by Alina Adams
"There are certainly a lot of Russians here," Francis offered what, Bex bet, could already qualify as the front-runner for her Ultimate Inanity of the Night Award. But then, he added, "I expected a capital city like Moscow to have attracted more of the former Soviet Union's ethnic minorities. Kazakhs, Uzbeks, Turks, Armenians, Moldavians..." And Bex realized that, no, as usual, she was the inane one.
"Why," Diana demanded, "would you have expected that, you silly goat? The Soviets did their best to wipe out whatever individuality those ethnic groups had. They closed their schools, made them all speak Russian, forcibly deported half of them to other republics to keep them from putting together a rebellion. What in the world makes you think any of them would want to stay in Moscow once their own homelands were freed?"
"Do you honestly believe that after spending a lifetime in a cosmopolitan city like Moscow, there would be a mad rush to return to a third world republic, regardless of your ethnic origin? How do you keep them on the farm once they've seen the Kremlin?"
"The Kremlin... Lubjanka prison... Ah, yes, what wonderful memories they must harbor of the good old Soviet days..."
It was a half-hour to showtime, and they were already arguing. About politics, no less. This could only be a harbinger of great things to come.
Bex slipped on her headset, hoping to shut out the Howarth version of Crossfire—On Ice! It worked, in as much as she couldn't hear Francis and Diana anymore. Instead, Bex got the radio-drama known as "Gil Cahill Rallies the Troops in the Truck." As far as rousing pep talks went, it was no Saint Crispin's Day Speech. It wasn't even "Win one for the Gipper." Gil Cahill's idea of getting his employees pumped to go live on the air was to stand at the back of the production truck, headset on his head, all keys open lest anyone miss a word, and issue random orders, preferably without identifying whom he was speaking to first. The better, Bex guessed, to keep everyone on their toes and paying attention to each barked missive. After all, any fool could tune out the din and merely obey an order that was addressed to them by name. But 24/7 employees were special. They all did a little mind reading on the side.
"Cue tape…. Bring up audio…. Let me see the graphic page…. Cut audio…. That music sucks, don't you have
anything less gay?... Camera One, did I ask for a fucking shot of the fucking wall?…. Talent, test your mikes…. I said, test your mikes, dammit!"
Oh, wait. That last order was for her. Because, while Bex may not have been the "talent" Gil was speaking to (he would never dream of calling anyone not on-camera any such thing), her proximity to the actual "talent," Francis and Diana, meant that it was her responsibility to not only provide their research material, but also to baby-sit. As neither had their headset on at the moment—they were too busy debating who was really to blame for the Armenia/Azerbaijan conflict—it was up to Bex to pass on the message that Gil wished for them to say a few words into the microphone so that their audio man could set sound levels.
"If Gorbachev, as part of his reforms, had only decided to right the wrongs of forcible population transfer"—Francis allowed Bex to wedge the headset over both of his ears, without breaking stride—"that entire ethnic conflict could have been avoided!"
"Fifty years after the fact"—Diana chose to put on her own headset; after all, her hairstyle was at stake—"is too late to make up for past wrongs. People forged new homes for themselves in the areas where they had been resettled. Moving them back to a place most of them have never been to is tantamount to another forced transfer!"
"Okay, that's good, guys." Gil crackled from the truck. And then he asked Bex, "Is that history you wrote them for the show? Because, you know, this politics shit is way over most people's heads at home." Then, again to no one in particular, he announced, "It's showtime, gang! Let's see who can screw up the least on this go-around."
With encouragement like that, Bex thought as she opened both Francis's and Diana's binders and indicated where they were in the rundown, how could they fail?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In the "Thank God for small favors" column, the poor, displaced Azerbaijanis and Armenians were forgotten the instant the 24/7 camera's red light clicked on in the booth, indicating Francis and Diana were live on the air. On the "But, then again ..." side, both now had all this contrary energy pent up. And nowhere to spew it except the ice.
