The announcer has finally realized that a moment of pathos is called for, and takes half a step back, as if he himself isn’t sure whether he’s lending his voice to the right ceremony.
The PHILANTHROP stands at the edge of the ice, the heavy trophy in both hands. The silver catches the light so coldly, as if it had never had anything to do with warmth.
Jennifer nods to him.
Ilya steps forward.
Not humbly. Not drunk with victory. Simply with the upright reserve of a man who has no intention of turning an award into a personality.
Moreau stands slightly to the side, with the French behind him. Mercer on the other side with the British. Shane remains with the Americans a few meters away. Not close enough to be part of the scene. Not far enough to avoid already being entangled in it.
The philanthropist doesn’t pick up the microphone himself; an assistant holds it out to him. His voice sounds as if it were made for rooms where people listen to him voluntarily.
PHILANTHROP
It is my pleasure to present this trophy in a hall that for seventy years has stood for endurance, discipline, and—
Jonathan closes his eyes briefly.
JONATHAN
There it is.
Jennifer doesn’t even glance at him. Her attention is entirely on the proceedings.
PHILANTHROP
—and for the hope that young men can shape a future out of talent, if given the opportunity.
Mulder isn’t looking at the old man, but at those who are looking at him.
Moreau doesn’t seem moved.
Mercer isn’t reconciled.
Shane doesn’t look relaxed.
Ilya doesn’t look honored.
MULDER
That’s a very lonely benefactor.
SCULLY
Mulder.
MULDER
I know.
Philanthrop turns to Ilya.
PHILANTHROP
To the captain of the victorious Russian team. Mr. Rozanov.
Ilya takes the final step forward.
The Philanthropist raises the trophy. Only now do you realize how heavy it is. His fingers have to re-grip the handle; his other hand follows slightly. A slight readjustment. A moment that feels too real.
Scully sees it.
SCULLY
Something has become even stranger. Is he shivering from the cold?
Mulder immediately follows her gaze.
Ilya holds out his hands to accept the trophy.
The Philanthropist speaks even more quietly, audible only to the four captains:
PHILANTHROPIST
In a way, all young hockey players are like sons to me. But here: a trophy for a familiar name. And for the Soviet Union.
Ilya is confused and shows no visible reaction. Only the fingertips gripping the handle tighten slightly. Shane looks deeply troubled.
Then it happens.
No dramatic scream.
No dramatic collapse like in the theater.
Just a misstep in his movement.
Philanthrop grimaces as if something sharp and sudden had struck him from within. His left hand slips from the trophy, not entirely of his own volition, but because it no longer obeys him. The weight shifts.
Ilya reacts immediately and catches the silver before it strikes his chest or hits the ice.
At the same moment, the old man slumps forward.
Not elegantly.
Not controlled.
Like a body that has fallen out of step with its own posture.
A muffled sound from the crowd.
The microphone tips over.
Someone shouts something.
A chair scrapes.
The lights remain too bright.
Philanthrop doesn’t fall all the way to the ground because Shane instinctively reaches for him with his free arm. But the grip isn’t enough. The older man slides sideways, his shoulder hitting the ice first, then his head.
For a split second, no one moves.
Then everyone.
JENNIFER
Back off! A doctor! Quick, a doctor!
JONATHAN
Make way for him!
SCULLY
Mulder! Everyone step aside. I’m a doctor.
Scully pulls her ID from her coat pocket and is already on the move, but the tournament doctor is faster onto the ice. Mulder doesn’t follow Scully directly, but veers slightly to the right to keep the crowd away from the scene.
Shane also takes a step forward. Too fast. Too instinctively.
Ilya is still standing with the trophy in his hand, which for a horrifying moment looks as though he has frozen with the wrong object at the center of the wrong catastrophe.
Then he sets the heavy silver down abruptly on the ice, almost too hard, and kneels down.
The doctor is there.
Way too fast, Mulder thinks.
DOCTOR
I’m the tournament doctor! Step back! Give him room! Paramedic, come to me!
He kneels with practiced confidence, feels the philanthropist’s neck, opens his jacket.
Scully is already beside him.
SCULLY
I’m a doctor too, FBI, Scully.
The doctor looks at her. Not surprised. Just briefly irritated that someone has stepped onto his stage.
DOCTOR
Then see for yourself, colleague. Acute collapse. Probably cardiac. I was just about to check his pulse.
SCULLY
Since when do we make assumptions before we check?
