Chapter 16 The April winds of St. Petersburg still carried...
The April wind in St. Petersburg still carried shards of ice. Suddenly, a flock of pigeons took flight in the square. Ren Xiyao unconsciously counted the pigeons as she zipped her down jacket up to her chin, when she heard a familiar Russian accent behind her: "You haven't broken your habit of counting pigeons." Coach Ivanovic's wool scarf was damp with cold, just like when they first met at the club when she was eight years old.
"Coach." She instinctively reached for a bow, but the old man stopped her with a hug. Reaching out to receive his heavy embrace, she smelled his familiar scent.
Ren Xiyao's athletic career did not begin with short track speed skating. From her first steps, she learned to spin and jump on the ice, and at the age of eight, she began training under this accomplished figure skating coach from Russia—an old-school gentleman with an extreme pursuit of art and technique. Ren Xiyao spent five years under his tutelage until she switched sports at the age of 14. He infused her with the aesthetics of the Russian school.
“Let’s go for a walk.” He pointed to the icicles on the building’s exterior and joked, “There are so many more than last year. Global warming is a joke in St. Petersburg.” We followed Ivanovich into a small, unnamed museum. The wooden cane tapped crisply against the marble floor.
A broken melody of "The Nutcracker" drifted from somewhere. Ren Xiyao unconsciously gripped the armrest of the chair beside her; the pattern on it was a little rough on her skin. It was then that she decided to switch disciplines, and the old man who had once tied her skates for her roared from the sidelines, "You're betraying figure skating!"
Now she stared at the painting, her thoughts drifting elsewhere. Three months earlier, at the Solomon Islands Winter Olympics, Russia had won three gold medals in figure skating, and she was listening to the news broadcast in a Seoul cafeteria.
“A sixteen-year-old girl joined the South Korean team last month.” She changed the subject, unconsciously flexing her wrist: “She had the ability to stay on the outside lane until she overtook someone in the last three laps of the 1500 meters.”
“You once said that excellent figure skaters should be like swans.” She unconsciously reached out to touch the magnificent skirt of a noblewoman in the mural: “The short track speed skaters switching between the start and finish lines, isn’t that… um, more like migratory birds?”
As daylight streamed through the stained-glass windows, Coach Ivan, looking at the halo of light, suddenly said, "Pushkin wrote 'Ode to Liberty' at the age of nineteen, and was later exiled to the Caucasus." He pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack, then, remembering the no-smoking sign, stuffed it back in: "'Ode to Liberty' was a great success. He vehemently condemned tyrants and despotic rule, but in the end, fate intervened. He was still violently crushed by the machine of power."
They turned into a corridor lined with paintings by the Peredvizhniki (Wanderers) artists, and outside the window, ice floes on the Neva River rose and fell with the waves. Suddenly, the old man pulled her to the window, pulled a thermos from the inside pocket of his overcoat, and poured two steaming cups of cocoa: “Try this, my wife made it. Was it because of this that you emailed me last year saying you couldn’t go to the Winter Olympics in Solskjaer?” He pointed to her right knee.
“Stress fracture, but I can skate now.” Ren Xiyao stared blankly into the distance. She remembered when the news broke that the captain of the Socheng Winter Olympics team was injured, this old man contacted her, but after answering the phone, he remained silent for a long time on the phone, and finally only said: “The ice skates will not betray you, but the ice surface will.”
"Do you remember?" Her red nose was reflected in the glass window as she asked softly, "Standing in front of the unfinished figure skating venue for the Solomon Islands Winter Olympics, watching the Russian flag already raised, you told me that Russian athletes would defend their country's honor here. You also asked me, 'Can I bring glory to my country?' I set that venue as my wallpaper and profile picture to constantly remind myself. Because of that conversation, I feel like I've never dared to stop, but even today, I don't think I'm that great."
Ivanovic couldn't help but chuckle bitterly. He pulled a yellowed piece of paper from his breast pocket: "Look at this, the statement Popovich wrote before his last game."
The Russian handwriting was illegible, but the red official seal was glaring.
"They demanded that he cry when he kissed the national flag after the match?" Ren Xiyao frowned at this absurd request. She wondered if her Russian had deteriorated to the point where she couldn't read the text anymore.
“What’s worse, he actually cried.” The old man crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and threw it into the trash can, slamming the metal end of his cane heavily on the ground. “I visited him last month. The boy was teaching children to draw figure eights at the old ice rink. A little girl asked him why he didn’t go to the Olympics, and he said, ‘I’ve run out of tears.’ I’ve spent most of my life in the Soviet sports system and seen far more than you can imagine. The important thing is your choice. Do you choose to conform or to stick to your principles, even if it’s a harder path? Popovich chose the latter. So when I asked him if he regretted it, he said that even teaching children to skate here would be a joy. There are regrets, but no remorse.”
They walked and talked until they reached a magnificent exhibition hall. Suddenly, Ren Xiyao pointed to the mural on the dome: "There! It's the scene from 'War and Peace' where Natasha attends the ball..."
"You actually remember?" Ivanovich raised an eyebrow. "When you were twelve, you said that literary giants like Tolstoy were as verbose as ice skate maintenance manuals."
“That’s right.” The old man walked to the window, where the sword tip of the bronze horseman statue in the distance was pointing towards the darkening sky: “Sometimes I have to admit that old-fashioned thinking has bound me. But you think more clearly than I do.”
The icicles outside slowly melted into water droplets, falling down the wall. Ivanovic looked out the window, her voice low and powerful: "Sorrento won three gold medals, and the South Korean short track speed skating star has become Russia's Viktor. If you hadn't switched sports back then, you should have retired and started a new life. You're insightful, yet stubborn. Even though you've already put aside your figure skating glory before me, you don't lack the courage to start over. You're not here to comfort me; you just need a reassuring voice to tell you: Don't doubt yourself. Your glory has only just begun."
