by Emma Lathen
Battle was joined instantly.
Norway and Sweden, both with strong contenders in the women’s slalom, had been noticeably silent in the cause of Tilly Lowengard. Now they rushed into the fray to support Switzerland and Austria. None of these countries could field the teams necessary to make an impression in the Summer Games, but in the Winter Games they could challenge even the superpowers.
On the other side of the table new alliances were also forming. Brad Withers and Melville shared a devotion to the ideals of amateurism. According to Melville, his opponents made shameless use of the Games to promote sports industries important to their national economies. Brad contented himself with a paean to the purity of the Summer Games, studded with references to personal acquaintances and confined rigorously to the equestrian and yachting events.
Under cover of one particularly vigorous broadside, Mr. Hayakawa moved up the table and dropped into the seat beside Thatcher. He wore a puzzled frown.
“Did I understand Mr. Melville correctly?” he inquired. “Is he maintaining that the Soviet ski team is a band of state hirelings while their field and track team is composed of dedicated amateurs?”
“That’s what he said,” Thatcher agreed, “but only in the heat of the moment.”
“He’ll be lucky if there are any Summer Games this year.”
Curiously enough it was Brad Withers who returned them all to the problem at hand.
“Say what you will about the Summer Games,” he declared roundly, “at least we’ve never had to postpone them because of a blizzard.”
“Yes, and look where that leaves us,” said one of his supporters. “We’ve got Tilly Lowengard still at the Village, and all the contestants penned up with nothing to do but listen to her grievances. And furthermore this may go on for days.”
Melville was more relaxed now that he had let off steam. “Things may not be that bad,” he said, returning to his role as chairman. “The traffic supervisor has been talking to the weather station. The snow is going to continue through tomorrow, but the wind is due to drop. If it does, they can at least open the road from the Village to the town. Now I have a suggestion. One of the events scheduled for today was the Short Program of the women’s figure skating. That takes place indoors and the network wasn’t going to carry it anyway. So, always provided the road can be opened, I say that we hold the competition and throw it open to the entire Olympic family. That will break up the siege condition at the Village, help us lighten the post-blizzard agenda, and give everyone someplace to meet and something to watch.”
The advantages of this proposal were so manifest that it seemed it would pass by popular acclaim. Then one voice was raised in dissent. It was the legalistic German again.
“But what about the tickets for the Short Program? Most spectators who bought them won’t be able to get to the Arena tonight.”
Given the Great Ticket Debacle already swirling around the Town Hall, this refinement brought down the house.
Chapter 10
Violent Electrical Storms
MRS. Carrie Withers was not the only one impelled to the telephone by the weather. Whenever airplanes drop feed to cattle in Wyoming, whenever twisters scythe through Kansas, whenever eggs fry on the sidewalks of Minneapolis, AT&T knows about it.
True, winter was hitting the whole eastern third of the United States hard. But a disproportionate share of the world’s media was already at the Olympics. Most of the inevitable pictures of cars nosing into snowdrifts, roofs dotting a white ocean, plows laboring around the clock, originated in Lake Placid. This set off a rush for the dial tone around the world.
In Manhattan, Miss Corsa was taking 27 inches of snow in stride. “But Mr. Lancer”—the Sloan’s Chairman of the Board—“wants to be sure we can contact you during the emergency,” she explained.
And why wasn’t George C. Lancer calling himself?
“Because when he got through last, he was stranded at a Howard Johnson’s on the Massachusetts Turnpike,” Miss Corsa reported sedately.
It was an entertaining vision but Thatcher did not linger over it. “What’s the rest of the damage?” he asked.
Apart from branches closed from Syosset to Harlem, loan officers marooned in the wilds of Westchester, and visiting dignitaries bunking down in various executive offices including Thatcher’s, the Sloan was doing as well as could be expected.
“In fact, this weather isn’t all bad, John,” said a new voice. Charlie Trinkam had unceremoniously dealt himself into the conversation. “Washington’s closed down tighter than a drum, the Open Market meeting’s been scrapped, and Henry Kauffman’s plane has been diverted to Atlanta. We haven’t heard anything nutty about interest rates for 24 hours.”
