by Niki Savage
“They’re beautiful,” he interrupted gently, turning his head to look into her eyes.
She smiled shyly, averting her gaze. “Thank you, but they are a bit strange.”
He let it go as she continued, “Etienne had obtained an international license for me for the season. This would allow me to cross into France and race there regularly. I did that, because I hadn’t given up on finding my father. The money was much better in France, especially in the Paris-based races, but racing in France wasn’t friendly to foreigners. To ensure that outsiders couldn’t survive for long, the French Federation kept prize money until the end of the season, and then paid it out in a lump sum. That was bad news for me, because I needed my prize money right away to survive. So I had to compete for every prime that came up, because the organizers paid that money right after the race.”
“Excuse my ignorance, but what is a prime?”
“That’s when they ring the bell during a circuit race, for instance, and the first person over the line on the next lap gets some money. The French pronunciation is preem. I used to win the majority of the primes in the races I entered. Of course this left me exhausted by the end of the race, and I would usually only place at the finish, instead of winning.”
“But at least you had money to live on, and perhaps winning might have attracted too much attention. I’ll be honest, that took a lot of guts, hiding in plain sight.”
“I guess so, but my aggression in the races attracted attention anyway, and three months into the season, I received an offer from a top Paris club. They would provide accommodation and pay me a salary, with bonuses for good performances. After discussing it with Etienne, I moved to Paris, alone again. Or so I thought.” Marcelle went silent, staring unseeingly in front of her, remembering.
Stefan watched her for a few moments before he squeezed her shoulders. “And then?”
She looked startled, but then she smiled. “And then we decided to take a break for some hot chocolate. Would you like some?”
He followed her to the kitchen, and took a seat at the breakfast nook while she made the hot chocolate. She didn’t say much as she worked, clearly deep in thought, so Stefan remained silent, allowing her to organize her thoughts.
She put the two mugs of hot chocolate on a tray, and added a small bowl of tiny marshmallows and a plate of biscuits. Stefan carried the tray to the living room for her, and they settled on the sofa again.
Stefan watched as Marcelle added exactly nine small marshmallows to her hot chocolate. “That’s a very precise number,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Anthony and I did many weeks of research before we came upon the correct amount of marshmallows for hot chocolate.”
“Sounds like you two had far too much spare time on your hands. Is this where he comes into the story?”
Marcelle took a sip of her hot chocolate, and settled back against the cushions of the sofa. “Yes. I met Anthony Delamotte when I moved to Paris. He was twenty years old then, and sure to turn professional the following year. He and I took to each other immediately, and became best friends. I don’t know what made him take me under his wing, but I was grateful. He took me on training rides, and helped me improve my sprinting style, my tactics, eating right, drugs, everything.”
“Drugs?”
“Yes. Things weren’t as strict then as they are now. Many riders used steroids and stimulants, and I was among them. Competing against guys was hard, even though I had loads of natural talent. The races were brutal, and I battled to keep my weight up with the hectic racing schedule. I needed more strength, and Anthony helped me achieve that. Now that I’m racing against women, I race clean, even though I know some of them don’t. And I still beat them, drugs or not. Does that answer your question?”
“I was just curious. Sorry if I sounded critical.” Stefan picked up his mug of hot chocolate, and took a sip.
“No offence taken. I did what I had to do to survive. And frankly, I’m lucky that I haven’t suffered any lasting damage. Anyway, Anthony was the big brother I always wanted. The other riders were more than a little jealous. They used to tease me that I had a stamp that said ‘Made by Anthony’ under my foot.” She smiled, lifting her bare foot for his inspection. “See, it’s still there.”
He stared. Indeed, there was a small tattoo in the arch of her slim foot, saying exactly that, in French. Marcelle saw his face and laughed. “It’s a long story. We were all drunk.” She tucked her foot beneath her again. “Anyway, I didn’t care what the others said, because Anthony’s coaching produced great results. In August that year, I turned eighteen, and but had only one month’s grace before I was nineteen, as per my passport. It was on this supposed nineteenth birthday that I got my little tattoo. Enough said. So I had to move up to the senior category, which turned out to be less traumatic than I imagined.” She took a sip of her hot chocolate. “Are you sure you want to know about all this? You must tell me if I’m boring you.”
“Marcelle, I want to know everything about you. And the fact that you are sitting here tells me that your story is a story of triumph. I want to hear it.” He replaced his empty mug on the tray, and selected a choc chip biscuit from the plate.
Marcelle drained the rest of her hot chocolate and wrapped her fingers around the still warm mug. “Well, as I said, moving up to senior a year before I actually had to, turned out to be less traumatic than I had thought it would be. I had started maturing as a rider, and had become a formidable sprinter, thanks to Anthony. I managed to snatch a victory here and there in smaller races, but in the big races, I continued to take primes, though I was no longer making a clean sweep, as I did in the junior category.”
“That must have affected your finances,” Stefan said, taking another biscuit from the plate.
