My Sergei (32 page)

Then, just before the service was to begin, as Father Nikolai was singing for Sergei, one of the relatives said Sergei was
lying in the wrong direction, that his head was supposed to be to the north. So they started to move the casket. I couldn’t
believe it. I asked them to please stop. Father Nikolai, fortunately, intervened. He was performing the service, and he told
them the casket was okay where it was, that it was fine.

All the skaters from the Russian All-Stars were there, as well as Tatiana Tarasova, Viktor, Paul Wylie, Scott, Zaharov. Leonovich
flew in from France; Artur Dmitriev came from Saint Petersburg; Jay and Debbie from IMG; Bob Young from the International
Skating Center. And Marina, of course. Plus so many others I don’t remember. It was so great to see them. It meant so much
that his friends had come to tell him goodbye. The Central Red Army Club had arranged for Sergei to be buried in Vagankovskoy
Cemetery, which was a very great honor; it was the place where many famous Russians were laid to rest. And when we drove from
the service to this cemetery, people were waiting along the route to see us pass, and some of them were even sitting in the
trees.

Zhuk was there, too. I couldn’t believe it. He’d been drinking, and he talked to me afterward at the reception. He hadn’t
changed. He started talking to me about this lady who had given me the magic metal disc to cover my weak hole. Remember? The
spot beneath my left shoulder blade. Zhuk said that this lady knew that this tragedy was going to happen to Sergei. He said,
“You have to go to her and apologize for the time that you and Sergei lost contact with her. You have the same problem as
he did, and you’d better go talk to her now.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

He wasn’t the only one to say things that hurt me, however. Sergei’s mother said some things, too. But it’s okay, because
I know that she was in pain, and that I, too, probably said things that hurt people during this awful time. I told my mother
later, we were crazy in those days, absolutely crazy with grief. We were dreaming terrible dreams, thinking terrible thoughts.
The autopsy had showed that Sergei, in addition to having blocked arteries near his heart, had also suffered a mild, undetected
heart attack the day before he died. How could I not have known this? How could I not have suspected that his back problems
—the spasms, the numbness in his foot—were warning signs of something much worse? I wrote in my diary that I didn’t deserve
Sergei, that I was glad to be hurt so deeply by God, because I didn’t have time to give Sergei the love he should have been
given. I was very hard on myself.

Sometimes I was angry at God, too. Or angry at life. But most often I was angry at myself. It was easier for me to think I
didn’t deserve to have this happiness longer, that it was somehow my mistake, that I did something wrong, than to think that
God was so ungenerous as to take Sergei away.

In those first few weeks, I went often to visit Father Nikolai. He said not to think this way, not to believe that Sergei’s
death was my mistake, or the result of anything I did to make God angry. He comforted me by telling me that I would meet Sergei
again. He said he knew it was difficult to believe this, but I do believe it. I remember what Sergei told his sister, Natalia,
after her boyfriend, Dmitri, had died. I think that Sergei’s soul now lives somewhere. In our religion, we have two very important
days after a death: the ninth day and the fortieth day. From the day of the death until the ninth day, the deceased is still
with us, and people will dream about him very clearly. Then on the ninth day the deceased starts his journey to the gates
that open either to Paradise or to Hell. God will decide where He wants this person. On the fortieth day, he leaves us. He’s
free. He now has his own spiritual life.

I
spent one night alone in the studio apartment where
Sergei and I had begun our married life. We had almost no furniture there, just a bed and a television on the floor. But
I loved this place with all my heart. I felt close to Sergei’s spirit there. So many memories. So many special times that
just the two of us shared. But after this one night, I couldn’t go there anymore. I just couldn’t. I said goodbye to this
sweet place. I knew I should be staying with Daria.

I was living with my parents, taking life one day at a time. Marina had left a whole list of things I should do—go to the
ballet, to an art gallery, to the circus, to the symphony. I’d never sat through an entire symphony before. I did all these
things. But only half of my mind was there. Probably less than half.

