The Black Jersey
Page 32
I sent Favre a message asking him to come to my hotel room. Fiona went to talk to Jitrik. Later, she told me she had shown the Tour’s director a confession signed by Lombard, including Bimeo’s involvement. Jitrik felt like his world was falling apart; it was a scandal that could bring professional road cycling to its knees and completely destroy the Tour.
When she felt he was ready, she made her proposal: fire Bimeo immediately and assist in the police investigations to charge him with corruption and other offenses. Everyone knew about the bribes and extortions the security chief used with mayors who wanted to be included on the Tour agenda and the shameless way he milked the budget and placed family members in key positions; in recognition of the official’s effectiveness in security matters, the organization ignored these irregularities. In exchange for dismissing Bimeo, Fiona offered to bury Lombard’s confession and make sure it never came to light. Desperate to protect the Tour, Jitrik jumped at her offer.
The commissioner turned out to be a much harder nut to crack. At one point I thought about using Fiona’s strategy by appealing to his devotion to cycling. But I knew his self-respect as a detective would end up overcoming any other passion. Also, he wouldn’t be keen on the idea of someone other than him righting the wrongs.
“In the end, you were the winner, sergeant,” he said sadly.
“You say that as if you wish otherwise, commissioner. I thought you’d be happy.”
“I am happy. You’re a Frenchman and a friend, and that fills me with pride,” he said, although there was a suspicious look in his eyes. We were meeting in the sitting room of my suite. Through the window, I could see the section of the Champs-Élysées I’d ridden down a few hours earlier. “It’s just a little unsettling that all these incidents and Fleming’s death have led to this,” he added, shooting a look at the yellow jersey I’d hung over the back of a chair.
“I won by two seconds, commissioner, and the whole world was watching. Surely you’re not saying someone could have planned it like that.”
“And on top of all that, the tragic accident with the journalist and your friend the colonel. I know Ray was investigating the previous incidents. The manager of the Hotel Madelaine told me. He was very interested in Bimeo’s role.”
“Bimeo?” I said, as if I had never heard the name in my life.
“Bimeo, the guy whose henchmen have been protecting you these past days,” he said, with a tone that said Stop busting my balls.
“I know who Bimeo is. What I don’t understand is what he has to do with any of this,” I bluffed.
The commissioner was about to say something, but he changed his mind. He threw me a baleful glance and showed his cards.
“From the start, I’ve thought everything centered on you. And now I’m more convinced than ever. It’s not the Italians, and I don’t think it was Fonar’s people either. Your victory, the deaths of Lombard and Ray, who you were meeting with every night. Too many signals to ignore, don’t you think, sergeant?”
I nodded as if I were considering it myself, and then, after shaking my head, I added: “All I can say is this has been the most competitive final in the history of the Tour, and these are the legs that won me the yellow jersey. If you have other explanations, commissioner, show me the proof.”
Favre was about to say something when there was a knock on the door and it opened, revealing Fiona with a key in her hand. Jitrik was behind her.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were here, commissioner,” she lied.
“Commissioner Favre, I came to congratulate Marc again in private,” said Jitrik. “But I’m glad I found you here. I just spoke to your boss. I asked him to stop the investigation we’d requested. In the end, things have been resolved without any major scandals.”
“There was at least one probable murder,” said Favre, uncomfortable.
“Oh yes, that. Terribly sad,” Jitrik responded, dismayed. “The chief inspector told me they’re thinking about assigning the Fleming investigation to the police in Le Havre, where the crimes took place,” he added in a casual tone.
“Our investigation is already very advanced; there’s no reason we should let it go,” the commissioner objected.
“Well, it’s what your boss decided. I don’t know what to tell you. You all know more about that than I do. Although they did tell me the central office will process the complaint we’re filing against Bimeo first thing in the morning; we’ve had it in our sights for a while, you know?”
Favre looked at Fiona, then at me, and finally at Jitrik. He realized he’d been the victim of a setup; Jitrik had made no effort to hide it. He probably thought, being the Tour director, that there was no need to invest too much time or histrionics on a mere cop.
“Gentlemen, lady,” Favre said with an ironic smile, nodding his head in my direction. “Have a nice night.” I didn’t see him for a long time after that.
Fiona and I got rid of Jitrik as soon as we could and fell back into each other’s arms. She slid into my jersey and then lowered herself on top of me. We made love with the abandon of those who think there’ll be no tomorrow, then we did it again with the tenderness of those who know all the tomorrows are yet to come.
We dozed for hours. I finally made myself go to the bathroom, and when I returned, I noticed my computer screen lit up on my desk. An alert showed an email from Steve in my inbox. I opened it.
“Your mom never wrote those messages. Someone played you.” I read the two lines again, moved the cursor to the trash can, and deleted the message. I closed the screen and went back to bed, where I held Fiona in my arms and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
To Susan Crowley
Acknowledgments
This novel would have been impossible without the wise and generous tutelage of Carlos Arribas of El País and Sergi López-Egea of El Periódico de Cataluña; these journalists are true institutions of road cycling. They adopted me as an apprentice, introduced me to cyclists, crew directors, and mechanics, and even accredited me as a correspondent for the Tour, among other races. Above all, they inoculated me with a germ of passion for cyclists—these new gladiators and their heroic deeds—a whole universe that is now a part of my life. The fidelity with which this small and specialized world is reflected in the novel is due to the teachings of Carlos and Sergi; the errors are all my own.
I am grateful to Guillermo Zepeda for his companionship on the mountain routes and summits of the Alps in our hard-hit Audi rental. The research required to write a novel has never been so joyful. Thanks also to Camila Zepeda and Ricardo Raphael, my readers since day one, for convincing me rightly or wrongly that each unpublished book has been better than the last.
I am indebted to the Pontas Agency for their involvement since the beginning of this project. Ana Soler-Pont and Maria Cardona, were able to secure translations in a dozen countries, thanks to their enthusiasm and their talent, even as I was still writing—which is the best motivation one could have.
No less important was the support of Gabriel Sandoval and Carmina Rufrancos at Editorial Planeta, who did not initially love the idea of a cycling novel, but trusted me anyway. And, above all, Carlos Revés, expert editor and lover of stories that deserve to come into the world.
Thanks also to Caitlin McKenna and her team at Random House New York, who managed to make the English edition an improved version of the original, thanks to their perseverance and loving attention to detail.
Finally, this book is dedicated to Susan Crowley, my yellow jersey, my Fiona, my muse and intellectual accomplice, for transforming life into one happy, loving bike ride.
By Jorge Zepeda Patterson
MILENA
THE BLACK JERSEY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JORGE ZEPEDA PATTERSON is a journalist, novelist, and political analyst. He has been the director of several Mexican newspapers and was the founder of Siglo 21
, a groundbreaking publication throughout the 1990s. He currently runs Sinembargo, a leader in Mexican news sites, and writes a weekly column that is published in sixteen different newspapers. His debut novel, Los corruptores, was a finalist for El Premio Hammett, and his second novel, Milena, won the Planeta Prize. His novels have been translated into more than ten languages.
jorgezepeda.net
Twitter: @jorgezepedap
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
ACHY OBEJAS has translated Junot Díaz, Rita Indiana, Wendy Guerra, and many others. She’s the author of The Tower of the Antilles, which was nominated for the PEN/Faulkner Award, the PEN Open Book Award, and several other honors. Her other books include Days of Awe and Ruins.
achyobejas.com
Twitter: @achylandia
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