Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “Karl is quite impressive, Dimitri. You have done well.”

  “He will win.” Dimitri believes this to be true, and he knows that it is the reassurance that the Commissioner seeks, for perhaps the tenth time this evening. “He is unbeatable.”

  “And I suppose that the girls’ chances have been dramatically improved by what happened to the Kendal woman.” The old man smiles grimly, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a grin that could easily be mistaken for a snarl. “A most fortuitous accident, was it not? Do you know that there are those on the Commission who think that I arranged it?” He barks a sharp laugh. “As if I have that kind of power. As if I were omnipotent. I have not discouraged their delusions, of course. And I suppose that I would have arranged it if I could have done so. But nonetheless…”

  “Excuse me, Ivan, I do not understand.”

  “The Kendal woman. Jill Kendal. The accident in the U.S. Olympic trials. Is it possible,” he continues, in response to Dimitri’s blank look, “that you know nothing of it? It was nearly a week ago! Do you not read newspapers? Listen to radio? Watch television? Browse the Web?”

  “We have no radio or television here,” Dimitri points out. “And I had our Internet connection disabled, it was too distracting. I buy a newspaper when I go into town, but I have not been to town in… oh, I believe several days, at least… But tell me, what happened to Jill Kendal? Was she in an accident?” Dimitri greets this possibility with a mixture of relief and disappointment. If Jill Kendal cannot race, he thinks, the girls will cruise to an easy victory, but they will be denied the satisfaction of defeating her, and there will always be speculation about what the outcome might have been had she been healthy. A hollow triumph. But, of course – as Ivan is certain to remind me – a triumph just the same.

  “Signal my driver, will you?”

  “But Ivan, about the Kendal woman?”

  “Signal my driver, Dimitri. I have something to show you.”

  Dimitri walks out of the den, down a long hall, and into the foyer, where he toggles a light switch a few times. The switch is connected to a light over the porch outside; the flashing light is a signal to Petronovich’s driver, who is parked nearby. After a few seconds, Dimitri hears a car engine start, then a car door opens and slams shut. Heavy footsteps approach, and there is a firm rap on the door.

  “Come in, Uri.” Dimitri opens the door as little as possible to save what warmth remains in the house. The driver steps in and shuts the door behind him. Even in a thick coat and a fur hat, he appears to be shivering. It must be horrible out there at night, Dimitri thinks. And poor Uri cannot even run the engine to get some heat, because he will burn up all the fuel, and the nearest petrol station is more than 50 kilometers away. Why does Ivan insist that the poor man remain in the car? Why could he not come into the house with the rest of us? Are we not all comrades? Or did that spirit pass away long ago, along with the rest of the Soviet Union?

  Puzzled, the driver looks past Dimitri. Clearly, he has assumed that the blinking light meant that the Commissioner was ready to leave. “Come in, Uri, come in,” Dimitri beckons. “Dr. Petronovich wishes to speak with you.”

  Uri’s face brightens, but just as Dimitri starts to lead him down the hall, a voice crackles from the den. “Tell him to bring me the magazine I was reading,” Petronovich demands. “And then to heat up the car for me. I will be out shortly.”

  Uri’s face falls, but he does not complain. He turns and walks back outside, returning moments later with a rolled-up magazine, which he hands to Dimitri wordlessly, and then departs.

  As he walks back down the hall, Dimitri opens the magazine and inspects the cover. It is the American magazine Sports Illustrated, he recognizes its distinctive logo immediately. However, it’s obviously the compelling cover photo, not the logo, that Petronovich wants him to see.

  Literally screaming from the cover, Jillian Kendal writhes on the gritty blacktop, clutching her knee, her face contorted in horrible pain, her mouth frozen open in an eternal howl. At least, Dimitri assumes that it is Jillian Kendal, but his lack of English prevents him from deciphering the caption, and the wounded athlete bears little more than a passing resemblance to the young and graceful marathoner he remembers from the Olympic Games four years ago.

