East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Carole Bellacera

  Mags grinned nervously. “You got it.” His brow furrowed and he ran his hand through his blond locks. “Dirk jumps right in front of me. Do you think that's good for me or not?"

  "Of course,” Erik said firmly. “Then you'll know exactly what it will take to beat him. You'd better go. See you down the hill, brother.” Erik turned and made his way back to where Margit had secured seats at the bottom of the landing area.

  * * * *

  "There he is!” Knut said. “The Austrian I was telling you about. Onfrol Dirk. Watch this. The man has feathers instead of skin."

  At the end of the ramp, the Austrian got off a powerful jump, rising high in the air, his entire body nearly parallel to his skis. It looked like it was going to be a perfect jump until the gust of wind assaulted him. A cry of concern rose from the crowd as his skis wobbled in the air. Suddenly the jumper was out of control, his arms flailing about helplessly as he tried to regain his balance. Just as quickly as he'd sailed into the air, he dropped and skidded down the hill on his back, finally coming to a violent stop against the high fence at the side of the course. Medics and officials swarmed around the fallen man as the horrified eyes of thousands watched in stunned silence. Moments later, he was carried away from the course on a stretcher.

  Leigh grasped Knut's arm. “What happened to him?"

  "My guess is a gust of wind threw him off. It's unfortunate, but it happens. I should know."

  "Well, will they postpone the rest of the jumps?"

  Knut glanced over at the wind indicator at the top of the starting gate. It turned lazily. He shook his head. “No. Look, someone is on the bar now."

  A disembodied female voice rang out over the P.A. “#23, representing Norway, Magne Haukeland.” She repeated the announcement in French.

  Leigh caught her breath. She squinted at the small figure in red at the top of the ramp. Knut had the binoculars and there was no way she could ask for them. He'd been waiting all day to see a Norwegian jump. Mags skied down the run-in and sailed into the air flawlessly. He glided 275 feet down the hill before settling to the ground with a perfect Telemark landing. The crowd broke into cheers. Knut stood, frantically waving the Norwegian flag he'd bought that morning. Leigh was on her feet, too, clutching Knut in excitement. “He's got it, he's got it, Knut!"

  And she was right. With that beautiful jump, Mags had put himself into the number one position.

  Knut squeezed her, smiling broadly. “Ja, but don't forget, there's at least twenty-five more jumpers. And this is still only the first jump. But englebarn ... Norway has at least the bronze. I'm sure of it!"

  Leigh watched as the red suited jumper skated to the fence to shake hands with spectators. “Can I have the binoculars?” she asked. Knut handed them over. She focused them on Mags and the people around him. After a few seconds, she sighed and dropped them. It was no use. They were just too far away to see clearly. Even Mags was unidentifiable at that distance.

  "When we come back for the 90-meter, I want to try to get seats further down the hill,” she said to Knut. “Maybe down near the bottom."

  "Okay,” he said and turned to kiss her. “Kristus, Leigh! If Norway could win the gold medal today, I'd be the happiest man in the world."

  "Me, too,” Leigh said. “That Magne Haukeland is really something, isn't he?” She glanced back toward where he'd been, but he had already melted into the crowd.

  * * * *

  Leigh watched Knut make his way back to their seats with two Styrofoam bowls of steaming beef stew. For fear of missing anything, they'd been reluctant to leave the ski-jump area to have lunch in one of the many nearby restaurants. But so far, there had been no more activity at the top of the hill. Knut settled down beside her and handed her one of the bowls. “Bon appetite."

  Leigh gazed down at the thick beef and vegetable mixture. “It smells delicious, but I hope you aren't expecting me to eat it with my fingers."

  Knut chuckled and reached into the pocket of his parka to draw out two cellophane-wrapped plastic spoons. “I know this is rugged, but I'm not a barbarian."

  "Like your ancestors?” Leigh grinned, tearing open the package.

  "I beg your pardon!” Knut pretended to be affronted. “Not all of the Vikings were murderous savages. Some of them were peace-loving family men. Why, except for one or two raids a year, they spent all their time at home."

