A stone dropped in a pond calm. One can never tell how far a ripple will go, nor what it will change as it dissipates. So it is with a promise to protect something precious; it stretches forth into time, its power reaching beyond the lives of obligor and obligee. Yuri Plisetsky, object of the promise. His parentage, a carefully concealed secret. Though canon paints the picture of a close, loving relationship between Nicolai and Yuri, we're left to assume his mother is alive and well … somewhere. I'm of the mind she is closer to hand than anyone realizes; her presence constituting a threat to everything Yuri has ever known.
But what of his father?
This began as a means to identify those unknown ripples and the impact they have on Yuri's life. We come to understand how perfect was the music selected for Yuri's programs. On Love Agape; gratitude for the love he already knew and trusted. Allegro Appassionato; powerful, conflicting emotions for a love he was coming to know and accept. Welcome to the Madness; the dynamic expression of how Yuri seeks to combine and embrace the love awaiting him.
After a few days of listening to I'll Be Over You by Toto on continuous loop, the song rattled loose the cherished head canon found below.
"People shine the brightest when they seek to understand what kind of love sustains them."
Lilia Baranovskaya
"Come now … he's calling for you."
Thrust into a white tiled room with lights stunningly bright, it is the smell and noise he finds overwhelming. A moment for his eyes to adjust; their focus on the intravenous lines bouncing and swaying like sad weeping willow branches above the gurney in the center of the room. Scissors tear through fabric as he breaks the ranks of multicolored scrubs that he might see clearly the spatters of blood and limbs hideously contused and contorted. Instinctively does his hand reach out, that it might wipe away lines of pain etched into a pallid brow. A jumble of nonsensical words spill from lips tinged blue as he timidly leans closer to the prone figure.
"Papa … little time. My child … love. Must ... plead with her-"
"Yulian ...hush now." Pushing away a blood soaked strand of hair, he cups the young man's cheek and whispers, "Everything is going to be alright."
The man on the gurney slowly blinks; a nominal shake of his head signifying an unspoken 'No.'
What is one supposed to do ... to say, or think ... as they watch the light of life dim from the eyes of their only child? Swallowing around the bitter lump in his throat, fighting to keep his voice even Nikolai manages, "There now, you see? Stubborn like your mother …stout of heart … like your old man. This child ... your child, will grow strong and brave … you'll see Yulian-"
"Sir," a harsh voice and soft hand lands on his forearm, "you must leave now!"
Optimism buoyant, sinks like a stone when a cool pale hand tightens around his. And in that moment … Nikolai hated that he knew ... the end was near.
"Papa … she's … stubborn. Swear … you protect … my child. Swear it-!"
Dark green eyes flutter as the hand holding his suddenly falls slack.
"Yulian?"
Statistics shouted above the noise of alarms shrieking and monitors flashing indecipherable messages. Nikolai, brusquely shoved aside as his son stirs once more, his voice ringing out for the last time;
"Promise … Papa!"
"Yulian!"
In a blink, a staffer straddles his son's midsection administering chest compressions as they steer the gurney from the room. Dumbfounded, he watches them race around a corner. Without conscious bidding do his legs carry him after the medics; his eyes unblinking, recording the scene without commentary as they streak toward a waiting elevator; his heart screaming that they do all humanly possible to save his son. And as the doors close, his stomach ties itself in knots. Whispered encouragements and solemn promises, absorbed into slick white vinyl flooring.
Yulian.
Dazed, he turns, wandering down the bustling hall, a wail of sirens and the flashing lights of an incoming ambulance guiding him to the emergency ward waiting area. His wife Elizaveta, sits in the far corner of the empty room. Hands folded in her lap, head bowed, she rocks herself against a hard molded plastic chair. Tears collect in the lines of her cheeks; worried fingers hold tight years old prayer beads as she recites the practiced supplications which a heart in tatters no longer believed.
