The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  “Let me talk to Lombard first; I’m begging you not to call Favre. Just give me a few hours. I’ll meet him at a hotel in Grenoble after I leave you at the airport. Until I talk to him, all of this is just conjecture.”

  I was about to answer him when several text messages from Fiona showed up all at once; I finally had service again.

  “Dragon, I saw what you did. It’s the most beautiful thing that’s ever happened. I love you,” said the first, sent at 5:05 P.M., half an hour after my victory.

  “I canceled the trip, I was confirming a hypothesis and didn’t make it to the ceremony, I’m sorry. Talk to Ray. Losing service,” she wrote at 6:15, a little after I’d gotten into the journalist’s car.

  “I’m with Lombard, I’m taking care of him. You rest, tomorrow’s the big day. We’re nearing Grenoble, I’m driving the colonel’s RV, then I’ll take a train. I’ll try to get to Paris by midnight” read another, sent at 6:45, just ten minutes earlier.

  “Dragon, I love you. I want to marry you. No, better yet, I want you to win every color jersey there is,” she added a minute later.

  I started writing a response, but then realized I was disconnected once more. Soon we’d be out of the mountains and I could write her more calmly.

  “Do you think she’s in danger?” I asked Ray after letting him know Fiona was with Lombard.

  “As far as I know, he loves her like a daughter, but you know them better than I do. The only danger is that Bimeo might realize that she, or we, have found them out. But I don’t see how. Just stay calm. Get on the flight; I’ll wait for Fiona and Lombard in Grenoble.”

  We spent the rest of the journey almost in silence, each of us wrapped up in our own worries. Once we were on the highway, I wrote several messages in a row to Fiona. Then I turned off my phone to save power, as journalists and friends were bombarding me with messages and calls.

  I said goodbye to Ray with a hug on the sidewalk outside the airport. He kept it going longer than I would’ve expected from a man who was so controlled.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Moreau. Cycling owes you. The domestique’s rebellion, it’s a lesson for the future. You broke through the cold machinery and the web of interests, armed with only your talent and your effort. It’s been an honor to know you.”

  I would have liked to tell him that without Radek, Matosas, Bernard, Fiona, and, yes, Lombard too, I could never have done it. But I didn’t have the chance because dozens of people suddenly surrounded me. Only then did I realize I was still wearing the yellow jersey and I had no luggage, not even an ID. I didn’t need it. The people applauded as I walked toward the departures desks.

  I didn’t need money for the taxi from Charles de Gaulle Airport either; a Chantelly limousine was waiting for me. Later, I sent a message to Axel asking him to send my suitcase to the hotel in Paris. I walked into my room at 9:30 P.M. and took a shower knowing I had a lot to think about, but my fatigue kept me from making progress toward anything except sleep. I shut my eyes and put an end to the longest day of my life.

  A final image of the rankings fought to appear in my mind’s eye before I lost consciousness. I barely got past the second line. I smiled and fell asleep wrapped up tight in yellows.

  GENERAL CLASSIFICATION: STAGE 20

  RANK

  RIDER

  TIME

  NOTES

  1 MARC MOREAU (FRANCE/FONAR) 81:56:36 Take that, bro!

  2 STEVE PANATA (USA/FONAR) +0:02

  3

  MILENKO PANIUK (CZECH/RABONET)

  0:37

  4

  ALESSIO MATOSAS (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  5:38

  5

  PABLO MEDEL (SPAIN/BALEARES)

  15:46

  6

  ÓSCAR CUADRADO (COLOMBIA/MOVISTAR)

  21:54

  7

  LUIS DURÁN (SPAIN/IMAGINE)

  29:34

  8

  SERGEI TALANCÓN (ROMANIA/ROCCA)

  37:51

  9

  ROL CHARPENELLE (FRANCE/TOURGAZ)

  40:12

  10

  RICHARD MUELLER (GERMANY/THIELEMANN)

  46:18

  Stage 21

  Sèvres–Seine Ouest—Paris–Champs-Élysées, 109.5 km.

  The light was barely blushing through the heavy curtains, but the yellow on my chest seemed to light up the luxurious room. I smiled—it hadn’t been a dream. Fiona’s arm, still asleep, lay across me, face pressed onto the jersey, as if she had wanted to make sure it wouldn’t disappear while we were sleeping. I stayed still for a long time, treasuring the moment. Fiona and the yellow jersey: an unbeatable combination.

  Then I remembered Lombard and Bimeo and the vision fell to pieces. For a few minutes, I clung to the possibility it was all a huge misunderstanding; I couldn’t imagine my old friend had a part in Fleming’s death. I told myself the prime suspect’s identity had changed so many times, from Radek to Steve, from Matosas to Giraud. There was no reason it couldn’t happen again.

  Fiona had a lot of influence over Lombard, and she had spoken to him the night before. If the old man had something to do with the crimes, my lover might know more than me.