With this, their exchange became heavily technical until one of Trinkam’s contentions made Thatcher ask, “What does Gabler think about that?” “You know Ev,” said Trinkam, telling Thatcher all he needed to know.
“No doubt you and he and the Investment Committee will work it out,” said Thatcher.
“You bet,” said Charlie ambiguously. “And how are things in Lake Placid?”
Rightly assuming that Charlie was not interested in snowfall data, Thatcher cast around for the mot juste.
“Confused.”
“Nobody’s turned up with a confession in one hand and a $500,000 in the other? Say, that reminds me. I’d better be getting along. I was just on my way down to Quarles. He’s on the warpath. If Ev runs into him before I do, we’re going to have blood in the corridor.”
With this Trinkam departed, leaving Thatcher considerably mystified. Quarles was the Sloan’s chief cashier. He had superb technical qualifications and nothing whatsoever to do with policy making.
“Why should he be gunning for Gabler?” Thatcher asked Miss Corsa, who had been patiently standing by. “I may have been away too long, but I don’t see why he and Gabler interacted at all.”
“It’s because of the storm,” Miss Corsa explained, resisting the temptation to embroider Thatcher’s truancy. “All of our departments are shorthanded. I understand that Mr. Quarles is upset at losing four of his most experienced people.”
This, Thatcher realized, represented a severe pruning of a luxuriantly tangled grapevine. Normally he respected Miss Corsa’s reticence. But he wanted to get to the bottom of this.
“Exactly what does Gabler have to do with four of Quarles’ most experienced people?” he demanded implacably.
“Why, Mr. Gabler sent them to Lake Placid,” she said, as if he should have remembered.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured, just as another thought struck. “I hope they’re not snowbound somewhere around Albany!”
“Oh no, Mr. Thatcher,” she assured him. “They arrived late last night. They’re staying at the Andiron Inn, if you want to contact them. They were only supposed to be away for a day or two, but now there’s no telling when they’ll be able to get back.”
Thatcher ignored the reproach in her voice. “Well, it won’t be time wasted. With luck, they’ll do the Sloan more good here in Lake Placid than they could in New York.”
Mr. Quarles did not look at it that way. Neither did Miss Corsa.
* * *
London called too.
G. Withers Austin, Bradford Withers’ nephew, was an ornament of the Sloan branch there. During his busy day, he invariably found time for many newspapers and magazines. Today’s reading struck a chord, and not much later he was talking to Lake Placid.
“Well, Roger, how’s life in the Arctic Circle?”
Wind was rattling the storefront windows of the Sloan. On his own initiative, Hathaway had ordered most of the tellers to stay at the Andiron Inn. He and three other veteran skiers had fought their way downtown, then shoveled open the branches. The bank on Main Street was officially doing business for the very few customers who struggled in, with demons howling each time the door opened. When the door closed, the CB scanner took over: “. . . roads impassable . . . electrical outages . . . mi
ssing bus . . .”
“Who is this talking?” he demanded.
“Bud,” said G. Withers Austin, hurt.
“Bud?” Hathaway repeated. Then, at the last possible moment, light dawned. “You mean Bud Austin? Well, for God’s sake! What are you doing back here?”
Bud Austin, as someone had unkindly observed, was one of the happy ones. “No, no, I’m still here in London,” he chortled, “thanking my lucky stars that Nancy and I didn’t decide to take in the Olympics. We were tempted, let me tell you. Remember what a good time we all had at Innsbruck? Nancy was talking about it just the other day.”
“Me, too,” said Hathaway, recalling Gunther Euler.
Inadvertently he flustered Austin into apologetic half-sentences: “Hell, I keep forgetting . . . the way things turn out . . . anyway, Nancy decided . . .”
