The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

  “What the peloton did to those villains today was really incredible,” said Lombard from the far end of the bus. The colonel actually talked like that. One time he told me he grew up with a nanny who made him read comic books. He could never get rid of the Wow! and Bam! in his speech.

  “It was incredible,” I repeated, not quite sure where to begin. I could never really scold him; I knew he loved me like a father.

  “With a little luck, they’ll keep it up and you and Steve will be back in the front. After that, the only thing left is to carefully choose the moment of your final attack.”

  Apparently, this was going to be a little harder than I had imagined. Far from being embarrassed or sorry about what he had provoked, the colonel was stuck on the same refrain as before: that I should betray Steve.

  “No, it won’t happen again. The peloton’s support was just for today. It will be very hard for us to cut the lead those three have.”

  “You don’t know the power and recovery you’re capable of. If you’d only let me show you the numbers I have. But you never want to see them,” he said, going from pride to disappointment, like a child. Lombard and his hacker son, Bernard, used my password to get into Fonar’s database, which contained files on dozens of indicators the power meter documented each day during training or competition. Cross-referenced with other registers, it created indexes for recovery, fatigue, power, pedaling pace, and much more. All of this information was broadcast in real time during the race so that the technicians would know the potential performance of each racer during the competition. No one was as exhaustive in their analysis as Bernard, urged on by his father.

  “Well, about that,” I said after a long sigh, “you got me in all kinds of trouble after your statements to Libération. What you said about me being a better racer than Steve. First, I don’t agree, although we’re not even going to talk about that”—I raised the palm of my hand when I saw he wanted to interrupt me. “Second, everything you say to the press, or within the circuit, is considered to be coming from me, and that causes a lot of waves.”

  “But that was just the opinion of a simple old fan,” he said in a hurt tone.

  “Don’t be naïve, colonel, and don’t play with me. I gave you access to the circuit and Fiona accredited you as an assistant, because we assumed you’d be respectful and discreet about us, about me. You broke that agreement yesterday.” Lombard hung his head, visibly hurt. I’d never talked to him like this. His eyes grew wet and he pressed his lips together as he blinked over and over, as if he was trying hard not to cry. I couldn’t help but remember the moment when he, exultant, gave me my first real racing bike in front of the army barracks.

  “Let’s talk seriously, Hannibal,” said the veteran, recovering himself. He straightened his torso, threw his shoulders back, and pushed out pecs he no longer had. “I have a son by blood and a son by circumstance, and what the two of them have done and might still do justifies my presence in this world. The rest is not worth worrying about, damn it.” Lombard’s comic book phrasing could sound a little kitschy, but he compensated with the intensity of his emotions.

  “Thank you—” I started to say, but this time he stopped me with his hand.

  “And for that same reason, I’m not going to let you commit a crime against yourself.” His tone was now that of a commanding officer. “Even if it’s the last thing I do in this life, I’ll make sure you honor the gifts you’ve received and win one great race. I know you can win this Tour, you should win this Tour!”

  It was a bit ironic that in a matter of one hour, two men had determined what was left of their lives would be dedicated to me. Giraud, to make sure I never won, and Lombard to make sure I did. I imagined the two of them, their sleeves rolled up, arm-wrestling across a table. And although my mentor’s tone was decisive, I had no doubt about who would win that match.

  “I am flattered by your words, colonel. And I’m grateful for them from the bottom of my heart. You’re the father I never had; I can’t adequately thank you for what you’ve done for me. But that and the yellow jersey are two different things: All the racers’ fathers want their sons to go to the podium in Paris. You know that only three out of a hundred and ninety-eight manage that; the rest of us have the privilege of having run all twenty-one stages, which is no small thing. Taking pride in that doesn’t make us unfaithful children. And if I can be the instrument by which the brother I never had wins, then I’ll be the happiest person out there.”

  “You think of Steve as your brother?” he said in a tone of disgust. I remembered what Fiona had told me about my friend’s supposed actions against the colonel.

  “You may not like Steve, but he and I grew up cycling together,” I responded. Lombard grimaced.

  “You were already Hannibal when you met him. You were destined for greatness, but he got in your way.”

  The conversation was going nowhere. Lombard was convinced that I would have been Messi on a bike if I hadn’t met Steve.

  “I’m asking you to please not talk to the press about me again,” I said, aware of the futility of continuing our conversation. “To the press or anyone else. Just stop. And wait a few minutes before you leave the bus,” I added as I got up to go down the aisle and out to the street.

  “Hannibal,” he said, stopping me, “that man, the tall one”—and he pointed at one of the two guards who had escorted me to the vehicle. The man’s shadow grew with the light from the hotel, large and heavy, like a sarcophagus carved into a human shape. The tinted windows allowed us to see them without them noticing us.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dangerous, a goon. He’s who Steve was with when he came to talk to me.”

