“It’s Matosas or his team, or both,” I assured Commissioner Favre forty minutes later. We were meeting in my room shortly after breakfast. The setting didn’t match the importance of my revelation. There were suitcases with their guts spilling out, towels strewn about, creams and dozens of containers of nutritional supplements opened throughout the room. We changed hotels every single night, so I never bothered to use dressers or closets; I just dove into my luggage to get what I needed.
“He’s one of my suspects,” responded a cautious Favre as he looked disapprovingly at the mess in my room.
“He’s desperate. I found out his team is going to fire him if he doesn’t place in Paris. That would mean an early retirement, losing his sponsorships, and probably the firing of two or three of his closest teammates. Lavezza is one of the few teams that hasn’t been a victim of an attack and the casualties suffered by everyone else have made him a contender for the championship. If the race ended today, he’d be guaranteed one of the top three spots.”
The commissioner looked at me with interest. He leaned his head back without taking his eyes off me, like a farsighted person trying to read without their glasses on. His forensic gaze made me hesitate. Spoken aloud, the signs around Matosas seemed less convincing.
“Everyone wants to be on the podium,” objected Favre.
“A couple of the guys with Matosas have a dark past. In the circuit, we assume they had ties to the Mafia when they were younger; nobody wants to mess with them. It isn’t a leap to think they could have gotten help to go through with their plan,” I ventured. Suddenly I realized that, in my efforts to sound convincing, I too had started talking like a character in a TV cop show. And the commissioner’s response to my big reveal wasn’t anywhere near the gratitude I’d imagined. To the contrary, he had started to make me feel like a snitch, and not a particularly reliable one at that.
“He has the motive and the means,” the commissioner conceded after a long pause. “I’ll verify his teammates’ records. Is there anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” I responded as if I might be able to unravel another mystery the next day. I decided to shift to a strictly professional tone. “Is there any progress with respect to the investigation of the gas-tank explosion?”
“There’s a preliminary report but it’s not conclusive,” he responded, while his eyes sent me a clear message: Don’t push it.
“And what does the report say, commissioner?” I insisted. Pushing it.
He sighed. “That it was, in fact, an old tank, but according to the manufacturer, it’s impossible for it to detonate without an external factor. It’s never happened before. We’ll know more when the experts are through analyzing the fragments and we can see whether there’s any trace of an outside substance. In the meantime, I’m sticking to my thesis: It was an attack.”
We agreed to speak again in twenty-four hours. I then headed for the team meeting. That day would be the second on a high mountain with a terrible ascent, this time to the legendary Tourmalet peak: seventeen sloping kilometers with inclines of 7.3 percent. Before that, we’d have to scale twelve kilometers to the top of Aspin. It was a day for climbers, even more demanding than the day before. If Steve’s three rivals decided to join forces again, they could make us eat dirt.
And yet, we had a few things in our favor. The descent from the Tourmalet is almost as legendary as the ascent and much more dangerous. It’s thirty kilometers of free-falling at 70 kilometers an hour on precarious paths that are at the edge of a terrifying abyss. But no one in the world can descend as skillfully as Steve. More than one racer has suffered an accident trying to follow him. Even I, who have trained with Steve for thousands of hours, usually lose sight of him on these interminable roller-coaster roads. My partner would be more than capable of compensating for whatever damage he suffered on the ascents.
As soon as we kicked off the stage, we saw our rivals’ plan was a version of the day before’s. The climb to Aspin broke the peloton. Matosas, Paniuk, and Medel burned their domestiques in their eagerness to tire out the other cyclists and, particularly, our team, Fonar. The pace was infernal from the beginning. By the time we got to the foot of the Tourmalet there were only a dozen of us. From that moment, we all stabilized our speed and there weren’t any stragglers for a good while.
