Tales from the Lake Side: The Figure Skater

By Denny Meredith

It is said that there exists no more tender a bond then that held between a father and his daughter. And although I offer no firsthand experience in this regard, I have heard it spoken often enough from those suitably acquainted with the facts, so I harbor no serious doubts as to its ultimate validity. This, then, is a story based upon that one simple truth.


Our story is set in an Olympic setting and is centered on a young woman figure skater’s search for what she terms truth while being plagued by a nebulous spirit that haunts her. It is a quest that takes her and her pairs figure skating partner to the Olympic ice; it is a struggle marked by the call of unechoed love.


For those who appreciate the Olympic spirit, have competed on the ice or simply associated themselves with the titanic struggle and pain the athlete must endure in the quest for perfection, this is the book to read. And this book more than any other captures the competitive spirit of the Olympic Games and will serve as an inspiration for us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664199828

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 by Denny Meredith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 12/01/2021

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Introduction

To The West of Olympus

The Thirst

The Lake

Through The Eyes of The Russian

The Ice Skater

Nobody

An Artist’s Breakfast

The Original Olympics

Cigarettes, Vodka, and Russian Rules

Her Partner

Different Ice

Marianne’s Dream

Search for The Skater

Debbie’s Dream

The Last Hockey Game

The Choreographer

Small Change

For Things We Have Not

Owning The Ice

Tara

Prelude to Disaster

Sorry, Sweetie

Doc Natelson

They All Heard About It

The Judgment of Paris

The Incident in The Staircase

The Sweeper of Things

Reflections Off An Empty Bottle

The Ancient Spirit

Man with A Mission

The Apostle of Apollo

To Eat and To Drink

A Spectator

Open Ice

Vodka and Black Bread

Knocking on Her Door

First Encounter

Lessons in Life

The Short-Order Cook

Eyes of Fire

For Two Good Legs

The Eyes of Russia

Farewell

The Road To The Lake: Jerry Archer and His Pickup

The Lakeside House

Jerry Archer and His Ax

No Useless Steps or Motions

Thunder in The Valley

On The Mystical Ice

Skate!

Goddess of The Big Ice

Two Arms and A War Whoop

Wise Eyes

The Wisest of Words

Modern Mythology, Country People

On The Slopes

A Rude Awakening

Puppy Love

Reaching for The Stars

A Fraud Uncovered

Reflections

A Visitation

The Road Home

Professor Emeritus

A Moment to Remember

First Skate

Reinforcements

Dark Eyes

Learning The Pair Lifts

The Power of The Will

The Ballet Classes

Karate

The Pounding of The Stick

Debbie!

Moody Waters

The Goal: Technical and Artistic Requirements

Scoring in A New Direction

A Bad Week

The Auberge L’etoile-Sur-Le-Mere

Learning The High Lifts

Images

Old But New

All Things Good and Evil

Mythology 101

Shorty’s Revenge

This Thing Called Love

The Short Program: Anything Goes with White

The Firebird: The Art of Acting

Fire on The Ice: Skating Beyond Oneself

A Descendant of The Gods

Love and Hate

Peter and The Wolf

The Quest for Magic

Thin Ice: Working on The Jumps

A Hard Fall

The Cold Light

Computer Simulation

He Hockey Game

A Pounding in The Mind

Iced Coffee

The Call of Unechoed Love

Connie’s Piece: Conflict and Choreography

Perfecting The Programs

The Costume

Learning Grace

Tara

Autumn: To The Regionals

Passport to The Regionals

First Competition: The Regionals

Skating To The Stick

The Score

A Great Despair

Gaining The Ear of The Judges

The Sectionals

Soul Searching

Three Ears

Street Logic: A Bargain

Confession of A Derelict

The Incident

The Struggle for Consistency

Russian Rules

Alone on The Ice

Her Likeliness

Marianne and Helmet

The Cost of Conviction

Death of A Derelict

The Nationals

The Short Program

The Music Started

Preparing for The Long Program

The Flying Bird

The Acts of Others

Nothing Save A Smile

A Business

Missing Person

A Bureaucratic Necessity

The Skating Edge

Lake Arrowhead

Stopover in Boston

Cold Ice and Hot Competition

Last of The Leibstandarte

Road to The Olympics

The Mountain Trip

Skating in The Alps

Festival

Marianne’s Maneuvers

The Song of The Mountain

The Man at The Bar

To Sleep and to Dream

Mirrors

Final Offer

Rink-Side Negotiations

The Far Side of The Mirror

Olympic Parade

The Russian Judge

Ire of The Judges

Russia vs. Russia

Helmet’s Dilemma

The Drink

The Jokester Gets His Due

Reconsideration

Meet The Press

Fire on The Ice

Going On

On The Carpet

The Letter

Consultation

Darkness

Russian Reconsideration

Out of The Darkness

The Crown of Olives

Soundings of The Soul

Waiting

Tara’s Fall

Little Gifts

The True Hero

The Aisle

Goodbye, Daddy

The Gold Medal

Prelude To Doom

The Power of The Tongue

Going with The Fifth

Taking The 5TH

A New Program

Anything Goes

Opening Movement

Thunder on The Ice: The Battle of The Gods

The Unadorned Goddess

The Heart of The Crowd

Papa, Look!

Nicht Zu Losen

I Don’t Know!

The Distant Eye

Follow Them!

Judging The Incredible

Kommen Sie Heir!

Searching for Something

By The Rules of Russia

The Legs of Hermes, Reaching Beyond Oneself

The Power of Steel: Going for The Quads

Impossible!

Tearing Up The Ice

Attempting The Quint

A Problem on The Ice

The Far End of The Ice

Yamato Damashii

It Bid Her Jump

The Crowd Froze

What Lies within Us

The Ax of Thor

The Far Side of Eternity

The Landing

Mayhem

Farewell

Epilogue

ODE TO THE OLYMPIANS

(Unknown)

Sing to me, Oh Muse,

Tell me of their feats,

Of they that dared aspire.

To stand in field of contest,

And wear the wreath of laurel.