  “Steve talked to you?” Apparently, we couldn’t avoid the subject whether I wanted to or not.

  “Yes, yesterday,” he said and then went silent. Now that he had me trapped, he wanted me to pluck out each individual word that he was nonetheless longing to tell me. “That bastard threatened me. Your brother,” he said disdainfully.

  “What do you mean he threatened you? What did he say?”

  “He said if I didn’t leave you alone, the least that would happen to me is that I would never come near cycling again. The least that would happen! That’s an implicit death threat, you know?”

  “Please, let’s not exaggerate.”

  “Then, that guy”—he pointed again—“confused my foot with the floor as he was going out the door.”

  I didn’t know if what the old man was telling me was true, but I couldn’t help but look out at the giant thug: He weighed at least three hundred pounds.

  “This is all a misunderstanding. In his way, Steve is trying to protect me. Do you know how much damage your statement to the press did to me, colonel? After what you said, Steve must have thought your presence by my side could mean I believed your words. Giraud and the rest of the team looked at me as if I stank. And you completely ignored the possibility of a reprisal from Giraud. There are worse things than being a highly paid domestique, you know? For example, I could become the team’s water boy.”

  “What about the way he stomped on my foot?” said Lombard, offended.

  “That must have been his own initiative,” I responded angrily. “You yourself just said it happened behind Steve’s back.”

  “I doubt it. There are a lot of things you don’t know about Steve. They say he and his agent have turned away more than one offer from other teams who wanted to make you their leader. They engaged in all kinds of machinations so those proposals wouldn’t reach you.”

  “Do you have any evidence of this? I’ve heard these rumors too, and they usually come from teams we’ve beaten. Of course they’d like to break our bond.”

  “Evidence? Your friend always makes sure his image is spotless. I don’t have evidence of his threats yesterday either. But my foot reminds me they were loud
and clear,” he said, and we both lowered our eyes to stare at his shoes. “In fact, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he and his crew had something to do with the tragedies that have been occurring over the last few days.”

  “Well, if it’s him and his crew, they’ve done a terrible job,” I said. “Matosas, Paniuk, and Medel are making us eat their dust.”

  We both went quiet. We were out of ammunition, like two boxers in the tenth round, more tired than belligerent. We separated without any real animosity, and I tried to believe that, though my arguments hadn’t convinced him, the colonel would at least avoid making any more explosive statements.

  Before I could exit the bus, Axel intercepted me.

  I looked at him inquisitively. “There’s something you need to know,” he said.

  I looked at the bodyguards waiting just a few meters ahead of us and Lombard, still on the bus, and shook my head. Today was determined to turn into Groundhog Day; it seemed like weeks since the last time I’d slept in a bed.

  “Come up to my room in about fifteen minutes,” I said. “One of those brutes will be outside; tell them I asked for a muscle relaxer.”

  Arriving at my door, I stopped cold when I saw Favre.

  “Don’t get angry, sergeant, it’s just for a minute,” he said, defensively, when he saw my face.

  I didn’t respond, just opened the door and waved him inside with a ceremonious pantomime.

  “I didn’t think I was important enough to take up so much of the police commissioner’s time,” I said, sarcastically.

  “Well, Moreau, everything seems to revolve around you, which has intrigued me.” He paused, reflective, and then continued. “But I haven’t come to throw it in your face; not this time.”

  I took notice of the words: Not now, but sometime soon.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, starting to feel impatient.

  “We’ve continued the interrogation of the Fonar mechanics. You told me this morning you would look for something, some dirty laundry that would allow me to break one of them. You know how it is when it comes to setting traps.”

  I hadn’t promised any such thing, but Favre seemed to enjoy putting words in the mouths of others. Using that method, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of those poor mechanics ended up incriminating himself even if he was innocent.

  “I’m sorry, commissioner, I couldn’t remember a thing,” I said, trying to follow whatever narrative line would get him back out to the hallway as soon as possible.

  “Well,” he responded lazily, as if trying to find another reason to stay. His eyes surveyed his surroundings, but my tiny hotel room had nothing for them to land on. This time, I’d been careful to keep everything in my suitcases. The only thing he could see were swollen bags with half-open zippers.

  “If I remember anything, I’ll send you a message. And, please, I’d be grateful if you would share anything you found out. These are my colleagues you’re interrogating and…” After a slight hesitation, I added, “And it was my bike that was sabotaged.”

  “That’s what I said: Everything seems to be happening around you,” said the commissioner as he left the room.

  I sat on the bed and sent Axel a text I would come to regret: “Whatever it is you have to tell me, tell me tomorrow, I’m drained.” I turned off my phone and tumbled backward. I don’t know what happened after that. It was the first night on the Tour de France in which I didn’t go over the rankings at the end of a stage. I tried to find comfort by telling myself they were the same as the day before.