  “What happened?” Dimitri asks, as he enters the den. Petronovich has already risen from his chair and is putting on his overcoat. “It looks serious.”

  “It was a bicycle accident, Dimitri. Or, rather, two bicycle accidents. Can you believe that? Two bicycle accidents in the same race? What terrible misfortune.” Petronovich shakes his head but betrays no sadness. “But she also had trouble on the run, poor girl,” he adds, without a trace of sympathy, “as you can see in that photo.”

  “But she completed the race?”

  “She did,” Petronovich replies, with the barest hint of grudging admiration. “She finished fifth, somehow, but was elevated to third when two of the leaders were disqualified. But she paid a terrible price for her commendable determination. She required immediate surgery on her injured knee.”

  “So she will not be in Qen Phon after all?”

  “When you read the article, Dimitri, you will think that she will never be able to run again. The idiot writer makes it sound like she will be a cripple for life. It appears to be a national tragedy.” He snorts derisively. “Unfortunately, my sources tell me…”

  “I am afraid that I will not be able to read the article, Ivan. I have no English.”

  “No English at all?” Petronovich raises a thin eyebrow. “An educated man like yourself? I am surprised.”

  Dimitri shrugs. “I was never very good with languages,” he explains. “And there always seemed to be other things that needed to be done. Perhaps the girls will be able to help me – Olga, at least, claims to have some facility with the language. But I interrupted you, you were saying something about your sources?”

  “No English,” Petronovich repeats, a dark and humorless twinkle in his eye. “That is not good, Dimitri. It will make it much more difficult for you to find work outside of Russia if your students win no gold medals.”

  Dimitri supposes that this is a joke, although it is delivered without a ghost of a smile. “That is inconceivable. We will come home with two gold medals, I am certain of it, so my lack of English is of no consequence. But about Jill Kendal? Your sources?”

  “My sources – who are accurate on occasion, possibly by accident – tell me that she has had surgery and expects to be healthy for the Olympics. When you read… when Olga reads the article to you,” Petronovich corrects himself, “you will find that it sounds like a eulogy, but it appears to have been a premature one. Is it really possible that she can race so soon after surgery?”

  Dimitri shrugs. “She would have had to be in perfect physical condition, but Danziger would have seen to that. But even with American surgical techniques…” He shrugs again. “It seems unlikely to me that she will be back at the top of her form in six weeks.”

  “Good.”

  “The girls will be disappointed. They will feel that their victory will be tainted.”

  “But it will be a victory nonetheless, Dimitri.”

  “The girls are fierce competitors, Ivan.”

  “So am I, Dimitri. So are we all.”

  “They will regret the likely diminution of the competitive level.”

  “They are young, Dimitri.”

  “Meaning that they will have the chance to race against the Kendal woman again someday?” Dimitri asks, thinking how unlikely that will be.

  “Meaning that they have a lot to learn,” Petronovich responds harshly. “They still do not understand the difference between a competition and a game. This is not a game Dimitri. The stakes are much too high. You must make sure that they understand that.”

  Dimitri sighs. He fetches the old man’s walking stick and follows Petronovich as he hobbles down the hall. I have a great deal of respect for this man, he thinks, but some
times my affinity toward him appalls me. He remains, at heart, a Stalinist. He believes in victory at any cost. He believes that the ends always justify the means. And for all of his years of association with athletes, he has absorbed not one iota of athletic ideals. The true essence of sportsmanship eludes him.

  “I leave for Qen Phon in three weeks.” Petronovich turns to face Dimitri as they reach the door. “And you will follow the week after, yes?”

  “That is the plan,” Dimitri agrees. “That will give us two full weeks to acclimate to the heat and humidity.”

  “You must make certain that they are ready.”

  “They will be ready,” Dimitri responds warily. We have been through this so many times before, he thinks. Is he going to keep reminding me right up to the time of the race? He meets the old man’s level stare. “They are ready right now,” he says, evenly. “They have been ready for some time. Both physically and mentally.”

