The Fall Line

by Mark T Sullivan

  “Where did the money come from?”

  “Not clear,” the attorney said. “In the following years Pauline became something of a social traveler, accompanying high-level managers from the factories, men in their late fifties and early sixties, to various events in Lyons. I see a news clipping here of Pauline at the opera. She’s gamine, but striking. The daughter is with her—striking also.”

  “I’ve seen her,” Farrell said.

  “Oh, of course,” the attorney said. “Two other things from Madame Noir. In the mid-1970s there were several rows … fights I’d believe you’d call them, chez Didier.”

  “What sort?”

  “Men banging on the door, quite angry, late at night. Several developed into prolonged verbal affairs in which Pauline threatened to call the police. That usually ended them.

  “But there was one that didn’t end. A terrible broil. Noir thinks it was February 1976. A vice president at a local textile mill, angry at Pauline for some reason, arrived when Inez was home alone. The girl stayed two days in the hospital. Pauline’s life quieted substantially after that.”

  Thinking of Inez, Farrell let the receiver drift away from his ear.

  “Hello?” the attorney yelled.

  “I’m here, any more?”

  “Yes. Inez matriculates at Institute Des Cinemas and Photographies at the Sorbonne in Paris in the fall of the following year. Studies under Czechoslovakian ex-patriot director Milos Cranz. Produced three award-winning student films before leaving midway through her third year.

  “Cranz, now seventy, said he remembers Didier as—quoting him now—‘a nervous, dolorous young woman whose work was marked by strong visual effects.’ Close quote.”

  The attorney continued: “Cranz dug up a copy of Didier’s second-year project—La Vague de Fer (The Iron Wave)—a twenty-minute short about a young Parisien who was obsessed with surfing, but could never get to the sea; so he ‘surfed’ on top of freight trains. Cranz said she won an award for the film on the basis of one tremendous shot: the camera is behind the crouched boy as the train rounds a broad curve toward a mountain tunnel and a grassy valley opens up to the right.”

  “Sounds spectacular,” Farrell said.

  The attorney clucked noncommittally. “Cranz said Didier was involved for a time with a Lebanese Christian named Sami Aboudallah, who now makes television commercials for yogurt and bottled water companies.

  “It took our person two days, but she finally arranged an interview with Aboudallah by claiming herself a reporter for a new cinema magazine. At first Aboudallah did not want to speak of Didier, but when she told him she’d keep his comments on a not-for-attribution basis, he talked.”

  “She’s creative,” Farrell said.

  “You get what you pay for,” the attorney said. “Anyway, quoting Aboudallah: ‘We were in Cranz’s early courses together. She found out I was from Beruit, wanted to know about the fighting—what it looked like, what the people thought of it. I told her what you tell anyone: that it was paradise before the fighting. Now my village in the highlands is rubble. I cannot go back.’ ”

  “Go on,” Farrell said. He took another note.

  “Aboudallah claims they became lovers because they each saw themselves as different from the cliques within the institute. Aboudallah also says he was the cameraman on La Vague de Fer.

  “Quoting him again, ‘It was her idea. But I was on top of the train with the boy. Inez couldn’t stomach that sort of thing. She saw the boy climbing on the iron supports of the metro. She followed him and talked to him, fed him. After that, he would do anything for her, even the train stunt which could have killed him. It wasn’t like what the film made him out to be. He hadn’t surfed on a train before.’ ”

  “That’s all he said about her?” Farrell asked.

  “No, I’ve got the pages out of order. Here we are: Aboudallah said Christian, that’s the boy, his attraction to Inez and her encouragement, inevitably led to friction in their relationship.

  “Aboudallah said she would laugh at his frustration, say Christian’s just a boy. Aboudallah thought it went further than that. He saw other women. In December of that year, Inez discovered his infidelities at the same time she discovered she was pregnant. Aboudallah told her that he was not in love with her and would not stay.

  “Quoting Aboudallah here: ‘How did I know it was not Christian’s baby? I moved out with her screaming, throwing dishes, books. She left Paris soon after and, really, until I saw one of her ski films at a festival last summer—a very strange film—I hadn’t heard a thing.”

