Beginnings.

19Mar08

Molotov Alexandrovna Koktiz was born in the very dead of winter, to a mother who died three days after giving birth, and a father who was too busy killing foreign politico to raise her. She was, as she grew up, shifted from adult to adult, grandmother to aunt to cousin, until finally she was given back to the man who’d left her in the first place.

She was eight, and he was forty-two. They sat across from each other at the kitchen table on her first night in Leningrad, eating silently. Every so often, a piece of silverware would clink on a porcelain plate, and they’d both look up sharply, green eyes meeting, then quickly looking away. The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, and he told her to clear the table.

As Molotov washed the dishes by herself, he came and stood in the doorway, watching her work, red ponytail bobbing up and down as she stretched to put bowls in the cabinets she could barely reach. He considered her for several moments before brusquely asking, “So, what do you like to do?”

She turned around, cocked her head and thought for a moment. “I can do a backflip. Want to see?”

He nodded. She carefully put the plate she was holding down, took a few steps forward, and sprang up in the air, contorting for a split second, then landed on tile.

There was a brief pause. He nodded, turned and walked away. Molotov turned back to the dishes.

Two weeks later, a man came to the apartment and told Molotov that he was going to train her, that if she worked hard, she could go to the Olympics. Her father stood in the doorway and nodded, handed her a brand-new pink leotard and informed her that in the morning, her would drive her to the gym and watch her practice.

Three years later, Molotov was the youngest member of the Soviet Olympic gymnastics team, but she broke her wrist a month into practice, and was forced to sit on the sidelines in Moscow, waving her cast around while she cheered for her teammates. Between their events, girls in red windbreakers came to doodle hearts and happy messages on the white plaster.

Watching a Chinese girl take the gold medal that Molotov wanted, she decided that she didn’t want to do gymnastics anymore. When she broke the news to her father, he yelled until he was red in the face, and sent her to her room. Her coach swore and slapped her.

It didn’t matter. On her twelfth birthday, Molotov didn’t want another leotard, and she didn’t want a pet kitty. She wanted a gun.

She got one.

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