The trophy was carried by four men in dark green waistcoats and white gloves. They emerged from a side door in the foyer, moving slowly, almost as if in a religious procession, as though it were not a sporting trophy but a relic that had outlived too many generations to belong entirely to anyone. The string quartet fell silent. The chatter died down. Even the Austrian cadets seemed, for a moment, less like performers and more like mere witnesses.
The trophy was large, heavy and of that old silver colour that could only be achieved through hours of polishing. Four boar’s heads carved from horn sat on its base. Their eyes were made of dark glass, their tusks were finely crafted, the bristles on their necks so precisely chiselled that Jennifer couldn’t help thinking a silversmith must have had either great patience or great resentment.
“That’s not a trophy,” Fox muttered. “It’s a fancy drinking horn with a handle.”
Dana didn’t look at him. “Mulder.”
“I said it admiringly; as a tennis player at school, I used to drink from things like this too: far too quickly and far too much. Look how lustfully the cadets are eyeing it!”
Jonathan, standing next to Jennifer, leaned forward slightly. “A fine piece. A bit martial, but fine.”
“A martial look is probably hard to avoid with boar’s heads,” said Jennifer. “It’s hard to make them look as though they’re offering you tea.”
The cup was placed on a round table beneath the damaged chandelier. The light fell in broken splinters onto the silver, onto the gilded animal heads, onto tiny scratches on the rim. Every scratch looked as though it bore its own date.
The philanthropist stepped forward first. He smiled for the audience, but touched the rim of the cup only with his fingertips, as if testing whether metal could grow warm when too many eyes were fixed upon it. Standing beside him was the tournament doctor.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the philanthropist, his voice carrying softly through the foyer, “you are looking at the Chestnut Mountain Founders’ Cup. It was last restored in 1947, the year of this arena’s grand reopening after the war.”
The tournament doctor smiled. “Some parts are even older. The inner oak core of the base is said to date back to the old school that stood here before the ice rink.”
A murmur rippled through the guests.
“From the Jesuit grammar school?” asked a woman in a feathered hat.
“From the state boarding school,” he explained. “Otherwise it would just be rotten Catholic sawdust by now.”
“That’s uncharacteristic,” Dana growled quietly. “How can a doctor be so cynical?”
Fox nodded. “I’ll embroider that onto a cushion for you.”
Dana shot him a look that brooked no pillow jokes.
The philanthropist continued. “The trophy embodies what this place has always aspired to be: education, discipline, competition, and the belief that young people grow closer through shared rules.”
“And through very large cash prizes,” said Fox.
This time, Dana nearly kicked him in the shin.
The philanthropist raised his glass. “I shall have the honour of presenting this trophy to the winning team later on. But before we move on to the ice and the official start of the match, may I ask you all to enjoy the canapés and drinks that the school canteen has so lovingly prepared for us. Alcohol-free, of course, for our athletes and the cadets.”
A discreet chuckle followed. The cadets accepted this with dignity, which made an even greater impression on some of the guests than their multilingualism.
At a signal from Eleanor Price, ten waiters wheeled in rickety buffet trolleys, laboriously spruced up with linen tablecloths. Suddenly, the foyer came alive with activity: silver platters, steaming little bowls, glazed chestnuts, maple syrup tartlets, savoury pastries, spicy mushroom cakes, local cheeses, non-alcoholic punch, mulled ginger ale, and mineral water in green bottles. For the adult sponsors, there was also Swiss stone pine schnapps and heavy red wine on offer, but the glasses near the teams were clearly marked.
Shane took a glass of water.
He held it without drinking. His gaze shifted from the trophy to the philanthropist, then to the tournament doctor. Finally to Ilya, who was standing at the edge of the buffet with his Soviet team, hesitantly taking a plate.
“You should eat,” said the French captain, Luc, to Shane, whilst helping himself to a mushroom patty. “You lose more gracefully on a full stomach.”
“I don’t intend to lose.”
“Nobody does. That’s why sport is so thrilling.”
Cemil, the Ottoman captain, reached for a glass of non-alcoholic punch. “Everyone’s likely to lose something tonight. But I’m glad there are mushroom dishes; they’re harmless and permitted.”
Shane looked at him.
Cemil didn’t smile. “I meant that in a sporting sense.”
“Of course,” said Shane.
Meanwhile, the Austrian cadets were lining up on the gallery. Instead of the string quartet, their wind orchestra now stepped forward: trumpets, clarinets, trombones, a snare drum and a horn that looked as though it had already survived generations of students. Felinger raised his baton with a solemnity that briefly brought every adult in the room to attention.
Then the march began.
Solemn, bright, with an almost imperial air, yet not heavy. The trumpets blared their golden notes into the room, the clarinets laid down a nimble line beneath them, and the drum gave the guests’ footsteps a rhythm they hadn’t even been looking for. For a moment, the foyer was no longer dilapidated. For a moment, it was a ballroom, an old schoolyard, a tournament ground, a stage.