They didn't even wait for Lian Reilly to strike her opening pose before putting up their proverbial dukes. She was still skating to the center, dressed in a crimson dress with plunging, lacy cleavage, and a rose pinned to her jet-black hair in a not-too-successful attempt at helping a tiny Asian girl impersonate a hot-blooded, Spanish temptress, when Francis fired off: "Lian Reilly is, without a doubt, the weak link of this competition. She has neither the grace and presentation of a Jordan Ares or Brittany Monroe, nor the multi-revolution jumps of Galina Smetanova."
He'd managed to confuse Galina's real name, Semenova, with the Russian word for sour cream. But that wasn't why Gil shrieked, "Stop it!"
He'd meant Francis, but the headset he chose to howl the command into was Bex's. Gil never addressed the talent directly in the middle of a live broadcast. They sometimes forgot to hit the mute button before talking back.
"Bex! Stop him! Friggin' show's barely started and he's telling people this brat's not worth their attention. We got to keep them watching another hour. Positive energy! Now, now, now!"
On the ice, Lian was opening her program with some brusque head turns and toe taps accompanied by feisty swishes of her skirt. It looked to Bex like she was dusting the flounces. Bex scribbled furiously on an index card and held it up for Francis and Diana to see. The card read: "Gil says—Talk about something else!!!! Now!!!!"
Diana read the note, snuck a mischievous peek at Francis, and opened her mouth.
Bex held up another card. It read: "Not about Armenia."
Diana closed her mouth, disappointed.
Bex's third card read, "Be POSITIVE!!!!"
Francis said, "Lian Reilly, Diana, is certainly one of the brightest up-and-coming skating stars in America."
Bex had to hand it to the man. Not only had he managed to completely contradict his previous statement without so much as a gulp in between, he also made it sound like it was actually Diana who'd spouted the earlier negativity about Lian, and Francis had been defending her all along.
But this wasn't Diana's first time at the skating rodeo, either. She shot back with, "Then why in the world, Francis, would you label her the weak link of this competition?"
Francis said, "Diana, the death of coach Igor Marchenko has certainly cast a pall over this entire event."
"What is this?" Gil demanded of Bex over the headset. "A Harold Pinter play?"
Bex was wondering the same thing. Were Francis and Diana planning to utter declarative statements with no connection to each other for the rest of the broadcast?
Diana replied, "It certainly has, Francis. And I am sure we will see the effects of that death reflected in each of the young ladies' performances tonight."
Okay, that was better. They were actually having a semblance of a conversation. Albeit a morbid one.
"It certainly will be a unique night of skating," Francis mused.
"Oh, yes." Diana couldn't wait to agree more. "We'll be seeing history made. No skaters in our sport's history have ever competed under such circumstances before."
Bex shuddered, as if someone had scraped their teeth against a chalkboard while walking over her grave on Friday the thirteenth. She'd asked and pleaded and begged Francis and Diana never, ever to make an absolute statement without letting her research the facts first. All she needed was for Gil to receive a letter from some uber-fan salivating that in 1972 at a junior skating event in the mountains of Yugoslavia, the coach of the Rumanian team tripped and hit her head, leaving her entire squad to compete as orphans and, Jesus, what kind of researchers did 24/7 hire that they didn't know such a basic fact?
Diana was aware of Bex's need to ve
t all information before it went out on the air. Which was why, as she made her unsubstantiated absolute statement, she turned her head towards Bex and shrugged apologetically. As if she had no idea what in the world had possessed her to say such a thing, but who was she to argue with an impulse?
"Of course, the skater most likely to be affected," Francis offered the obvious, "is Jordan Ares. She was Igor's student, you know."
