It was well conceived in theory
But it doesn't work in life -
Balance, Ivan thinks, is the key.
Because this is how it is now, Ivan knows, cat feet and tip-toe, one foot in front of precarious other, arms out for balance. And as he watches the girls - girls, really, he doesn't know what China was thinking, they all see it, clear as the glass of Beijing's new buildings - he thinks on it, on how it all comes down, really, to one element, one simple principle, dancing, dangling between extremes.
In the middle of the gymnasium, the dark-haired girl vaults herself into the air, tumbles through the air before landing - gracefully, flawlessly - on the mat, arms out as camera shutters click-click-click close.
Ivan claps: automatically, distractedly. Eyes busy, eyes on China.
China. China, who sits there placid, quiet -not cheering, not clapping, all of his normal exuberance replaced by imperial dignity, the only sign of celebration the small smile on his lips, the faint pride in charcoal soft eyes. He knows, now; they all do. Underage or not, Yilin will win, and it will be China's victory, as well: China's victory and China's pride. A nation's hopes pinned on wisps of children.
And, as he watches them slip the medal around the beaming girl's neck, Ivan thinks on comrades and capitalism, nationality and humanity. Thinks on ideology and reality, Stalin and Mao and Sino-Soviet splits. Thinks on balance, balance, balance.
Fourteen. Fourteen medals in total, eight of them gold.
It is a ridiculous number, nearly an unprecedented number-but not an unpredicted one. And, seeing the smile on China's face, Ivan cannot help but forget his own showing, his own victories and his own losses.
(Because there is - has always been - something about China, something like sun or sunflowers, something that drew Russia's thoughts away from his own country and pulled them southeast -)
Flashbulbs pop-pop-popping surround China in a halo of light, blind Ivan for a moment's time. And China sits there, serene, calm, placid. Regal in his four thousand years of life.
("I am the oldest of you," he had said, had said when it was just them, no Mao or Khrushchev, no human interference to intrude in national affairs. "I think I have a right to run my country myself -")
"That was a good showing, China," Ivan says, passing each other in the hall.
"Thank you, Russia," China replies, nodding. Again calm, again placid. Diplomatic.
And that is all. That is all. All before they walk away in opposite directions, leave for separate leaders and the separate affairs of separate countries.
"He's cheating," America says. "There is no way that girl was sixteen."
Well, yes, Ivan thinks privately, but what of it? Perhaps China had cheated; perhaps he had lied. But he was their host country none the less, had treated them to fireworks and banquets, had rebuilt a city in their honor - and if there was a little truth-bending, a little corruption, what of it? Hardly as if America's fabled democracy was much better.
But he doesn't say that, doesn't say that because it would be antagonistic and wrong and undiplomatic, and they are long past those days now, long past Cold War, Stalin, the Iron Curtains that kept his family safe - and which were, in the end, the only thing keeping them together -
Past days of proletariat and revolutionary, capitalistic scum and Marx and Engels. Now, now, they were all America's people: all bourgeois intelligentsia and capitalistic scum.
(Except China.
Not quite, not yet.)
"He cheated," America insists, voice growing louder when he senses that no one is paying his complaints any attention. "He cheated."
"And maybe he did," England says, glaring at America over his newspaper. "No need to carry on about it like such a prat."
"But it isn't fair," America insists, dogged, childishly outraged. "You can't do that -"
"Tell me that the next time one of your football players gets arrested for overdosing, will you?"
America glares at England, and for one small moment, Ivan allows himself to hope that this will be the end of it, America's suspicions and gauche justice dissolving the way it usually does, into a fight with England.
But it doesn't.
"He cheated," America repeats, eyes flashing behind his glasses. "At the Olympics. And that's just wrong."
His eyes make their way through the lounge, flicker from England, who has returned to his newspaper, to France talking with Seychelles to Germany making coffee to Ivan. Who sits there, sits there, quiet, unagitated, calm.
America's eyes stop at Ivan.
"Fine," he says, and his voice is hard now, détente brittle, "if none of you give a flying shit about the cheating under our noses, I can deal with that."
He turns, then, turns and slams the door after him.
"Sore loser," England mutters as he returns to his tea and paper.
The next time Ivan steps into the Beijing National Indoor Station, the first things he sees are reporters. And worse: American ones.
They surround the Chinese team: swarms of them, all microphones and lights and two-piece suits with glossy lipstick and a million questions. China is in the midst of them, and he smiles at the reporters, smiles as he waves his hands and assures them (too-loud, too-eager) that no, no, it was all just a rumor, silly, really, there were passports and documents - but really, wasn't that taking that a little too far, a little too excessive, and why they here anyway, aru, wouldn't it be much more pleasant to have some tea inside instead - ?
Too much, Ivan thinks sadly, too much enthusiasm, too much motion. Too much desperation and too much desire behind the denials. China was not issuing repudiations; he was issuing pleas.
Ivan doesn't blame him.