At first, I thought the lack of assaults had to do with prudence or some kind of strategy, but later I realized it was all about fatigue. The attacks the day before had taken their toll, especially on Matosas and Medel. We were going up so slowly that I could take a leisurely look at the faces of the Italian and Conti, his somber domestique. They seemed to ooze guilt. I was staring at Conti so intensely that the baby-faced killer finally looked over and arched his eyebrows as if he were asking me what I needed. I thought about Fleming in the tub and couldn’t help but shudder.
Our rivals’ exhaustion was confirmed when we were five kilometers from the top of the Tourmalet and they finally began their attack. They didn’t have the strength they’d had the day before. They’d stand up on their pedals to take off and sit down ten meters later. Still, the battering managed to get rid of four more racers.
As we climbed a little higher, Steve decided he had nothing to fear and, just two kilometers from the summit, asked me to go ahead if I had the strength for it.
“I’ll catch up with you on the down side and we’ll get away from all these guys,” he said. His proposal went against Giraud’s instructions, because it left him exposed and without my help if there was an assault from one of the other climbers on the last stretch of the mountain. And yet, he was right: The fatigue they were experiencing seemed to rule out the possibility of a threat. The pace of the ascent was painful and our adversaries were having a much worse time of it than us. And that’s all you need. Up on the high mountains, realizing your rivals are worse off than you will give you a shot of adrenaline.
I confirmed it the instant I broke out. I positioned myself behind Medel and Paniuk, who were leading, and waited until we were on a curve, then changed gears and leaped ahead. The two rivals noticed Steve was not breaking away with me, so they let me go. Even though at that moment I was in fourth place, and breaking away meant I could pass them in the rankings, no team leader ever fears a domestique. Neither one of them was there to win the stage; they were there to destroy Steve. I wasn’t who they were worried about.
It was a monumental mistake on their part, if understandable. It had been many years since I’d made a solitary attack, so they didn’t have much to go on to guess what I was doing. They knew I was a natural climber whose job until now had always been to protect my squad leader. I always took the mountain at Steve’s pace so that he could ride in my slipstream. Now, liberated, I accelerated on inclines of eight to nine percent, my heart filled with joy. When I got to the peak, the chalkboard on the motorcycle in front of me reported I’d advanced about three minutes over my pursuers. Maybe Fiona was right.
When I started the descent I didn’t wait for Steve. I was the leader in the general standings of the Tour de France, an intoxicating sensation, even if it was just temporary. I came down at a suicidal speed, determined to widen the distance no matter the cost. A couple of times the front wheel touched the gravel at the edge of the road, just centimeters from the precipice. I knew there were still six kilometers to the finish line once the descent was over, the last few with a slight slope, and that my desperate pursuers would work together to diminish the lead I had over them.
I don’t know how Steve did it, but when I got to the plain that leads to that last slope on the way to the finish line in Cauterets, my teammate had caught up with me. If my breakaway had been meritorious, the distance Steve created between him and our rivals on the descent was a real feat. Maybe Fiona wasn’t right, after all.
We climbed the last few kilometers together, taking turns. Two thousand meters before the finish line, Steve
took the lead. He pushed like he was trying to leave me behind. I assumed he wanted to take home the victory laurels and get those bonus 10 seconds for winning first place. I stuck to his wheel, grumbling bitterly about the thankless task of the domestique. I could have passed Steve if I wanted to in those last inclines on the final sprint. And yet, resigned once more, I understood that was not my role.
I asked myself if giving in to Steve yet again meant I could be losing Fiona. I’d never felt good enough to be her partner. Her insistence on making me the best cyclist in the circuit made me wonder if her love wasn’t rooted in that conviction. For someone like Fiona, whose life revolves around the bike, talent is reason enough to respect, admire, and, lastly, love somebody. But what would happen if I stayed in second place forever? Would she disappear from my life as swiftly as she’d come into it?
I was so absorbed in my gloomy thoughts, Steve had to wave his arm. That’s when I realized, just a hundred meters before the finish line, that he’d backed off.
“All yours, champ,” he said with a playful look.
