Eighteen months later,
the patient fiancé left behind, becomes a husband; their letters of love and longing which kept them close, now tucked away inside the cedar chest at the foot of their marriage bed. A slot in the ballet company recently vacated, she assumes with vigor anew.
Three years married,
and those years an ugly, poorly stitched quilt of stinging disappointment and heart bursting joy. Sidelined by an ectopic pregnancy, an ill-fated confession whispered when death beckoned her come … now is she amicably divorced, but never alone. Yakov Feltsman, ex-husband, renowned figure skating coach with a string of champions to his credit; the only man who loved and never truly lost her. Publicly, they were like a prickly pair of cacti, exchanging verbal jabs which shocked their friends and doubled them over in laughter. But in those rare private times together, where the façades of fame and the pursuit of success melt away, they shut out the world easing into the roles of warm and cozy security blankets for one another. And though he pines for her still, Yakov contents himself, carefully maintaining a respectful and professional distance on the outer fringes of her life.
Behind her otherworldly technical virtuosity were unseen years of blood, sweat and tears which finally brought her to the pinnacle of success; prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet. A white hot star much beloved in her home country, the recipient of numerous national and international awards and acclaim for powerfully evocative performances which put to shame dancers half her age. Nowadays her life is chock full of activity as a mentor, motivational speaker, highly sought after choreographer and teacher.
A few years later and after numerous phone calls exchanged, a break in the competitive skating season finds Yakov sitting at meat in the home of his old friend … Nikolai Plisetsky.
"Still a good cook Nika," he said depositing his napkin on the table. "Can't remember the last time we had the chance to just sit and talk. How long has it been?"
"Twenty wrinkles ago," he called from the kitchen. Sitting down a tray of pickles, pumpernickel and two shot glasses before him, Nikolai returns from whence he came. Over the sound of a hammer cracking a wax cast to pieces in the sink, he said, "Last time we talked, you were about to go off to get yourself married-"
"I think not. Surely it's been more recent than that-"
"You are a terrible friend with a terrible memory Yaki; I forgive you this. I even forgive you for never introducing me to your wife … matters little now, you're divorced, or so I heard."
Rolling his eyes and quickly changing the subject, Yakov pointed to the ice cold bottle in Nikolai's hand. "Beluga Gold Line huh? Have to assume that was a gift-"
"Of course … you think I spend this much money on an awful friend like you? I keep this for special occasion. Since we haven't seen each other in five hundred years, doesn't get more special than that huh? So," he huffed struggling to uncork the bottle, "you still keep in touch with that woman?"
"Yeah," he sighed, "but these days it's strictly business-"
"Almost forgot what a terrible liar you were too," Nicolai laughed, "your eyes say you still care for her-"
"What of it? A crime to love only one woman?"
"If that were true, I'd be in jail. So, now we drink to great loves lost," he said as the vodka flowed from the bottle.
With the essences of vanilla and spices lingering on his palate, Yakov's his eyes slip closed. "Success," he said when the bottom of his glass slammed against the table, "came naturally to us, … left little time for anything else. I was … and still am, very proud of her achievements Nika. Okay, no more sad talk," he said reaching for a pickle, "we move to neutral subjects da? Go on … tell me of your grandchildren-"
"Grandson," he corrected before knocking back a shot. "Yulian's boy."
This time around, Yakov quietly pours another drink, allowing his friend a moment of reflection. "How old is he now?"
"Eight, this March. And I tell you, Yaki … he is wunderkind." Reaching for a slice of bread, he sniffed at it saying, "Russia's next great hockey legend sleeps under my roof."
"Sure … and this alleged prodigy is where?"
"Ah," he said, peering over Yakov's head to the clock over the television, "almost time I pick him up from school. You will observe his practicing and tell me what you think."
"Knew you were setting me up for something Nika. Alright," he sighed before slugging down another shot, "let's get this over with."
Watching the little blond haired boy streak across the schoolyard and joyously leap into Nikolai's arms, Yakov couldn't keep himself from smiling if he tried.
The spitting image of Yulian, he thought. Same enthusiasm, same bright eyed smile … god … must be hard on the old man.
But while Yulian was a polite, obedient child possessed of a quiet disposition, it was readily apparent his son inherited none of those traits. Immediately upon introduction, a grunt of acknowledgement and a tiny scowl were as good as Yakov would get. I am a stranger to him after all, he reasoned. From the moment the kid climbed into the car, he spoke not another word; fuming about something, or so Yakov surmised from the way those tiny feet rhythmically booted the underside of his seat.
"No wonder you have a bad back Nika."
"What's that?"
"I mean … this rust bucket of a car," he said throwing a threatening glance over his shoulder. "Don't you think it time for an upgrade?"
"How long you know me Yaki … am I fancy man? No. To church, to school, to market; this suits my needs-"
"You bought this thing back when I had a full head of hair for god sake! Gee, talk about squeezing ink from a ruble-"
"Hey!" rumbled from the back seat accompanied by a swift kick, "hush your mouth old man!"
"Yurochka … is okay; friends say jokes to another."
"Well," the child's last kick to the underside of the seat was delivered with a threat, "nobody makes jokes of my Grandpa … or else."
"It is enough! Now we are here. Yuri, don't forget your water bottle."
"Okay Papa." And with that, the angry little hellcat from the backseat transformed in a starry eyed little angel, merrily skipping ahead of them.