Resigned, Hathaway let the prattle flow on. There was no way, he knew, that he could reassure Bud that the divorce had left no deep scars, even when Molly remarried. If Hathaway missed the golden days when the young Austins and the young Hathaways had London and Europe at their feet, it was only because he was so far out of the magic circle now.
“. . . always thought you and Molly had a really solid marriage,” Bud was saying earnestly. “So did Nancy.”
It was impossible to dislike Bud Austin. Nancy was something else again.
“What’s Molly’s new husband like?” Hathaway asked unkindly.
Bud was pained. “He seems nice enough,” he said reluctantly. “We met them when they came over last fall. He’s got a ranch somewhere in Arizona.”
“With Molly’s trust fund, I’ll bet he does,” said Hathaway, to himself.
Austin, who had his share of the family dignity, got back on track. “Anyway, Roger, I’ve been meaning to call you even before this blizzard. You’ve been having a little trouble with counterfeit at Lake Placid, haven’t you?”
“We’ve had $500,000 worth of counterfeit, Bud,” Hathaway replied. “I’m staying at a dump outside of town where everybody’s had to double up because we’ve got bank investigators coming out our ears. Plus the police, and others when they can get in. A little trouble isn’t the way I’d describe it.”
“It sounds hellish,” said Austin.
“It is.”
“The reason I bring it up is that we were circularized by New York the other day. I told myself to call you and get the real dirt.”
This was news to Hathaway. In the tumult of subsequent events, he had forgotten Everett Gabler and whatever he was doing in New York. For the first time, he visualized circles rippling out from Captain Ormsby in Olympic Village all the way to London. “I wonder why,” he said slowly. “We didn’t get stuck with fake British pounds. I suppose it could be the foreign currencies that were issued in London—”
“That’s it,” said Austin. “We’re running around to every foreign bank here. But, and this is good, New York wants to know about counterfeiters in the British Isles. Can you picture Strachan’s face?”
“Bud, from where I sit, this is no laughing matter,” Hathaway said. “This blizzard is the final straw. It’s going to stop, sooner or later, but I’ve got a lousy feeling that heads are going to roll, starting with yours truly.”
Bud Austin had virtues as well as defects. “Don’t talk like that, Roger. As soon as you get away from Lake Placid, things will start looking up. And don’t forget, I can always put in a good word for you with Uncle Brad.”
“Thanks, Bud,” said Hathaway. “I appreciate that. But I wonder if that’s going to be enough.”
Cortina d’Ampezzo spoke to Lake Placid, New York, as one winter resort to another. In both of them, snow was white gold.
“But there can be too much of a good thing,” said Carlo Antonelli’s mother, keeping a sharp eye on her diamond-studded watch. The Antonellis could well afford any transatlantic charges they wanted, but they were not making foolish gifts to the telephone company. “And it could not have come at a worse time. How much longer will you have to stay there?”
“Who knows?” he replied. “At the moment, the weather is bad, very bad. Conditions for skiing or sledding . . .”
She could picture the insouciant shrug, and she knew just what to make of it. “Do not pretend that you don’t care, Carlo,” she said. “Even before this delay, there was too much strain.”
“Yes, mama,” he said with mock filial docility.
“And this is no time to make jokes!” she retorted. Signora Antonelli was one of those rare creatures, a woman worthy of her couturier clothes. Despite her willowy elegance, her glowing skin and her deep chestnut hair, she disliked being told that she looked more like Carlo’s sister than his mother.
“Here, let me talk to him,” said Franco Antonelli. Bald and tubby, he was half a head shorter than both his wife and his son. “Carlo, are you there?”
“There is no place I can go, papa,” said his son with affectionate irony. “The snow is piled high.”
“Your mother and I have been very worried about you, and about the whole situation,” said Antonelli senior.
“Franco,” said his wife with a worried frown, “be careful! You do not know who may be listening.”
“We did not like this fantastic scheme from the very beginning,” Signor Antonelli continued. “You know that. But there was no reasoning with you. Now, however, the question is, can you get out of this without a tremendous scandal? I do not want to see our name in headlines, Carlo.”