I didn’t respond. I launched myself at the finish line and crossed it with my arms in the air to take my first ever stage win on the Tour. During those last meters, the fans—it seemed like thousands of them—were waving French flags along the way. That’s when I remembered it was Bastille Day: July 14th, France’s national holiday. For the next forty minutes, I floated on a cloud between the awarding of prizes, kisses from the assistants, microphones pressing into my face, frenzied interviews, and the inevitable anti-doping tests.
When I got to the bus, I found a euphoric Giraud. Fonar was in first and second place in the general classification. That’s not an achievement that’s seen very often. After the awards ceremony, he spent a long time next to the car, performing for the press. Later, on the way to the hotel, I saw him go up to Steve and whisper a few words. I knew him well enough to understand from his expressions that he was annoyed. A few minutes later, I found out why.
“He didn’t like it one bit that I let you finish first,” Steve told me once we were alone after dinner. “Something about the sponsors and who knows what. But don’t pay him any mind. It was incredible to see you win that stage.”
I wanted to say that if he’d let me go first it was because I had previously relinquished the lead, but instead, I thanked him.
“Who would’ve thought, ten years ago, when we were stumbling around drunk in the bars in Catalonia…” he said, trying to play down my gratitude. “If we take care of you, we can both place in Paris.”
If I take care of you, you’ll be able to climb the podium in Paris! I thought. But those enthralling words from my partner still moved me. His joy over my success seemed genuine. I remembered the Jaguar coupé he drove up to my house three weeks after he’d won his second Tour. He showed off the engine and the leather and then forced me to sit in the passenger seat as he went on and on about the elegant dashboard. Finally, he stretched out his arm and handed me the keys, which hung on a green ribbon with a bow. He was exultant, more excited at giving me the gift than I was to receive it.
“Do you think Giraud will let me live long enough to get to Paris?” I asked, intoxicated by his optimism. I wasn’t naïve. If any of our rivals put Steve’s leadership at risk, the Fonar DS would make me defend my leader, even if the effort screwed up my final stretch on a hill. If that happened, I could lose ten or fifteen minutes and disappear at the bottom of the rankings.
“Matosas and Medel look tired,” said Steve cautiously. It was also clear he wasn’t going to take any risks in his pursuit of a fifth Tour crown.
I would have expected a different attitude from him, a call to not surrender, to rebel against Giraud’s designs. A promise to triumph together, shoulder-to-shoulder, with no thought to the consequences. Instead, I got his condescending generosity.
Steve sensed my letdown: Without saying a word, he hugged me. His reaction disarmed me. I fell back to thinking I was being unfair, that Lombard and Fiona’s pretensions had distorted my perception of the natural order of things. A domestique is in service to his leader. That was the logic on which the Tour functioned: 198 racers making sure no more than ten fought for the yellow jersey. The Fonar team had been recruited and organized to make Steve champion, and he himself was a prisoner of that design.
We said goodbye without too much ceremony. I tried to throw off the sadness that shadowed me to my room. Today, I’d finally won a stage on the Tour. It should be the happiest day of my life as a cyclist, but I felt miserable. A domestique should not taste victory, for the same reason a boy in a refugee camp should not taste chocolate cake.
Not even Fiona could shake me out of it. She’d sent me a text: “Join us in Lombard’s trailer, we’re celebrating your win.” I replied: “Very tired, tomorrow.” I was exhausted, and I didn’t want to see anyone. Least of all Fiona; the last thing I wanted to hear about was more chocolate cake.
Unlike Fiona, the commissioner proved indifferent to my wishes. He was waiting at the door to my room. Two stamped-out cigarette butts on the floor indicated that the environment and his health were not top priorities; neither was my rest. He followed me in, ignoring my lack of invitation.
“Any news, sergeant?” he asked distractedly as he scanned the room’s usual disorder.
“None,” I responded, irritated by the intrusion. I threw myself on the bed, resigned to his presence.