  GENERAL CLASSIFICATION: STAGE 13

  RANK

  RIDER

  TIME

  NOTES

  1

  ALESSIO MATOSAS (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  51:34:21

  Guiltier than ever.

  2

  MILENKO PANIUK (CZECH/RABONET)

  0:22

  Accomplice #1.

  3

  PABLO MEDEL (SPAIN/BALEARES)

  0:26

  Accomplice #2.

  4 STEVE PANATA (USA/FONAR) +4:49 He begins to recover but it might be too late.

  5 MARC MOREAU (FRANCE/FONAR) +8:26 End of my dreams, I’ll be lucky if I can help Steve.

  6

  ÓSCAR CUADRADO (COLOMBIA/MOVISTAR)

  8:42

  From here on down, no threat for the podium.

  7

  LUIS DURÁN (SPAIN/IMAGINE)

  9:25

  8

  SERGEI TALANCÓN (ROMANIA/ROCCA)

  11:03

  9

  ANSELMO CONTI (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  13:21

  10

  ROL CHARPENELLE (FRANCE/TOURGAZ)

  13:27

  2014

  If Lombard was like a father to me, and Steve was the brother I never had, Diana Panata was the mother I’d been missing.

  Diana died just weeks after Steve won his third yellow jersey in France, and just days before La Vuelta. She was killed by a sudden pneumonia that overcame her after a plastic surgery marketed as risk-free. Steve’s father, a lawyer to his core, considered the possibility of suing the hospital, alleging she’d caught the fatal virus in its operating rooms. If anybody had seen us at her funeral, they would have sworn I was the mournful child and Steve was a friend there in solidarity.

  We both suspended our training and flew to Santa Fe to get a glimpse of her body before it was cremated. I fell apart when I saw her in that wooden box, wrapped in a shroud, expressionless. That immobile face couldn’t be hers. Diana was somebody who operated as if on a lithium battery, incapable of being still for more than three seconds.

  What made me fall apart left them, father and son, utterly overcome. They stared at her, numb, trying to understand what would happen to the rest of their lives without that woman, who illuminated everything she touched.

  I had never been able to call her Mother, though she had told me to many times, but I ended up accepting the maternal attentions she gave Steve and me equally during her long visits to Lake De Como. From the first time she stayed with us for a season, she went on a crusade to end my orphanhood with a zeal the Templars would have envied. She corralled me into dental appointments, renovated my wardrobe, equipped both my kitchen and Steve’s with all sorts of gadgets we never used, and watched over our girlfriends with the rigor of a warden looking over a harem. In short, she became everything Beatriz, my mother, had never been.

  Steve’s father, Robert, on the other hand, always treated me with a distant courtesy. Although, to be fair, that wasn’t much different from how he treated Steve. He was a refined and cordial man; his condescension and impersonal ways did not feel disdainful—instead, he gave the impression his mind was caught up in something more transcendent than his immediate surroundings.

  Instead of being jealous of his mother’s attentions, Steve became her accomplice. He shared his belongings with me, his money—I think, if he’d been able to pull it off, he would’ve shared his girlfriends—and he did it all very organically, as if it were part of the natural order. It felt almost childlike. But there was a dark side to that intimacy. Take videogames. When it was my turn, he’d pass me the PlayStation, but he’d do it with a huff, like a child who has to share the swing with his brother even though he doesn’t want to. Eventua
lly, Diana bought me my own console and that was the end of our problems. Or at least that’s what I thought.

  We spent months engrossed in a cutthroat competition over a virtual soccer game for which I seemed to have an innate talent. The first few weeks, I annihilated him so badly Steve would sulk, but insist on playing again and again, like a gambler addicted to his bad luck.

  When Steve was in a good mood—that is, when he won—he was like the sun. Similar to his mother, he had the rare talent of making everything around him shiny. His enthusiasm and energy were like champagne to me, sparkly and intoxicating.

  In victory, he was generous, expansive, and supportive. In defeat, he could be a kick in the balls. He would slam the door on the kitchen pantry, curse aloud over the tiniest thing, and dent the car pulling it out of the garage. He’d behave as if his losing were an act against nature, a sign there was a misalignment in the universe that had disrupted the order of things.

  He practiced playing that soccer game on his own and, judging by the rings under his eyes, played late into the night until he began to beat me fairly regularly. It was only then that peace and happiness returned to our home and his fraternal love enveloped me again.

  But, regardless of his moods, he never let me doubt I was more than an ordinary friend. During training camp in Tenerife at the beginning of the year, I got a strange fever that landed me in the hospital for four days. Steve raised holy hell because he wasn’t allowed to sleep on the couch in my room. We weren’t technically related, so he slept scrunched up in the backseat of his car in the parking lot. When I was finally released, it was hard to tell which of the two of us was achier. After that, he spent several months exploring the idea of a name change, so that situation would never happen again. His father finally put a stop to that plan when Steve asked him what legal steps he had to take in order to add Moreau as a surname.