The atmosphere in the hall feels different after the match.
No longer like a festive venue hosting sport for a good cause, but like a place where the temperature of the crowd has just dropped noticeably. The cheers for the Russian victory still hang in the air, but no longer freely. More like something that, even as it fades away, is still deciding which side it was actually on.
Helpers in black waistcoats hurriedly push the mobile podium closer to the ice, arrange chairs, smooth out the fabric drapes and place the old silver of the challenge cup on its velvet-covered plinth. The piece seems too heavy for mere nostalgia, too pompous for good taste, and precisely for that reason fitting for this hall.
The scholarship recipients are led to the front once more. Some of them now wear their nervousness like borrowed clothes, too self-conscious, too stiff. A boy from the French junior squad surreptitiously straightens his shoulders as he passes by, as if that could offset the social fall. A British teenager tucks her hands so deep into the pockets of her blazer that she looks like a very young diplomat’s daughter who would rather be playing than posing.
Jennifer watches this with a look that draws no line between genuine concern and precise logistics.
JENNIFER
Jonathan, the blond boy back there is going to trip over the cable in three seconds.
Jonathan looks over, nods and moves immediately. Not frantically. Just quickly enough to lift the microphone cable out of the boy’s way with a smile, as if it were part of the programme.
JONATHAN
Take heart. Tonight, as far as possible, no one here should be hurt by anything other than national temperament.
The boy nods, confused and grateful.
Scully watches him for a moment.
SCULLY
He’s better at this sort of thing than he looks.
JENNIFER
Jonathan’s better at most things than he looks. He just thinks it’s rude to show off.
Mulder continues to watch the ice. His coffee has now gone completely cold, but he still holds the cup, as if to secure the presence of something ordinary whilst the rest of the evening becomes visibly extraordinary. He glances back and forth between Scully and Jennifer. There is something unsettling about the dynamic between the two women.
On one side, the Russians are already regrouping. Calm, orderly, with that terse inner composure that prevents even a victory from turning into visible chaos.
Ilya stands slightly ahead of the others. Helmet off, hair slightly damp at the roots, his face once again completely under control. He doesn’t look like a man who has just scored a decisive goal. More like someone who has corrected a mathematical error in the world.
On the other side, the Americans remain standing at a more relaxed distance. They are louder, move more, react more physically. Nevertheless, Shane immediately stands out because he isn’t talking to his team, even though they are all around him. He stands there like someone whose body is still in the game, whilst his mind is already on something else.
Mulder sees it.
MULDER
He’s too quiet.
SCULLY
Who? Jonathan? The commentator? Shane? Ilya?
MULDER
Shane, our man.
SCULLY
Maybe he just hates losing. Or he’s sharing the disappointment of most people here in the hall.
MULDER
Possible. But that doesn’t look like normal despair.
Scully takes a closer look. Shane isn’t banging on the boards, isn’t saying anything to his teammates, isn’t making any sweeping gestures of frustration. He’s just standing there, upright, outwardly calm, but with a kind of inner composure that looks more like preparation than disappointment.
SCULLY
No. Not normal.
Jennifer now follows her gaze as well.
JENNIFER
He doesn’t look like a man thinking about a goal conceded. But I don’t think it’s a medical issue – or a technical one.
MULDER
Then what?
JENNIFER
He’s like a man trying to prevent a disaster. Even though it’s already happened.
Jonathan returns, pauses for a moment beside them and looks in turn at Shane, Ilya and then at the podium.
JONATHAN
I know I’m late for the opera, but there’s something about this evening that feels like it has its own etiquette, yet smells of trouble at the same time.
MULDER
Welcome to my working life.
At the edge of the guests of honour, the philanthropist now stands up.
It is no grand gesture, but the moment draws attention. A man of his age, proper, standing as upright as one can only be when one has grown accustomed over the years to others reading a room from one’s own posture.