Sing, Oh Muse,

Of they who hurled the heavy ax

And bent the mighty bow.

All under the watchful eye,

Of He who rules Olympus.

Echo, Oh Muse,

As did Pindar, Poet of Youth,

Of glorious limbs and fabled leaps.

Of feats of strength, skill and guile,

So might a monarch smile.

Sing of them, Sweet Muse,

Fair daughter of Zeus,

Spin forth thy music to my ear.

So of these wonders I shall hear.

Sing, Sweet Muse,

And I will listen.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author would like to acknowledge the contribution of his wife Christine (now deceased), who spent many long hours preparing the figures, thus permitting the author to concentrate on the written text. A sensitive woman, she forever versed the author in the emotional injuries of an unanswered love so prevalent in the manuscript so essential to the theme of unechoed love.

INTRODUCTION

It is said that there exists no more tender a bond than that held between a father and his daughter. And although I offer no firsthand experience in this regard, I have heard it spoken often enough from those suitably acquainted with the fact, so I harbor no serious doubts as to its ultimate validity.

This, then, is a story based upon that one simple truth.

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TO THE WEST OF OLYMPUS

The scene is a lonely crossroads lost in a windswept Grecian valley hard by the west slope of Mount Olympus. It is toward evening, and the sun’s rays cast long dark shadows off two dusty figures, the Elder and the Digger, whose labors mark them as archeologists. The Digger is tall and muscular and exhibits the agilities associated with youth. The other is leaner and a bit bent over by the years. Each appears ragged, worn out, and more than a trifle tired.

We find them engaged in excavating the ruins of a crumbling way station that, almost defiantly, still keeps a faithful watch over this ancient crossroads.

The younger man, a graduate student, is engaged in digging out a shallow trench, perhaps one meter wide, the same measurement deep, and half again as long. His choice of words indicates he is no stranger to the vulgarities of cursing. Above him, beside the growing pile of stone and dirt, stands the Elder, his professor. The Elder is engaged in shouting words of encouragement against the tirade of epithets emanating from the pit below, some of it indiscreetly directed against a professor who dragged him to this godforsaken place.

Suddenly we hear a clunk.

Immediately do the blasphemies subside. With their demise, we momentarily lose sight of the Digger as Metis,¹ or Prudence, demands he be granted a short respite during which he bends down to examine the find more carefully: a small stone slab cradled in the dust of centuries.

Another tablet? inquires the Elder, vouchsafing the action in the pit and with a keen eye. In doing so, he leans over a bit further and instantly comes to regret it. By his choice of words, one may assume that he too has found a certain measure of solace in blasphemy, for he can distinctly be heard bequeathing a complaining spine to the fiery pits of hell. To such complaint, the Digger can only offer a low grunt of acknowledgment, as he is all consumed in an effort to free the ancient relic from the stubborn grip of Gaia,² the Earth goddess.

Another grunt, this time more audible, announces the prize has finally been secured.

The inscription? cries the Elder. What of the inscription? he demands, leaning over yet further and to the devil with his pain.

It’s there, but it wants a good scrub! Like both of us, he thinks, but does not dare utter so unlearned a remark.

And the figure . . . what of the figure? Answer me, lad! What of the figure? Apparently, angst and anticipation have found a home on his tongue.

It’s there, ax and all! retorts the Digger angrily, the Elder’s attitude proving contagious. Sweating profusely, the Digger rudely casts the shovel out of the ditch; the professor’s bitter words having stung the Digger’s ears near as much as the sweat and dust sting at his eyes.

Such signs of insurrection are quickly dissipated at the sight of the face of the stone, which the Digger cautiously raises from the floor of the pit and presents to an adoring sun. It is an act the Digger performs deliberately and with an ornate sense of ceremony, making one wonder if he is offering up the tablet to please the great Helios³ himself.

Mockery, however, is not his intent; it is merely his manner of expressing gratitude for uncovering such a find, and as the tablet emerges from the grave, so too does the Digger’s face rise and beam broadly in an unequivocal announcement of his sentiments, for as the reader might have already conjured, his is a rather bohemian, if touchy, spirit.

The Elder’s response to the resurrection of the tablet (and we beg the reader’s indulgence in employing this term) is decidedly more reserved. He is of an age where attainments such as wrought this day are rarely achieved and accordingly are highly venerated; to wit, he does not fully appreciate the audacity and mocking manner of the incorrigible graduate student. On the other hand, the Elder’s eyes do betray a contrary wisdom, a wisdom multiplied in accordance with his every additional observation of the tablet. Already he has come to ponder on whether the gratification to be conferred upon the student for his labors should be monetary in nature or perhaps remain more in accordance with the scholarly premise of the expedition, which rewards diggers frugally, but professors more handsomely. We leave it to the reader to ascertain his decision.

As for the Digger, he is studying the senior’s expression with one eye and the tablet with the other. We may assume that he too is engaged in a consideration of what his bonus might be.

Alas, such speculation must necessarily be abbreviated and yield to the work at hand. Already the Elder has dropped to his knees so his hungry eyes might better feast upon the face of the tablet, which now rests atop the dirt heap. With scholarly patience, he carefully, most carefully, examines every groove and soiled facet embedded on the stone. One might think it were the crown jewels that lay beneath the thin layer of dirt that now obscures its surface.

A beauty in the rough, eh, professor? the Digger inquires, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief that has seen a hard life. But the question is rhetorical.

Ah, yes! But a beauty just the same! We’ve done quite . . . the Elder announces in a troubled response, for well he knows that curses are often the accompaniment of so significant a find. The letters will tell, he utters, mostly addressing himself.

They appear to be well-enough preserved, the Digger notes, and for certain, the lettering seems a far sight better than any others as had been found in the past.

Through all this discourse, the Elder has staunchly remained perched beside the stone, studying it as if engaged in deep prayer, treating that which lay before him as literally a gift from the gods.