  When she finally opened her eyes, a huge smile broke across her face, and soon after it wasn’t exactly the jersey she was stroking. In any other circumstance it would have been a memorable moment, but my distress defeated me.

  “Fiona, what did Lombard say to you? Did you tell him about Bimeo?” I asked, hating myself for interrupting what was just getting started. To my surprise, she kept going.

  “My Dragon,” she whispered. “You’re the Tour champion!” Her voice was a purr, an invitation to comfort and pleasure. She seemed to still be in the limbo between dreams and reality.

  “Ray told me everything,” I said. “What’s going to happen with Lombard? We have to tell Favre, to let Jitrik know what his people have done.”

  “Shhhh!” she responded, moving her hand to my face and putting a finger over my mouth. “Don’t think about that, at least for the next few hours. Steve will try something today, I’m sure. He’s not going to want to lose a Tour by two seconds. You have to concentrate on that, my love.”

  “But we have to stop Bimeo; he could pull another dirty trick.”

  “Bimeo’s not going to do anything. He’s already played his part.”

  “And Lombard? What are we going to do about Lombard?” I exclaimed.

  “Mojito,” she said, while holding my chin to make me look her straight in the eyes, “do you trust me?” She said it with the solemnity of a marriage proposal.

  “Yes,” I answered, equally grave.

  “Then all I ask is that you make sure the yellow jersey is still with you when night falls. This is the decisive moment of your career, maybe of your life. Leave the whole Lombard issue to Ray and me. Nobody’s going anywhere for the next few hours.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But something she’d said started growing like a tumor in my brain: Steve wouldn’t let himself lose a Tour by two seconds. Facing that challenge would have to be my priority.

  “Agreed,” I said. “But promise me that when this is over, you’ll tell me everything and we’ll decide what to do together, okay?”

  “Okay.” She gave me a kiss, and then, smiley and naked, she walked into the bathroom.
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br />   We ordered a sumptuous meal from room service and ate it wrapped in our bathrobes, our hair wet, feeding each other pieces of fruit. We indulged in the exultation brought on by success, in the excitement of sex not yet consummated.

  The start of the stage was scheduled for four in the afternoon, so we spent the rest of the morning reading the papers and watching old movies on TV. But our giddiness soon faded into the background. The look of worry fixed on Fiona’s brow had nothing to do with the dangers faced by Kirk Douglas in his unrealistic portrayal of Sitting Bull; every few minutes she would turn on her phone, check her messages, then turn it off again. I could tell her tension was growing as the hours passed.

  For my part, I tried to push everything that didn’t have to do with the race out of my mind, but there was very little there to keep me focused. We’d eat up the 110 kilometers of flat ground in a little more than two hours. Easier than training. Even though some riders would attempt to break away in Paris, I knew the peloton would never let the escapees widen their distances; tradition had transformed this stage into a parade through the cheering crowds greeting the survivors of the 3,350-kilometer journey. We survivors wanted to reach the finish line together.

  That was the idea at least, but a second-place rider had never reached this stage just two seconds behind. Especially not Steve Panata. He wouldn’t quietly accept defeat.

  But, as much as I forced myself to think like him, I couldn’t come up with anything else he could do. Like the great time-trial rider he was, he might attempt a breakaway on his own from the starting line, but unfortunately for him, nobody runs faster than the peloton. For the same reason, any attempt by Fonar would be neutralized.

  I concluded his only chance would be some sort of cheating. One of his cronies could try to knock me down or feign a fall and drag me into it. I made a mental note to be sure to ride far away from any other member of the Fonar team.

  “Hey, what if they mess with my bike? If I break down, none of my teammates will lend me theirs,” I whispered to Fiona at one moment.

  “Don’t worry about that, one of my inspectors is going to check all your gear down to the smallest detail; we have the authority and the obligation.”

  “What if Giraud kicks me off the team before the stage starts?” I asked half an hour later.

  “I don’t see how that could happen,” she responded after thinking for a few seconds. “Fonar’s sponsors must be happy to have another champion on the team, and a French one at that. Giraud’s no fool; he’d be risking getting lynched by the fans.”

  I turned on my phone and looked at the long list of calls and messages. I lingered on two names that were repeated with obsessive frequency. The ones from Favre I didn’t open. The first one from Steve said, “Why did you do this to me, bro?” I didn’t read any further and turned off my phone again.

  That bastard has no shame. After everything, he’s still telling me off. Then I considered it might be a strategy. To make me feel guilty in the hope that I’d return his jersey voluntarily, like the disciplined domestique I was meant to be.

  Five minutes before leaving the hotel, as Fiona washed her face, I couldn’t resist the impulse to open my laptop and write Steve an email: “Why did I do this to you, you son of a bitch? This is why.” I copied and pasted the emails Fiona had sent me from my mother.

  When I got to the starting line, I didn’t stop for any journalist, although they couldn’t come that close anyway. Besides my two guards, at least four other guys from Bimeo surrounded me when I got out of the team bus. I participated in the signature ceremony amid the noise of the cameras and distant questions, took the bike Axel handed me, and hurried to take a spot in the center of the peloton.

