Mrs Simionescu

Mrs Simionescu has no proof of what has been going on under her watch as chair of judges, that derisory title which in fact affords her no power. What could she say? That this morning when she came into the room where they have their coffee before the competitions, some judges looked embarrassed? And the speech by the Soviet Federation representative at breakfast did nothing to reassure her, with his ‘every Olympiad has its geopolitical imperatives’.

It would be unreasonable to think a deal has been struck. But why then did they keep Nadia waiting for twenty minutes and allow Yelena Davydova to appear first? A stroke of luck for the Soviet gymnast, who avoided the pressure she would have faced if Nadia had scored a high mark. And why did Davydova’s score appear almost immediately after her salute? It’s as though they had already decided on it while she was performing.

Now that Nadia is on the beam, all she can see are their heads down over their sheets of paper, where they are frantically scribbling. What are they writing? Why?

They are busy dissecting her. They have to find evidence to reach the verdict ‘someone’ has told them they should reach. For a millisecond, Nadia’s long arms flap in the air: did she almost lose her balance after the back somersaults? And was that a slight trembling of her knees when she did her pirouette? Let’s put: hesitation.

Maria Simionescu waits for the scores. Béla waits for the scores, calmly. His Nadia was unstoppable. Ten minutes. Twenty. Twenty-five minutes of discussions, the crowd is shouting ‘DA-VY-DO-VA’, competing with a group of Romanians chanting ‘NA-DI-A’. A little man in an official T-shirt is growing annoyed, they’re taking too long, he looks at his watch, it’s impressively real, you could almost believe in his big, angry gestures towards the East German, Czech, Soviet, Bulgarian and Romanian judges, still with their heads together. Soviet officials, indispensable bit players for the credibility of the scene, come and go with worried looks. By now the whole stadium is whistling. Béla shouts at the public to be quiet, shakes his fist at them, one last act from the crazy madman. Yelena Davydova’s coaches quietly congratulate her, she points out that the Romanian girl’s score has not gone up yet.

And Mrs Simionescu. Who gave Nadia her first classical dance lessons. Who, in tears, crumples up the pieces of paper they have finally handed her, Comăneci’s scores. No, she says to Yuri T., the man looking at his watch, I won’t do it, I won’t press the button legitimizing this shameful score, this lie, on the board. They cannot do anything if she doesn’t validate the result. And there are so many of them surrounding her now, imploring her to be reasonable, people she doesn’t even know, Well, dear comrade, well? Hundreds of lenses are trained on Nadia, a row of photographers, their cameras hanging down over their groins, ready to spring into action. White-faced, she stands there side-on, immobile, the Ice Queen who never smiled. The once-upon-a-time kid, facing the baying crowd: the verdict, for God’s sake, the verdict.

Abruptly, the little man with the watch leans over Mrs Simionescu and presses the button. The stands immediately burst out laughing and acclaim the winner: DA-VY-DO-VA, serves that Romanian girl right, look how yellow she is, and they point their fingers at the sweating Romanian coach, it’s coming out of his eyes, a haggard Béla, who runs over to Yuri and takes his hands in one of his own, How can you do this, Yuri? The whole world is a witness, she was wonderful, you’ve been an athlete, Yuri, and the Soviet official mumbles some confused words to him, Don’t worry, it’s complicated, but we’ll fix it before the podium, we’ll give her a 9.90, something like that, enough to make her first equal. Béla pushes the sunken-cheeked little girls out of his way as he rushes over to the judges, followed by guards ready to restrain him. No one understands anything he says to this woman with a blonde chignon, the Polish judge, who is already packing up and simply shakes her head without looking at him, the crowd is rejoicing, they have understood: the Soviet flag is raised imperceptibly higher than the Romanian one, Béla looks round – my squirrel – his Nadia, the only survivor of a field of Véras, all of whom are now long gone, he can’t see her because she is surrounded, they are all at her feet, literally, because there’s no more room around her. The little girl who never smiled is crying in front of the cameras and, as if it was a meteorological phenomenon they rush to describe because it might never occur again, the NBC reporter’s voice is heard to say, ‘She’s crying. She’s crying. Oh my God, she is crying. All the tears in her body.’

9.85.

All those tasks. Taken in like a good little girl, all their unending demands pour out of her being now, pierced with camera films and flashes, worldwide radioactivity. We’re rolling, sweetheart. The great and glorious order of merit of the glory of the great nation, everything crumbles, yes, sir, I see an image of Comăneci crying, her body is a bitterly contested battlefield, disputed and skirmished over, the person whose shadow hangs over Béla, that more-than-Béla of the socialist republic of Romania who in the end is simply another Béla, they’re all managers, all of them, they control her gestures one by one, position her so that she will be more efficacious, supple, easy access. Yes, yes, yes, the brown lines beneath her eyes are emphasized by the lights being pushed under her face, now they are crammed between her legs, calling out her name as if she was dying, Nadia, a word, Nadia, a word, a word.