  “And I will do whatever I can to assure them of favorable conditions.” Petronovich turns to open the door, then swings briskly back to Dimitri as a blast of cold air surges into the room. “Unfortunately, I do not think that I will be able to arrange another bicycle accident for Jill Kendal, but I am not entirely without resources. I will do what I can to ensure victory. I have every confidence that you will do the same.”

  Petronovich’s eyes narrow as he fixes Dimitri in his icy gaze. What is the old man up to? Dimitri wonders. What kind of devious trick does he have up his sleeve? He shivers, less from the cold than from the frozen glare of the Commissioner’s eyes. To escape from the penetrating stare, Dimitri closes his eyes for what seems like a mere moment. The chill permeates his being. He feels that he might never be warm again.

  And when Dimitri cautiously opens his eyes to bid his guest farewell, the old man has already departed. The unblinking taillights of the dark limousine trace twin red paths as they flee into the brittle cold of the Kiroly night.

  3.2.11: Frisco

  “Do you really think that he might release you today?” Jago Danziger, looking dapper in a lavender Polo shirt, designer jeans, and surprisingly bright yellow Falconi running shoes, sounds skeptical as he sits in the hard chair and watches Jillian’s legs pump furiously. “Just yesterday, he told me that it would be at least two, perhaps three days.”

  “He changed his mind,” Jillian puffs. “Or maybe I changed it for him.” She lies flat on her back in the hospital bed, her legs moving rhythmically, her feet securely fastened in the pedals of a sleek, matte-black, bicycle-like, mechanical contraption that hangs from a shiny chrome bar suspended over her bed. “Hell,” she says, “If this goddamn…” pant “…torture machine…” pant “…doesn’t hurt my knee…” pant… pant… “…nothing will.”

  Jillian taps her right wrist with her left hand. Taking the cue, Jago consults his watch. “You have five… no, maybe about four minutes left.”

  “Turn it up a notch.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Turn the resistance…” gasp “…up a notch.”

  “Where?”

  “The little knob…” pant “…up there on the side.” pant “What’s it on?”

  Following Jillian’s pointing finger, Jago stands and locates a small, notched dial marked with digits from 1 to 20. “This one?” he asks.

  Jillian nods.

  “It’s on about… 16, I’d say. Maybe a little over. Not quite 16 and a half.”

  “Turn it up…” pant “… to 18.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Just do it,” Jillian snaps.

  Jago raises an eyebrow as he adjusts the control. “I believe that you are ready to be released after all,” he says. “I am pleased to see that your usual sunny disposition has returned.”

  Jillian grimaces but does not respond.

  I get the feeling that he’s proud of me, she thinks. Not that he would ever say it. He’s never seen me work his hard. Hell, I’ve never seen me work this hard. These damn machines have taken over my life. It’s all I do – bench presses, rowing, wrist curls, arm curls, if there were a machine that did toenail curls I’d probably have that, too. But the leg machines are the worst – the reverse leg curl machine, that weird-looking machine that stretches the muscles in the backs of my calves, and this sadistic overhead bicycle must be the worst of all…

  “Your time is up,” Jago announces, glancing at his watch. “Actually, I have let you go more than a minute over. Sorry.”

  But Jillian shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says grimly, through clenched teeth, and she pedals for a few additional minutes with increased vigor before she finally slows to a halt.

  “Get this sucker away from me,” Jillian pants, as she unclips her feet from the pedals and lets her legs drop heavily to the bed. “Just leave it over there,” she adds, pointing to the far corner of the room, as Jago unfastens the bicycle machine from the bed frame and rolls it away. “They’ll pick it up when they bring the rowing machine, in… Jesus, in less than half an hour.”

  “I am quite pleased to see how you are turning adversity into advantage,” Jago remarks, as he pulls his chair closer to the side of Jillian’s bed and sits back down. “In some respects, you will actually be in better condition because of the accident.”