Two local dignitaries make way for him. The regional MP says something intended to sound like a joke. The philanthropist responds with a slight nod and a smile that seems appropriate from a distance but would probably appear too thin up close.
The doctor stands a little way behind him.
SCULLY
Why do we still need a doctor by the ice now? The games are over. At least the ones where you can get physically injured.
She says it in a way that implies neither agreement nor disagreement.
France and Great Britain are now standing on the sidelines, officially merely as participants awaiting the ceremony. But neither Moreau nor Mercer look as though they are thinking of consolation prizes or youth development.
Moreau stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze calm, his posture almost too dignified for a defeat. Mercer stands differently: hands relaxed, shoulders straight, his head slightly too still. Both eventually look towards the philanthropist. Not at the same time. Not as a signal. Just close enough for Mulder to notice the sequence and take note.
MULDER
There.
SCULLY
What now?
MULDER
The old man is the only one in the room whom everyone looks at as if they had reasons not to simply let him be old.
SCULLY
That’s not an unusually bad starting point for a sponsor. Everyone wants his money.
Jennifer looks from the podium to the philanthropist and from there back to the four captains. Her attention lingers on Moreau and Mercer for a barely perceptible moment.
JENNIFER
Here comes the trophy. You should have donated a new one, darling. That old thing looks as if it’s more than seventy years old!
An assistant hands the philanthropist the challenge cup. He doesn’t take it straight away. Only with his other hand, as if he needs to gauge its weight.
SCULLY
Is the trophy just for decoration?
JONATHAN
In a hall like this, nothing is ever just for decoration.
MULDER
I could have said that about myself.
JONATHAN
Yes, but it sounds more likeable coming from me.
A faint crackle from the loudspeaker. The announcer announces the closing ceremony, now in a tone that seems to heighten his own importance with every sentence.
ANNOUNCER (VO)
Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour of addressing you for the ceremonial conclusion of this historic evening in sport—
Jonathan closes his eyes briefly.
JONATHAN
No, please, not any more history in the same sentence with this man. If the word ‘seventy’ comes up again, I’m pulling the plug. And donating seventy thousand dollars to buy the silence.
Jennifer ignores him. She is suddenly the perfect hostess.
She steps onto the ice, signals to an assistant, repositions two of the scholarship recipients, and with barely visible hand movements ensures that the proceedings look as though they had been in order from the start.
Moreau and Ilya are positioned for the trophy presentation.
Ilya now stands at the front, on the winners’ side, calm, composed, with the expression of a man who accepts public rituals as long as they remain brief.
Moreau remains with the French team just a few metres away. Officially, this is perfectly normal in sporting terms. Unofficially, the distance is too small not to feel it, if you know what to look for.
Philanthrop sets off.
Slow enough that everyone makes way for him. Fast enough that no one calls him old.
The music is turned up a notch. The lighting too. The hall is visibly trying to force itself into a narrative of gratitude, decorum and patronage for the final official minutes.
But now everything looks more artificial than it did a quarter of an hour ago.
Too many people are looking too closely.
Too many glances do not pass each other by, but linger briefly.
Moreau looks back at the Philanthropist.
Mercer does too.
Ilya looks at the trophy.
Shane isn’t looking at Ilya, but at the Philanthropist’s hand holding the silver.
Mulder notices exactly that.
MULDER
Scully.
SCULLY
Yes?
MULDER
If anything goes wrong in the next three minutes, it won’t be by chance.
Scully isn’t looking at him, but at the old man, the doctor, the captains, the podium, the assistants, the scholarship students, the guests.
Then she simply says:
SCULLY
Then I hope that, for once, you’re wrong.
On the ice, the philanthropist now grips the trophy more firmly.
An assistant steps back.
The microphone is repositioned.
Jennifer steps forward to the edge of the podium.
Jonathan falls silent.
The hall falls silent in that fragile, overly polite way that lasts only a few seconds.
And in this very silence, it seems as though not only the crowd is waiting for the next moment, but the hall itself.