Then the light flickered so briefly that some guests laughed.
The chandelier shook, causing a glass prism to come loose, though it did not fall.
The wind orchestra carried on playing. Felinger gave nothing away. That was probably part of the training: when the light flickers, you keep the beat. Austrian pedagogy could evidently achieve dramatic effects.
Jennifer looked up.
Jonathan looked at Jennifer. “Please tell me you’re not actually thinking of climbing a ladder.”
“I never think about climbing a ladder. I always let Max do that.”
“That’s what we have him for, after all.”
“I’m thinking about who I’d ask here to do it for me.”
“The hall isn’t yours.”
Dana joined them with Fox. She was now holding a glass of Russian tea after all, but she wasn’t drinking from it. The silver cross around her neck caught the light only faintly. In this mix of sports gala, old school pride and faulty wiring, she looked less like a guest and more like the head of an electrical firm on an inspection.
“You want to repair the chandelier?” she said.
Jennifer turned to her in surprise. 
“Dana Scully, doctor passing through. Please excuse my inappropriate attire and that of my partner. We didn’t know there was a gala taking place here today; we just wanted to grab a quick coffee.”
Jonathan smiled. “Jonathan Hart.”
“Fox Mulder.” Fox shook his hand. “I’d imagined your house to be larger.”
Jonathan blinked.
Dana closed her eyes for a moment. “He doesn’t mean this house.”
“I meant that in a friendly way. If someone wants to have chandeliers repaired at other people’s galas, then surely they have chandeliers at home themselves, don’t they?” said Fox.
“I believe you,” said Jonathan. “Then you surely haven’t hired an exorbitantly expensive tailor to make your evening wear look like everyday office attire. That’s very sensible and economical.”
Jennifer turned to Dana. “Are you here for the match?”
“For a coffee,” said Dana.
Fox nodded. “We didn’t know there was a gala taking place here; we just wanted to grab a quick hot drink in the hall bistro.”
The march swelled. The guests stood at the buffet, laughing, sampling canapés, comparing donation cards and team predictions. The old trophy with the boar’s heads stood beneath the chandelier, guarded by two students in lilac-coloured uniforms and a photographer who handled his camera as if it could stabilise the building.
Jonathan looked over at the young people. “Despite everything, it’s remarkable. Five countries, young athletes, a foundation designed to provide them with an education. Sport can sometimes build a bridge before the diplomats even know which country is involved.”
Dana nodded. “Sport and science and art bring international relations to life. Rules, respect, shared risks. That’s probably why the United Nations supports such projects.”
“And because sport looks more peaceful than politics,” said Fox. “Especially when the sticks are only made of wood.”
“Mulder.”
“What? Hockey is a very honest form of foreign policy.”
Jennifer looked at the trophy. “Perhaps peace sometimes needs exactly that: a controlled form of collision. You skate towards each other, follow the rules, and at the end you shake hands.”
“That sounds idealistic, like something out of a United Nations children’s book,” said Dana.
“I’m rich,” said Jennifer. “We’re allowed to sound idealistic now and then, as long as we pay the bills. And I’ve funded and signed children’s books before, too.”
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “Jennifer’s an author as well, when we find the time.”
“Darling, we don’t want to embarrass these two coffee guests with our love life. Are you two even a couple?”
Fox looked around the foyer, feeling embarrassed. The chipped stucco, the fluttering drapes, the oversized banners, the trophy on his round table, the young captains, the sponsors, the cadets, the United Nations representative, the philanthropist with the too-stiff smile. “It’s strange. This whole complex is falling apart, and yet right now it looks like a model of the world order. Just with poor insulation. And no, Dr Scully and I are just working together.”
Jennifer smiled, but her gaze remained alert. “Run-down places aren’t automatically worthless. Sometimes they just reveal more honestly what new buildings would conceal. So you’re Dr Scully’s assistant?”
“We work together as equals and lay foundations,” said Scully.
The light flickered a second time.
This time it went out completely for a heartbeat at the back of the foyer. The procession faltered slightly, but recovered. In the brief darkness, something clinked. A glass, perhaps. Or metal.
When the light returned, the tournament doctor was standing closer to the trophy than before.
The philanthropist was at the buffet, surrounded by sponsors.
Shane Hollander wasn’t looking at the buffet, nor at the trophy, but at the tournament doctor at the edge of the room, whose Venetian mask pendant glinted silver in the returning light.
Fox looked at both women. “I know that look.”
“What look?” asked Jonathan.
“The look that says the coffee’s definitely gone.”
On the gallery, Felinger raised his baton for the final chord. The wind orchestra struck up, the trumpets blared, the drum rolled, and the cadets stood, clad in gold and lilac, in the flickering light.