As I bark orders at all of the trainees, I see some of them appear to be chafing under my commands, many of them never having been pushed this hard, this fast in a very long time, if ever. But this is by design.
No part of me feels guilty for pushing the athletes so, not even as they’re fresh off the plane in a foreign land, probably feeling more vulnerable than they ever have before. This must be part of the process.
This breaking period serves another purpose, too. As an instructor, it is essential for me to establish a clear hierarchy in the class as well as maintain my distance as a mentor rather than a fellow athlete.
Every time I send one of the gymnasts through a routine, whether on a bar or beam or flat-footed, I personally demonstrate the technique they must use as a baseline for their development.
“That,” I say after sticking a back layout with a half-twist while some of the students look on, “is not a technique I demand that you mimic to perfection. If I were here to teach you how to pantomime, I’d send you out on the streets to emulate the silent performers.” There’s a bit of laughter, and I afford them a half-smile. “I want you to look at the examples of me and the other trainers you’ll meet and develop your own, personal style from that template. Nobody can perfect your technique but you. It’s easy to forget that in a place like this — as a fellow foreigner, I can attest to that,” I say, and my words seem to encourage most of the gymnasts.
“Now back to it, come on!” I shout, and in a moment, they’re off to training again.
I admit, I have more of a teacher in me than I thought I would before starting here. It feels good to give the encouragement to these young women I never received when I was growing up, particularly not so in Russia.
Memories of an old, weathered, dreary orphanage flit through my memories, me and my one friend in that cold and wretched place sticking together to steal food from the administrators and teaming up to defend one another from the other boys.
I shake my head, snapping myself out of the memories. At least that place served to let me be cold and distant when I needed to be.
As I monitor the progress of the gymnasts, I don’t fail to notice that some of their eyes rove to me when they think I’m not paying attention. I am a tall man, easily towering over all of them at six and a half feet, and my workout clothes shows off muscles far larger and harder than most gymnasts, both in my rippling arms and cut calves. My tight shirt leaves little to the imagination in my pecs and abdomen, as well as my stony back muscles that flex and stretch with each technique.
These women are very young, and all of them are out of their element. It would be the easiest thing in the world to become unprofessional with them, and at least once a year, every faculty member has a story about a student who’s tried just such a thing. And there are more stories yet of those professors who have taken advantage of the women’s vulnerability.
That is, in part, why I distance myself so harshly, so early, often before the women even arrive in Paris. There was one student in particular with whom I was especially harsh...and I haven’t failed to notice her absence today. As well as one other young woman’s. I know some of the students are prone to dropping out mysteriously, but such a thing is a rarity before the first day starts.
“Martins,” I call one of the women over, and she looks up from her training. “Where are Greenwood and Mason?”
She looks confused for a moment, then blinks in comprehension. “Oh! You mean Liv and Maggie? Uh, I don’t know. Heard they’re roommates, but haven’t heard much from them.”
“Does anyone else here know them?”
“Don’t think so,” she says with a frown. “Everything okay?”
“Nothing for you to worry about,” I say with a frown, taking out my cellphone and waving her off. “But thank you.”
I make my way across the gym to somewhere a little quieter, scrolling through my contacts to find their numbers — I made sure to have everyone’s contact information as they came over. These foreigners were all in my care, after all, and this was not the kind of program to be taken lightly.
Not that I would suspect Liv to be the type to blow off training, which is why I felt a touch of concern as I listen to the droning ring go on and on. I furrow my brow and try Maggie’s number, but only to the same result.
I can’t shake a strange feeling about their silence. In my years of running this program, some students had indeed blown off the classes to go enjoy Paris, but to do so on the first day?
Liv was the most puzzling of the two. She’d been so submissive and meek when we’d met, obediently falling into step. When I first caught her staring at me, I thought she’d melt into the floor of embarrassment.