Alexeyev is in fact the greatest superheavyweight weightlifter of all time. He
was the first man ever to lift 500 pounds,
in 1970, and in the same year to total
more than 600 kilograms (1,323 pounds)
in the three standard lifts--since reduced
to two. He has been the weightlifting
champion in his class in the Soviet Union
and the European and world champion
since 1970, and is the reigning Olympic
champion. He has broken 67 world
weight-lifting records. He has jerked 537
pounds, snatched 413, pressed 518.
But on this occasion Alexeyev was posing for formal portraits in his garden,
wearing a heavy black suit and beginning
to perspire. He glowered at the photographer from beneath furry black eyebrows.
"Smile?" said the photographer meekly.
Alexeyev's face became thoughtful. He
scowled and then bellowed, "Schmile!"
The sound rose from the deep caverns of
his chest like the thunder and turbulence
within a volcano. "Schmile!" Then he
smiled. And the camera clicked. Smile.
Click. And so it went. Alexeyev's brow
dripped as the noon sun beat upon his
black wool suit. At last the formal shooting was done, but Alexeyev held up a
huge hand and spoke urgently in Russian. His two sons, Sergei, 12, and Dmitri, 9, hurried to his side. Alexeyev
removed the glorious sash and arranged his
sons in front of him. Then he gently hung
the silk across both their chests.
"Schmile!" he roared and beamed at the
camera. The photographer took many
pictures of the proud father and his sons
before Vasili Alexeyev pronounced the
session over.
Vasili Alexeyev lives in the small city of
Shakhty, on the steppes, about 800 miles
southwest of Moscow. Shakhty is not
mentioned in guidebooks to the Soviet
Union. The city has been closed to Western visitors for years, not because it has
any secret installations but because there
are no official Intourist facilities to manage the rigidly controlled trips to which
tourists are customarily restricted.
The exceptional arrangements accorded me involved simply a translator (a
Moscow sportswriter named Yuri Solomakhin) and the almost constant presence of a tiny, balding, ashen-faced fellow we came to call simply The
Chairman. His name was Leonid Tkach and
he was, in fact, the chairman of the sports
committee of Shakhty and our official
host. Proper and usually quite stiff,
though cordial, The Chairman did not
seem well. At times he spoke to us,
through Yuri, of stomach troubles that
had long plagued him.
The city of Shakhty has over 200,000
inhabitants, and nearly 20,000 of them
are coal miners. Mining is the city's principal industry, and has been for about
100 years. The shafts of the mines at
Shakhty are driven uncommonly deep in
order to reach the richest veins of coal;
one has been sunk to a depth of a mile
and a quarter. A gigantic electric star of
red lights glows above the mines when
the miners are producing their quota;
when it is dark they are not. Last fall the
star blazed through the nights of my visit.
But this is no Appalachia. The city of
Shakhty is pleasant, its streets lined with
trees. The central park has sidewalk cafes and tranquil ponds, and old ladies
nod in the sun as they wait for someone
to buy the bouquets offlowers displayed
in pails at their feet. The young women
wear miniskirts and are tastefully made
up, the shopwindows are filled with fairly stylish clothes, there are trolley cars
and a certain amount of automobile traffic on the main streets. But Shakhty
seems a calm, relaxed city.
Its most striking sights are the great
pyramids of slag that rise like melancholy
black Alps, or the real pyramids of Egypt
turned to soot. They can be very dangerous, for the dust within may build up
to an intensity that can spontaneously explode. As The Chairman said, "They are
like volcanoes when they burn. It may
take weeks to put out the fires. Smoke
will hang over the city, and the daytime
will be like dusk."
Vasili Alexeyev lives at No. 16 Klimenko Street, a serene throughway with trees
and park benches along a promenade
down the center. It is quiet here. Alexeyev's home is a bungalow of soft brownish-pink brick with a pointed slate roof
and high windows facing the street. It is
termed a "state house," meaning that it
is owned by the government and that he
pays a symbolic rent of 12 rubles (around
$17) a month. The house was built in
1913, and Alexeyev has lived in it for
about three years. In the Soviet Union
the average living space is approximately
90 square feet per person; in Shakhty,
the average is a bit more. Alexeyev and
his family have more space than that,
possibly a third of an acre, including
the vine-covered brick-walled courtyard
with a charming garden.