  "Of course.” Leigh took a bite of the savory stew. “Those history books are just notorious for exaggeration, aren't they?” She dabbed a paper napkin at her lips and turned to Knut. “I'm kind of confused about something. It's the distance that counts in the ski-jumping, right? So, where do the style points come in?"

  "You see that structure over there by the hill? The one with the windows?” Knut jabbed the end of his spoon across the ski-jumping course. “Five judges sit at each window and score the jumper for style-points. Basically, that means how beautiful the flight is. Things like parallel skis, good aerodynamic form ... good Telemark landing. The style points are combined with jump distance for a total score."

  "So, do you remember what Magne Haukeland's style points were?” Leigh asked, carefully using his real name instead of the shortened nickname.

  "It's right there on the score-board. Fifty-two. Quite good marks. Even if his distance isn't as great in this next jump, if he can maintain good style points, he can probably take the gold. Of course, he must have decent distance. There's just no need for him to hit the K-point."

  "K-point?"

  "That's the spot where the slope flattens out. It can be quite dangerous for a jumper to land that far down the hill. It's like jumping out of a four-story building onto a flat ground. But I've seen Pael Myklebust from Finland do it several times."

  "Do you think he'll do it this afternoon?"

  Knut shrugged. “It's possible. But I hope he doesn't, for Norway's sake."

  Leigh hoped he wouldn't, either. In the last few hours, it had become very important to her for Mags to win his gold medal. She remembered so vividly sitting next to the cheerful seventeen-year-old at a holiday dinner while he told her of his Olympic dreams. Of course, now he was eighteen, and one of the youngest competitors in the ski-jumping competition. How proud Erik would be of his younger brother if he brought home the gold. Then again, knowing Erik, he would be proud of him anyway, no matter how he fared. Suddenly, Leigh wished with all her heart she could be with Erik to watch his brother fly down that hill.

  She placed the bowl of stew down on the seat next to her and picked up the binoculars. Scanning the crowd, she concentrated on any area where she saw a red and blue flag. Oh, Erik ... where are you?

  The P.A. system crackled. “We are now ready to begin the second jump of the 70-meter ski-jumping competition. Our first jumper, #51, from The Netherlands..."

  Leigh gave the binoculars back to Knut and looked toward the hill.

  Chapter 31

  Through dark-shaded sunglasses, Margit gazed up at the hill as a blue-suited competitor skied down the run-in. He landed safely and she yawned. Would this competition never end? She glanced over at Anne-Lise and Dordei, both of whom wore enthralled expressions on their faces. Margit sighed. From the time her father had first taken her to Holmenkollen to watch the ski-jumping, she'd been bored to tears, and she still was. Each jumper looked alike ... except of course, when one of them took a tumble like that Austrian. That always perked things up, but it didn't happen often enough. Not that she wanted anyone to get hurt. But it certainly made for more exciting viewing.

  She turned to Erik. “When is Mags going to jump?"

  He threw her an exasperated look. “Christ, Margit! You'd think this was the first competition you've ever been to. Mags came in first, so he'll jump last. You know that."

  Margit's chin lifted defiantly. “Well, I don't pay attention to those stupid rules. Why is it everyone thinks that just because I'm Norwegian, I was born with skis attached to my feet?"

  Next to Erik, Bjorn leaned forward and grinned.
“So that's why Erik always has those deep gouge marks on his legs."

  Margit bit her lip and looked away. The needling bastard! She could cheerfully strangle Bjorn at the moment. His snide little remarks were grating on her nerves. She knew it was his way of punishing her for ending their affair. But damn it, he wasn't the only one who was suffering withdrawal pains.

  At her side, Erik leaned forward, a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes. “That's Myklebust up there on the bar. I hope he doesn't pull off a miracle like he did at Lahti last year.” He was referring to the jump at the World Cup stop in Finland when the ski-jumping champion had landed beyond the K-point and brought home the gold.

  "I just wish he'd get on with it,” Margit said sulkily.

  Erik's lips tightened. She was being a royal pain in the ass today. And of all days! His stomach churned with nerves because of Mag's upcoming jump. If Margit hated being here so much, why didn't she just go back to the hotel? For that matter, why didn't she just go home? She'd done nothing but bitch since they'd arrived.

