Peking to Paris

by Dina Bennett

  Sybil, being a genuinely kind person, looks at me with comprehension and says,“Oh, I get it. The two lovebirds!”Is it just me feeling self-conscious or is there a bit of a chill in the hug she gives me as she walks away? That day we drive to Riga, the capital of Latvia. When we see Robert and Maddy already at a table at dinner that evening, I go over to exchange our usual evening pleasantries. “So,” Maddy says. “I hear you ditched us for better digs.” Word travels fast in Rally circles.

  “We’re not good enough for you, eh?” Robert chimes in, with his big laugh, then clowns to Maddy, “Will you continue slumming it with me, darling?” Their voices are lighthearted, but when they don’t ask us to join them I detect that it’s not all in jest. It seems by making ourselves comfortable we’ve broken an unwritten Rally code, something they know about and we don’t. And when, the next few evenings, we come upon Nick and Sybil with their old friends, though they do urge us to sit and we do take them up on it, we don’t stay long. The sense of belonging that I had through Mongolia and most of Russia is gone. At first I’m saddened by this. I’m also perplexed, because if someone told me they’d found a wonderful hotel for a special night, I’d say, “Oooh, sounds great. Next time, tell me where it is so we can go there, too!”

  By the time we’re through Lithuania and into Poland, though, I’ve observed that the growing distance isn’t directed at me; everyone seems to be going through the same metamorphosis. For weeks now it’s seemed to be us against the world. Anyone who was on the Rally belonged; whoever was not on the Rally could not relate to the depth and breadth of our tribulations. That alone was enough to bind us even to Rally crews with whom we had rarely spoken. Now we’re less than a week from Paris and it’s becoming clear that everyone who’s made it this far will make it to the end. People don’t feel so dependent on, so bound to each other anymore. We’re on good roads now, and though distances are correspondingly longer, because of the easy pavement driving, there are few breakdowns to contend with. When people work on their car at all it’s to reapply whatever patches are holding their car together, rather than fixing a new problem. Now I no longer feel like a ship-wrecked soul, tossed by rogue waves, desperate for a hand to reach out and pull me to safety. Or if I do, then my life preserver, the thing that circles me and holds me up when I need saving, is Bernard. And me, him.

  As distance grows between us and our earlier mates, the group that receives us with welcoming arms is Matthieu & Co., which is why when James issues his invitation, I’m more than pleased to accept. My response seems to gratify James. “Good. It’s settled. We’ll see you there.” He seems happy to have us. I feel happy that he’s happy.

  The crunch of gravel under our tires as we approach the inn the next afternoon speaks volumes. It tells me of gracious living, rich foods served on delicate porcelain, wines in fine crystal, and soft white sheets of infinitely high thread count. Also, a massage. The gravel speaks the truth and the inn doesn’t disappoint. I spend an hour on my stomach, having my rigid back muscles pummeled from a hard, board-like mass into a somewhat softer, board-like mass. Probably a hundred hours of massage is what’ll be needed to return my tense shoulders and stiff neck to some semblance of normalcy. An ultra-long hot shower follows, and turning the faucet off is almost more than I can bear, so mesmerized am I by the continuous press of hot water on my scalp. When Bernard and I arrive on the flowered terrace, James bounds over with a hearty handshake. He’s still formal with us, no hugs yet, but I understand that now and don’t mistake it for brusqueness as I used to.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he says, as gracious a host as if we’ve arrived at his private residence. “Have champagne!” indicating with Coke in hand the perspiring ice bucket that chills a bottle of Dom Perignon. We do, and raise our glasses for the first of many toasts. “To us all,” we say. “And to Paris.”

  True to his word, James has organized a feast for that evening. Ten of us sit round a damask-clothed table set with several tiers of Polish crystal and Dresden china. The center of the table is resplendent with a flower centerpiece dense with pink roses and sprays of orange and red lilies. I’m on James’s right, Bernard his left. Though I’d always rather be seated next to Bernard, table chat not being my forte, I am honored. Wine flows. Platters heaped with roast vegetables, succulent lamb chops, fresh poached fish, and more are passed around. There’s the clink of cutlery on china, the modest laugh of someone acknowledging a bon mot. It’s all so dreamlike, the familiar faces scrubbed, shaved, and shining, women with pretty earrings and sparkling necklaces, men in wrinkled but clean, open-necked shirts. I have extracted my one white blouse, and Bernard has on one of his relatively unworn shirts. But the others seem to have opened a new suitcase or else raided the hotel’s shop. Everyone looks refreshed. Though we all have permanent dark smudges under our eyes now, the expressions around the table are relaxed. As I sit, quietly savoring the exceptional meal, I look around the table and note Americans, Swiss, French, Dutch, Greek. And the one nationality we now all have in common: Rally.