Devoid of comfort to give, too numb to receive succor, he veers right. One foot in front of the other, coming to halt before large plate glass windows, staring out into the void of this, his darkest night. The heavens do what he cannot; breaking open they pour down torrential rains. Hail peppers an aluminum shingled overhang as lightning shreds menacing purplish black clouds and deafening claps of thunder rumble.
Through it all, the sound of two hearts breaking, drowns out nature's fury.
Frozen in grief, he and Elizaveta silently count down the seconds, both knowing it won't be long until a somber faced doctor comes with news they don't wish to hear …but already know.
One day, a four-hour train trip, and thirty-minute taxi cab ride finds Nikolai standing on the stoop of a modest brick building in St. Petersburg. Daubing away intractable tears with the cuff of his sleeve, he mindlessly pokes at a bell simply marked L.B. At the noise of quick purposeful steps coming from the other side of the door, his posture straightens; when the barrier between them suddenly swings open, his breath catches in his throat.
"Who the hell are you," a tall dark haired woman demands, "and what do you want?"
A crooked trail of tears is evident through rouged cheeks; her voice a dagger, piercing the carefully crafted bubble of denial and sorrow he'd hidden inside these past hours. With a tiny step backward and eyes lowered, traitorous lips spill forth a reality most cruel.
"My son … Yulian Plisetsky … is dead."
The atmosphere shifts around them in an instant. Like a fist to the gut, realization strikes; her body tenses and eyes narrow at the mention of this name. As it was in the hospital that fateful night, his perception becomes keener than he wished. Without looking at her, Nikolai feels those proud shoulders droop, he hears the superior quirk of her eyebrow plummeting level.
"No," slips quietly from her tense set lips.
So bold and selfish, so loud and insistent the demand inside his head, yet so soft when finally formulated into words intelligible. "Yulian's only thoughts were of the child growing in your belly. His hope was that it know love. Please ma'am … will you honor his dying request?"
"You dare discuss this where anyone can overhear? Come," she hissed, tugging at Nikolai's lapels until he stumbled over the threshold. The door slammed and lock bolted behind them, she quietly asked, "How did he die?"
Unable to meet those piercing eyes when she moved to stand before him, Nikolai mumbled, "A mind perturbed … a heart shattered, behind the wheel of a high-powered sports car in a driving rain … it was a terrible combination. I've no idea how these things work ...the police used his phone … tracked the last location he visited-"
"My home ... I see. And with the power of the Plisetsky lawyers at your back, you've come to threaten me like Yulian did … is that right? Or could it be … you wanted the satisfaction of spitting in my face as you curse me for his death?"
The foyer closes in on them, the specter of her lover and his son, simultaneously linking them together while forcing a wedge between them.
"Yulian made me promise to stand in his stead … that you might reconsider the child's fate-"
"My condolences, but surely you must understand, I have my own life to think of. Newly promoted to first soloist … I'm engaged to be married in six months' time and-"
"Ma'am … I pray your mercy." Nikolai drops to one knee, his head bowed and voice thin. "Let this child live ... please. My wife and I … we will raise it as a tribute to the memory of our son-"
"I have no intention-"
"If it's money you want or need, I come with an offer most generous. At this point, I'd surrender my soul ... if you required it-"
"Then are you a man most foolish." With arms crossed beneath her bosom, she fixes him with an icy stare. "Years of training for an opportunity of a lifetime … flung to the winds in one drunken night and one sweaty five minute tryst. No … never again will I allow emotion to overrule sound judgment-"
"Are you saying Yulian meant nothing to you?"
"He was a patron," she spat, "one of many! When I told him I was pregnant, he was ecstatic; couldn't shut him up … he rattled on about providing a life of luxury and ease for me as a housebound kept woman. When I said I would not keep it, he turned into a raging beast … dashing about, yelling, breaking furniture ... threatening to drag me into a court of law before he stormed out of here-!"