At that moment, on the ice, Lian was performing her compulsory spiral sequence. Left leg up in the air, arms out to her side, fists opening and closing in time to the music as if doing carpal-tunnel therapy exercises, she sailed right in front of the announcer's booth, smiling beatifically. When Lian heard Jordan's name, however, the beatific smile wavered. She snapped her head to one side, glaring at Francis with disapproval and just a touch of confusion—as if she sincerely didn't grasp why anyone would be talking about the inferior Jordan while the obviously superior Lian was on the ice. Francis caught her gaze and they locked eyes for a beat. Point made, Lian went back to her smile. Her fury, as far as Bex noticed, was the single, genuinely emotional moment of the entire program.
Lian was taking her bows and furrowing her brow at the Russians in the audience, who were already starting to clap for Galina waiting in the wings, when Francis continued, "It is ironic that Igor's death, which happened right here in Moscow, just this past week, came at a time when the rivalry between his student, Jordan Ares, and Gary Gold's student, Lian Reilly, is reaching a peak as feverish as the one reached over twenty years earlier by Gary and Igor themselves!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Francis!" Diana interjected as Brittany Monroe, seemingly still wincing from a pain of indeterminate origin, stepped onto the ice. The Russians, who had been clapping in anticipation of Galina being the next skater, abruptly stopped their cheers and commenced talking amongst themselves. Suddenly, Bex believed she could see the origin of Brittany's wincing.
Nevertheless, the pride of Ohio bravely skated out to the center of the ice, raising her arms in what might have been surrender, crossing them at the wrists in what might have been martyrdom, then splaying her fingers and pressing her palms forward which, in conjunction with her gleaming white dress and matching ballerina-bun scrunchie, meant only one thing to Bex. Swan Lake. Let the downy death throes begin.
And, as soon as they did, Francis and Diana whipped through Brittany's bio: Born in Cleveland, blah, blah... Russian grandfather, blah, blah, blah ... first American ever to represent Russia... great presentation... weak jumps... oops, here she goes popping her combination now—so that they could get to the good stuff.
Francis intoned, "The Lian Reilly and Jordan Ares rivalry is every bit as exciting as the one between their respective coaches, Gary Gold and Igor Marchenko, who tragically died earlier this week inside this very arena."
"Nonsense. Gary Gold was the defending United States senior men's champion in 1978, and Igor Marchenko was the World Bronze Medallist when they went head-to-head for the first time as Americans. That was a much greater clash of the Titans than Jordan and Lian. Why, neither girl has yet to win a National, much less an international tide!"
"Exactly," Francis agreed. Then promptly disagreed. "Igor was quite clearly the superior skater of the two. Gary never succeeded in beating him on the international stage. In 1977, when Igor won his World Bronze Medal, Gary only finished in eleventh place. There was no reason to think he could beat Igor domestically, and he never did, not once when they were competing against each other."
Since this was a fact Bex had actually written down for him—in three different places, to make sure he saw it eventually—Francis turned to her as he said it, winking at Bex as if he'd done her a favor by indulging her little hobby and actually including some of her research in the broadcast. She smiled back and nodded encouragingly, hoping the positive feedback might prompt him to do it more often.
"Exactly," Diana agreed to disagree. "Jordan and Lian are much more evenly matched than Igor and Gary. Whenever Igor and Gary went head-to-head, we always knew who would win in advance. Jordan and Lian are two undefeated gladiators entering the great coliseum. We can only guess which one will step out alive!"
All they knew for sure was that it wouldn't be Brittany Monroe. Her program, due to the popped combination, ended up scoring lower than Lian's. She slunk off the ice, looking like she was going to cry. Bex felt duly bad about her downy death crack earlier, no matter how prophetic it turned out to be.
Galina Semenova took to the ice several minutes later, wearing a flowing white peasant blouse and a red skirt, both embroidered with matching flower patterns to suggest a traditional Russian folk costume. Even before Galina's music commenced playing, Bex began to quietly—and sarcastically—hum "Kalinka," a traditional Russian folk melody. She had barely gotten through the first verse when the sound system at the arena joined her. Bex didn't think she was being obnoxious, just experienced. When ice-dancers wore Russian peasant costumes it was because they were skating to the (actually Gypsy) "Two Guitars." When Pairs did it, it was because they'd chosen the (actually Jewish-American) Fiddler on the Roof. For men, the costume meant "Volga Boatmen" and for women, it was inevitably, "Kalinka."