To the historian, the Elder’s regard for the tablet is akin to that which the ancients would have bestowed upon a soul returning from the dead, a feat made miraculous by right of its utter improbability. For none can escape the dark shadows of Hades.⁴ Neither can one mend the severed Threads of Life,⁵ which summon the dead to their grave. But tablets are another story. The stone and its inscription, seemingly so well preserved under the layers of earth, may not be just a gift, the Elder ultimately divines, but rather a—

I’ll bet it’s worth a fair sum, the Digger interjects.

Such words carry no currency, for the attention of the Elder remains entirely engaged in the planning of the next step of the resurrection. He realizes he must be careful, for the ages are not accustomed to offering up their secrets lightly.

At length, the Elder emerges from his pondering. A tabulation of his thoughts reveals that all options have been assessed and each remaining step contemplated as carefully as did once a Greek general named Leonidas in preparing for the battle at Thermopylae.⁶ All that remains is for him to perform his magic with the utmost diligence lest he lay waste to the precious letters, or mar the priceless figure they adorn.

So begins the task of cleaning the inscription, a task during which the Elder dares not suffer a smile, lest any sign of joviality somehow jinx and damage the delicate inscription.

But he need not fear, for the stone has jealously guarded its scripture through the ages. Eventually, a fine brush combined with expert skill is all that is needed to clear the remaining obstructions from the face of the tablet. Strangely, the tablet becomes momentarily shrouded by a thin encapsulating fog, which vanishes as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a figure that seemed to become strikingly alive under the golden rays of Helios.

Fingers roughened by the years can now be seen to march across the age-old inscription, an inscription chiseled by the hand of some ancient scribe whose identity is deemed to remain forever lost beneath the boundless fathoms of history. For certain, never would the scribe ever have imagined the ultimate depository of the tablet or its figure, or the fate of the words so deftly struck upon its surface: a tablet that now is on display in the Metropolitan Museum in New York City.

Words the Elder now reads aloud as he translates ever so carefully from the ancient Greek: To all ye of stout heart and limb, come forth to the Games at Olympia on the first moon of the high season . . . Let no man or god hinder him who travels under the protection of Zeus.

The Games, eh? comments the Digger. Still does he sweat profusely from his recent exertions. Yet still does he beam broadly, for success is theirs. No longer need he curse the day’s heat or the digging’s dust.

The Elder’s fingers are once again observed to cautiously drift across the face of the tablet, this time paying particular attention to the ax-like figure embedded beside the words previously described.

Aye! the Elder declares as he points out the figure. "See how it bears the double-bladed ax, the symbol of Zeus⁷ himself!"

He treats the figure as if it were the earthly epitome of that fabled god, perhaps because to the ancients it may very well have been.

Recognition spawns an overpowering attraction to the tablet, a tablet the Elder divines as holding not just an invitation, but a message to us from another time. So may it serve as a direct link from us to the distant past, and its gods.

It’s all there! the Elder declares, with an adulation not experienced in years.

Indeed, others would later claim this moment, the unearthing of so finely preserved a tablet and the events which were to follow, represented the meeting of two worlds, the ancient and the modern, and I would urge the reader to be mindful of such words in the passages that follow. But we digress.

Only now that the stone has finally yielded its message does the Elder vouchsafe himself a grin. An announcement from their gods it be! he cries. None dare defy it! he pronounces in respectful reverence. No longer need he obscure his elation for fear of offending the gods by disrupting their works, for in a sense, he has served them. His hour has come, and he joyously shows it! His life is complete, at least for this day. So does he smile and smile sumptuously as his thoughts fall back to those ancient times.

Yes, my boy, he proclaims to his student, this be their invite . . . their calling card . . .

Let us now permit our mind’s eye to ascend toward the darkening sky. And as it leaves the two figures and an ancient tablet behind, the ear picks up from afar the professor’s fading words: "It be their calling card to the Olympics."

The Eye continues on its journey through the stars. It is not long before the Ear picks up the opening chords of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, which can be heard resounding throughout the heavens. These sacred chords continue to fill the Ear as the Eye spies a movement down below. It is the lonely figure of a man plying a course through a secluded stand of forest. We see him as he trudges slowly toward a frozen lake that lies far beneath the track of our hypothetical voyager.

With this, we begin our descent, heading for a point with a bearing not far distant from the pedestrian just sighted.

In short order, we find ourselves beside a quaint city called Boston, hard by a bay in a state called Massachusetts.

A thick blanket of snow under the moonlight announces that it is winter.

It is night.

And it is cold.

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THE TABLET BORE THE AX OF THOR⁸

The inscription: an invitation to the ancient Olympics, and a warning

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THE THIRST

There comes a time when the skies grow gray and our world seems filled with shadows. When the Cape of Destiny⁹ falls like a fog to smother that flame we call hope.¹⁰ Such was the season for the Russian.

He could handle his days, for they bore few phantoms. But evening’s tide brought with it that demon called desperation. And when desperate, he drank. And when he drank, which was often, he drank rather heavily.

This night, we find him walking along the forest path at a pensioner’s pace, his sole companion being Artemis¹¹ the moon waxing overhead. The hour is late and the surrounding woods lay deathly still, as if forever petrified by the icy breath of Boreas.¹² Here dwells a Hadean silence broken only by the brittle crunching of frost underfoot.

The evening’s chill is shrugged off like so many flakes of snow, for it compares little with the bite of the Russian steppes.

Yes, he came from a land where the winds blew cold, and migrated to New England deliberately, seeking this very climate, for the climate spoke of ice, and so of skaters.

Such thoughts provoke a grin, while a melancholy moon mocks him from above, proclaiming that to her alone is granted a deeper wisdom regarding what mysteries and miseries men are destined to weather.

By this is meant there can be such a thing as a poverty of the body, and worse, a poverty of the soul. Such was the winter she divined this mortal must suffer through.

His Christian name was Vladimir, but he was casually referred to by both friend and foe alike as the Russian.

His journey had begun earlier that evening, shortly after consuming a dinner better suited for a mouse. It was then he was overcome by a sinking feeling that drowned him in a vast fatigue (some would later say of life itself) and he felt troubled for reasons that eluded him.

Then there came the thirst.

