Who knows?

Yes, who? Who knows why her name is systematically crossed off all the lists? Who knows why she is no longer authorized to leave the country? All those invitations from the West to which the reply is that unfortunately Nadia, who is very, very busy, is unable to come. Doubtless they believe she will rejoin Béla. Whereas she could have done, but came home.

Here she is, stiff as an emaciated doll, in spotless short-sleeved blouse and ankle socks, high up in the stadium, standing beside the flame set into a rectangle of fake marble meant to symbolize a colonnade from an ancient Greek temple, here she is, dressed all in white like the hundreds of athletes who march back from the ceremony at the University Games in Bucharest, raising the torch to the sky, while five hundred children chant in chorus: BR-A-VO NA-D-I-A!

‘But how old is she?’ the French judge asks the other judges while she is performing her floor exercise to a musical potpourri from her previous competitions. ‘The Romanians have gone mad, what is this masquerade, she almost fell after her double somersault, the final salute we’ve seen so many times since Montreal is absolutely pathetic! And who are her coaches, who does Comăneci belong to these days?’

In the rest area, Maria Filatova raises her eyes to the heavens, exasperated at the cheering. Nadia, meanwhile, takes off her wrist supports without so much as looking at the scoreboard that laboriously shows: one-nought-point-nought-nought, like a doddery old man rewarding his overgrown daughter with barley sugars past their sell-by date. Yet another ten! There is applause – sustained applause for four minutes, as specified in the official instructions, even if for months now – as a security measure – all applause is pre-recorded and every ceremony is lip-synched.

The international media are gathered in the big press room, Nadia is going to make a short statement but will not answer any questions. Nadia is very, very tired and also very, very busy, which is why she will not be taking part in any competitions for a while. ‘I am trying. To get some joy from these titles. So they may fill me with fresh strength. Which I need. For… the coming international competitions. That I will participate in. Possibly. Who knows.’ She turns her head in the direction of the ‘Son of’, sitting to the rear, dressed in the latest Western fashion, Levi jeans and a roll-neck beige Shetland pullover. He is smoking Lucky Strikes.

She pulls a light-coloured tracksuit top on over her too-short shorts, the press conference is over, the room is lit up by flashes, pale hiccups, but then she changes her mind and leans towards the microphone, the journalists’ recorders bristle back at her again, she hadn’t finished! Who knows, murmurs Nadia, who, who?