One day Alexeyev addressed himself
to the subject of his house, frowning at
my intimation that it was his only because and for the duration of his successful weightlifting career. "They have
given me this house for eternity," he declared, as interpreted by Yuri Solomakhin. "My sons will live here, and my
guandsons. Although--who knows?--
they may have something better by then.
I had an apartment with four rooms before, but I preferred an old house, a
courtyard for my training needs, some
space. My claim was put through the executive committee of the town council.
Due to my training conditions, they approved this. There were two families living here before. They were relatives. They
are in new housing developments now."
The home thus acquired is warm and
spacious, reflecting a graceful, prosperous way of life that might once have been
labeled blatantly bourgeois. There are
two sizable bedrooms, a fine bathroom
and a modern, tiled kitchen. The parlor
overlooks the street and is large and cool.
There is a kind of muted elegance to the
room, with its cut-glass chandelier, black
marble fireplace and magnificent Oriental rug. Vases contain fresh flowers, a 21-inch color television is set in one corner,
a long lacquered breakfront is filled with
an assortment of crystal vases, goblets,
pitchers and bowls, some of them prizes
Alexeyev has won. On top are a few of
his larger trophies, including the gleaming "First Man to jerk 500 pounds"
award given him by George Petridis of
Bayonne, N.J. Against the opposite parlor wall are two lacquered bookcases,
and on one perches a pair ofnoble stuffed
birds. "They are steppes eagles," said
Alexeyev, "shot by me. I am a good
marksman." Atop the other bookcase is
a small portrait of Josenh Stalin, pipe in
mouth. Among Alexeyev's books are a
full set of the works of Jack London (in
Russian), the complete writings of Lenin and a tome containing Brezhnev's
Repovt to the 24th Communist Party Congress. A stereo is built into this bookcase, and as he talked Alexeyev put a
Tom Jones recording on the turntable.
Occasionally he hummed along. "It is a
fact that I have the best singing voice on
the Soviet weight-lifting team," he said.
"We sing often, songs of winning and
songs of workers. We must struggle in
competition and we inspire ourselves by
singing. Sometimes we sing about trenches and war, and sometimes about the
Don flowing red with blood. Also a favorite song of mine is Yesterday as Tom
Jones sings it. When I was a boy in the
north of Russia I was a musician and I
sang at weddings. I was very popular."
Alexeyev said that he seldom watches
television. "There is too much literature,
too much music in life to spend time at
television." He said, however, that his
sons frequently watch cartoons, including Mighty Mouse, Mickey Mouse and
a popular Russian cartoon called Nhu
Pogodi. This involves "a wolf, which displays all the qualities of evil, in conflict
with a hare, inevitably a paragon of all
that is good and honorable."
In a small room off the parlor is the
collection of medals Alexeyev has won,
dozens of them, displayed in glass cases
and protected with care and tenderness.
The room is not unlike a shrine, and
Alexeyev himself seems to enter it with a
hint of humility. I have won these medals," he said, "but in fact they belong to
the people of the Soviet Union. I am
keeping them safe for them."
Alexeyev's wife is a handsome, blonde,
blue-eyed woman, shapely and lively,
given to arpeggios of giggles when her
husband unleashes a witty line--which
seemed to be often. Her name, believe it
or not, is Olimpiada, and she was once a
student of economics in Moscow.
Alexeyev said of her, "She is the wife
of the champion weight lifter, but many
do not know she is the champion's wife.
They watch her closely when she walks.
They are sure she is a young unmarried
girl. They do not suspect she is mine, because many think my wife should weigh
200 kilos. When I take a promenade with
Olimpiada, they think she is perhaps my
little daughter." Outside, his boys frolicked and scuffed about the courtyard,
kicking a rubber ball with an ungainly
Doberman puppy. Occasionally Alexeyev would roar a command at the puppy,
and it would cower: it seemed to be the
only obsequious creature in the household of the strongest man in the world.
I asked Alexeyev if his sons received
special admiration or treatment from
friends or teachers because of his position. He shook his great head vigorously.