  “What about the child?” Farrell asked.

  “Aboudallah has no idea. No records detail a birth in Lyons or Paris to an Inez Didier that year. Our person will check in Chamonix on the off-chance that she had the baby there.”

  “Good,” Farrell said. “When shall I hear again?”

  “Five days,” the attorney said.

  “I’ll call,” Farrell said. “And set up the new corporations soon.”

  “Tomorrow morning, sir.”

  Farrell returned to his room to lay in the dark. Hearing about Inez’s past allowed him to focus on something other than his own deeds. The terrible sprinting of images had slowed, the fever-chills cycle subsided. He thought about Inez as a granular substance, a powder. He thought he understood some of the grit and talc that made her tempting, almost irresistible. He admitted, however, that crucial bits and pieces remained to be discovered. Before he could make any judgments, fatigue overcame him. He slept without dreaming.

  He awoke at 7 A.M. and went to check on Page. The one-eyed skier was gone. A note was pinned to Inez’s door telling Farrell, The Wave, Ann, and Tony to be in position on Granite Chief as early as possible. She’d meet them up there at seven-thirty to begin the shots.

  Farrell raced to get his gear, to drive as fast as he could to the mountain. As he buckled his boots, he tried to imagine Inez younger. How had she convinced the boy to surf the train? She probably didn’t need to persuade him; he probably loved the idea, Farrell thought.

  Farrell did not know whether to tell The Wave and Page of what he’d learned. He respected their need to understand; and he considered the possibility that the information was irrelevant; but most of all he was afraid to reveal he had the financial wherewithal to hire a foreign detective. He’d have to act on their behalf. Sometimes ignorance was best.

  He found The Wave taping Page’s ribs at the midstation restaurant. Over Farrell’s protests, Page was determined to ski. “We’ve got at least a five-day layoff after today,” Page said. “This is only one jump.”

  “That’s all it takes, mon,” The Wave said. “I looked up where you’re going yesterday. The thing looks like an upside down boot, you know Italy’s toe shoved up into Switzerland. All sorts of junk-boulders, logs, and other shit in the landing zone. Steeper than hell, too. Much worse than Palisades. Told her she was four nickels short of a quarter she thinks I’m boarding up there.”

  “She took that well, I bet,” Page said.

  “I don’t think she cared,” The Wave said. “She looked at me like I was an afterthought.”

  “Not me,” Page said. “She was at my door at six, telling me this was my shot, the moment I’ve been waiting for.”

  “You ask her why she followed you?” Farrell asked.

  Page looked at the floor. “I did, but she has this way of smothering what you really want to say. I—”

  Inez swept into the room in a full-length, powder-blue down coat. “Allez-y. Allez-y. It is already the quarter hour! And you still drink coffee?”

  Farrell saw her, thought immediately of her naked, and became angry with himself. Page was right. Apart from her, he could be somewhat objective. Close, she was a pleasant suffocating force. He glanced at Page again, took a deep breath, and crossed to her. He said softly, “He’s still injured. Why don’t you call him off. Just let me jump.”

  Inez touched Farrell’s face. He swooned. She whispered, �
��Chéri. Last night was the wonderful experience. Mais l’expérience même si sexuelle, it does not give you the right to direct my film. The actor, he tells me he is ready. I respect him.”

  “Listen—”

  “I have not the time, chéri,” Inez said. “Page has the rendezvous.”

  “With what?” Farrell demanded.

  Inez tisked. “I think sometimes you are so smart … and then … well, you just do not comprehend, do you? With himself, of course.”

  With that Inez charged out, looking back just long enough to say, “I see you there in twenty minutes. Allez-y.”

  Page and The Wave gaped at Farrell. They knew. Farrell jammed his hands in his pockets, irritated. “She was all over me. What could I do?”

  A local filmmaker had told Inez that if she shot the sequence on Granite Chief—a brooding peak of sheer stone, wrinkled with snow and tree—later than 9:30 A.M., the sun would wash out the rock’s brilliant copper and blue-gray hues and the rich green of the firs.