At length, the coach (for such was his trade) grew to dwelling upon his dreams. But then, dreams were not to be trusted. So he fought them off with the only weapon he possessed, for however meager might be his dinner, Comrade Vodka was rarely to be rationed.

He needed it, he muttered to himself, for what was to come, although for what he was as yet uncertain.

The evening deepened, and Vladimir’s drowsiness increased in kind. Gradually, he fell victim to a half-sleep, in which the mind becomes subject to all manner of illusions.

It was during one such intrusion that there came upon him a most disquieting visitation. It took the form of one of those specters from the past that rather tend to haunt us all, the kind that never truly rest while the soul still lives. This apparition roused the Russian, who warmly greeted it with a stream of expletives that we dare not repeat here. Oddly, the barrage was directed not only at the unheralded guest but also, quite democratically, toward all things in creation. Particular angst was focused upon the bottle - this for having failed him.

Did he not drink enough? The Russian bellowed. For like the fate of Tantalus,¹³ his thirst was not to be sated. But immediately did the Russian repent when he realized his fault: that what was being consumed here was not exclusively the spirits of the vodka. Rather, the consumption dwelled within the realm of an entirely different distillation. For here was a thirst that drank of him rather than him of the vodka, leaving him quite as hollow and empty as the bottle.

Such an incongruity befuddled Vladimir, who grew to view his most trusted comrade as a traitor. But what most particularly aroused the Russian’s interest lay not exclusively with the thirst itself; rather, it was directed toward that destination where the thirst summoned him.

Its inception, he did later disclose, came from some tidbit overheard in the arena, something that crept into the back reaches of his mind and brewed there, something that would not loosen its grip until its appetite had been sated upon what must lie ahead: something about a skater who loved the open lakes and the starry sky.

And as does the brew to the drunkard, did a Russian coach named Vladimir stoically yield to that compelling adjudication we call curiosity,¹⁴ which (in conjunction with a mad thirst) drew him toward this desolate spot where we now find him.

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THROUGH THE EYE OF THE MOON

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THE LAKE

Ahead, the faint glitter of ice spelled his journey’s end.

Above, a stygian blackness filled a sky so cold even the stars seemed reluctant to rise and serenade a lonely moon. Perhaps they lacked his means of fortification, the Russian jested in a black humor, and prayed of sorts that his phantom skater would exhibit more in the way of stamina. Perhaps, he mused, she might persuade the stars to rise high into the heavens and permit her to skate among them. This thought drew another grin, and provided further provocation to a mocking moon, for she divined the full irony of his jest. And that any intrusion among the stars would not be realized this night. But there would be other nights.

Behind lay disappointment and despair.

Slowly, as if Chronos¹⁵ had himself grown weary, the gray shrouds of a sultry sea mist began to drift in from the great bay, a sight not uncommon in these parts. And as he stood beside that lonely trail, Vladimir could not help but notice how the soft shrouds of mist that surrounded him bestowed a mysterious luminosity upon his world that even the cold air seemed powerless to dissipate. Later, some would say the fog he encountered was not unlike that which is said to linger before the gates of mighty Olympus, should one be acquainted with the myths.

But such words were spoken later.

Much later.

And again do we digress.

We live in an age deemed too modern for myths. Yet from the tiny haloes that graced the heavenly bodies, down to the trees whose gilded branches lay glittering ever so solemnly in the moonlight, there came an aura that made the Russian wonder, did some divine providence play a hand here? And Vladimir would have exhibited little in the way of amazement had a Salem witch, broom, skates, and all, crossed his path that very night.

This sense of the surreal must be shrugged off, he commanded himself, just as he must shrug off the full flood of senseless feeling that mattered not in a life grown gray and sullen.

But that mad sensation, that sense of the supernatural stubbornly chose to remain attached to him, clinging to him like the last few flakes of snow that clung to his coat like faithful little comrades.

And there still remained the thirst.

Then suddenly, from the fog came a faint echo, a sound so thin yet powerful it would remain embedded in the Russian’s memory until his dying day, for within its reverberations, Vladimir’s sensitive ears could discern, if only for a fleeting instant, the distinct high-pitched note only a blade slicing across ice can be claimed to enunciate.

And like a siren,¹⁶ that sound summoned him forth in a manner not unlike his earlier thirst.

In short order, our Russian gained the trail’s end, where a crowd of lonely pines lumbered over the banks of a frozen lake not quite as wide as it was long, the broad open expanse lying deserted as it bathed to near day’s brightness under the sheer moonlight. Its exposed surface appeared unmarked save for the faint scrapings left by a skater who had casually scribed some lines upon its face, and recently, unless the ice lied.

Perhaps it was she, Vladimir murmured, but immediately scorned himself for partaking in such foolish sanguinity, for speculation, like dreams, was to be avoided.

At this, he took purchase of his tin, for is there not a commandment stating a Russian should never venture forth without a sufficiency of vodka within to fortify his resolve? He thenceforth silently, but competently, toasted the ice with a tribute customarily reserved for a christening.

All else lay as dark and still as the night.

So here, where the black shadows fell beneath the tall green sentries, where he had no place else to go, here must he wait and watch with those deep melancholy eyes only the Slavic race is known to harbor.

Wait while the vodka slowly filled his veins.

And watch as the rays of a platinum moon, in concert with the lazy mist, lent (as I have stated) a sort of mystical radiance to the broad crystal surface that lay before the Russian’s prying eyes.

So begins this tale.

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WAITING AND WATCHING AS THE NIGHT GREW DEEPER

A wily moon mocked him

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THROUGH THE EYES

OF THE RUSSIAN

He did not count the minutes, but the moments passed hard.

About him, the forest remained wrapped in a glacial stillness as Hecate,¹⁷ goddess of the night, cast her shadowy cloak yet deeper over a world grown dark with gloom. Not a twig stirred, and the only movement appeared manifest in the Russian’s own breath, the vapor crystallizing instantly in the frigid night air, while his eyes burned nearly as much as his stomach for want of substance.

Had he less in the way of conviction, the Russian would have departed that instant. But he stood his ground lest he lose all trust in his instincts. To be sure, Vladimir questioned his sanity, his one consolation being he had little better to do that evening.