"Nyet. They are normal boys both. The
star system is not popular with us. If I
am not in the up-front situation I am in,
it would not matter, they would be handled the same."
The courtyard and garden of Alexeyev's home are perhaps more impressive
than the house itself. The eight-foot brick
wall was festooned with grapevines, the
leaves changing to soft yellow and gentle red in the autumn sun. He was enthusiastic, even rapturous, about his garden. "Ahhh," he sighed, closing his eyes
in a mock swoon over the splendor of
nature. "To make something in the
earth, that is the best recreation yet. I
have made many things in this earth.
Look here...." He moved swiftly to a
patch of strawberry plants and bent to
touch them. "I have three sorts of strawberries, and I have put them all together
and made a new kind. And here...."
He hurried across to another plant and
crouched by it reverently. "My lovely
Bulgarian peppers! There are none in
Shakhty so crisp and pungent as mine.
These are such beauties of a pepper! And
here...." He moved on to some roses,
a few fragile blossoms still aglow in October. "I have made also a new sort of
rose. They are so new they have no name,
so I will name them 'Shakhtinka' after
the lovely women of Shakhty." For a moment he stood surveying the garden. "I
have had carrots, white cabbages here,"
he said. "In no collective farm do you
find such good vegetables as you do with
me. In my yard is perfect Communism.
I grow everything I need."
Two brick outbuildings are attached
to the house proper. One is a garage, but
it is used for storage. Alexeyev's four-door volga sedan that cost about $10,000
is parked in the courtyard. It has plush
maroon upholstery and a stereo tape
deck. Next to the garage is his personal
billiard building, generous living space
for three or four people by Soviet standards. The floor is parquet; the walls are
paneled in white pine with ornamentally
carved strips and darkened grain; the
ceiling is made of interlocking wooden
squares, with indirect lighting and quiet
fans. In the center of the room--gleaming, elegant--stands the billiard table.
Alexeyev breathed deeply as he gazed
upon the room. He said, "I have done it
with my own hands. I have a talent for
carpentry. T have clever hands--I have
what peasants used to call 'hands of
gold.' 1 have laid the bricks in much of
the courtyard walls. I have cleaned stones
for my garden. I have built stools and
tables here. I have built this room."
At the rear of the building is a gazebo
that Alexeyev also built with his golden
hands. It contains a Ping-Pong table and
a chinning bar. Asked if he used the chinning bar in his training, he looked surprised and scoffed, "Nvet. It is for the
children, but even they are too wise to
use it." And the table-tennis setup? "I
play often," he said. "I am best table-tennis player on the Soviet weight-lifting
team. I am also best on the team at
draughts, dominoes, billiards and, of
course, lifting the weights."
The Chairman, Leonid Tkach, arranged
a late dinner one evening in a Shakhty
restaurant, where our party dined in a
private back room. I asked if we could
not sit at a table with the local people,
but he shook his head no. Yuri explained
delicately that Tkach was fearful of my
encountering obstreperous drunks in the
restaurant, which was also a nightclub
with a band and a dance floor. "Sometimes coal miners work very hard and
then drink very hard," Yuri said. "Our
chairman would not want for there to be
an incident which could spoil your visit
with Vasili Alexeyev. You understand."
At dinner The Chairman told me that
he and the town sports committee dealt
with many of the aspects of Alexeyev's
life. "We are supporting always good
sportsmen," he said. "The point of our
system is to treat them well. The better
sportsmen get better living conditions,
better working conditions. If the sports
committee said Alexeyev needed a better house, a better work shift, he would
probably get it. The job of the chairman," said The Chairman, "is to try to
get athletes better conditions than the average worker. We have about 170 athletes under special working conditions in
Shakhty. If they need to train in the
morning, then T ask the mine administration. If a sportsman produces better
results in sports, then he gets better food,
better house, better job perhaps."
The Chairman paused and sighed. He
looked weary. "We are always cursed,
of course," he said, "if we do not pay
enough attention to our great sportsmen.
Certainly a great sportsman like Vasili
Alexeyev must live better than anyone
else. He must have the finest caloric food.
The workers say it, too. They agree he
should have better living conditions.