“What do you mean none? You’re in second place in the rankings. Anyone would say the killer is trying to aid the Fonar team,” he said sarcastically, as if he were making a joke. He attempted a kind of smile, a rictus that made me think of a barracuda. He was looking at me, waiting for any reaction to what he’d just said.
“Don’t tell me I’m a suspect now,” I said in the same sarcastic tone, as if I were joking right along. I didn’t take my eyes off him either, also waiting for a response.
“We can’t exclude anybody. As far as I’m concerned, there are one hundred and ninety-eight suspects along with their teams of assistants. You yourself told me: Each of the racers has his own agenda and is willing to die for it, right?” He threw that in my face with his infuriating half-smile. I imagined he must have been waiting for his chance to get me back for several days now.
“What about the part where I am your man in the peloton?”
“Well, let’s leave it at one hundred and ninety-seven suspects,” conceded Favre, “although certainly some are more suspicious than others.”
“Did you check out Matosas’s crew? Their ties to the Mafia?”
“Mmm, nothing conclusive,” he said, leaning his head back while making a disdainful expression with his mouth. He’d used the same phrase when referring to the gas tank. I imagined even if there was something conclusive, Favre wouldn’t tell me.
“What about Giraud?” Favre continued. “How desperate is he? Apparently, Steve’s U.S. sponsors would feel more comfortable with an American DS for Fonar. They’re already throwing around several names for next season. Giraud’s in the same boat as Matosas: Only a win in Paris will save him. Or, at least, that’s what he thinks.”
I wasn’t sure if Favre’s information was right. I hadn’t heard anything about it. Giraud had been nervous and irritated the past few days. Although the same thing could be said about him during any of the major races run under his supervision. I would have liked to tell the commissioner my DS was a real son of a bitch and that I considered him capable of anything in order to avoid failure. What kept my mouth shut was just a smidgen of loyalty toward Fonar and, by extension, Steve. To accept that our place in the rankings was a result of criminal machinations was a betrayal of the entire team’s effort. And if Giraud had anything to do with the assaults, Steve and I, the two beneficiaries of his actions, would have to prove our innocence.
I wondered what the real reason was for the commissioner’s visit. If I was a s
uspect, his intrusion could practically be considered forced entry. What he did next seemed to confirm it. He walked up to the nightstand and picked up one of the open bottles of supplements. He read the information on the back and sniffed the contents, as if he might find some evidence on my dresser.
“I wonder if I’ve already gotten to an age when I should start taking supplements,” he said thoughtfully. “What were you saying about Giraud?” He turned back to me.
I hadn’t said anything about Giraud, though my mind was buzzing. Favre’s behavior was starting to make me nervous. I remembered the relief I felt during his first visit when I realized he wasn’t with the anti-doping authorities; today I would have preferred he had been.
“Giraud has always been the same. Demanding and disciplined. I don’t see anything different in him. Of course, given the plague of accidents and tragedies, he’s worried about Steve. He already knows Tour management called the police. It makes perfect sense he’d be worried his racers could be the killer’s victims.”
“Worried? In what sense, worried?” A bloodhound, Favre didn’t hide his excitement. His nostrils flared. He could turn the most slender piece of information into a bone to gnaw on.
“Simply in the sense of asking us to take precautions, to avoid unnecessary risks.” Giraud hadn’t said any such thing to me, but I imagined he’d said something very much like it to Steve, and just then, I was willing to make up almost anything to free myself of this police presence. I almost mentioned Matosas again, although I contained myself. Favre could have interpreted my insistence as an attempt to distract him from Fonar by incriminating someone else.
“I need you to concentrate your attention on Giraud in the next few days. He’s our main suspect,” Favre said, finally heading for the door, in his best imitation of an affable comrade. “Well, and Matosas too, but I’ll deal with him. Your position within Fonar is of incalculable value right now, better not to distract you with something else.”
The Black Jersey Page 10