And had he not heard the skate?

So, lulled by the silence and numbed by the drink, did a dismal Russian stand his ground and settle into a sentry’s trance not unlike under the spell were one wrapped in a dream. Meanwhile, as if in godly sympathy, Artemis’s soft rays lent a faint blush of comradeship to what otherwise was a man’s lonely world.

More minutes passed. A sad moon waxed yet higher, shrouded by the gathering mist. Perhaps it too lamented the loss of its skater. And as the night grew deeper and the tin’s contents diminished yet further, the Russian’s thirst did grow greater and his dreams become yet stronger.

He was now in that world where memories are said to be launched and sail slowly across the seas of the mind. Here and there, they poked about like little lost vessels seeking a safe harbor. But no refuge did they find in the Russian’s mind. Eventually, the relevant forces that govern such matters caused these remembrances to regiment themselves in long tidy columns that marched forth in cadence across the endless cosmos. By this is meant not only through the heavens above, but so too within the dreamer’s eyes, eyes that held the hint of a great sadness, as if they were revisiting the scars of yesterdays.

Then he heard it again, that barely audible sound.

Instantly, his senses perked up. The distant shadows appeared not nearly so dull and listless now, now that the telltale sound of metal scraping against solid ice grew steadily stronger. Only later would he swear over a clenched fist of having sensed its presence long before hearing his ghost as it came steadily closer. Describing how, at last, from the inky gloom there arose a tiny flicker, a light so minute it might suffice to announce the dawning of a far-off star, save this aberration came in at breakneck speed within the scope of a zero-altitude glide across the frozen lake.

And how he caught sight of her as she suddenly emerged from the shadows.

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THE ICE SKATER

She appeared as if in a dream, as if out of the very night. And were one to read the reflection off the Russian’s burning eyes, there would appear within its aurora the consummate image of a skater skimming manifestly across the ice.

So did Vladimir capture his skater and so did he command his eyes to focus yet harder and so catch this fairy-tale-like figure whose graceful manner and poise spoke most judiciously of womanhood’s fabled treasures. Like a czarina, she was clad in fur-fringed cape and Cossack hat, but as the distance was great and Hecate’s dark veil still conspired to conceal her form, our Russian comprehended little of his skater save for the flash of her blade and the quick stride of the leg. So too did he capture the paleness of her frozen face when the moon caught her just right in one of its luckier moments.

She was young, he perceived, young and in her flower. Young in the sense that she carried not the heavy burden that womanhood bestows upon its kind and, with due respect to motherhood, mechanically prohibits the crisp, violent maneuvers that are more naturally accomplished by the less sumptuously adorned adolescent. Young, with legs long and muscles tight, limbs representing to Vladimir’s trained eye the sculptured steel pinions that mark a figure skater in her prime, watching so hard his breath ceased lest it mar her fleeting vision.

Suddenly, Vladimir’s eyebrows danced as the skater leaped into a marvelous jump, a jump he would later claim threatened the very moon, a leap that declared to Vladimir she was not the creation of the arena’s mindless gossip and that it would be many an hour before he would desire to regain the detachment of sleep, now that he had witnessed such power.

Then, just as suddenly did the old specter reappear from the past to again cast its daunting figure across the portals to the Russian’s mind, and for one blinding instant, he saw a far different figure skating across the ice. Dizziness overcame him, and it was overcome in turn by a curse that would make women weep. At length, the apparition faded back to the dungeon from whence it had come, and Vladimir refocused hard to recapture the present. But like the specter, she too had vanished, and all that lay before the Russian had returned to dark pitched midnight.

She must return, she must, she must . . . the Russian commanded, but only a thin sea mist claimed possession of the ice.

Minutes passed and still nothing, while the stars winked overhead, perhaps knowing better. Then in a place barely illuminated by the moon’s vagrant rays, Vladimir did catch sight of the skater emerging from the dark shadows and reaching out for the open ice where, once again, did she spin and leap high into the heavens. And then to land with undiminished speed as soft and graceful as might a snowflake upon the icy sheet.

Meanwhile, Vladimir perceived her every detail in awed silence.

Suddenly, the skater stopped, her blades digging in as shavings of ice flew high into the air. Within the same instant, she abruptly turned and sped toward the shore, to a spot not far distant from where the Russian stood, skating with the relaxed strides that spoke of recognition. Vladimir’s unwavering gaze followed her until she fell into the embrace of a young man who appeared at the ice’s edge. Nearby, on a bench reserved for such effort, she removed her skates and handed them to her companion. Even in the dark, his handsome square-cut face projected cleanly from beneath the crown of a woolly cap.

So? the young man asked in helping the skater with her coat.

I landed it, she said without fervor, while the flush of victory shone crisply on her moonlit face.

Who’s that? the young man inquired after securing her skates. In speaking, the fellow pointed to a spot where moments earlier, he had caught a glimpse of someone or something standing amid the nearby pines. But their combined gaze found only darkness, for by then the shadows of the forest had completely captured that corner of the shore where Vladimir stood.

Nobody, the skater announced as she wrapped her arm around her companion’s. Just nobody, she added as they walked away in the moonlight, leaving the lake and the forest to the Russian.

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IN HIS EYES

She appeared as if in a dream, as if out of the very night

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(Should the reader inquire as to what imaginative rhythm the skater was dancing to, the author wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Allegro Con Brio, or first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor, Op. 67.)

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NOBODY

He stood mute for a moment, cradled in a philosopher’s thought.

That he had seen her was a satisfaction to his curiosity. That he must see her again was his pledge to the future, for she now held the Russian’s peculiar interest.

Once . . . Vladimir murmured in a low gruff voice. Once, I . . . Then he scowled at a wound self-inflicted by the blade of the deceiver’s ill-honed vanity. He declared himself an ass and turned toward his former path, cursing half of God’s world and one singular fool upon it.

Regaining the trail, he slowly melted away like a phantom consumed by the shadows. And had anyone been there to bear witness, would have observed that he walked with a noticeable limp.

