Trials on Ice OR HOW THE PLEASURES OF THIS LIFE MUST BE FOUGHT FOR

I had long been bracing myself for a feat, which to me was akin to Soviet cosmonaut Leonid Leonov’s first spacewalk. In my case it was stepping out onto a skating rink.

I made my first attempt as a youngster. I took my cousin’s skates, one size larger than I needed and designed for speed skating — in other words, attached to special shoes rather than short boots, meaning that they did not hold my feet fast the way the boots did.

However, I put them on and stepped out into the street and headed for the local skating rink. My accursed feet started waltzing under me, so I could not maintain a calm dignified gait. Eventually, I limped as far as the skating rink and discovered that the situation was no better there, in fact, much worse. Now my feet were twisting and skidding every which way and the skates moved in a triangular pattern. When my feet bent inward, ankles touching, the triangle’s base was on the ice and when the ankles parted company its top touched the ice. Had my legs been made of insulated wire my feet would have long fallen off.

Eventually, my skating session was reduced to a single maneuver: I would take a run on the snow, lifting my legs high like a heron, and jump on the ice, fixing my legs in one of these triangular patterns, and would then let myself glide without making the slightest additional movement, getting as far as the next snowdrift, getting stuck there, frozen in an Olympic winner’s posture, looking down at the kids playing ice hockey nearby, then shifting my eyes to the girls skating past, pretending indifference yet following them closely for any sign of interest. The exercise lasted until the toes mercilessly squeezed into the shoes got frostbitten.

How I got home with my frostbitten toes is a different story. All I can say is that it was an experience Leonid Leonov would have never dreamed of. At home, I listened to my relatives and kept my feet in cold water for about ten minutes. The water felt hot!

I have since developed a kind of idiosyncrasy for the skating rink and I hate the sight of speed skates.

And now, twenty years later, almost like Dumas’ novel (well, 23 years later to be precise), I made up my mind to pay the skating rink a second visit. There were two reasons: first, hockey and figure-skating skates could now be rented in abundance (this information comes from most reliable sources), which was important also in the sense that I had not exactly wasted time over the past two decades and managed to sprain both ankles doing track and field or jumping over flights of stairs between training sessions; second, my friends had been after me; third and most important, I suddenly wanted to, right there and then.

On a Sunday morning we set off to make a 2 o’clock appointment at the ice stadium not far from what was once the Exhibition of Advanced Achievements in the National Economy.

The sky was gray like an old coat, its deep pockets turned inside out, generously pouring down snow, the sun now and then winking through the holes in the gray petersham with a blue lining. This kept up our spirits. Standing beside the stadium circled by amateur skaters was a mournful little house. Mournful because of two long lines of people starting at its two windows and stretching out like water hoses. In the first window, it transpired, one bought a ticket to get into the stadium and pay for the skates. The second window received the skates from the happy borrowers.

As we got inside we wound up in a third line, the longest, where we had to stand to get the skates. There were about fifty persons in line, forming a giant tadpole, head pressed against the window and the tiny tail reaching the opposite wall. Part of our company (yours truly and a green-eyed maiden) was at the head of the tadpole, the rest (a lot of people, but that is a long story) joined the first line. If one came alone one had to stand in all of the lines, getting to the skating rink by evening at best.

Well, to repeat my childhood feat I had to suffer again. The regulations salad painted on the walls inside the house reminded one of a draft board or notary public’s office. The last time I stood in a line like that was in 1992 (the time of overall shortage and of legal tender in the form of vodka) at a grocery store, waiting my turn to buy the stuff.

To the left was a room with a notice reading “Women’s Changing Room” and a ladies’ toilet next door. There were several benches to the side where people were trying on their skates.

For some reason everyone entering the room tried to push through to where the girl and I stood, perhaps attracted by my deceitful half intellectual countenance. It happened continually as we moved toward the window at a snail’s pace.

Finally I braced myself and squared my shoulders, turning my back to the entrance (I think I even squared my ears). And instantly heard a voice behind, “Excuse me, would you mind stepping to the side a little?” Of course not, and I stepped aside a little.

There were about two feet between us and the window when a weighty Cassandra standing behind us uttered a grim prophecy, “We’ve been through this for half an hour, but that’s nothing compared to what lies ahead. I mean the window. That’s where you get really pressed, squeezed, shoved, and thrown out. You have to hang on and try your best.

At long last the girl and I were by the window and saw an old lady superintending. In brief: the upper part of her head was under a blue beret, the lower hidden behind thick glasses. From her we learned that there were only speed skates available. Imagine! To top it all off, they were all painted black and red. A combination crying out imminent danger. We had no choice and took them. The skates were released only in exchange for a passport (and its last page has Clause 23 reading “...the passport shall not be used as a collateral”). My green-eyed companion was lucky: there was a woman’s figure-skating pair available, albeit two sizes larger. And she was lucky again when I told her I had taken three pairs of wool socks with me, just in case.

And so we made it to the skating rink. My feet were like masts on a ship caught in a storm, but they held. Grownups and children were falling around me, but I stayed on my feet, much to my own surprise. Moreover, I discovered I could skate more or less correctly and all the time scenes from newsreels with speed skaters flashed through my mind. Two girls wearing caps with huge orange pompoms drooped in front of me with a loud thud and the loudspeakers poured out Cilentano’s Ai-ai-ai! How mean of him!

After spending some time in a snowdrift (a practiced trick dating back twenty years), I got back on the ice and then something unpleasant happened.

I had covered about three feet without mishap when I noticed two fellows looking sulky, holding on to the rough guard rail. One of them said, “I didn’t know they’d give us this crap instead of hockey skates. I can’t even stand on them, let alone skate in them. Well, that guy over there apparently can do both.” He was looking at me!

I felt two feet taller. Now every movement I made was smooth and solemn. But my ankles refused cooperate. With every foot covered they ached more. I endured another thirty feet and jumped into the welcome embrace of a snowdrift, gasping like a marathoner breaking the tape. My ankles were in their last throes. And the loudspeaker burst out with the Chaif Group’s What a pain! What a pain! Argentina beat Jamaica five to zip!

In the end I did three laps, but most importantly I did not fall even once, despite the hockey players (again!) and ace sprinters whistling past like jet fighters.

But the real bliss was taking off the skates, almost matching the feeling when turning the last page of Dostoyevsky. It was as though I told myself, “Thank God, I am through with those problems at least!” I think my feet even smiled at the shoes with affection and then would often look back after the skates vanished through Window No. 3 (naturally, I had to stand in the third line), to make sure their torturers were not chasing them.

Sasha, my friends’ charming five- year-old daughter, spread her hands in confusion: “Where’s my candy?”

“Now that’s a normal childhood state,” her father pointed out wisely. The girl pouted and everybody realized it was time for food and drink. And dessert, of course.

On my way home late that evening my feet were overjoyed. They would have to be disappointed soon. Word was the indoor skating rink at the Red Excavator Factory had an ample supply of hockey skates. Well, my poor feet, better get ready.