  The welcome I received from my fellow riders took me by surprise. A hundred hands slapped my back and I heard congratulations in many different languages. I wanted to think that, for most of them, my jersey was a sort of vindication of the underdogs, of all of us who rode year after year only to lose, sacrificing for the designated champions.

  Before the race started, the organizers asked me to come to the front, along with the lead sprinters, climbers, and youth racers. As I moved through the cyclists, I passed two meters from Steve and our eyes met. From the look in his eyes, somewhere between offended and confused, I assumed he hadn’t seen my email. His face was a pitiful personification of the betrayed friend.

  But as soon as the race began, it was clear Steve hadn’t given up on anything. The Fonar team took over the front and immediately imposed a breakaway pace. The peloton simply picked up speed. At this rate, it was going to become the fastest Paris stage of all time. Still, at such a short distance and with no slope in the way, nobody from the peloton was going to be left behind.

  Even so, Fonar kept trying. I don’t know what Steve promised his teammates, because with ten kilometers left to finish the race, he launched a violent offensive down the right side at a pace more appropriate for a sprinter than for an all-rounder. I had no choice but to launch myself forward down the opposite side. I didn’t have a team anymore, so I thought I’d have to defend myself alone, but immediately Matosas and Radek slipped in front to protect me. Another two or three important racers filled out my lines. Seen from a helicopter, we would’ve looked like a scarab moving forward; one antenna formed by Fonar, the other by my improvised motley crew.

  We kept it up for three or four kilometers, with neither antenna ceding an inch of ground. Then something unexpected happened, something that put an end to any attempt at rebellion. Guido stood up on his pedals, broke away from the Fonar team, and crossed the space between us. For a moment, I thought it was an act of aggression and I tried to take shelter among my people. But he placed himself by Matosas’s side to give the Italian some much-needed relief.

  I couldn’t resist looking at Steve’s face; he kept trying furiously for a few minutes, but Guido’s move left Fonar exposed to their fellow riders. Most of my ex-teammates were now riding with their eyes fixed on their handlebars at a visibly slower pace than before.

  The peloton pushed its right flank forward and Steve was absorbed into the mass. He didn’t stick his head out again; I guess he preferred not to be singled out by the cameras in what must have been the most humiliating moment of his career.

  Now, finally, I knew the yellow jersey was mine. For the first time that day, I started enjoying the beautiful spectacle of the sidewalks flooded with thousands of my happy compatriots, celebrating this victory with me. Later, I would find out almost half a million people were out in the streets. It looked to me like they were celebrating the second liberation of Paris. It was my liberation, at any rate.

  The peloton decreased its speed and I let myself move to the front for the rest of the race, at least until the last five hundred meters, when, as tradition dictates, the sprinters shot forward to compete for the final stage. I crossed the finish line in a blur.

  The next hour was an endless series of hugs, ceremonies, and harassment from reporters. One moment sticks out: When I climbed the podium over Steve, our eyes didn’t meet and we didn’t say a word to each other. I threw the bouquet of flowers they handed me into Fiona’s arms, but she received it with less enthusiasm than I would have expected.

  The press conference was full of obvious and repetitive questions, although there were also some juicy ones about the fratricidal relationship between Steve and me. I realized the press was going to transform our two-day battle into an extended melodrama.

  But I didn’t expect the question I got from the reporter from El Periódico de Cataluña.

  “Any reaction to the accident that recently befell your friend and adviser, Colonel Lombard? You must be sad he’s not here to celebrate your victory.”

  I’m sure the reporter asked the question in good faith, assuming I was already aware of what had happened. I immediately got up from the table, bewildered, asking everyone who
was around me, even Giraud, what had happened. From their faces, I realized I was the only one who didn’t know.

  I left the room and found Fiona. She hugged me tightly and dragged me into an empty broadcast booth.

  “It happened when the race was about to start. He and Ray veered off the road coming from Grenoble. The car went off a cliff, and neither of them survived.”

  The road had finally made Ray pay for his recklessness. Even so, I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that they were no longer with us. Then I was struck by an inconsistency.

  “I don’t understand why they were on the road at that time. Nothing would have made them miss the start of the final stage, especially this year. Lombard would have given his life to see me on that podium.”

  “He did,” she answered. I remembered her anxious face that morning every time she’d checked her phone.

  “Do you know something?” I asked, fearful.

  “It was Ray’s idea. The only possible solution—a final sacrifice for you and the Tour. Last night, Lombard confirmed our fears. He’d hired Bimeo; he let the explosion on the trailer happen, knowing the tank was empty, to avoid any suspicion about you or Fonar. And, yes, Fleming’s death was overzealousness from those two guys who followed you around.”

  “What the hell was Lombard thinking? He cleared the path to let me win? Where’s the glory in that?”

  “The glory was always there for your taking, Dragon. His whole operation was just meant to shake you up, to pull you away from the role of domestique.”

  Then she laid out her plan.