Naturally in sports we are organized
from the top to bottom. Much of what
is done for Alexeyev is determined by the
Sports Committee of the U.S.S.R. The
committee says to us,'Give us good
sportsmen from Shakhty.' Every four
years there is great inspection for our
Olympic teams, and we must be ready
to supply sportsmen who are excellent.
We try to do that. The chairman is cursed
by the U.S.S.R. committee and by the
town council when our athletes do not
do well." He sighed again. "We are hoping, you know, in 1976 to have two gold
Olympic medals from Shakhty--Alexeyev and Rigert [David Rigert, a middle-heavyweight lifter who also won a world
championship in Manila last year]. It is
very difficult to satisfy everybody. But if
I have been wrong in what I do, I would
not be chairman for 10 years, as I have
been, would I?"
I asked him if proving the Soviet/Communist way of life better than the American/capitalist were a primary motivation
in this Russian effort to develop champions. The Chairman replied calmly, "In
my opinion the best conditions exist between the U.S. and U.S.S.R. in the sports
struggle. The strongest must win. But
who really wins? A man wins. It is true
each individual must have a team to compete with. That is the rule. So it may be
a nation or a nation's team a man is a
part of. But it is the individual who wins
the contest, not the nation or the way of
life. I ask you: Is a boy carried on the
shoulders of his comrades because he is
a collrctivist? Nyet!"
Vasili Alexeyev's official occupation is
that of mining engineer. He trained in
the Shakhty mining institute, which is
why he moved to Shakhty in 1966 from
the Arkhangelsk region some 700 miles
north of Moscow. When I told him that
it is still being written in Western publications that he began his working life
as a butcher's apprentice he said, "If I
had started as a butcher, I would still be
a butcher. I would have been afinp butcher, of course," he observed, "and butchers make good livings." In fact, as a youth
Alexeyev worked in the forests near his
home in Pokrovo-Shishking as a woodcutter apprentice to his father, who was
an accomplished lumberjack.
But now he is a mining engineer. He
said that he has an office near the mines,
and visits it each day (though he did not
visit the office or the mines with me) and
his pay is very high--500 rubles (or $705
a month). I asked The Chairman about
Alexeyev's salary in relation to the true
value of his performance as a mining engineer. Tkach replied elliptically, ''I prefer to count my money rather than Alexeyev's. I think he does not lend any money,
so perhaps he does not have so much."
The Chairman paused, then added an
oddly appropriate non sequitur. "It is
true, you know, that Gordie Howe earns
more money than all the first hockey
team of the U.S.S.R. and all of the reserves." In comparison to Alexeyev's
monthly income of 500 rubles, Soviet office workers earn an average of 130 rubles a month, as do teachers. Doctors,
of whom the vast majority are women,
get 150 a month. Coal miners, regarded
almost as heroes in the U.S.S.R. because
of the pain and danger of their jobs, average 200 rubles a month.
Obviously Alexeyev's engineering career runs a poor second to his weight-lifting work, and he himself spoke of a kind
of duality in his life. "Being famous as I
have been is not all positive," he said. "It
makes it more difficult to go upward in
your working career. Of course, I am not
striving to go upward in my career at this
moment. If I achieve too much as a mining engineer, it becomes more difficult to
pursue my training as a sportsman. I
know also that if I were working my way
up in my mining-engineer career, I would
be a big chief by now." He paused, and
spoke solemnly in a sepulchral bass
voice. "I am not feeling greatly celebrated. I am not feeling a special man. I do
not know how it is with U.S. sports heroes, but heroes in the Soviet Union are
working very hard at their sports."
He went on. "There are two categories of performer in my sport. First: those
who view competitions as tortures. Second: those who see competitions as great
celebrations. I am in the middle of those
two. For some performers there is a psychological problem. As the weight is
greater, the more the mind makes the
weight seem to be. But we are from the
U.S.S.R., and such a psychological situation is no problem. During Shakespeare's times it was said,'What must
be cannot be avoided.' That is how it is
when I lift. To successfully lift the weight
cannot be avoided. I experience the tortures und the celebration. But I lift as well
as I lift because it cannot be avoided.
