The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  With only one kilometer to go before the finish line, I thought the danger had passed: The battering by our three rivals had lost its force and Medel appeared to have given up on the strategy. He stood on his pedals and pushed hard the rest of the way. I think the Spaniard just wanted to get to the peak separating his country from France; as soon as he crossed the finish line he’d be rolling on native soil. But this time, Matosas and Paniuk didn’t follow him. I still had what was needed to catch up to Medel. But his takeoff was too violent for Steve, so I opted to let him go. I imagined Fiona shaking her head in disappointment, her hands on her hips.

  That image made me move to take over the front spot. I wanted to keep Medel from gaining too much of an advantage. If I was going to be a coward, I’d at least be a coward with initiative. But with about two hundred meters before the finish line, Matosas and Paniuk blasted off and peeled away from Steve to grab the bonus seconds the Tour gives to the first three placers of each stage. I looked over at my partner; his face was a portrait of fatigue. I stayed behind and towed him until the finish line.

  That day, Medel took 48 seconds from Steve, and Matosas and Paniuk each grabbed twenty-one. That wasn’t easy to dismiss but we could deal with it. What was tougher to contend with was the strategy the three teams had used to collude against Fonar. If the peak had been longer and steeper, it would have been devastating. It wasn’t necessary to have a catastrophic day to completely change the standings. Six more days like this one would do the trick.

  When we got to the hotel, Giraud was losing his mind. Our DS wanted to blow the whistle on the three rival teams. Steve was in a frenzy too. For my part, I thought it was natural, up to a certain point. Medel, Paniuk, and Matosas were leaders of squads with more modest budgets and less acclaimed domestiques than the powerhouses headed by Steve, Óscar Cuadrado, and Stark. But, unexpectedly, the decimation of the Movistar and Batesman teams had made them contenders and put them in position to try to take out Fonar. So that’s precisely what they were trying to do. And perhaps what the killer was trying to do as well.

  Contrary to what I’d told Steve, I thought the explosion of Fiona’s trailer fit that strategy perfectly. If the gas tank had been full, I would have found myself in a hospital bed instead of where I was now, on a massage table. Worse: I wouldn’t have been able to protect Steve on the mountain and Matosas would be wearing the yellow jersey.

  Lucky for me, the drama of today’s race attracted the attention of the press, which seemed to forget about the explosion the night before. All the reporters’ questions to the Fonar team were focused on Steve’s defeat in the standings. No one, least of all the media, wants the leader to be determined midway through the race. Steve’s dominating lead, and the collapse of Stark and Cuadrado, had threatened to make this year’s Tour devoid of any suspense. But the offensive by Medel, Matosas, and Paniuk opened the way for a new rivalry and drama on the high mountains.

  What was exciting to the press overwhelmed Steve. He didn’t talk about the gas tank again or the need to protect me. The new challenge to him was too terrible to be ignored.

  “It’s an unacceptable conspiracy and the judges need to do something about it,” said Giraud, who was indignant. He had called for a meeting of racers and technical assistants on the team bus a little before dinner.

  “It’s twenty-seven racers against nine. It’s impossible to compete like that. We would have to look for alliances with other teams,” Steve said.

  “None of the smaller teams are going to help us. In fact, I think they’re enjoying it. They’d love to see the powerful Fonar team bite the dust,” I said, surprising myself. Generally speaking, I tend to avoid conflict.

  “We have to at least file an official protest; it’s not ethical for a part of this peloton to plot against its leaders. I’ve never seen anything like it,” insisted Steve, put off by my resistance.

  “But it’s not like we can prove it. On the road, all sorts of alliances get made and, anyway, Medel competed against the other two on the final sprint, which undermines any accusation of some kind of agreement between the three,” I said.

  “We could make a deal with whoever’s left with Movistar and Batesman,” said our teammate Guido. “Cuadrado is in sixth. He doesn’t have domestiques, but with our help, he could end up placing. Having him with us on the mountain would be huge. The British still have a couple of good climbers. If we support them so they win the white jersey, we could form an alliance.” The white jersey is what the Tour gives to the most distinguished racer under the age of twenty-five. One of the racers with Batesman was now in second place in that category and a serious contender for the title.

  Steve and Giraud looked at me, waiting for a response. In theory, Guido’s suggestion seemed logical. But only in theory. I moved around uncomfortably in my seat and let the pause linger for as long as I could stand it.

  “To ask Movistar or Batesman to help Fonar become the champion is the same as asking Real Madrid to help Barcelona. For the last four years, our three teams have taken turns winning the Tour, Il Giro, and La Vuelta. Even if Movistar and Batesman can’t compete for the Tour, the last thing any of them wants is for Fonar to claim the championship.”

  “What team are you on?” said Giraud, exasperated by my objections.

  “I’m with the leader and I think I proved that where it counts, on the mountain,” I answered.