I felt I was slowly losing myself. My strength was ebbing away. I had no purpose in my life, nothing to strive for. My parents
were there to take care of Daria, so I didn’t have that to worry about. All I was doing was dealing with my feelings, and
this was killing me. When I opened my eyes in the morning, I’d lie in bed wondering, Why do I awaken? What do I have to get
out of bed for? I had no pressing responsibilities. Nothing to train for. No future I cared to think about. No Sergei. Always
the thoughts ended there. No Seriozha to lead me out of this unending darkness.

My mother told me that if I didn’t want to skate ever again, that I could stop right then. That I could stay with her, and
she would support me. She had enough money for the next ten years. Jay had told me not to worry about my finances, that things
would be fine. They were trying to put together a benefit. Debbie called me every other day and said that people were sending
in donations to Sergei’s memorial fund. The response from people we had touched through our skating had been overwhelming.
I never thought the whole world would think about Daria and me. So it was not money that concerned me. It was my broken heart.
My mother said, Daria doesn’t need a sick mom. She needs a healthy mom. Whether you live in Moscow or go back to America,
try to come back as a healthy person.

It was then that I began to realize that work is the only thing that can help people heal. At least, it was what could help
me heal. I still had skating. I was always a skater first, and to lose both Sergei and skating was more than I could handle.
Ever since I was four years old, every day I either put on my skates or I worked on something that was related to my skating.
Now I needed this focus in my life again. So I called Viktor, who had returned to Simsbury, and asked him to send me my skates.
No problem, he said. To Viktor, favors were always no problem. He had taken Sergei’s death very, very deeply, and I could
feel he, too, was in pain.

The skates arrived in mid-December. In the mornings, I started practicing at the Central Red Army Club rink, so now at least
I had a reason to get out of bed. It felt good to be again touching the ice that was so dear to Sergei and me. All those memories
I had of being on the ice with Sergei, I could hold onto them there very gently. I had no inkling of what might become of
it, but it was good for me to see the coaches and young skaters working on their elements, smiling. Life was going on. This
was the first step.

Marina called me every few days. She had been having almost as hard a time as I had. She’d been sending letters to me in Moscow,
letters of terrible sadness, some of which had made me so upset I couldn’t finish them in one sitting. She had written to
me that Sergei had been her dream, and now this dream had died. She was feeling much older now. She couldn’t work and didn’t
know what to live for anymore. She thought, in her grief, these words were okay for my ears and my eyes.

On the phone, however, she wasn’t like this. In one of our conversations I told Marina that the tribute to Sergei’s memory
had been arranged, a skating exhibition by all of our dear friends celebrating his life. They wanted me to walk out onto the
ice and maybe say something. But this was unthinkable to her. Marina said if they were going to do the show, I should skate
in it. She would create a program for me.

It was difficult for me to imagine myself skating in front of people without holding Sergei’s hand, without looking into Sergei’s
eyes, looking only at the audience, trying to fill that huge ice surface all by myself. But if I were to skate in the exhibition,
that was how it would have to be. I wasn’t going to skate with another partner. It was inconceivable to think of someone else’s
arms around me on the ice, touching me. Sergei’s was the only hand I had held on the ice since I was eleven years old.

I talked to Father Nikolai about this idea, to see if it would be all right for me to skate, appropriate for a period of mourning,
which in the Russian church lasts for one year. Father Nikolai, who was always so gentle, said, “Katia, please skate, because
I know you love to do it, and your skating brings happiness to others.” Then he added, “Don’t worry about being happy in your
future life. Sergei will even help you with this. When you find someone else, bring him back to this church, no matter what
his religion or nationality. I will bless this union, and that will be Sergei’s blessing, too.”

These words brought me comfort, as Father Nikolai’s words always did. But the kindness of this man could not shield me from
a side of life I’d soon see, frightening and abhorrent, that I’d been spared when I was living with Sergei. One day Zaharov,
our former coach, called me and said that a businessman he knew wanted to talk to me. He said this man sponsored boxers and
wrestlers, and he might be a big help in my future career.