Doesn't blame him, no, but wishes still, despite it all, that he could be go, go and be there in China's place, could offer the reporters his most eerie smiles in lieu of China's soft politeness -
But he knows he can't. Can't, though he would dearly wish too, because it would bring back the past, old memories of old hostilities and old alliances, break the tenuous balance they had built after dissolution -
Ivan knows that. He knows, knows that the past is gone, the old glory days all faded away - and knows, besides all that, that China would never accept his help now.
So Ivan can only stand there, stand there and watch with a sick feeling in his stomach as they descend on China.
The rumors spread.
Monday, and they are at the uneven bars, He Kexin looking even more petite and young than possible as she balances between two bars of wood. The reporters watch her. They do not clap when she finishes.
China is smiling. To all the world but Ivan he is calm, composed after the debacle of the past days.
Ivan knows, though. Knows and catches the faint, raw hope in China's eyes when the judges announce their scores - you see? surely I can't have forged that - knows and catches and aches at it.
He Kexin wins gold, and none of the reporters clap at it.
"It is Longjing tea," China explains to England, quietly pouring the other nation a cup of the steaming liquid. "From Hanzhou. Very famous, very good. One of Zhejiang's specialties."
"I've heard of it before,," England says, swirling the tea around in its delicate porcelain, "Dragon Well tea, I think we call it. It's very expensive, isn't it?"
"Perhaps," China responds, gently sipping his tea. "It was once a luxury, true, aru, but we can hardly give guests second-rate tea."
"Ah," England says, and then is quiet as he drinks his tea.
"My prime minister always insists on matcha for guests," Japan says, sipping his tea, "but I think that your way, too, is just as well, China-san. It is quite beautiful watching the leaves unfold in the water."
Japan does not smile, does not say anything more. But Ivan knows that China has always been just as good at reading the atmosphere as Japan, and Ivan knows that China understands.
Ivan has always felt awkward at these occasions, even when the tea ceremonies had been merely been himself and China. There was something private in it, some ancient, imperial part of China that he had never quite felt privy to, and the incongruity was only worsened now, exacerbated by the number of other Asian nations sitting down for the tea ceremony. They belonged here; Russia did not, just as he had never belonged with England and the others, had always, always been stuck in between, not quite Occident yet neither quite Orient, either. Always in the middle, always stepping one foot in front of the other, trying to balance WestEastoldnew -
"Russia?"
Ivan starts, and sees China's eyes on him. Looks down, and sees his hands clamped, almost clutched against a tiny teacup.
"Would you like something to eat, aru?" China asks, smiling as he extends a tray of pastries forward.
(Memories. Memories memories memories: war councils and ideological meetings, world and cold war, comrades and bourgeois, China's leaders, China's eyes, China's smile -)
"Russia?"
"Y-yes," Ivan says, smiling as he puts his teacup down as he selected a sesame cookie. The room is silent, utterly silent as he pops it into his mouth, chews, smiles.
"Your cooking is still as excellent as always, China."
China smiles, and the tension in the air palatably lessens at it.
"Thank you, Russia."
Russia smiles back -
And someone breaks the silence and knocks at the door.
"Excuse me," China says, standing up and going towards the door. "Ah! - Lipao, what a pleasure to see you! Would you care for some -"
"No," the bureaucrat says, "no egg tarts this time, sir. There is - ah - business."
"Business? What business could there possibly be that you can't stop and enjoy -"
"Official business," Lipao answers, glancing meaningfully at the dozen-some nations gathered in the room. "The other officials would like to speak to you. Alone."
Confusion, and then comprehension slowly dawns on China's face.
"I see," he says softly.
Then, turns around, all bright cheer and energy.
"Aru, these leaders of mine! All this business and not even time for a cup of tea! What a way to treat guests!"
"It will be a quick meeting, sir."
"Alright, alright," China says, waving a hand at Lipao, "if you say so, though it's awful to lie to your own country, aru? All my ministers ever want to do is talk, talk, talk - zheng shi luo li luo suo de yao ming! Aiyah! Don't wait for me!" he adds, turning around and flashing them all is best smile. "The tea will get cold if you do."
And then the door closes shut, and China is gone.
They are investigating.
It is an official thing, no longer confined to tabloid speculation and curbside rumors; this will be the work of not some American reporter, but the International Federation of Gymnastics, the IFG, the organization in charge of all gymnastic standards. They are the ones who will be investigating, the ones who will soon be accusing China of lies and cheating -
"A cursory check," Ivan catches between cracks, between doors, "only a routine investigation." And China nods at it, agrees, brings passports, validates names.
The next day, the IFG agrees that it is true, China's athletes are old enough to compete.
There is silence in Olympic Village for a while, silence as the gathered athletes listen to the announcement -
And then, slowly, shake their heads, say as one no.
And so the investigations continue.
Walking towards the Water Cube, Ivan sees Japan approach China, who looks up from where he is grinding ink sticks.
"Japan! What a pleasant surprise -"
"As it is for me, China-san," Japan says automatically, but there is something underneath Japan's usual calm that makes the smile slide from China's face, like ink fading before rain.
"Is something the matter, Japan? Do you need -"
"No, nothing. Everything is perfectly comfortable -"
"Then what?"
"China-san," Japan starts, hesitates, begins again. "I am sorry, but… my athletes are protesting as well. It - it is regrettable, but I - I must. My prime minister would not allow me not to."