  I was shocked by my defiant response. It’s never a good idea to confront Giraud. The DS has all the power on a team and ours reigns over us with the pride of his prior successes. Not to mention the decisive role Giraud plays at the end of the season when we negotiate contracts for the following year. Tomorrow, he could easily condemn me to serving as the link between the squad and the Fonar car that follows it, going back and forth with water and nourishment for the rest of my teammates all along the course. It’s a thankless task, usually left to the more modest members of each team.

  Usually, I don’t say much during the planning sessions for each stage, and when I do, I never confront the DS; if I have a suggestion, I present it respectfully. Although in theory Steve is the team leader, on the road I’m the strategist—I’m responsible for deciding if we chase after a group that has opted to break away, or whether to resettle our team within the squad after a sudden change in wind.

  But it’s true I’d grown impatient in the past few days. I didn’t know if I’d be able to get up the courage or the cynicism to betray Steve in what was left of the Tour, but I was no longer willing to take Giraud’s shit.

  I stayed quiet for the rest of the session, wanting it to end. I really needed to see how Fiona was doing. I took off as soon as we were through, ate as quickly as I could, and went looking for her.

  She told me she’d be in Lombard’s trailer, which was parked no more than fifty meters from my hotel. I saw them through the window, sitting with their arms resting on the table, their heads inclined as if they were praying. I must have been the reason for their whispering because I felt a sudden stiffness in their greeting, as if I’d surprised them in the middle of telling a secret they couldn’t share. What Lombard said next confirmed it.

  “You could have gone after Medel, right? You had energy to spare,” he said before I could even say hello.

  “Let’s not talk about that, not tonight,” I protested, more tired than annoyed.

  “According to my calculations, you could have reduced Steve’s lead to a minute and won today: the first Tour stage win in your life!” Now he sounded indignant.

  “You must be dead,” said Fiona, coming to my rescue. “I imagine you didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “I am dead.” I nodded and then paused, wishing I had used any other words. Over the years I’d collected amulets and performed all kinds of rituals to bring me good luck on the road, but to fear using a particular phrase, that was new.

  “I’m going to sleep
here for a few days—the colonel has granted me asylum—but I’ll go back to the hotel with you and make sure you get in bed,” she said, getting to her feet.

  I said goodbye to Lombard, and Fiona and I stepped out into the fresh night air, or what seemed like it after daytime temperatures as high as 90 degrees. The advantage of finishing a stage on a mountain was that sometimes the team would manage to stay at an empty ski lodge, where higher altitudes meant beautiful, cool weather. I’d put on a hat to avoid being recognized, although anyone who saw me walking like a medical patient shuffling down a hospital hallway would quickly identify me as a professional cyclist.

  Fiona began talking. “Stark will drop out tomorrow because he doesn’t have the spirit to go on after what happened with Fleming. Cuadrado wants to drop out too, but Movistar won’t let him. They have all kinds of sponsorship deals and only four out of their nine cyclists are left.”

  Fiona always found ways to get information about the other squads before it became public. Even though each team’s mechanics compete against the rival mechanics, they inevitably make up their own interest group. Whatever gossip is circulating among them inevitably reaches Fiona, the queen of the fraternity. She ended her monologue with one even more important secret—Matosas was being threatened by his own team, Lavezza: If he wasn’t among the top three finishers, they’d fire him at the end of the season.

  Although she told me this without putting any emphasis on it, it struck me as an explosive bit of information. Lavezza had pinned Matosas against the wall; the demand was merely an excuse to fire him: They knew he didn’t have a chance to place in Paris. Unless, of course, he got rid of the ten or so racers ahead of him. It was obvious then: Matosas and his circle were responsible for the tragedies on the Tour! Did Fiona realize this?

  “Why are you telling me this? You hardly ever share anything about the other teams.” It was true that she tried not to take advantage of her position as chief inspector for the whole Tour and give me any leverage over my rivals.

  “First, because that information didn’t come to me through my position. I’m not violating any kind of confidentiality statute. And second, because I see a unique opportunity for you and, if I may say so, for the good of cycling. You have three solid years left, which means there’s still time for the leader in you to emerge. It would be enough if you did better than Matosas and placed in the race. Lavezza would offer to make you their leader next year.”

  “That is, if Matosas doesn’t get rid of me first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t believe there’s a killer on the loose?” I couldn’t help it: As soon as I asked, I looked over her shoulder, into the darkness surrounding us. Even though it was a starry night, the moon was dim, and I thought I saw two figures following us.

  “I still don’t know what’s going on, but yes, there’s something weird happening,” she said, thoughtfully.

  “It has to be Matosas. You’ve just given me the motive, and the facts are in plain view. And now he’s second in the standings.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sergeant Moreau.”

  “You know about the commissioner?” I asked, alarmed, as we arrived at the entrance to the hotel. Although I was exhausted, I’d picked up the pace to try to lose the two shadows I’d seen, but right then I wasn’t sure they were more than trees swaying in the wind, one more result of my spiraling paranoia.