  It was a steep climb to the top of Granite Chief, which Farrell made in total silence, listening to Tony and Ann decide how they’d shoot the sequence. He had sweated through his underwear by the time they reached the summit. A wind kicked up and he fought numbness. Page winced with every breath and leaned over his poles, trying to relax himself.

  Tony crawled to the edge of the cliff and peered over. “I’d have to be one drunk mother to drop off this bastard.”

  Farrell lay on his stomach and inched his way to the edge. He was above the toe of the boot, a fifteen-foot straight plunge onto snow badly rippled by sun and wind. Any miss on the landing would trip the skier off into the jagged rocks under the tiny wedge of snow. He looked to his left, higher on the ridge, above the heel of the boot. There the granite wall rose a straight thirty feet off the snow. It was not as high as the Palisades jump, but as The Wave had said, the landing—into a narrow gully, fifty-five degrees steep, lined with ragged granite like saw teeth—made it twice as brutal.

  Farrell slid himself back. Now that he was away from Inez, he could think clearer. “The heel entrance is just out of the question,” he said to Page. “We’ll jump in here at the toe. It will be tough—you’ll have to skid hard right as you land, then whip left under the cliff and turn into the gully.”

  Page nodded, “I’ve only seen one guy jump straight into the heel.”

  “He make it?” Ann asked.

  “Missed his landing spot by a good twenty feet, broke through some rotten snow, and went the hundred and fifty yards straight to the bottom. Snapped both ankles, both arms.”

  “Wonder he didn’t break his skull,” Ann said. “Wonder you didn’t yesterday.”

  “Confidence builder, aren’t you?”

  “I call them as I see them,” Ann said.

  “I’m ready,” Tony said. He snapped the last buckle on his harness.

  Farrell drove a climbing bolt into a chunk of exposed rock, looped the thick nylon rope through the hole, and passed it to Tony, who rigged it through his harness. Page and Ann took up the slack, holding the rope taut as Tony moved to the edge. The cameraman blanched before kicking himself over. “Fucking things I do for a living,” Farrell heard him mumble as he dropped from sight.

  Five minutes later, Farrell peered over the face. Tony had lashed himself onto the rocks to the right of the toe with ropes and bolts. He was in the middle of this web, his camera mounted and set, a large hairy spider waiting for a fly.

  “My turn,” Ann said, nudging Farrell.

  The three climbed to the other side of the heel cliff and set up a similar system to Tony’s. Ann went over the front without hesitation, and by the time they’d lowered the camera to her, she was anchored on a narrow ledge where she could catch the skiers coming out of the toe, through the instep under the heel, and into the tube.

  “You want me to wear the helmet?” Farrell asked Page.

  “I want it,” Page said. They recrossed the cornice to their skis.

  “You sure? It’s just one more heavy load.”

  “I’m getting used to it,” Page said sharply.

  Farrell glanced down to the flat below the chute where Inez and The Wave had dug a pit, stuck brightly colored poles in the snow, and erected the film and video cameras. Page’s father stood next to the pit, gazing up at them. “He’s here again,” Farrell said.

  Page nodded. “I smelled him ten minutes ago.”

  “You’re first,” Farrell said once they had their skis on. “You fall, I want to come in and help.”

  “No,” Page said. “I’ll use the helmet camera to get you going off the top from behind, then Tony picks you up on his.”

  “Yeah, and who gets you from behind?”

  “No one. The audience goes for a ride with me.”

  Page turned away to fumble with the helmet straps, trying to get a snug fit under his chin. Farrell watched him for a moment, saw he wouldn’t change his mind, then side-slid toward the tip of the ledge.

  “Ready?” Page asked.

  Farrell huffed to force more oxygen into his lungs. “All set.”

  Page picked up the radio. “All go up here … and Action!”

  Farrell heaved himself up and sideways, falling parallel to the slope, clearing the rocks, his feet and skis cutting solid arcs in the air. Tony’s camera tracked him like a shotgun after a bird. He landed with a vicious jolt on the cement surface of the frozen snow and skidded. One hand grabbed at the ripples in the ice, the other waved in the air. He slid toward the jagged rocks.