She feels for the pulse on the other side, checks the lips, the eyes, the skin color, the hand. All in seconds.
The philanthropist is still breathing. Shallow. Irregular.
Ilya has now taken half a step back, but not enough. His right hand still rests on the ice, as if he needs to remind himself that it is empty.
Shane now stands at the edge of the small circle, shoulders tense, too alert, as if he were paying attention to something other than just the fallen man.
Moreau and Mercer do not come closer. That, too, is noticeable.
Moreau stands still, his face composed and very pale. Mercer as well, except that his composure looks more as if someone had screwed it onto him.
Jennifer stands at the edge of the scene and has already begun, with barely visible hand signals, to pull the scholarship students back and rearrange the helpers. Jonathan speaks to a security guard and a local politician at the same time, so that neither of them gets the idea of making themselves important.
DOCTOR
Where are the paramedics with the stretcher! Now!
A helper runs off.
Scully looks at the philanthropist’s hand. A slight, spotty irritation on the inner ball of his hand, right where the silver had been just a moment ago. Not large. Not clear-cut. Just enough to hold her gaze for a moment.
SCULLY
How long was he alone before the ceremony?
The doctor doesn’t look at her.
DOCTOR
Dr. Scully, how am I supposed to know that? We have to save him. Not later, but now.
SCULLY
Right now.
The philanthropist half-opens his eyes.
Not clear. Not really focused. But enough that a remnant of consciousness still gets through.
His gaze doesn’t wander through the hall. It doesn’t dart into the crowd. In a strangely precise little movement, it goes first to the doctor, then to Ilya, then past him and on—
to Shane.
And lingers there a beat too long.
Shane notices.
Ilya notices that Shane notices.
Mulder notices both of them.
Then his gaze drifts away.
The doctor leans down further.
DOCTOR
Walter. Can you hear me?
No answer.
Scully checks the carotid artery again.
SCULLY
He needs amphetamines and atropine immediately!
DOCTOR
What? I’m the tournament doctor and I decide on the medication!
The assistant arrives with the stretcher.
Mulder now stands in such a way that the curious guests cannot close the circle. A photographer tries anyway. Jonathan doesn’t take the camera away from him, but places his hand so firmly on the man’s forearm that it has the same effect.
JONATHAN
No.
The man obeys.
Jennifer steps up to the announcer, who is still standing at his podium with the microphone in his hand like an abandoned master of ceremonies, and takes the device from his fingers.
JENNIFER
Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. There is a medical emergency. The program is interrupted. Please proceed to the foyer and wait there. The buffet will distract you.
Her voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The hall obeys her immediately, more so than the chaos.
On the ice, the philanthropist is lifted onto the stretcher.
The moment his arm is raised, his hand brushes the rim of the trophy for a second.
Scully sees the contact.
Mulder also sees that she sees it.
The doctor straightens up.
DOCTOR
To my medical room. Immediately!
Scully stands up as well.
SCULLY
I’m coming with you.
The doctor makes a welcoming gesture that looks like agreement but in truth reeks of resistance.
The stretcher begins to move.
Ilya stays behind, one step in front of the Russian line, his face cold again, but only on the outside. Shane stands on the other side as if nailed to the spot, no longer really noticing the Americans.
For a moment, the two look at each other.
Not long.
Not openly.
But long enough that it’s already clear:
This man’s death will not stay with him.
Mulder watches them go, then looks at the doctor, then at Scully by the stretcher.
MULDER
Scully?
She doesn’t turn her head, but she answers.
SCULLY
It could be an illness. I have to examine him.
Jennifer steps up beside Mulder. Jonathan comes up on the other side.
Before them, the ice slowly empties, but the atmosphere does not. The arena remains silent in that eerie way that buildings seem not empty but listening after disasters.
JONATHAN
That wasn’t a good way to end an awards ceremony.
MULDER
No. The police will have to take down all the guests’ names in case we need witnesses.
Jennifer looks at the trophy, still standing on the ice, forlorn and oversized.
JENNIFER
Wasn’t it a heart attack? Why call the police? I’m afraid it wasn’t the start of a simple medical incident either.
Mulder glances over at her.
MULDER
I like the way you phrase things so carefully.
JENNIFER
Then wait until I stop being careful.
The stretcher disappears through the side door.
For a moment, only the trophy remains on the ice.
Then an attendant picks it up, as if silver were easier to organize than people.