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40 Amit Bobrov
‘Great, Adam’, I told myself. ‘Try to show that you’re strong
and you end up showing just how clumsy you are!’

“You should be more careful, Adam,” Ivar told me.
“Yes, Master,” I replied.
“Remember what I taught you. If the buckets are heavy for
you, place yourself in a balanced position, mind your breathing,
and lift carefully,” he said, and I grew angrier still.
“Yes, Master,” I replied, and hoped he’d leave me be.
Later that evening I waited outside with my wooden sword for
Ivar to give me another fencing lesson. God knows I had plenty
of rage in me to work out. Was that lone figure still lingering

outside? I couldn’t tell, as if under a spell of some kind. My
mind drifted back; I wanted to fight. I noticed something was
wrong when Ivar didn’t bring his own sword.
“Adam, put the weapon away, we need to talk,” he said. I did
as instructed, frustrated and scared of what he was about to
say. I looked nervously at him as he began.
“Adam, Ingrid is not for you,” he said flatly. It took me a few

moments to understand what he was saying, for my mind had
been expecting news of another sort, such as ‘now that Ingrid
is here, we’re not going to train anymore’ or ‘now that Ingrid is
here, I’m not going to have enough room for you, too’, rather
than this; Ingrid not being for me. I couldn’t have cared less. Yet
my face flushed red as if burning up and my fists clenched of
their own accord.
“We come from different places — you and I, so I don’t expect
you to know this,” Ivar said.

“Know what?” I asked.
“Where we come from — Ingrid and I, it is considered ...” Ivar
said, looking for the proper word “… very wrong for a woman
of her stature to be involved in any way with someone like you.”