Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page B

In the distance he can see the roof of the banya where he goes each Thursday with his mother and sister to bathe. There, his mother scrubs his back with birch twigs. He likes to lie on the wooden benches and receive the slap of the twigs. He finds patterns in the tiny pieces of birch leaf that dot the length of his body. His mother has told him that the baths will make him immune to sickness, and he has learned to endure the scalding steam longer than any other child his age.
    He jumps, turns, lands, feels the skates catch once more.
    On the ice many patterns are etched beneath him, and he can already tell by the marks who is a good skater and who isn’t. If he were to twirl for a long time in one place, he could get rid of everyone else, destroy their marks, be the only person ever to have skated there. A piece of litter catches beneath the blade, and he lifts his foot slightly, circles to crush it. Flecks of ice jump up from his boots. In the distance he hears his name called, the voice arriving from the edge of the lake, carried by the wind. Rudik! Rudik! Instead of turning, he leans on his right foot, and his whole body spins in the opposite direction to the shout. He knows not to swerve too hard, to lean just the right amount so he won’t fall. Then he is off against a head wind, small specks of litter still clinging to the blade. Rudik! Rudik! He leans over farther, his body concentrating itself in his shoulders. Beyond the lake, on the roads, he sees trucks, motorbikes, even men on bicycles—their tires fat to deal with the ice. He would love to hold on to the rear bumper of a car, to have it drag him along like the older boys, careful with their scarves so they don’t catch around the wheels, keeping an eye out for the brake lights so they can ready themselves to let go and travel faster than anything else on the road.
    Ru-dik! Ru-dik!
    He barrels in the direction of the road but is stopped by the sound of a whistle, a guard waving him away. He turns with one skate, the other foot high, makes a wide arc, and is forced around to the sight of his father, red-faced now, panting, on the bank, without skates. A wind rips along the lake, making the end of his father’s cigarette glow bright. How small he looks, the smoke trailing away from his mouth.
    Rudik, you’re fast.
    I didn’t hear you.
    You didn’t hear me what?
    I didn’t hear you say Rudik.
    His father opens his mouth to say something, decides against it, says instead: I wanted to walk you to school. You should have waited for me.
    Yes.
    Next time, wait.
    Yes.
    Rudik puts his skates around his neck and they walk together, hands balled into their gloves. The road circles past a row of old houses to the schoolhouse. Above the school wall is an arched iron insignia where four crows sit. Father and son make a bet on which of the crows will leave first, but none do. They stand silent until the bell sounds, and then Rudik tugs away his hand.
    Education, says his father suddenly, is the foundation of everything. Do you understand me?
    Rudik nods.
    The bell sounds once again, and the children in the yard run towards the building.
    Well then, says his father.
    Bye.
    Bye.
    Rudik steps away, but then returns and rises to his toes to plant a kiss on his father’s cheek. Hamet shifts his head slightly, and Rudik feels the edge of his mustache, wet with ice.
    Rudik runs the gauntlet to the classroom. Blondie. Froggy. Girl face. Smaller than most, he is often beaten up. The boys push him into the wall, grip his testicles, squeeze them—pruning, they call it. They leave him alone only when a teacher turns the corner. Inside, flags on the wall, pennants, portraits. The wooden desks with their lifting lids. Goyanov the teacher on the platform, pasty-faced, calm. The early morning call. The Motherland is benevolent. The Motherland is strong. The Motherland will protect me. The rustling of boys and girls settling down, the scratch of chalk on