Galina's short program also started with some rhythmic ice-tapping, only in this case, unlike Lian who'd smacked it with the flat of her blade to indicate her tempestuous character, Galina dug in with the back of her blade, knee straight, arms pointing proudly towards her upturned toe, to indicate her wholesome folksiness.
Francis and Diana watched the cultural display without uttering a word beyond her name. Then, Galina got down to what she did best: a triple Lutz/triple Loop combination that barely left the ground but whipped around with such speed that it seemed like her carroty curls were twirling a beat behind each revolution and actually landed after she did.
Francis said, "A gladiator, Diana, is an athlete at the ultimate peak of his condition. It is something that Igor and Gary already were in 1978 and for the four years they were competing against each other. Lian and Jordan are most certainly not, at this point, at their peak. These two young women are still developing their styles. They are not gladiators. They are not soup. These are, at best, sous-chefs."
Galina's scores came up on the electric board over their heads, indicating that she was ahead of Lian and Brittany for this phase of the competition. When such a travesty happened, a foreigner ahead of an American, the protocol was to promptly ignore Lian—now that she wasn't going to win, at least tonight; she was, in Gil's words, "dead." Instead, the focus would be on which American still could best Galina, which, in this case, was Jordan, who hadn't even skated yet
As they went to commercial break, Francis dutifully posed this question to the folks at home: "Jordan Ares—will she be able to win it all, or will the recent death of her coach, Igor Marchenko, who was brutally murdered earlier this week in this very arena, unhinge Jordan enough to allow Galina Semenova to sneak ahead?"
In a few minutes, they had their answer.
Nope. Not Jordan.
If there was anything capable of unhinging Jordan, apparently having her coach collapse and die at her feet (right here in this very arena—had you heard?) wasn't it.
She skated her short program to the ska-ish music of No Doubt in a hot pink dress and matching boots; her blond hair combed off her face by a neat French braid. Jordan landed a triple Lutz/double-Loop combination. Galina may have done a triple-triple, but Jordan made up for her one less revolution in the combination with the hang-time she achieved during both jumps.
As Jordan dove, headfirst into her combination Flying Camel/Windmill spin, Diana said, "She certainly is a spectacular competitor. If this is what you call a skating sous-chef, Francis, I'd love to know your definition of what a full meal might be!"
Bex was about to scribble Diana a note suggesting she was mixing her metaphors when, over the headset, Gil pumped, "That's telling him! You go, go, girl! Keep up the chatter. Keep it up! Nothing more boring than a chick on
the ice skating to silence."
This time, Bex didn't even consider bothering to write Gil a little note correcting him; technically speaking, the "chicks" weren't skating to silence. They did have music playing. Granted, when the skater in question was Galina it was a bit hard to discern but, sometimes, ideally even, the skaters coordinated their movements to said music.
And Diana and Francis chattering blithely over it did make those rare moments of choreography even harder to spot.
Listening closely to every single word Francis and Diana uttered on the air to ensure that they didn't say anything libelous, slanderous, or simply plain wrong, made it difficult for Bex to process those words for any significance beyond the immediate. So it wasn't until after the broadcast was over (final standings: Jordan in first place, Galina in second, Lian third, and Brittany fourth), when Bex and Sasha were lugging the research binders from the announcer's booth back to the underground offices, that Bex remembered to ask Sasha: "The pin that we found in Igor Marchenko's hotel room—the U.S. World Team pin—it said 1977, didn't it?"
Bex set her research binder down in the middle of the hallway, not caring that the middle pages ended up awkwardly folded when it tipped over. She dug into her coat pocket, looking for the pin.
But, even before she'd found it and confirmed that the date was, indeed, 1977, Sasha remembered, "You said 1977 is the year when Igor defects. So it is the year of his first American World Team."