Silence.
"I understand, Japan," China says. Smiles at the other nation. "For fairness' sake, aru? Perfectly fine. Perfectly fine."
China smiles. Wide, friendly, cheerful.
Japan says nothing.
"Ah, but what is the time!" China exclaims, looking down at his watch. "Japan, really, you shouldn't be here - Ishii is competing in an hour! You should go. You'd be late, aru, if you don't."
He smiles, again. And, slowly, hesitantly, Japan nods, slowly walks away, footsteps almost tentative as he leaves.
China stands there, smiling.
Ivan knows the smile. Knows it because he, too has worn it all too recently, when walls came falling down and they all began to go, go, brothersistercomradefamily, family-
Family.
Japan had been China's family, too, onceuponatime so far away. And then the war had come and then he wasn't.
Oh, yes, Ivan knew that smile, had worn himself it so that it was taut and thin and threadbare.
Had worn it, after all, all his life.
And then, all of a sudden, it is over, Olympics 2008 all over gone, Phelps and Bolt and gymnastics all finished with one last burst of fireworks, one last
But the IFG is still investigating, and when Ivan returns to the nations' quarters, China is the only nation nowhere to be found.
Outside, as the other nations talk and pack and laugh, it begins to rain.
Ivan finds him, sometime between sunset and sunrise, somewhere in Beijing's winding streets. Finds him there, standing against the wall, rain drip-drip-dripping down and ruining silk robes.
"China," Russia says, quietly padding towards the other nation, a red umbrella raised above his head.
"Russia," China says dully, not even looking up at the other nation. "What a surprise to see you here."
"You should get out of the rain."
"Perhaps," China concedes, but does not move.
They stand there for a while.
"So it's over now."
"It is," China acknowledges, faintly tilting his head.
"It was an impressive show."
"Do you think so?" China asks. "Do you, really?"
"We all do."
"They say that, do they?"
"They do."
"Of course," China says quietly. "Of course."
A pause.
"Most of us think it's wrong, you know. The investigation."
"Ah. Do you."
"Yes. They say -"
"Say what?" China asks, head suddenly whipping up. "Say that Beijing is a beautiful city, wonderful, such great progress, aru - as though I do not watch their news reports, do not see their newspapers about the smog and pollution? Say that China is improved, so much from before, even when they grudge me my economics and despise my leaders? Say that they're sorry, that it's terrible unnecessary, how horrible it must be for me? Say that, even as they go around accusing my athletes of cheating and me of lying?"
"China -"
"I didn't cheat!" China shouts, and there is no smile on his face now as his voice rings across the square. "I didn't, I didn't!"
"I know."
And then all was, for a moment, silence, the only sound that of raindrops.
"I didn't cheat," China whispers, whispers as the rain runs in rivets across his face, "I didn't. I didn't."
There is a desperation in China's eyes and a lostness and the rain is falling, falling, growing stronger by the moment. Lightning flashes, in the distance, illuminates for one brief second the sky and the incipient tears in China's eyes in brilliant chiaroscuro.
And Ivan says, "you'll catch recession if you stay there. Come out of the rain." Then, pausing, adds, "comrade."
China's eyes widen for a brief moment, but then the surprise is gone, and then there is something else in its stead, recognition, perhaps, or resignation, maybe, but Ivan has never been good at reading feelings. All he knows is that there is something there, something not quite affection but not quite nothing either. A sign, perhaps.
"Thank you," China says, quietly, as he walks beneath the umbrella, and Ivan nods at it, offers a small "you're welcome" in response."
Neither of them say anything then, only stand there, listening to the rain fall down.
"We should get going," China says, finally.
"Alright."
And it's true, Ivan thinks, thinks as they walk in rain that muffles all sound, true that neither of them have ever had much balance, ever had much parity. Theirs had always been the era of emperors, of kings, of gold and hungry children. Of Iron Curtains and Cultural Revolutions, change somehow always managing to mask the old under the new.
And despite the industry, despite Moscow and petrol and Beijing - Beijing, booming Beijing with its skyscrapers and slums side-by-side - they, half-way and half-lost between human and country, have never had fully partaken in the riches of their nations, have never truly, really, had much.
But now, as they walk together underneath the pouting rain, they have, at the very least, this.
And if you're ever less than certain
I will be your Iron Curtain
I will be your Berlin Wall
And I will never fall.
Notes:
Lyrics = 'Communist Love Song,' Soltero
Zheng shi luo li luo suo de yao ming = (roughly) good Lord, they really are way too talkative.
The 2008 Olympics were ages ago, but if anywhere still cares about it, I really have no idea on whether or not the Chinese athletes were underage. Sports and politics are two things I never pay attention to, and, seeing as the whole gymnastics debacle had both, I have no opinion on it.
Communist China and the Soviet Union split over ideological differences in their interpretations of communist (China = peasants should rule; USSR = urban worker should).
Yeah…so I totally didn't get this piece beta-ed or anything, so any crappy writing or historical inaccuracy is all my fault. Feel free to point out either to me, though - I love constructive criticism!
Also, super-later Happy Lunar New Year!