Unfolding himself from the cramped Moskvitch 444, Yakov rubbed at his back. "Sure we're in the right place? This looks like an old factory warehouse-"
"It was," Nikolai said as he opened the trunk, "now is sports arena."
Inside the sparsely lit rink that smelled of sweat and old wood, Nikolai patiently laces up the too large skates on the fidgeting child. "Elizaveta spoiled him rotten you know. Result … impatience and quite the temper when he doesn't get what he wants when he wants it."
"You don't say? Never would've have guessed that."
Like a tiger hiding in the brush, the child's brilliant green eyes bored through him behind tawny fringes as if daring him to utter another word.
"After she died, my Yuri had a rough time of it. One of his counselors said he had 'trust and abandonment issues' ... whatever that meant. Around the same time, older boys in school start picking on him. Because he is small for his age they called him 'girly,' hah! My Yuri never once backed down from a fight; he is scrapper … very wiry. I teach him to defend himself … result? Too many days I spend more time in principal's office than he does in classroom, so … there you go."
The child frowned, miffed his grandfather would rehash this story; Nikolai seemed not to notice. Fine textured blond hair ruffles under a calloused hand as his friend gives the boy a huge grin and helps him stand. "Finally, one of his counselors talked sense, 'involvement in intense physical activity is best way for him to let out aggression,' he said. So, my Yuri chose hockey."
Yakov glanced down at the gangly child, barely able to keep his balance under the weight of the equipment, his eyes steelier than any seven-year old's should be. "The sport will provide him discipline but Nika, he's a string bean. Look at his frame … he'll never be solid enough to play competitively-"
"You don't know what you're talkin' about old man!" the little boy shouted.
"Yurochka … apologize."
"No!" Folding stick thin arms across his chest with a huff, the boy insisted, "I'm gonna be the best hockey player in the world, not just Russia! You'll see-"
"Oh, yeah… then prove it," Yakov taunted. "Show me your greatness little one."
With a gleam in his eye, the skate guards went flying as the boy took to the ice, ignoring the voices of his instructors who were still setting up an agility course.
Quietly impressed with the boy's nascent skills, Yakov concedes, "He's talented alright ...very confident. And it's obvious he enjoys skating, however, that won't be enough. I still say this isn't the sport for him. The kid has the body of a figure skater-"
"I should be surprised you'd think that Yaki?"
"It's all about potential … know it when I see it. Must I remind you? I took the namesake grandson of one the greatest Soviet hockey players … Viktor Nikforov and I turned him into an ice skating champion-"
"Yes, yes … I've heard it all before," he laughed. "Still, I don't know of any figure skating programs for someone Yuri's age, especially state funded ones-"
"Pfft … state funding. Nika, you live like a peasant, but you've more money than the national bank." With his eyes still following the boy as he sped over the ice, he added, "I've got a training camp starting soon. Bring him up, let him try it out; if he likes it, I'll put you in contact with some coaches here in Moscow. If he wants to stick with it, I might be able to get him into a program in St. Petersburg-"
"Long way to travel for training. And Yaki, apart from you I don't know anyone there. Does this mean you're offering to be his coach?"
"Whoa … cart before the horse Nika. I'll need to talk to his mother first … get a signed consent waiver from her before we-"
"Nyet! Yulian is gone, the woman who birthed him … off somewhere chasing a career," he snapped. "Elizaveta he called Mama and me, Papa; we were his guardians … the only parents he's ever known-!"
"Alright, alright," Yakov held high his hands, attempting to stave off the other man's rising ire, "calm yourself. If ever it gets to a point where the kid want to pursue figure skating professionally … I'll offer my services at a reduced rate, until he can take part in and win competitions of course."
"We shake on it," Nikolai said. "You will take care of my Yuri … is promise?"
Convinced the kid would give up in less than a month, Yakov snorted "Fine. If we get that far, I promise to coach and take care of the kid."
Notes:
Ectopic pregnancy: complication of pregnancy where the embryo attaches outside the uterus; the vast majority of ectopic pregnancies implant in the Fallopian tube. It is the most common cause of death among women during the first trimester.
Beluga Gold Line: Russia's ultra premium vodka. The Itkul Factory (est. 1868) is said to be located in an environmentally pure region of the Republic of Altai. This is a remote area of the Siberian Taiga located at the very center of Asia in between the steppes of Kazakhstan and semi-arid deserts of Mongolia. The key to this location is the purity of the natural environment that surrounds the distillery. For Beluga Gold Line, the malt spirit and artesian water undergoes an additional filtration through a birch charcoal filter (impregnated with silver), and afterwards an additional quartz sand filtration. Each bottle follows a unique numbering system and the construction of a muzzled cork closure with a hot waxed seal. It is presented in a leather gift box along with a hammer and brush to break and sweep away remnants of the seal around the cork.
Wunderkind: person who achieves great success when relatively young.
Moskvitch 444: a Soviet/Russian automobile brand produced by AZLK from 1946 to 1991 and by OAO Moskvitch from 1991 to 2001. The word 'moskovitch' translates as "a native of Moscow, a Moscovite". It was used to point out the original location of the cars manufactured in the capital of Russia, Moscow. Affordable and sturdy.
The real Viktor Vasilievich Nikiforov was a Soviet ice hockey player, who won a gold medal at the 1956 Winter Olympics. He was born in Moscow, Soviet Union.