  Myklebust began his run down the ramp and Erik leaned forward intently, forgetting about Margit and her bad attitude. He didn't intentionally wish the Finn a bad jump, but he did hope it wouldn't be so good Mags couldn't beat it. Myklebust landed a fair distance down the hill, but his technique was somewhat off, and Erik was sure his style points wouldn't be high. He was right. The judges awarded him only forty-one points for style. Erik breathed easier. With Myklebust's mediocre jump, a gold medal for Norway had become a real possibility. There were only three jumpers at the top of the hill. A Canadian, an Austrian and Mags.

  The two foreigners had good, but not spectacular jumps. Then finally, Mags was sitting on the bar.

  Erik barely drew in a breath as he watched his brother's red-suited figure poised at the top of the run-in. A sudden hush encompassed the crowd around them as Mags pushed off.

  His eyes glued to his younger brother, Erik rose to his feet as Mags reached the end of the ramp and jumped. Like a paper airplane, Mags floated effortlessly through the air. “Christ,” Erik murmured. “He's picked up a head-wind."

  Mags landed with finesse near the K-point, and squatting down, allowed the skis to take him up the hill where he turned to gaze back at the score-board. No one else in the crowd had to look at the score. Mags Haukeland had the longest jump of the day on the 70-meter hill, and equally important, high style points from the judges.

  As the score flashed on the board, the Haukelands grabbed each other, laughing and hugging in delirium. All around them, the cheers of the crowd resounded, and everywhere, Norwegian flags had materialized and were waving wildly. Erik pulled away from Bjorn's grip and made his way down to the fence that separated the skiers from the crowd.

  When he reached Mags, he found him swamped by the other skiers on the Norwegian team. Finally, Mags managed to pull himself away from their grip and skied over to Erik. A wide grin stretched from ear to ear, but Erik didn't miss the glimmer of happy tears in his brother's blue eyes. Over the fence, Erik grabbed his younger brother and hugged him for all he was worth. A mini-camera moved in close to record the celebration.

  "Magne,” a voice said nearby. “Can we get an interview for Euro-Sports?"

  Mags pulled away and grinned at the sports commentator. “Sure,” he said, and grabbed Erik's arm as he started to move away. “This is my brother, Erik. I want him with me."

  Erik grinned. His baby brother was already acting like the star he'd just become.

  * * * *

  In the hotel bar, Leigh sank into a plush dove-grey chair and sighed. Only four-fifteen, and she was exhausted. But it was a good fatigue. Mags’ medal win had made her day. She couldn't have felt prouder if it had been Mark or Melissa who'd won the Olympic gold medal. And she knew Knut felt the same. He sat across from her, smoking contentedly on his pipe and wearing a grin that under other circumstances, she might have thought was punch-drunk. Yet, she knew her own face held the same expression. If only she could've been able to offer Mags her congratulations. Instead, she had to pretend he was just an anonymous Norwegian. She wondered why she was doing it. Why not come clean with Knut? Confess everything about the Haukelands. Knut was a reasonable man. He'd never judged her before. Why should he now?

  Leigh leaned across the table toward him. “Knut..."

  "Look!” His eyes focused on the TV behind her right shoulder. “They're talking about the 70-meter jump."

  Leigh turned around in her chair and gazed at the color television set mounted above the bar. On the screen, a British commentator was, indeed, speaking about the 70-meter competition. “Here's a replay of Magne Haukeland's winning jump on the 70-meter hill, recorded earlier this afternoon."

  For the first time, Leigh saw Mags up close as he sat on the bar preparing to make his jump. His hands moved up to adjust his goggles and then he was perfectly still, waiting for the signal to go. He was off, moving smoothly down the run-in, and then like an eagle, he soared into the air, his body perfectly parallel to his skis. Lightly, with deceptive ease, he settled onto the snow in a text-book Telemark landing.

  "Christ, that's beautiful!” Knut said, his voice soft with respect.

  The picture on the television screen dissolved, replaced by two blond men smiling uneasily into the camera. Leigh's heart lurched, and from a great distance, she heard another commentator's voice.