I met this man in Zaharov’s room. We talked a little bit, and the man said he also supported children’s funds, and that he
would like to give some of this money to Daria. He handed me an envelope for her. Later, when I opened it, I was shocked to
find how much money was inside. I didn’t know what to do. I called him back to say thanks, that it was very generous of his
fund to think of Daria.

He called me a couple more times, then invited me to a big dinner. He told me he had relatives in Paris, money in France,
money in America, money in Germany. We have so many people like this in Russia now. I don’t know where they get all this money.

So I went to this dinner, and I thought he was going to tell me about some marketing idea. I was so naive. I don’t know what
I was thinking. He told me he had followed Sergei’s and my career for a long time, and said he wanted to give me a car. He
asked what kind of car I’d like to have. I thought it was all a joke, and said, “I like Jaguars. Are you going to give me
a Jaguar?” He said, “Okay, I’ll ask around.” Then he called another time and said, “I’ve found a Jaguar. You want me to buy
it for you?” Only now was it clear to me. I said, “No, I don’t want you to buy me a Jaguar, thank you.” He said, “You need
an apartment. I’m going to buy you an apartment.” So he’s probably right now off looking for an apartment for me, thinking
I’m going to live there.

I felt terrible. I tried to give him this money back that he’d given to Daria, but he said, “No, this is not for you, it’s
for her. You must keep it.” And this man wasn’t the only one to frighten me. There were others, too. I became very, very upset
with Russian life. Everything was so different for me now. With Sergei, I knew I was safe. Sergei would pick up the phone
when it rang, and if I didn’t want to talk to the person who called, I didn’t have to. Now just anyone could call me and say
they could help me, say they would like to meet me, say they will make me happier. This is not what these people wanted, to
make me happier.

When I told my mom about these things, she said, “You’re going to have to learn a lot of things that you never learned before,
about life and about people. You’re just too honest with people. You think they always wish you the best. But absolutely not.
They do not always wish you the best.”

So I made an important decision. When I returned to Moscow, I didn’t know what I’d do with my future. I didn’t know if I would
try to continue to skate. I didn’t know if I was going to come back to the United States. I just didn’t know. But after a
couple of these terrible situations, I definitely decided that I had to go back to the United States. I had to go back to
Simsbury, where Sergei and I had started to make a home for ourselves. I was losing myself totally. Life in Russia had changed
so much from the days when I was growing up.

First, however, I wanted to spend another New Year’s with my parents and sister. That isn’t exactly right. In hindsight, I’m
so grateful I had this experience, but at the time I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be with them or not. They were spending New
Year’s at their new dacha in Ligooshina. They had built it from logs to replace the old cabin in which Sergei, Moshka, and
I had spent ten lovely days in 1989. My father had invited a lot of his friends, and because it was going to be mostly people
my parents’ age, I didn’t know if I’d enjoy it or not. I thought I’d probably feel out of place, except that I loved the dacha,
I loved the sauna, and New Year’s was a family holiday. My mom kept asking me to go. And my sister, at the last minute, decided
to be there. And, as it turned out, my parents’ friends all brought their kids, who were the same age as my sister—no longer
kids at all, but aged eighteen, nineteen, and twenty. It turned into quite a little party.

There were twelve of us in all, and this was the first time since Sergei’s death that I laughed. Really laughed. One friend
of my sister’s whom I remember from when I was twelve years old began telling these jokes, and I was laughing so hard I could
cry. Also a young boy named Maxime—not so young, twenty years old, only four years younger than me—was asking my opinion
about whether to continue playing his sport, Olympic handball, or if he should turn to business in order to support his family.
He was recently married and felt he had to begin earning more money. And it was also difficult because his father was his
coach. It was the first time that anyone sought my advice about something so serious. “Maxime,” I said. “Just continue. You
are young only once.”