“What can I do?” Carlo rejoined. “Who expected policemen everywhere? It is bad luck that everything has become so difficult. By now the Olympics should have been finished. Could I know that they were going to drag on and on?”
“Yes, yes,” said Franco Antonelli, rolling his eyes at his wife. “Well, now it cannot be more than a matter of days. No doubt the newspapers exaggerate. Surely they will start rescheduling—”
“As a matter of fact, the Arena events are continuing,” his son interjected. “There will be figure skating tonight.”
“Why didn’t you say so!” Franco crowed joyfully. “Mafalda, they are going on with the figure skating. That means the end is in sight!”
“Oh, Carlo!” she cooed, snatching the telephone.
He rejected these waves of pleasure. “Who knows what can still happen at Lake Placid?” he asked morosely. “Maybe they will ask us to stay after the Games are over. If that happens, I do not know what I can do!”
His father, as usual, had the last word. “Now Carlo, be a man. You got yourself into this predicament. Let us only hope that God will get you out of it. You know that we are waiting for you eagerly, and that you have all our love.” Then, embarrassed by this outpouring, he recovered himself. “But I hope you realize that it is time for you to grow up. You are too old to play games like these. Everything is amusing to you, Carlo. Too amusing. As you are discovering, it is well to be very serious about life.”
“Believe me, papa, I have ceased being amused.”
There was one more call, this one from Plattsburg.
“Listen, it’s now or never. . . . What do you mean, the weather? . . . What could be better? Everybody’s out working like hell, or they’re staying inside. It’ll be clear sailing. . . . What? Of course I know how to do it. . . .”
Chapter 11
Thin Ice
ANTHONY Melville, one-time gold-medal archer, retired hanging judge from Vancouver, B.C., and acting president of the International Olympic Committee, was devoid of romance. Nevertheless, when his program came to pass that evening, the women’s figure skating provided one of the magic moments of the 1980 Winter Olympics.
Under heavy snow, road crews toiled throughout the afternoon to open a single lane of the highway from Lake Placid to Olympic Village. By evening, a cautious convoy began ferrying the contestants into town. Other than that, Lake Placid was isolated from the outside world, transported back to an age innocent of organized spectaculars. Instead of diesel fumes, there was clean white sn
ow, falling, falling, falling. Instead of an ear-shattering din, there was the silence of nature arched over the clamor of man. As darkness fell, lights winked on creating an impromptu ville lumière, with fantastic shapes outdoors and comfort and cheer within. Hurrying from motel to restaurant, from bus to coffee bar was exhilarating, not terrifying. Bitter cold remained, but the wind had died down and gradually more and more young people arrived. The exuberant American hockey team, fresh from last night’s victory over the U.S.S.R., walked all the way. Insensibly, the air of festival grew.
Contrary to his expectations, John Thatcher found himself in the midst of it. On disentangling himself from the telephone, he had become aware of a certain restlessness. He did not know whether to attribute it to Charlie Trinkam’s jaunty allusions to doings in New York, to the continuing impasse here in Lake Placid, or to simple cabin fever. But whatever the cause, a long walk was called for and Thatcher was soon striding up Main Street. A solitary stroll through the woods would have been preferable, but bottomless drifts ruled this out. It was plowed streets or nothing, and Thatcher found plenty of company besides rambunctious young athletes filling the air with snowballs.
Several elderly couples, muffled to the chin, were walking besweatered poodles. Groups of children cavorted under the watchful eyes of golden retrievers and Newfoundlands. One decorative couple promenaded stylishly behind three Old English sheepdogs.
Scattered over the idyllic scene, however, were knots of frenetic activity and Thatcher came on one just outside Town Hall. A jeep, wreathing exhaust fumes, was being loaded by a crew drafted from their Olympic desks.
“Food,” one of them grunted when Thatcher inquired. “There are hundreds of visitors stuck in those motels where they don’t have eating facilities.”
Thatcher, watching a case of dried milk disappear into the hold, was reminded of his friends from Grenoble. The crew knew all about them.