“Initially it did, but then Anthony started including me in combines made up by the club. A combine is like an informal team, formed for just one day. That means we help each other take primes, and block the chase if one of us is in the breakaway. Each member of the combine gets a share of the money after the race.” Marcelle also took a biscuit from the plate and bit into it. “I always did well when I had team support, and I didn’t mind working for Anthony, so that he could get the win. On top of that, I got my fair share of top ten places when I joined him in breakaways. I had an incredible season, and received a lucrative offer for the next season from a prestigious French club. Of course, I accepted the contract. A French professional team had signed Anthony, so I had no reason to stay at our old club. For the four months of the off-season, I again went to Spain, relieved to get away from the strain of Paris.”
Suddenly restless, Marcelle got to her feet and walked to the window. She stared out at the curtain of rain that shrouded the trees from view, and sighed deeply. “You know, I’ve seen movies of girls pretending to be boys, or boys pretending to be girls, and filmmakers always portray it as a comedy. But the reality is nothing like that. I lived in constant fear of discovery. Having to avoid situations, like not changing with the other riders, and making sure my cycling shorts always showed the obligatory bulge in the right place. I lived in terror of a supervised drug test, where they watch you instead of allowing you to fill the bottle in private. And I worried that I might be unconscious after a crash, and wake to find myself unmasked.”
“Stress is often the worst enemy when you are on the run,” Stefan said, watching her slender silhouette in front of the window. “I have more than once caught fugitives because they simply could not bear the psychological strain anymore. For some of them, a jail cell or even death was preferable to looking over their shoulders all the time. Clearly you are made of stronger stuff.”
Marcelle turned and came back to the couch. She sat, and tucked her legs beneath her in a typical girlish pose. “Yes, you’re right. I don’t know how I lived with that kind of stress for nearly four years. Even my friendship with Anthony put me at risk, because the closeness between us sometimes tempted me to come clea
n, and tell him who I was.” She moved restlessly, remembering. “But I feared his rejection, so I fought the impulse every time, and tried to convince myself that one day everything would come right. I tried not to allow myself to become despondent and lose hope, but I longed to compete against my own gender. As a female, I knew I had what it took to become the world champion, while as a male rider the best I could hope for was to win regularly as an amateur rider. I would never be good enough to go pro.”
“Why didn’t you ask Etienne to get you a license as a female rider?”
“The thought had occurred to me also, but Michel de Wilde’s identity was firmly entrenched, and whose identity would I use to race as a female? Remember Michel de Wilde was dead, so it wasn’t as if he was going to challenge me. And if I did become world champion, my life would come under so much scrutiny that I would be unmasked in no time.”
Stefan sighed. “You’re right. I can only imagine how frustrated you must have been. But at least you had your freedom.”
“I guess I had that to be grateful for. At times, I actually forgot that I was a murderer on the run. The next season went much like the first. The pay was better, and my bike and equipment were the best money could buy. Anthony had moved into a spacious flat in Paris, and invited me to stay with him, rent-free. It was part of his contract, he told me, so I agreed. He respected my privacy, and living with him was comfortable and pleasant. I often had the place to myself when he was on tour, and realized that moving in with him had been one of the best decisions I ever made.”
“I’m glad he was there for you. Everyone needs a big brother.”
Marcelle smiled. “The season progressed well, and I won regularly, having used steroids Anthony gave me to gain more muscle and strength during the off-season in Spain. By then my appearance had changed so much that no one would mistake me for Marcelle Cheval. I liked my new club, and had made peace with my new life, though I had to restrain myself from trying to contact my mother.” She sighed deeply, closing her eyes to hide her pain. “I felt a need to explain to her what had happened. But deep inside, I considered myself cursed, and gave up all attempts to find my real father. I thought that perhaps he wasn’t as good a person as my mother had said. My stepfather had been kind at first, before he became a monster. And if my father hadn’t wanted me when I was a baby, why would he want me now? Anthony was away more and more often, and I missed his companionship, beginning to feel desperately lonely.” She trailed off, gazing sightlessly in front of her.
Stefan watched her patiently, allowing her all the time she needed to relive the painful memories.
Marcelle looked up, a slow smile forming on her lips. “But then I met Jean-Michel. He was halfway up a mountain pass when I flew past him. He gave chase, but couldn’t catch me. At the top of the mountain pass, I stopped at a small restaurant, to put on a dry vest and have a cup of warm tea. I waited for Jean-Michel to reach the top. When he did, I beckoned him from one of the tables outside. He came my way, and I offered him the cup of tea. I was blissfully unaware of his world champion status, and we hit it off right from the start.”
“And that was the best thing that had ever happened to you,” Stefan said kindly.
“Yes, suddenly everything seemed bearable again. From then on, we met regularly for rides because he used to run and cycle to supplement his fitness for car racing. We became good friends. Jean-Michel was then in his late twenties, and I guess, being older, felt protective towards me. He had been one of twins, though his brother had died after falling down an old well on the family farm. It had affected Jean-Michel badly, and twenty years later, he had still not come to terms with the loss. I guess I filled that void to a certain extent, and Jean felt it was somehow symbolic that my name was Michel, the name of his dead twin. He had only taken the name Jean-Michel after the death of his brother; he used to be just Jean.”