  Ten feet before the snow gave out all together, the tail of his downhill ski struck sharp stone, which jerked him to his feet. Keen pieces of granite tore at the plastic bottom of the skis. He bucked across the top of them, trying frantically to free himself and return to the ice.

  He lurched forward, caught by another rock. He kicked himself free of it, scooted sharply left, uphill between two exposed boulders—then angled into the instep below the heel right at Ann’s waiting camera. His skis dragged under him and he understood that a good portion of their flat bottoms had been gouged; now hunks of plastic hung under his feet, pulling him in directions he didn’t want to go.

  Farrell knew in an instant that the skis would no longer carve precise turns. He was forced to windmill them, throwing himself, forehead to hips, out over the slope until he was on the verge of pitching and rolling into disaster. The weightlessness that occurred when he was on the edge of diving countered the effects of his damaged equipment; it allowed him to free his skis from the snow, haul them around, perpendicular to the slope, and then to throw his torso out again.

  He twisted by Ann’s camera in this fashion, plunging like a crippled duck into the gully that ran to the floor, a shot much steeper than the stem of the Y Couloir, which made him pray for strength.

  On the fifth switchback, his tips snagged. The skis smacked the wall. Farrell relaxed on impact, slid backward, and got his skis downhill again, somehow saving himself from the worst nightmare a skier can have: tumbling backward, not knowing when the impact will come. He wheeled and smashed through the next fifty turns, his thighs burning and his groin begging for mercy. He limped his way to the bottom, then thrashed through the snow toward the cameras.

  “Si cru!” Inez cried, turning the lens toward him as he trudged by. “Si sauvage! I know from last night how you perform for me today!”

  Behind her, just out of earshot, Farrell could see SOUTH TAHOE FIRE—TRENT embroidered in red over Page’s father’s heart. No longer caring about the camera, Farrell tore off his hat and goggles. He growled into the lens. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Trent?” Inez asked, twisting the lens for a close-up. “He came to see his son make the ski jump.”

  “Page’s all twisted inside up there,” Farrell took another step closer. “Get the old man out of here.”

  “No,” Inez said. “He wants to see his son. I do not act to break up such a reunion of family.”

  “This isn’t abou
t family,” Farrell said, wrenching her away from the eyepiece. “Why’s he here?”

  “Ne touche pas!” she hissed. “I tell you once already, last night does not mean today!”

  “I’m asking you!”

  “His mother said he wants to see his son,” Inez said. “Me, I arrange it. A problem?”

  “Depends on why.”

  “I am the woman. I feel the other woman’s pain!” Inez said. She pressed the radio set tight against the side of her head.

  “Is this true?” she said slowly. Her eyes widened in pleasure. “When? One minute. Very good. We are ready.”

  Inez twisted her chin toward Farrell. “We continue this discussion later, no? Page tells Tony he is ready to run. So I make my film now.”

  Up on the ridge, Page’s yellow helmet camera was visible far to the right of where Farrell had jumped. He stood on top of the heel of the boot, just above the ice fall which bulged off the cliff like a glass milk bottle.

  Inez hopped from foot to foot. “Tony says he comes off the center of the heel and does a forty-foot drop tip into the channel!” She bent deeply at the knees so the camera apparatus tilted at the chute’s angle.

  Farrell tugged his glove free to pinch the flesh on his hand.

  “Inez, call him off,” Farrell pleaded. “He’s held together with tape as it is. If you want someone to jump that, I’ll do it.”

  “The decision, it is not mine,” Inez replied without giving him a second glance. “Or for you. He knows his limits. We let him perform.”

  “This isn’t some goddamned act,” Farrell said, raising his voice. He took a quick second look at Page’s father, who had moved away with his hand at his brow, staring up at the ridge top oblivious to what was transpiring. “This has consequences.”

  Inez stepped away from the camera. She laughed: “This is the point, no? If you do not understand this, then get off the set.”

  “You’re out of bounds here, Inez.”