In a moment of silence, the old man suddenly recited in Russian, "We love honor not for medals, but for the pride that cannot be trampled upon." His deep, aged voice seemed to transcend time and space.
"But really, anything is fine. Glory, medals, whatever. The only thing is not to lose the power to move forward. Not to doubt your ability to win."
Ren Xiyao felt the residual warmth of the thermos cup fading from her palm. A group of teenagers wearing national team down jackets rushed down the corridor, their ice skates clanging on their backs.
As dusk fell and the square lit up with streetlights, Ren Xiyao followed the old man through the archway and suddenly grabbed his arm: "If...if Popovich were twelve years old again, would you advise him to give up figure skating?"
Ivanovich's silver hair was ruffled by the wind: "There's no answer to this question, because I know he won't give up easily, just like you did back then." He suddenly hugged her tightly, his cashmere scarf brushing against her reddened earlobes: "Remember, child, 'those glories and heroism you once chased were nothing but vain illusions. True courage is the clear-headedness to choose to shoulder responsibility even in the shadow of death.'"
They walked in the twilight, while the magnificent buildings in the distance remained unchanged. The church bells rang out for evening prayers, startling more pigeons that fluttered past the golden dome. They walked along the Neva River, the sound of the ice cracking like gunshots. Suddenly, the old man asked her, "Do you know why Russian athletes always seem to shine under extreme circumstances?"
Ren Xiyao deliberately stepped on and broke a piece of floating ice: "Because you have the coachman who froze to death in the blizzard in Tolstoy's story?"
“Because in our art museum,” the elderly man, nearing fifty, turned and looked at him very earnestly, “we forever preserve portraits of the Decembrists’ wives. Their ideals were cut short, but their souls remain noble. Just as you will forever have the guidance of great men.”
"And I also want to tell you that whether you gain glory or not, the ice will remember your sacred soul. Some say literature is a product of geography. But in this country where ice and snow float year-round, what is truly sacred and passionate is the indomitable human spirit. Forget the glory I mentioned. Loosen the shackles that bind you. A gold medal may not cover the scars left by ice skates, but at least every pain reminds us that we once truly existed."
The last sentence faded into the sudden tolling of the bells. Ren Xiyao looked up and saw flocks of pigeons flitting past the church steeple, their white wings flapping vigorously as they soared towards the starlight higher above.
A note from the author:
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This is my first attempt at using metaphors and analogies, trying out metaphorical imagery in my writing. Perhaps because it's my first time using this style, it looks a bit messy, but it's not meaningless. Every hardship, injury, perseverance, and return to the top can be traced back to the dialogue in this chapter. [Hands clasped in prayer][Hands clasped in prayer][Hands clasped in prayer]
This section mainly discusses three aspects. First, Russia was chosen because of its connection to the former Soviet Union. Under such a similar sports system, many things are actually similar, and their perspectives offer another angle. Second, there's the challenge of newcomers posing a threat to veterans, and the crisis of reaching one's prime and bearing the title of "Star of the North Star" without achieving results. This dialogue feels more like a self-analysis. Finally, there's the gray area inherent in competitive sports, metaphorically expressed through the captain's and Popovich's encounters. The references to scenes and imagery from Russian classics may subtly hint at later plot developments. This is my first time writing like this. This is the only chapter in the entire text; it's an experiment in the author's personal style. Please bear with me. Thank you! [Hands clasped in prayer][Hands clasped in prayer][Hands clasped in prayer]
Let me briefly explain my thought process:
The background music from *The Nutcracker*, a classic selection from figure skating, speaks on one hand to the protagonist's past, and on the other hand, its fairytale-like quality conveys a sense of illusion. Its appearance when referring to the noble murals suggests that fame and fortune are fleeting and ephemeral, echoing the cloud seen by Prince Andrei in *War and Peace*. Natasha's Dance, a famous Russian image, carries multiple layers of symbolism, but one layer represents a return to nature and authenticity. The protagonist's subsequent transition to the cloud seen by Prince Andrei expresses that fame, fortune, and even gold medals are fleeting, while what remains constant is the steadfast adherence to one's true self—this is the protagonist's understanding. This entire series also expresses a steadfast sense of self, unbound by fame and fortune.
Then, she mentions that Pushkin's struggle was violently crushed by the machinery of power, echoing the later statement, "This world truly needs absurdity to sustain it." She's saying that she clearly knows the absurdity of things like Captain America and Popovich not receiving fairness and justice is real and could potentially happen to her. She also knows Pushkin's true fate: he was murdered in a duel by the French playboy Dantes, possibly with the involvement of royal forces. His tragedy can be seen as a result of internal and external collusion. She knows all this, yet ultimately chooses her heart and passion—this is Ren Xiyao's glory and heroism. This leads to the final theme, "The ice will remember your sacred soul." The portraits of Decembrist wives and the Itinerant Artists mentioned in the text all celebrate truth, pure ideals, and the soul.
Meanwhile, as he mentioned on the show, "Just do what you're supposed to do, and fame and fortune will follow." He's genuine and pure when it comes to music. This aligns perfectly with the female lead's sentiment, and they are mutually attracted. His album concept also explores the theme of true self. The female lead has a firm sense of self, which is the charm the male lead sees in her; her purity also stems from this.
Of course, these interpretations and uses of imagery in classic works are just my own superficial understanding.
Finally, I hope everyone will be understanding and enjoy reading the story. [Hands clasped in prayer] ...
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