“What a tragedy,” Stefan said, adjusting his position on the sofa. “My cousins are twins, and they have such a close bond that I fear for the day something happens to one of them. I don’t know how the surviving one would cope.”
“Well, Jean-Michel didn’t cope very well. I loved him right from the start, and longed to tell him everything. I didn’t want to have any secrets from him, but I feared his rejection. What would he think of me deceiving him along with thousands of other people? Anyway, this carried on for the entire season, and I experienced at least a measure of happiness, though at times I sensed that Jean-Michel was uncomfortable with the intensity of the relationship.”
Stefan laughed. “I can just imagine. He must have been mortified to discover that he was falling in love with another man.”
Marcelle giggled. “You’re funny. But it was really just a very strong friendship. There was nothing else going on. Anyway, later, near the end of the season, I was due to take part in an invitation-only amateur race outside Paris. It was a circuit race over a difficult course, and only eighty invited riders could attend. I knew it would be murderous, but I was confident of my ability to snatch a few of the ten thousand franc primes.”
“It really is amazing how far you had progressed from being a frightened sixteen-year-old.”
“Yes, three years might as well have been a lifetime. But that was also the last race I rode as a male cyclist.”
Stefan frowned. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Well, it was bad, but also good. Before the race started, the main sponsor came around to shake the hands of the top riders.” She smiled wistfully. “I nearly collapsed with shock when I found myself staring into the face of my father. I had been polishing the lenses of my cycling glasses, and hadn’t put them back on in time. The man with my father remarked that we could have been father and son, the resemblance was so uncanny. My father couldn’t stop staring into the eyes that were just like his own, and eventually asked me my name. I couldn’t reveal my identity in front of ten thousand spectators, so I said my name was Michel de Wilde, and that I was a Belgian National with the US Criteil Club in Paris. My father couldn’t linger, as the start of the race was approaching, and he had more riders to greet.”
“Fate has a way of taking over sometimes,” Stefan commented. “Even though you had stopped looking for your father, you still ended up in the same place at the same time. Amazing.”
“That’s what I thought. And even though my mind was in a whirl, I knew I had to take full advantage of the situation. I needed to speak to my father again, and the only way to create that opportunity, was to win the race, because he would be handing out the trophy. The decision made, I got to work. I rode the toughest race of my career, having to go with every break, just in case it succeeded.”
“Did you have any help, from a combine?”
Marcelle smiled. “You have the right idea, but no, it was every rider for himself this time. About fifteen kilometers from the end of the 140-kilometer race, I initiated the race-winning break. Five other riders came with me, but I wasn’t worried, confident that I could outsprint them. There was one rider I was wary of, Jean-Pierre Benoit, a Frenchman from a rival club. Though I was an aggressive sprinter, he was not only aggressive but also unscrupulous, and we had clashed before, but I was determined that he wouldn’t stand in my way.
“I sat behind him and waited for him to make the first move for the finish. He did, and I went after him, sprinting as never before in my life. I drew even with him about twenty meters before the finish, and started to pass him.” Anger glowed in her eyes as she continued, “Apparently, this was unacceptable to him, because he started leaning against me, trying to push me into the barriers. I resisted, but he was a lot heavier than I was. Our handlebars became entangled, and we passed over the line together, though I was centimeters ahead, as the photo finish showed later.”
“Why do I think this isn’t going to end well?”
“You’re right. At that point, we were both out of control, doing about seventy kilometers an hour. Trying to save himself, Jean-Pierre shoved me away, int
o the iron guardrails that lined the finish area. Oh man, did I get smashed up.” Marcelle shuddered at the memory. “Jean-Pierre too, but I also had to cope with the guard rails. I don’t remember quite what had happened, because it happened so fast. I can tell you what the result was though. A fractured skull, broken left collarbone, broken left forearm, dislocated jaw, cracked cheekbone, along with plenty of cuts and bruises,” she said with a grimace. “Of course, I was unconscious; and remained so for about five days.”
“So that which you had feared for so long, had finally happened,” Stefan said, putting a sympathetic arm around her shoulders.
Marcelle moved closer to his heat, seeking comfort. “Yes, the problems started in hospital. When I arrived in casualty, the doctors discovered I was female. When they had finished with me, they sent me up to intensive care, and decided that there had been a mistake when admitting me. But later that day, when the race organizers and my father came to the hospital to see how Jean-Pierre and I were doing, the staff told them I was female. From there it was easy for my father to guess I was his illegitimate daughter. I wish I had been awake to see his face. Unfortunately, the race organizers spoke to some reporters, and the story made the newspapers.”
“And that must have been the beginning of the end. The police would follow up a report like that.”
“Yes, they wondered why I would be posing as a male cyclist. They took my fingerprints to establish my identity, and Interpol was informed. When I regained consciousness five days later, my worst fears had come true. Despite my father’s attempts to save me, I was in police custody. The French authorities decided to extradite me as soon as I was well enough to travel. In South Africa, the law would run its course.”
