.”
“Frankly, Dimitri, it is not your reputation that I am concerned with.” Petronovich eyes the younger man coolly. “I have crawled well out on a limb with you. If you saw the branch off behind us, we will both fall together. And I have a great deal farther to fall than you do, believe me.”
You came to me because you needed my help, Dimitri thinks. It is obvious that I am the only person qualified to lead the Russian athletic program into this new, drug-free era.
But he holds his tongue. The old man needs him, that is certain. But he needs the old man as well. The more he gets used to the idea that he might soon be running a large, well-staffed, well-funded facility, the more attractive the idea becomes. He will disassemble the decrepit athletic bureaucracy and build a streamlined program based on his visionary concepts. Once again, Russian athletes will compete for the sheer joy of performance, not for luxurious little perks. Once again, Russian athletes will be worthy of the adulation of the people. Once again, the Russian athletic program will be second to none, the envy of all nations. Once again…
“And what of the girls?” Petronovich interrupts Dimitri’s reverie. “Can they beat the American woman, Kendal?”
Just as he mentions the girls, as if on cue, two more riders appear around a bend about a quarter of a mile down the road. Even from that distance, they can be heard talking and laughing as they ride along.
“I believe that they can. Drafting will help them a great deal – thank you for that gift, Ivan.” Dimitri leans on the fence and watches the cyclists approach. “I am fairly certain that they can capture at least the silver and bronze medals, Ivan, but the gold… This Kendal woman has very impressive times, and she has never been seriously challenged. Now that I understand who she is…” He shakes his head. “I cannot believe that I never made the connection. It certainly explains her amazing times in the run leg.”
The women ride by, waving gaily. “Hello, Commissioner!” one of them calls. Petronovich smiles and waves back.
“They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“They have taken to the bicycle quite well, Ivan. Both of them. Marta especially, but they are both remarkable athletes. Extraordinary.” Dimitri beams like a proud father.
“But can they beat the Kendal woman? Can you promise me a gold medal in the women’s triathlon, as you have assured me of one in the men’s?”
“The girls will do the very best they can, Ivan. Of that I can give you my unqualified assurance. As for the gold medal…” – he shrugs – “…it is possible. But there are too many variables for me to be able to give you a promise. But you will be proud of them, Ivan. The entire nation will be proud of them. There is no shame in silver medals, or bronze.”
“That might be true in other circumstances, Dimitri. But not now.”
The old man’s hawk-eyes narrow to slits, his stare grows icy. He reaches out and squeezes Dimitri’s shoulder with surprising strength. He is sinking his talons into me, Dimitri finds himself thinking.
“We both have a great deal riding on the success of your students, Dimitri,” Petronovich says, carefully. “A great deal. You have bragged for years about the superiority of your methods. It is now time for you to deliver on your boasts. You must produce two gold medals in Qen Phon.”
Dimitri is taken aback by the force behind the old man’s words. “I… I certainly will do the best that I can,” he stammers. “We all will. You know that.”
“That is not enough.” To Dimitri’s relief, Petronovich has to release his grip in order to wave away Dimitri’s words. “You must do whatever is necessary to ensure victory. You must pledge yourself to that.”
“Of course, Ivan. You know that I will.” What does he mean, whatever is necessary? He makes it sound so ominous, Dimitri thinks. What exactly is he suggesting? What am I agreeing to?
“And I, too, will do whatever is necessary,” Petronovich says. “You can rely on me for that. Without qualification.”
And he stares with alarming intensity into Dimitri’s eyes, and he repeats it again, that chilling phrase, as if to ensure that Dimitri will extract some deep significance that is hidden behind the words themselves.
“Whatever is necessary, Dimitri.”
And again. With special emphasis on each word.
“Whatever. Is. Necessary.”
2.4.3: Sturdivant
She’s running, her legs churning furiously through the tall grass, the cool wind blowing deliciously through her hair.
It’s a joyous feeling, as if she were flying, her feet barely making contact with the ground. And maybe she is flying – or perhaps, somehow, bounding, like a human kangaroo. Each time one of her feet touches the ground, it barely makes contact, like a gentle kiss; then it flexes, and she springs back into the air, soaring over the ground in ever-lengthening leaps, her legs stretching out as gracefully as a ballerina’s.
And she discovers that if she runs in the air, if she moves her legs quickly in mid-leap, she somehow picks up some additional buoyancy, and she continues to float through the air inches above the tall grass. The tips of the highest blades tickle the soles of her bare feet. And she really is flying, in a way – as long as she continues to move her legs she will never come down, her feet will never touch the ground.