"I am asked to make many speeches
in the Soviet Union. I am very much at
ease and I say to crowds,'O.K, what
topic do you like me to talk about?' They
ask me to tell my biography, how I got
to be a great sportsman, and they ask
my impression of my last competition.
Of course, I have nearly always won the
last competition, so my impressions are
always happy, proud. I say I have become a great champion because of my
love of hard work and my great striving
to reach the target of winning."
When I asked whether he considered
his victories some sort of proof of the
U.S.S.R.'s superiority over the U.S.,
Alexeyev replied, "I have always had to
win because I respect my people and I
display my country's success by winning.
As to whether we would prove the Soviet way better than the American in the
competitions of weight lifting--such a
target was never put before us."
It was about 11:45 in the morning, another translucent autumn day in
Alexeyev's courtyard. Young Dmitri was kicking his soccer ball, the Doberman puppy
scrambling wildly after it. The boy's
school hours were in the afternoon. His
brother attended morning classes--there
are double sessions in Shakhty. Suddenly
the door of Alexeyev's house banged
open and the great man stepped out. He
was dressed in electric-blue sweat pants,
Adidas sneakers, a thin apple-green
T shirt. In his right hand he carried a
bulging Adidas bag and looked not unlike a gigantic commuter bound for his
train. And Vasili Alexeyev was indeed on
his way to work. He strode about 25
mighty paces, and there he was at his office, chairman of the board, to say nothing of king of the mountain.
In those 25 paces from his back door
to the bar, the weights and the rubber
mats laid by the brick wall, everything
in Alexeyev's existence as premier sports
hero of the Soviet Union and strongest
man in the world was on display. He
moved with a powerful swagger across
the courtyard bricks. His massive arms
kept rhythm with the steady pump of his
great thighs and his head swayed--gently, arrogantly--with each stride. He radiated absolute peace and self-assurance.
His face was composed in the benign,
even saintly, self-confident expression of
an old-fashioned king absolutely certain
of his divine right to reign. There might
have been music, The Hallelujah Chorus
perhaps, but it was not necessary.
At the weight-lifting area he unzipped
the bag to take out a package of talcum
powder and a white leather girdle which
he strapped beneath his belly to diminish the immense strain on his stomach
muscles when he hoists the weights. The
weights, the great discs of iron, were
stacked along the garden wall. He studied them, then picked up one weighing
25 kilos (55 pounds) andd fitted it on one
end of the bar. He got a similar disc on
the other end and began to work. Next
he progressed to 65 kilos (143 pounds).
He dusted his hands with talcum, spat
into his palms, bent and gripped the bar.
With a horrible gasp and grunt he yanked
it to shoulder level, paused, then raised
it, in triumph, it seemed, above his head.
He held it there for a moment, then let it fall
to the mats with an explosive crash.
In the soft morning, with his Shakhtinka roses budding nearby and the leaves
of the grapevines rustling on the garden
wall, with the chirping of the birds in his trees
and the civilized sound of trolley cars in
the distance, the savage clangor of the
falling weight was as unnerving as a grenade blast at one's feet.
Alexeyev lifted the 65 kilos three or
four times as a warmup. He rested for a
moment, leaning on a padded gymnastic
horse. He said nothing. He seemed to be
concentrating very hard, as though slipping into some kind of trance necessary
to the superhuman feats he performed so
regularly. Dmitri and the puppy scampered by his feet. and Alexeyev emerged
from his trance to inquire, "Have you
done all your lessons?" Offended, the boy
replied that of course he had.
Alexeyev added more weight and lifted something over 250 pounds. He
seemed about to burst when he hoisted
the bar above his head. His belly strained
against the leather girdle. He dropped the
weight with the same hideous crash. He
lifted it again and let it fall. Then, panting, he leaned again against the horse.
Once more he seemed to be entering a
quasi-mystical state of concentration,
which it seemed wise not to interrupt. But
then he looked at me and said, "Ask me
something."
Well, all right. Could he explain his
training technique? He said, "The difference between my methodics and others
is great. What is mainly different is that
I train more often and I lift more weights
than others. I never know when I will
train. Sometimes deep in the night, sometimes in the morning. Sometimes several
times a day, sometimes not at all. I never repeat myself. Only I understand what
is right for me. I have never had a coach.