  Replete with a more sumptuous meal than any of us have eaten in a month, we waddle from dining room to terrace after dinner. The air is balmy and as we install ourselves on the deck chairs, frogs chirp in the trees around the garden. Espresso arrives in translucent porcelain cups, accompanied by crystal decanters of cognac, slivovitz, and Grand Marnier. Between the shivering leaves above, I can see Venus bright in the sky. James passes around Cuban cigars. I haven’t seen him without one since we left Beijing, and still he has enough to share. Clearly the man has his priorities straight. Among my special secret pleasures is a love of smoking a cigar under the stars. I happily snip the one offered me, lifting it toward Bernard for a light.

  That lull that some say is an angel passing over, when everyone is sated with a good meal and all conversation suddenly ceases, happens now. In the hush, I watch musky cigar smoke swirl about my head, as intoxicating as any liqueur. Without preamble, one of James’ mates walks over and taps Hans on the shoulder. “Come,” he says. He starts to whistle, a lilting, poignant tune of such ineffable longing I can barely keep from crying. Hans smiles and joins him on the patio. The two men, one handsome, swarthy with a shock of black hair, the other with his trademark frizzy blond halo and beatific grin, each sling an arm around the other’s shoulder. Joined this way, they start to sway, then slowly, each raises his free arm to the side and snaps his fingers. They dip down on bent knee, rising on the other side with another rhythmic snap. It’s Zorba-like, but not so. It’s heartbreaking, passionate, joyous, and I know we all feel it. We band of brothers.

  Finished?

  POTSDAM-KOBLENZ-

  REIMS-PARIS

  The warm midday air of Paris offers me its special mix of exhaust and perfume, wine dregs and baked bread. I struggle to inhale, can’t get a deep breath, feel like I’m suffocating. It seems impossible to me that we are here, 400 yards from the end of the Rally.

  The past few days have been idyllic. Firmly following our own route, checking in with the organizers only to confirm each evening that we’re still alive, we’ve woven our way through the sparkling vineyards of the Moselle Valley, surprised an army guard at the camp where Bernard was stationed as a young artillery lieutenant decades ago, and spent a somber afternoon at World War I trenches around Verdun. There, acres of tall trees grow on moss-covered moguls, mute reminders of the bombardment that shattered lives and twisted smooth ground into a scarred and disfigured landscape.

  As we drive, Bernard and I are largely silent, each caught in our own thoughts. It’s not unpleasant, this being separate but together. I used to feel that if we weren’t actively doing something together, then we were apart. I don’t feel that anymore. I’m exhausted, yes. But that word doesn’t begin to access the depths of mysterious mental numbness in which I exist, as if my brain were swaddled in thick, cushy strips of cotton. When I dig into it, I find the tight, twisty feeling that tied my stomach in knots for so much of the trip has faded. In its place i
s something else, like a melding of me with Bernard, that I haven’t ever felt before.

  Every evening we’ve shared a meal, either with Robert and Maddy, or Nick and Sybil, or James, Matthieu, and their group. The mood alternates from somber to euphoric. Everyone’s edgy and worn. I can see how each person’s mind has turned toward the wife, children, friends waiting to be reunited with them in Paris. Mine certainly has. We all know that we are now so close to the end that, even if a car breaks down it can still be trucked to Paris for the finale. As for us, unless we have an accident, we know we’ll be driving into Paris on our own four wheels. Roxanne is in good shape, only thirsty, drinking more oil than normal. Bernard does a perfunctory check of the car at the end of each day, but he doesn’t need me for that. I have a smidge of time for myself now. With an hour free one afternoon, I buy scarlet polish and paint my toenails. I find a pair of pointy soft leather flats in a simple shop. The nail lacquer is too bright, the shoes fashionable two years ago. Together, they make me feel peppier than I have in weeks.

  On the morning of the final day of the Rally, I cradle the route book on my lap one last time, but I don’t really need to use it. Bernard lived in Paris. He knows exactly where we are and how to get to the finish line. When we drive out of Reims around 9 AM, I imagine our personal cheering section having a nervous breakfast of croissant, soft-boiled eggs, and coffee at their Paris hotels. A couple hours later, as we cruise on the highway past smooth green hills, I see them making their way on foot to rue de la Paix. My cousins, with great foresight and some judicious greasing of palms, reserved the front section of an entire café for our forty-odd family and friends, so they’d all have front row seats for our arrival. At the first checkpoint in the 20th Arrondisement, we pull up behind James. Just like the entrance to Mongolia a lifetime ago, the organizer has us in a holding tank. He’s going for maximum drama, releasing the more unusual old cars first so they can enter the finish area alone. He’s proud of these cars, proud that his organization enabled all but eight of the cars that started at the Great Wall to reach Paris. He wants each of the seventy-, eighty-, and ninety-year-old cars to have its solo moment. That means we have a long wait ahead, since, as we have for the past 35 days, we’re ready to go well before our appointed time. Bernard dashes to a bakery and returns with a carton full of savory pastries. We pass the quiches and baked brioche sandwiches, all still warm from the oven, from car to car.