  “Let’s drop the subject; I feel like even the walls are listening here,” she whispered. “Try to rest, you’re facing another high mountain tomorrow”—and, smiling, she added—“and another opportunity.”

  The walls are listening, but not just here, I thought. How did she know the commissioner addressed me like that when he wanted to get a rise out of me? Those conversations with him had always taken place in private. I watched Fiona carefully. There were times I felt like I was sharing my bed with a stranger. She could still take me by surprise with the rare moments when our intimacy broke through her reserves. Whenever I thought I’d finally gotten to know her, she would show a new facet that would tear to shreds the previous image I’d had of her.

  But there was no version of Fiona in which I’d imagined she was capable of intrigue behind my back. On the contrary, I thought she was incapable of toning down her opinions to avoid a conflict. In general, she was up-front and direct, merciless but fair. There had to be a reasonable and inoffensive explanation for her comment. It would be easy enough to just ask her how she had found out about my conversations with the commissioner. But I didn’t do it.

  “Stay, don’t leave,” I pleaded as soon as we were in my room. I envisioned the dangers that awaited her on the short walk back to Lombard’s trailer. But she interpreted my plea as an attempt at seduction and proceeded to undress. Although we tried to avoid sex during the course of exhausting trials like the Tour, we broke our team rule for the second night in a row. I didn’t care.

  With my face resting on her warm, freckled skin, I slept deeply that night. Before finally nodding off, I went over my two lists: the suspects, now led by Matosas, and the standings. About half the names appeared on both.

  GENERAL CLASSIFICATION: STAGE 10

  RANK

  RIDER

  TIME

  NOTES

  1 STEVE PANATA (USA/FONAR) 35:56:09 My bro, ever closer to his fifth jersey.

  2

  ALESSIO MATOSAS (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  1:21

  Main suspect.

  3

  MILENKO PANIUK (CZECH/RABONET)

  1:44

  Matosas ally.

  4 MARK MOREAU (FRANCE/FONAR) +1:47 Fourth place!

  5

  PABLO MEDEL (SPAIN/BALEARES)

  1:48

  Matosas ally.

  6

  ÓSCAR CUADRADO (COLOMBIA/MOVISTAR)

  2:58

  He doesn’t have a team.

  7

  LUIS DURÁN (SPAIN/IMAGINE)

  3:01

  Weak.

  8

  PETER STARK (UK/BATESMAN)

  4:12

  Will drop out at any moment.

  9

  SERGEI TALANCÓN (ROMANIA/ROCCA)

  4:16

  No chance.

  10

  VIKTOR RADEK (POLAND/LOCUS)

  5:26

  If he’s not the killer, then what a waste of a face.

  Stage 11

  Pau—Cauterets–Vallée de Saint-Savin, 188 km.

  In the middle of the night, I woke with questions. How to unmask Matosas? Was he working alone or was there a larger conspiracy to make him the champion? It was hard to imagine him as a killer. Matosas was a nice guy, always ready with a quick smile or a joke. His sense of humor is the kind that lightens everyone’s mood. I remembered countless courtesies on his part out on the road and the more I thought about it, I realized Matosas could not be the criminal we were looking for.

  Next, I considered Conti, Matosas’s primary domestique, and Ferrara, his chief of mechanics, both tough guys from southern Italy who’d had wild, savage childhoods and who, in other circumstances, wouldn’t be hard to imagine in the Neapolitan Mafia or another Mediterranean criminal organization. Maybe Matosas had accepted a plan that involved
a few punches and bruises to open the way to victory in Paris and avoid a humiliating firing, but the struggle with Fleming in the tub got out of control. Yes, that all made sense: The killers on the Tour were Matosas and his people. I imagined the surprised expression on the commissioner’s face when I told him who was responsible for the tragedies of the past few days. For an instant, I felt the tingling of vindication. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to prove the Italian’s guilt, but that was up to the cops. I fell back asleep, having thoroughly completed my task.

  Fiona left my room as soon as day broke. It was still early and the race wouldn’t start until one in the afternoon. If I hurried, I could talk to the commissioner before getting ready for the lap. It was imperative that he put surveillance on the Italian suspects and keep them from committing another crime.

  I also wanted to talk to Jitrik, the Tour’s patron, to hear his words of gratitude for having contributed to stopping the threat against his venerated institution. I shivered, remembering his invocation of responsibility: to protect the Tour de France at all costs in my capacity as a cyclist and a patriot. But unlike the commissioner, he hadn’t offered me a telephone number.

  I lingered over all the possible scenes of recognition when my colleagues eventually discovered my role in the case. Few would actually say anything to me although there would be a respectful silence when I walked among them. Or perhaps, for reasons that have to do with police protocol, there would never be a revelation about the details of the investigation. It didn’t matter. The Tour organizers and the authorities would know and I’d make sure Fiona knew. That would help lessen the pressure she placed on me. She’d have to see me differently. I may never have won a stage, much less a place on the podium, but we would both know I’d accomplished something much more important.