That night, as he slept, Vladimir once again willed her to rise, just as he had summoned her to do so upon the lake ice. Again he saw her shooting for the heavens, leaping high into the frigid air. Higher, it seemed, than . . . It caused him to stare in disbelief even within the construct of his own dream, and therein to question his very eyes, for the Russian inherently trusts nothing.

His throat tightened as he unconsciously rose in his sleep. A tear that spoke of both hope and endless sadness silently crept down his cheek.

Never before had he seen anyone jump quite like that! Not even in practice where they take the greater risks. Never even in Mother Russia. And she in full winter garb! Then, the crisp clean landing! And with this latter vision, his heart stopped for a moment’s beat as the old memory was rekindled, and the specter of his own great fall once again overshadowed his visions. Again he heard the ancient crack of bones breaking and the crowd crying. And again he winced in agony as the sharp pain returned to his leg and trumpeted its presence throughout his frame, if only to remind him that life’s offerings need not necessarily be fair.

By kind fortune, our dreamer was handed a brief respite from his misery when another belayed recollection came knocking upon the door to his brain, this being one of astonishment and of an admiration that, were it to be measured in meters, would reach to the very stars.

"And she did it on lake ice!" were the words reverberating in his mind before he fell back into his bed, falling into that sacred sea that lies between conscious shore and the subconscious depths. Like the eternal tides which drift in and out according to the heartbeat of nature, so did he steal away from one world and drift far into the deep. For like the proverbial captain sinking with his ship, the Russian was swallowed whole beneath the wave.

Drowned, as he was, by the thirst that claimed him.

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AN ARTIST’S BREAKFAST

He woke with the first gray rays of Eos,¹⁸ the dawn, a custom observed by him since his earliest years in St. Petersburg, then termed Leningrad. But today, he would not rise up with a roar, like the wave approaching the morning shore. Rather, he would await the true light of day. Yes, he said, he must grant himself a moment to contemplate, time to catch up with his dreams, for the mechanics of her leap still lingered in his mind.

Iris,¹⁹ the goddess of the rainbow, came and cast her fleeting wand across dawn’s lightening sky, her thin hallowed light revealing his small apartment. It wasn’t much, little more than an artist’s loft, but adequate for a bachelor who rarely entertained, or could afford to. Still, it was his and bespoke a reserved yet distinctly bohemian lifestyle.

Beside the bed stood a wooden bureau that served as a stand for a lamp and an old photograph, now faded and worn in its frame, portraying a figure skater performing a leap. And were one to peer closely at its subject and add a score of years to the face, one might discern a certain resemblance to the Russian. Then, as now, his back was as straight as a soldier’s, for always was he a warrior who carried within his chest the stigma all artists must bear: that of being ordained to save the world while engaged in a mortal struggle against it.

He had little in his purse, and that once meant nothing to him. Neither did he mind the meagerness of his existence, for with the struggle came the test and a lust for life unbeknown to those who have never tasted the ambrosia that can only be purchased at the cost of deprivation. Let others follow the latest fashions and make their fortunes, he once boasted, rather condescendingly; he would hold tight to an impecunious purity some would simply call poverty.

Perhaps, for the young artist, this is enough. In that sense, the Russian remained young. But sacrifice cost more with age and the appearance of each new wrinkle, and in this sense, the Russian felt his years. Still, such self-indulgence was reserved strictly for his weaker moments, moments when Vladimir sought some kind of encouragement from the world, a reassurance that what he was doing (or aspired to do) was neither madness nor deception nor poverty for its own sake, but rather a raw form of dedication. But such acknowledgment was not forthcoming from an apathetic world. At such times, the poverty of his existence wore on him like a witch’s curse, for it is the artist who suffers worst who must endure the world’s indifference.

And now came this nagging thirst.

The Russian rose and turned his eyes to the kitchen. Here upon a small table stood a bottle. He remembered finishing off its contents following the trek of the night before. Again he recalled the fleeting image and again grunted something untranslatable to Western ears while questioning whether it had all been but a bad dream; yet another plot by his subconscious to deceive him.

The air he breathed felt heavy and stale, so he opened a window to taste the morning’s freshness. The breeze came in wet and cold and smelled of snow. Death for the lake ice, he thought.

Next, he struck a match to light a fire below a small tarnished kettle that stood like a sentry upon an equally seedy stove. Nothing really worked here, and yet somehow he managed to get by. Better than the old country, he supposed. He then shuffled over to a nearby cupboard, from which he procured a metal box adorned with a flame-belching Chinese dragon. From this, he removed his breakfast. Tea was enough to get him going and warm his stomach, tea and a few crackers to fill his empty pouch. Almost eagerly, he checked the cabinet for the night’s menu and nodded in appreciation of the salted herring tin and black bread that awaited his evening’s pleasure, noting that his meals were as threadbare as his humor.

Limping past the kitchen and an ancient closet that held his small store of clothes, he proceeded to the tiny washroom containing a mirror and a medicine cabinet that harbored a cargo of outdated remedies. He shaved and noticed his eyes, brown and red-rimmed from the previous night’s excursion, eyes once known to burn with passion. Or so said his lovers, at least what was left of them. Underneath the headlights lay shadows as dark and deep as the Russian soil.

He peered harder into the mirror.

He was a professional, he told himself, and must dress like one, even though he was paid like a pauper. So he picked up the scrapings of the skating world and trained them for the local competitions.

For one must eat.

His students were few and for the most part unaccomplished, but what could one hope for from those with meager talent? On occasion, he had been blessed with someone worthwhile, only to see them desert his school and skate for the name-brand coaches when their success seemed assured. One former student even took the silver medal at the nationals, but no one mentioned the name Vladimir Krasnow. At such times, he felt burdened by the curse of Sisyphus,²⁰ that of being destined to forever roll a boulder up a hill and, just when he was near the summit, to see it fall back down again. Call it a mythical representation of the futility of life. So he took his fees from those willing to aspire and did what he could with what talents they harbored. And all the while, his despair mounted with each turn of the seasons, reaching its nadir in the winter when the days grew short and the ice reappeared to constantly remind him of what might have been. It was then that he grew most bitter as he saw his wheels spinning and his age come to ripen.