I know my own possibilities bestly. No
coach knows them. Coaches grow old
and they have old ideas."
He bent over to attach more weight to
his bar. It would be 310 pounds now. He
dusted his hands and spat on them, then
paused and said, "I am, of course, the
unofficial coach of the Soviet team. Everybody asks my advice during training
and competitions. They are very grateful, for what I say usually helps." With
a bellow he hoisted the weight to his
shoulders, hesitated, gasped and shouted
with effort and exultation as he shoved
it above his head. This time when the
weight smashed to the mats he was panting more heavily and beginning to perspire. "Ask more," he said.
I asked about his daily routine. "l'm
sleeping eight hours, normally," he said.
"I also play tennis and volleyball. I have
great springing qualities in volleyball. I
love to play dominoes. It is excellent to
play before a competition because it destroys the cares that come then."
He upped the weight to 360 pounds
and raised it once with great noise and
puffing and let it crash. 1 asked him about
injuries. He replied with animation,
though still panting from the last lift.
"Yes, I have had legs twisted and backs
twisted. Many times I have backs twisted. Also muscles in the stomach twisted.
It was due to a back injury once that I
was prohibited to train. But I am a very
concentrated man. I continued my working anyway. The injury did not matter."
Alexeyev was silent for a moment. Then,
in a theatrical gesture, he threw out his
chest, raised one arm and roared what
sounded like a challenge to the heavens.
Interpreter Yuri Solomakhin chuckled
and said, "What Vasili has just shouted
is 'Victory or death!' "
Alexeyev paused to let this sink in, then
continued in melodramatic tones, "In
spite of my pained back and in spite of
the prohibition against my lifting the
weights, I won the U.S.S.R. championships that time, then the European championships, and then I am that same year
the world champion for the first time!"
There was some temptation to burst
into a round of applause after the recital, but instead I asked Alexeyev how he
dealt with pain, if he hypnotized himself
when he lifted weights. He replied, "If
you have pain you overcome it by physical exercise, not by the mind. The mind
is no good for fixing pain."
Alexeyev worked out for about an
hour. When he was finished he was
streaming perspiration, but he seemed
plainly exhilarated and said, "Let us talk
some more for a moment." So 1 asked
about his position as a deputy of the executive council of Shakhty. This is an
elective position that Alexeyev holds in
which he represents some 2,000 constituents as their spokesman and champion
before the local parliament. He was delighted to discuss it. "Many, many times
I represent people before the town council about such things as living conditions.
A doctor may come to me, a respected
man, and say,'l have a two-room apartment, and I would like from the state a
three-room apartment.' So I, as deputy,
am analyzing this question and coming
to a decision as to whether I think it is
correct or not. If I feel it is correct, then
I go to the council and present the case.
If a man for whom I am deputy wants a
different job shift, I may mention it to
his plant manager and arrange the
change. I do not mind using my reputation as a sports champion to help these
people. They have elected me four times
now. It is honest duty, simple duty. There
is no pay."
I asked whether he had considered going into politics after his career as a champion was over, and he shouted, "That
will be long from now! The Olympics of
1980--in Moscow--they are necessary
for me. Most necessary!" Having made
this perfectly clear, he spoke thoughtfully. "It is true my experience as deputy is
good and may be helpful in my future. I
may be elected to the town council, the
regional council, the provincial council
sometime. But I do not know about my
future. I intend to enter the Communist
Party soon. So far my politics exist only
in sports gold. That is my only politics,
and I am kept busy with speeches and
with answering letters that come from
fans. Sometimes I get them and they are
addressed only to 'Alexeyev, The
Kremlin!' ''
He picked up his Adidas bag, gave a
small salute and said, "I am taking long
hot bath now." And he sauntered off.
That night I left the hotel at about 11:30
to take a walk and strolled through the
central park, which was dark and empty. There was no light except that of the
moon. I walked about the business district, looking into shopwindows, until at
last I reached Klimenko Street and sat
on a bench across from Alexeyev's house.