  "I'm here with the gold medal winner of the 70-meter ski-jumping competition, Magne Haukeland, and his brother, Erik. Magne, when you were flying through the air on that second jump, did you know you had the gold medal?"

  The camera drew in on a close-up of Mags. “Well, I knew it was a good jump. I felt that immediately, but I didn't know for sure until I turned and saw the signal at the 112 meter mark."

  "You're the youngest Norwegian to ever win a gold medal in the 70-meter ski jump. How does that make you feel?"

  Mags grinned. “Great! It's been my dream for many years."

  "I hear you brought a fan club with you from Norway. Here's one of them. Your brother, Erik. Does that help your confidence when you have relatives here to cheer you on?"

  "Sure, it does. When they're here watching, you definitely don't want to make any mistakes. I'm especially grateful Erik is here. He's been a great source of inspiration and encouragement to me through the years."

  Leigh's eyes were frozen to the screen ... to the face that had been alive in her dreams ever since she'd left him in Norway. She drank in the sharp lines of Erik's high cheekbones, the deep blue of his eyes. He smiled into the camera and her heart jumped. How many times had that smile been reserved for her? She leaned closer, trying to hear his voice over the droning conversation in the bar.

  "We're thrilled ... all of us are,” Erik said. “My parents couldn't be here to watch Mags win his medal, but I know they're watching at home. I think right now, we're probably the proudest family in Norway."

  The camera panned back to Mags. The commentator shook his hand and wished him best of luck on the 90-meter hill scheduled for the next day. The scene switched back to the other anchor who began to talk about the upcoming hockey game between the Russia and the USA. Slowly, Leigh turned back to Knut. Her fingers trembled as she reached out for her cup of hot tea.

  Knut still wore his pleased grin. “Who would've thought an eighteen-year-old from Norway would come in and take the gold medal like that? Kristus! I don't think anyone had ever heard of him before today!"

  I had, Leigh thought. She took a sip of the tea. It was tasteless.

  Knut went on, “I can't wait to go to the medal presentation tonight. Maybe we can get up close. I'd sure like to congratulate that young man."

  Leigh's tea cup clattered to the table and abruptly, she stood up. “Excuse me,” she said. “I'm going to the ladies’ room."

  Inside the ladies’ room, Leigh moved slowly to an elegant boudoir chair in front of a lighted mirror. Her legs felt stiff and awkward as she sat. She placed her purse on the counter and then
met her reflection in the mirror. Her color was pale, her eyes huge and frightened.

  It was decision time. As much as she wanted to see Erik again, craved to see him, she knew she couldn't risk it. Her life was good now with Knut. She loved him, maybe not in the way she loved Erik, but it was a pure and true love, and she had no desire to hurt him. If she went to this medal presentation and came face-to-face with Erik, she didn't know if she could be strong enough. Just seeing him on television a few moments ago was enough to make every nerve in her body cry out for him. No, she wouldn't go. Knut could go to the presentation by himself. Shakily, Leigh stood up and rummaged in her purse for a comb.

  "For us, Knut...” she whispered and briskly ran the comb through her hair.

  * * * *

  Leigh overslept the next morning, and Knut was already dressed and ready to go downstairs for breakfast when she finally dragged herself up.

  "Damn! What time is it?” she asked, running her fingers through her rumpled hair.

  "Almost eight-thirty,” he said, scanning the day's events in the local paper.

  Leigh looked over at him. “How was last night?"

  "Great.” He smiled at her. “But I missed you. How's your head?"

  "So far, so good,” she muttered, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She'd faked a headache to get out of going to the awards ceremony with him. But it had turned into reality as she watched Mags accept his gold medal on television. “I'm going to hit the shower."

  After her shower, she felt almost human again. She stepped out of the bathroom wearing a silk kimono and a soft peach towel wrapped around her head. Knut was staring out the window. He turned when he heard her. “Oh. You look luscious."

  Leigh smiled, thinking he must truly love her if he thought she looked good now. She studied him. “Knut, you're all flushed. Like you've been jogging or something."

  Knut tugged at the collar of his heavy cable-knit sweater. “It is a bit warm in here, isn't it?"