Still, he had his allies where they stood like troopers on the kitchen shelf. The vodka (Stolichnaya vodka) he poured into a small flask that he placed carefully within his coat pocket. But not before a few drops reached his lips.

For one must drink.

Its mates must wait for the evening tide.

Next came the packet of Marlboro.

For one must smoke.

At times, he would wonder when the smoke or drink would kill him, and whether they were vying for the honor. Then he recanted this deposition. Yes, he could claim to be alive, if tragedy can be called living. For like the Greeks, tragedy occurs only with its recognition. While of the Soviet doctors who botched up his leg, one was immediately shot and the other sent posthaste to Siberia to practice medicine on sled dogs. Better they should have been hung like true comrades across the limb of a tree, each at the end of a single rope.

Then the kettle sounded.

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AN ARTIST’S BREAKFAST

Burdened by the curse of Sisyphus

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THE ORIGINAL OLYMPICS

She liked to iron her own clothes and smell the fresh warmth of the fabric. It was just another of those small things that made her life complete. She had no children of her own, but the closeness with her niece made up for that one lonely spot in her life.

The snow was falling steadily, and out in the streets, the plow trucks were gearing up for their morning’s toil. She enjoyed the city then, when the snow was still white and the world was so clean and refreshing. She knew Debbie would appreciate the magic of winter’s spell too, then took to wondering how the girl could do so much.

She peered past the laundry closet toward the living room couch where Debbie lay asleep beside a small bundle of books. Poor child, she thought, always studying or working as a tutor when off the ice. The aunt removed a blanket from the shelf and gently placed it across her niece, noticing the soft rhythm of her breathing through the thin, slightly parted lips, and smiled. This child was her best friend, her only true confidant, and she knew that Debbie felt the same way about her.

She had raised her niece since Debbie’s mother died, and she had to be both mother and father shortly thereafter, loving her as she might her own child, thinking she knew her niece, yet fearing not. She had always found Debbie to be a thoughtful, well-mannered child who perennially strove to be the best, perhaps to make up for so much she missed, and always dreaming with those sad green eyes that shone as might sunlight off a shallow sea, here yet far away, and always so hard to capture.

She also remembered Debbie as a child who never cried and kept her hurts tightly locked within her heart. Who held her head high and so was thought to be a snob by others who spoke with the vulgar tongue. Who had few friends because she looked to herself and chose not to follow the crowd. Quite like her mother, the aunt acknowledged, and equally strong-willed. Then she grew glum at the thought that her niece so rarely smiled, perhaps because she forever sought truth in a world riddled with falsehoods.

Debbie was tall for a skater, and lanky, but otherwise had all the right attributes including a small but well-proportioned bosom and tight yet womanly thighs. Still, she suffered from being beyond her peak at the ripe old age of eighteen, or so said the talent scouts. And if she could jump, how long would it last? And if she performed best on solitary ice (should one believe the rumors), who was there to care? What mattered most was what happened under the scrutiny of the camera and the eyes of the judges. That was where the coins were minted. So she had become resigned to be a pairs skater and had performed so well in the role that the dream of an Olympic medal could not be lightly sneezed at.

The aunt went back to her ironing while her thoughts remained captive to the past. These memories were a comfort to her, seeing Debbie grow from a child to a woman, and forever recalling the girl’s skating and those wonderful high leaps. And how her heart shuddered in dread that the girl might fall hard in the landing, but never really did.

She could not stand to see Debbie pained, for the child had had enough of that, and all the while hoping that Debbie’s partner on the ice would open up her heart to happiness, while fearing it would not.

A soft moan emanated from the couch, and moments later, Debbie appeared, her eyes still at half-mast but awakening, prompting the aunt to reach for the kettle and pour the morning’s tea. So how did it go last night? she asked, her German accent still noticeable after all those years.

Debbie appeared to suddenly awaken. I did it, Auntie. I landed it! she proclaimed, her eyes now holding a radiant sparkle. But just as soon as it appeared, the luster on her face began to fade, replaced, as it was so often, by that faraway look. Her spirits resembled a rocket that, having been fired high into the stratosphere, must be reclaimed by gravity and pulled back down to its ultimate destruction.

Helmet? inquired the aunt.

He picked me up after. Then we had coffee, Debbie answered, as if either were a mere footnote. The books came later.

He’s such a nice-looking young man, the aunt commented with a mischievous grin. It’s a wonder all the other gal skaters aren’t after him.

They are, replied Debbie earnestly, her voice a bit hoarse, but they know he’s my partner. This was spoken through the gates of a small smile. It doesn’t matter, anyway, she added in a tone that, at least to the aunt, seemed dismissive.

Then why so gloomy? the aunt asked.

I don’t know, Debbie admitted, succumbing to a shallow yawn. It’s just that I felt a strange presence out there on the ice . . . something that struck me when I went into the jump, almost as if . . . he were back.

An uneasy silence followed, broken when the aunt noted, With those long hours at school and on the ice, it’s no wonder you get any sleep at all.

Debbie, still drowsy, muttered softly, You know why I do it.

The aunt peered at the skates hanging on the corner rack. Yes, she granted with a long sigh, I know, then turned a probing eye toward Debbie’s books. So what will you be studying at university today? she inquired.

We’re still on the Greek tradition . . . and mythology, Debbie answered, reflectively. But I don’t mind. I find it fascinating. The mere mention of the subject seemed to awaken her.

I remember your father always reciting the ancient tales about the Greeks and their Olympics. He used to read aloud to you. Yes, after all these years, I can still remember, she remarked with a slight grin, and then went back to her laundry.

Debbie said nothing. Consciously she began withdrawing yet further into herself while the aunt continued on her journey into the past. And questioned, as she had done so often, why Debbie studied ancient cultures and mythology with such savor, yet denied as little as a thought to him who had first enlightened her.