  “For everything but running,” Jillian admits. “I know I’ll be a stronger swimmer, and I don’t think I’ll lose much of anything on the bike. But I haven’t been able to run in nearly a week, Jago. And even if Dr. Patel lets me out today, he says that he doesn’t want me to run for at least another week.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  “I don’t think that you have a choice.”

  “But Jago, you don’t understand. Even when I start running again, he says I should only run five miles a day for the first week. Five miles!” she says, disparagingly. “What the hell good is that going to do me? I’ll do great in the swim and the bike legs, and then I’ll die in the middle of the run.”

  “Jillian,” Jago says gently, “it is you who does not understand. Because your knee feels so good and holds up so well under your ambitious exercise program, you think that it has healed completely, but that is not so. If you try to run before the doctor gives you permission, you risk causing permanent injury to your knee. If you run too soon,” he cautions, “you may never run again.”

  “Jesus,” Jillian mutters. “You sound just like Sunshine. The voice of doom.”

  “Speaking of Sunshine…”

  “Yes, Jago, how is the dear child?”

  “Please, Jill, try to restrain your sarcasm,” Jago scolds. “It is most unbecoming.”

  “Oh, don’t pay any attention to me,” Jillian says, as she swings her legs over the side of the bed and drapes a robe around her shoulders. “I’m just crabby from being cooped up for so long. Cabin fever. There’s nothing wrong with Sunshine that a good dose of reality wouldn’t cure.”

  “She has a remarkable natural talent, like yourself.”

  “She does that,” Jillian admits, grudgingly. Walking over to the window, she gazes out longingly. “God, I hope I get out of here today,” she mutters, half to herself.

  “Did I mention that I have been working with her a little?” Jago asks with what sounds to Jillian like practiced casualness. “Giving her a few pointers. I hope that you do not mind.”

  “Mind?” Jillian asks. “Why would I mind?” And why do I feel so uneasy? she wonders.

  Jago shrugs. “Because she is a competitor of yours. Because she may stand in the way of your chances for a gold medal.”

  “Sunshine? Give me a break,” Jillian says, scornfully, perhaps a trifle too emphatically. “She’s not gold-medal material. She’ll quit if anybody says boo to her. No staying power. No guts.”

  Jago nods – more to himself than to Jillian, who stands with her back to him, staring out of the window. “I’m afraid that I must agree with your unsympathetic assessment. This Nathan person seems to have drained all of the natural competitive instin
cts from her. It is most unfortunate. But she is young. The damage may not be irreversible.”

  “And you’re just the man for the job, is that what you’re getting at?” Jillian turns from the window and begins to pace around the small room. “Christ,” she says, “where the hell is the doctor? He’s supposed to be here at nine thirty.”

  “It is not yet ten,” Jago points out reasonably. “And you know that he is very busy. Be patient.”

  Jillian snorts. “Easy for you to say.”

  Walking back over to the window, she folds her arms across her chest. She looks out over a small lawn area, fringed with a ragged semicircle of scraggly, nondescript evergreens. Through the branches, Jillian can clearly see the warm June air rising in waves from the parking lot. That’s right, she thinks absently, they did say something about a heat wave on the news. After a couple of days in this climate-controlled lock-up, you forget that there really is weather outside. She presses a palm against the double-paned window glass. It’s surprisingly warm to the touch.

  “How would you feel about having Sunshine as a classmate next year?” Jago asks.

  So that’s what he’s been leading up to. “Why?” she demands. “Aren’t I enough of a challenge for you?”

  “But you will be gone after one more year,” Jago points out. “And besides, I have a sinking feeling that if you win a gold medal, you will abandon the triathlon. As you did the marathon.”

  Give up the triathlon? Jillian shakes her head quickly, not in denial, but simply to rid herself of the thought. Don’t think ahead more than one race at a time, she reminds herself, instinctively. One race at a time.

  “Does Sunshine really want to go to SMU?” Jillian is skeptical. “I don’t think you can separate her from Nathan with a crowbar.”