What great fun! What an exhilaratingly effortless way to travel! And it’s so fast! She keeps accelerating until she feels more like a low-flying aircraft than a runner, the ultimate in ultra-light flight.
Why have I never done this before? she wonders. Nobody can beat me now. I’ll win every race. Everyone will be so surprised. And she’s surprised at what a pleasant thought that is. Perhaps she harbors more deep-seated competitive urges than she suspected.
But suddenly it all changes. She’s not running for the sheer joy of it anymore. She’s being chased. And her pursuers, every bit as fast as she, are rapidly closing in. She hears them laughing and taunting behind her, like dogs baying at the fox, nipping at her heels, closing in for the kill.
And then, somehow, she loses the essential rhythm. She knows that she’s not moving her legs just right, her sudden fear has caused her to lose the essential pattern. She’s forcing it, and it can’t be forced. She sinks slowly, heavily to the earth. When she pushes off, she’s relieved to discover that she’s retained some of her springiness, but she has to work her legs incredibly hard just to stay aloft, like a frantic high-jumper. And once again she settles slowly back down to earth.
If she can just stay calm, force herself to relax, she’ll get the rhythm back. Then she’ll explode into flight again and leave her tormentors in the dust. But the harder she tries, the worse it gets. Soon, her leaps become more vertical than horizontal. She feels like she’s barely making any forward progress at all, just jumping up and down in place, a grim jack-in-the-box.
And she knows that she’ll have to abandon her attempts to get airborne because they are quickly closing in on her. And it’s all so frustrating, because she could outdistance them so easily in the air! But if she’s reduced to running on the ground, they might be able to catch up with her. It’s not fair. It’s just not FAIR!
And the grass is so tall. It’s at least waist-high now, making it impossible to work up any speed. And the ground is maddeningly spongy, she sinks into it with each step, it sucks at her shoes (wasn’t she barefoot a few minutes ago?) like quicksand.
But the grass is so tall that maybe she doesn’t need to run at all. If she just sits down, right where she is, she’ll be hidden from view. They’ll never find her.
But when she sits down, the grass must not be as tall as it seemed, because she’s looking out over the blades, which are swaying softly in the spring breeze. In fact, visibility is even better down here than it was when she was standing up, as if a thin layer of wondrously clear air hovers over the grass.
I shouldn’t have sat down, she realizes. If I can see this clearly, then I can also be seen this clearly. And sure enough, other faces begin to coalesce in her field of vision.
Turning her head, she realizes that she’s surrounded by maybe a dozen seated figures watching her from a distance of perhaps twenty feet. They stare back at her impassively. She’s relieved to notice that they don’t seem to be especially hostile or threatening. It’s like we’re all part of some kind of ritual, she thinks, me and the watchers. In a minute, we’ll all start chanting or singing. But what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? I can’t remember. Maybe it’ll al
l come back to me when we get started. I sure do hope so.
And, oh no, could that be Billy over there? she thinks, with a sudden start. It sure looks like him. And that’s Eddie sitting right next to him, so it must be Billy. But it couldn’t really be him, could it? If it were him, he would have noticed me by now. He would have said something. Or done something.
But then Billy turns and winks at her, and it’s unmistakably him, no doubt about it. He’s leering, foully, and a lump of fear rises in her throat. Her heart begins to pound wildly in her chest. But the rest of these people, they’ll protect me, she thinks. Billy wouldn’t dare do anything right here in front of everybody.
Would he?
And then everyone is chanting. It’s been going on for some time, she knows, but somehow she’s just become aware of it. It’s a chant that she doesn’t recognize, more of a monotonous sing-along than an actual chant.
And then Billy grins at her, maliciously. And he stands up and walks slowly over to where she sits.
Suddenly, she understands. Eddie is leading them in this chant to distract them. As long as they’re chanting, they won’t notice what Billy’s doing. He can do whatever he wants. No one will know.
And then Billy is standing beside her, towering above her, and she’s afraid to look up at him. But her face is about even with his crotch, and she doesn’t want to look there either, so she just looks down.
Oh no, she thinks in mute horror, staring down at her naked breasts, I’m not dressed! Why didn’t I wear any clothes? Didn’t I have something on earlier? She feels so vulnerable, as if she’s on display for Billy’s inspection.
Lie down, Billy says, roughly, the words booming from a great height, the voice of a malevolent god. Lie down and spread your legs.
No, I won’t, she says, defiantly. I won’t.
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