I found it so interesting, the aunt sighed as she continued ironing out the creases that lay before her. The ancient myths, I mean. The story of the first Olympics, the Olympics of the gods, he would say. He always had a way with words. Describing how Zeus sent his ax sailing so far . . . She turned to Debbie. Then your father would throw you so high my heart near stopped beating at times. The aunt’s eyes brightened with the thought of it while Debbie’s face grew correspondingly more distraught. God knows how I can remember such things, the aunt continued. But I do recall him citing Pindar, the poet who wrote about the athletes. She turned to her niece, probing. Don’t you remember? And recalled how Debbie would listen wide-eyed and spellbound as she captured his every word. Don’t you remember? she asked again.

Debbie remained quiet for a moment, trying to keep the old ghosts buried as was her habit whenever the topic was broached.

Yes. Of course, she remembered. Every moment, it seemed. Every piercing detail:

How her father told her of the First Olympics: the Olympics of the gods that mortals in their feeble attempts still try to emulate. Describing how Zeus put down his thunderbolt and took up his favored battle-ax, the ax of Thor. How he flung the mighty ax far into the heavens and where it landed set a new mark unmatched by any mortal or immortal.

How as a child she tried it on ice, to throw herself as one might that fabled ax. How it worked, crudely at first, and better when her father would grab her as she leaped and fling her so high she seemed to soar up to the gates of those very Olympians he so often found reason to describe.

How he caught and steadied her landing.

How much she loved him when they laughed together after sharing this little happiness.

How fond he was of quoting the Lost Poet, as he termed Pindar: lost because he looked too strongly to the past, a poet because he saw God in the athletic sport and wrote praises for those who excelled on the field. Whose song, her father claimed, held a flame that set the ear ablaze, for it rang of the truth, poetry being truer than history, or so said Aristotle.

How to him, as to the ancient Greeks, gaining truth was equal to gaining joy. How they wrote of tragedy and wept for the fallen hero.

How he left her.

Debbie’s eyes found those of her aunt. Yes, she replied at the cost of a bitter acknowledgment, yes, I remember. Then a curtain of silence fell like a sword between the two, and any further words on that subject were best left unspoken.

I have to go now, Debbie ended softly. The blanket, folded, lay in her hands.

Try not to be so late, the aunt reminded her niece, the message stamped with a small note of concern. It seemed she always said that, although the words were not necessary, except to relay the fact that she loved her niece dearly.

Debbie placed the blanket on the closet shelf, stroking it as one might a kitten. I’ll try not to, she said and stood frozen for a moment, before inquiring, Why do you keep those?

The aunt left her iron and went to the shelf. In placing the blanket, Debbie had inadvertently displaced its confederates and revealed the small objects the aunt now held in her hands, sort of toying with them. They were Debbie’s first pair of skates, the ones her father had brought her for the earliest Christmas the skater could remember.

Oh, I just keep these for no real reason. Maybe I thought you might want them someday. She tried to force a smile but knew what to expect.

No, I don’t think so, her niece replied with an uncensored hint of irritation in her voice, reflecting a resentment for a senseless sentimentality that never did anyone any good.

The aunt turned to face her niece and spoke in a pleading tone. You must learn to forgive, she said. Her face held that shadow of remorse the soldier wears when he fears the battle is lost, the aunt acknowledging that attitudes, like accents, tend to be perennial.

Or forget? Debbie replied scornfully.

You know, after your mother died, well, he—

Yes, I know, retorted Debbie coldly, her eyes deep and darkening.

Well, I mean to say, he loved your mother so much that—

I’ve got to talk to Connie about some new steps, Debbie interjected. I’ll try not to be too late, she promised as she planted a quick kiss on the aunt’s cheek.

But the aunt knew then, as in the past and as would be certain in the future, that it would be a pledge her niece would find hard to keep, for once Debbie was on the ice, time and words and the entire world meant scarcely little to her.

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THE AUNT

He spoke of the ancient myths

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CIGARETTES, VODKA,

AND RUSSIAN RULES

His full name was Vladimir Patronovich Krasnow, better known, as we have said, by his nom de guerre as the Russian, although he was often referred to under less assuming titles. Normally, out of consideration for his leg, he drove the Alfa to the rink, but today he retraced his steps to the lake as if to test its texture.

He scanned the soft shadows that bathed the shoreline, and retraced the footsteps of the night before. After convincing himself it had not been a mad dream, he continued to the distant arena. It was one of those dozen or so establishments scattered throughout the states that in the final decade of the last century attracted so many émigrés from the east of Europe after their system failed them.

He arrived at the arena late and unexpected, at a time when the natives were usually engaged in enjoying their coffee while indulging in a tirade of slanders against outsiders and foreigners in general, for to many of the regulars, foreigners such as him were not welcomed in this world of competition when native coaches were more than plentiful. So it is no wonder he overheard yet another slur emanating from one tall slight fellow, a man engaged in doing absolutely nothing for his generous union wages while making crude judgments of the world and its suppressed workers. One must wonder whether he was a philosopher or a simple misguided leftist as he leaned against the building as if he were supporting it, while his ally, smaller but heavier, sat half snoozing on a stool beside him when not engaged in admiring the local beauties.

Eh! Émigrés! They’re all too common in these parts! If it were up to me, I’d throw the whole lot of ’em out! the thin one complained, but not too loudly, for one never knows who is overhearing.

His seated companion held the advantage of having sighted the overbearing form of the Russian in advance of his reply, and this in uncomfortably close proximity. He wisely found it healthier to argue, Ah, but we’re all émigrés! and he peered diffidently at his cohort while husbanding a stunted smile. The tall one, wondering what was amiss, turned about warily. One look from the Russian, one cut from the coach’s eye announcing his displeasure for such innuendo was enough to stem the haranguer’s appetite for further slander, discerning well enough this was not an opportune time for rebuttal. Having thus misplaced a considerable portion of his bravado, the tall man backed farther against the building, as might one seeking its mettle. The other sat still as a mummy, as if frozen by the morning’s chill. Each diverted his gaze in rapid succession as the Russian plied grimly by, for none could withstand the pointed stare of the coach, especially when he clenched