It was midnight now, but, surprisingly,
the garden appeared floodlit. Then, faint
and muffled, so that it was at first unclear what it was, came the sound of a
falling weight. It was ghostly there in the
dark, and I felt oddly frozen in time as I
sat waiting. Many minutes passed, it
seemed. Then, once more I heard---I
thought I heard--another faraway crash
on the other side of Vasili Alexeyev's garden wall. I rose and returned through the
park to my hotel.
The following afternoon Alexeyev, beneath an apple tree, sat upon a wooden
stool he had made. Before him was a table spread with an immaculate white
cloth and laden with bowls of apples,
grapes, tomatoes, red peppers, platters of
cheese and meat, bottles of vodka and
cognac. In his hands, bigger than any
stevedore's yet supple as a cellist's, he
held a cut-glass goblet which he polished
with a white towel. The glass sparkled in
the sunshine as he turned it in his hands.
He polished all the glassware, then rose
and ambled into the kitchen. He took
some cuts of beef, vyrezka, and began to
pound them with a meat hammer, adding salt and spices and onions, then
frying them to make the main dish for luncheon. Asked if vyrezka was his favorite, Alexeyev replied, "Nyet. Everything
I am preparing is my favorite because I
am preparing only the most delicious
dishes. No one in Shakhty is so good a
cook as I. No one on the Soviet weightlifting team is so good a cook, either."
We sat down for lunch and Alexeyev
gazed rather slyly about the table. Then
he asked me, "Vodka or cognac?" I
asked what he would suggest, and he
said, "I have drunk cognac all over the
world. In France, everywhere. None is
so good as Armenian cognac. This," he
held up a bottle, "is Armenian cognac!"
He filled one of his sparkling goblets to
the brim and handed it to me; he took
the same amount himself after filling the
other glasses. He raised his own, offered
a simple toast of welcome and swallowed
it all. So did everyone else. I then felt a
toast was in order. Alexeyev refilled the
goblets all around, and I said something
suitably pretentious about such luncheons as these going far toward
improving relations between our two nations.
The toast was drunk. Next, the local soccer coach proposed a toast, and it, too,
went down. The Chairman followed--
though he was taking only a sip each time,
owing, he said, to his perennially unsettled stomach. Olimpiada skipped the last
four or five toasts, smiling warmly, but
Yuri kept up and became so affected by
the drinking and the sun that eventually
I could not understand his English and
Alexeyev could not understand his Russian. Subsequent toasts were hurled
therefore into a linguistic vacuum, and
the guests were reduced to loud jovial
noises. Alexeyev's vyrezka was superb,
as was his "vegetable caviar", a dish
made from eggplant he had, of course,
raised himself.
Much later, when the guests were
about to leave, The Chairman insisted on
one last toast and Alexeyev poured for
all. The Chairman rose and said, "Here
is to 1992, to Vasili Alexeyev, who will
still be champion, and to whom we will
drink once more in that far-off year." The
toast was drunk. I asked Alexeyev if he
really thought he might still be the
strongest man in the world in 1992. He
beamed, his black eyes shining from beneath the black forest of his eyebrows.
Then he smiled that huge and now familiar beatific smile that made happy
wreaths of the blue jowls. He held up one
finger and spoke with the utmost magniloquence. "Do not forget one thing."
He paused. "I am original." He paused.
"I am unique."
And with that Vasili Alexeyev shook
hands with everyone, went into his house
and closed the door.
Vasili Alexeyev, the premier sports hero of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, stood in his garden amid his strawberry plants, his red peppers and his roses. The autumn sun shone
on the south of Russia as if it were he south of France. Alexeyev's arms, thick as tree trunks, were akimbo, the vast muscles
at rest in the sun. His kingly chest and belly, broader than any
barrel, bass drum or office safe in common use today, expanded
surrealistically when he inhaled. His torso glittered when he
moved, for he was draped from right shoulder to left hip--a distance of perhaps four feet--with a brilliant vermilion silk sash adorned with
row upon row of small medallions; the
sash was so laden it looked like a swath
of golden mail. It weighed seven or eight
pounds, but was no burden for Vasili
Alexeyev. At 33, Alexeyev weighs 324
pounds, stands 6' 1 1/2" and is the strongest man in the world.