"Miss, we're talking about an innocent life, the product of two foolish adults rutting like animals! How could you think of ripping it from your womb …chucking it down the pan as if it too were nothing?"
"I have every right to choose what happens to and with my body-!"
"And what if you change your mind … decide to keep it? Then what? I couldn't live with myself knowing a flighty promiscuous ballerina was dragging my grandchild from pillar to post … chasing after the favors of god knows how many more 'patrons'!"
He never saw it coming.
The slap sounded moreso like a shotgun blast inside the small space. Baffled, he sat looking up at her, his back jammed against the closed door. And for the next several minutes, they rest astonished; their harsh breaths, pushing back the walls which are now crumbling between them.
"Heartbroken father ... grieving his only son," he said pushing himself to stand, "demanding alteration of your life to ease my pain; I was wrong. Forgive me." The hat she'd knocked askew crushed in his hand, again he humbly inclined his head. "I leave now knowing I tried my best … it must suffice." Having maneuvered his body just so, the latch slides back a few notches and cool air rushes past his burning cheek as he makes to leave. "Yulian's funeral is tomorrow," he said over his shoulder. "It is a promise … never again will I darken your path Miss-"
"Just the other day," her words carry on the breeze as his heel strikes the stoop, "our troupe choreographer pulled me aside to say,
'By the age of twenty-five, a ballerina's dancing days are normally over. I think it's time to retire the pointe shoes, don't you? Go, become someone's wife or a teacher to those up and coming; that way your existence has meaning.'
"I am twenty eight years old Mr. Plisetsky. All my life, I've fought to prove wrong bastards like him. And with God as my witness, I will keep on proving them wrong. But I can't do that with a child lashed to my side." Nikolai paused but did not turn around as she continued speaking. "The one thing that gives me reason to get out of bed every day, the only life I've ever known comes with a manmade expiration date ... it's not fair. And then," he heard her pull a crumpled piece of paper from her skirt pocket, "this came in the morning post … a letter from my doctor.
'Given my age', she read, 'if I wish for children in the future, termination of this pregnancy is deemed unwise.'
Now you appear on my doorstep." The bitterness in her voice turns him in time to watch her slump against the opposite wall. "Another thoughtless man trying to exert control over my body ... so sick of it!"
Nikolai approached her as one would any wounded beautiful beast; his heartbeat quickening when she reached out for him. This woman, a tower of strength who moments before stood defiant, slowly crumples in on herself. And when her knees buckle, he is there, pulling her close; when her forehead bumps his chest, sorrow binds them in its clutches while bitter tears wrack their bodies.
Later, china cups clink against their saucers in her sumptuously furnished living room; crinkles in their plans, smooth out over honeyed tea. Early morning glides into late afternoon as they agree on new directions for their lives. The next day, lawyers sit between them in the sterile confines of a conference room. Fine point pen nibs scratch the surface of heavyweight papers ...the gratitude of one man overflows as they hammer out each detail; a heavy burden lifts from delicate shoulders of a desperate young woman.
An injury feigned, a wedding postponed … a lofty life long opportunity, temporarily shelved. Thereafter follows a whirlwind of adjustment, from life in the big city, to a quiet existence on a remote dacha at the Plisetsky residence in Samara.
Months pass and then came the pain,
descending as a seismic wave; in one fell swoop does it destroy the family unit she'd come to know and trust. A gruff midwife severs the cord; a new lease on life granted her, and the child she thought she never wanted. The cries of a babe who lived and moved inside her now fill her ears as she willingly hands it off … never to see its face.
Notes:
Obligator: one who has an obligation to do something or refrain from doing something under the terms of an agreement.
Obligee: a person to whom another is bound by contract or other legal procedure.
Dacha: Russian country house or cottage, typically used as a second or vacation home.
Samara is the sixth largest country in Russia, framed by the Volga and Samara rivers; approximately fifteen hours from Moscow.