  Usually food soothes me, but I can’t calm down. Waiting is excruciating and I’m jittery with anticipation, thinking about what those awaiting us at Place Vendome must be thinking. Matthieu has already left, then James is flagged through, and now, of the group, it’s just Bernard and me standing curbside. We have so much longer to wait that I know by the time we get to Place Vendome they’ll be gone, already off celebrating with their own families. We haven’t even said goodbye.

  Finally, it’s our turn. The course marshal holds his radio close to his lips and says, “Car 84 is on its way.” He turns to us with a smile. “Off you go, you two.” Bernard steers Roxanne through afternoon traffic on Boulevard de la Madeleine. Shoppers and tourists swivel their heads to stare as we drive by. Already there’s been a veritable parade of elegant old Bentleys, Lagondas, and Mercedes, enough to draw people out of the stores to stand gawking on the sidewalk. They know something’s up. Perhaps they notice the battered, but still bright, yellow and red “Peking to Paris” license plate strapped to our front fender. Maybe this reminds them of an article they read that morning, about those who drove out of Beijing thirty-five days ago, following a 7,800-mile route last undertaken by cars in 1907.

  We are less than five minutes from the finish. Bernard makes a right turn onto rue Daunou. Three more blocks to go. My skin feels tight, my eyes nervously restless. I want to have time somewhere in silence, to face the question that’s been pulling at the corner of my mind for the past few days, like a new scab on fragile skin: What next?

  Somewhere in this crowd is our personal cheering section of sisters, nephews, grandchildren, and friends from both sides of the Atlantic, here to wave us to the finish line. They have followed our trials through the organizer’s daily reports, put pins in maps to mark our progress, been frantic on reading that our car was seen strapped to an otherwise empty long-distance hauler on its way to Moscow and then lost from contact for two days.

  Bernard drives slowly, but even at a stately pace it doesn’t take more than a minute to reach rue de la Paix. This is it, the last turn we will make on the Rally. Though he needs no instruction, I have to say it: “Turn right at the corner and straight on from there.” Bernard turns the steering wheel, and Roxanne glides down the last stretch like she was born to it. One long block followed by a stubby one and we’ll be in the broad, elegant plaza.

  The hubbub subsides to slow motion. After thousands of rights and lefts, there are no more directions for me to give. I have nothing to do. For an eternal second I sit, quiet, waiting. Suddenly, I hear a joyous laugh, a French greeting hollered: “Eh voila! Ils sont la! Bravo, Bernard! Bravo, Dina!” More cheers and yells: “Voiture 84! Bravo, bravo!” In a daze I see Bernard’s son running alongside our car, clutching his seven-year-old daughter by one hand, filming us with the other. She’s still small enough to fit through the window and he lifts her up so I can pull her, legs first, onto my lap. My nephew zooms in, sticks his head in the open window to plant a kiss on my cheek. He’s thoughtfully penned Car 84 all over his T-shirt, in case anyone might question his allegiance. My sister is running behind him, video camera trained on him, me, us, waving, cheering, her cheeks flushed with happiness that I am here and I am safe. Bernard’s sisters dash to his side and clutch warmly at his shoulder.

  Then it’s over. A dense crowd jostles around the flag standard announcing PEKING TO PARIS FINISH LINE. The Rally secretary is on tiptoes, waving us forward. Her clipped British accent breaks through, instructing us to step out of the car, stretch across the top to shake hands. We do, grabbing at each other hard and not wanting to let go. We stand there a minute, dazed, smiling for the cameras. My sunglasses hide my tears. “We did it,” I mouth to Bernard. “My god, we did it!” Then we’re back in the car, bronze medal in hand. “Take your victory lap,” the secretary tells us.

  Bernard looks at me. “Where do we go?” he says.

  “I don’t know,” I say. We drive slowly once around Place Vendome, Roxanne leaving her personal signature in the form of oil splotches on the historic cobblestones.

  Suddenly, we’re mobbed. I try to reach my sister for a hug. Others intrude between us, each eager to be recognized, to let me know they’re thrilled to be here, to see me. They’re smiling, happy, bursting with questions and congratulations. They grab at me, pull me close, and I can’t get to her until I’ve gone through them.

  In a disturbing way, our familiars feel like strangers. They’re not of the Rally galaxy in which we’ve been living. There’s now a yawning gulf between us and the rest of the world, even family. I feel like the Little Prince, stranded on my own strange planet, unable to comprehend what’s happening elsewhere, wanting only to retreat to what I know. I go through the motions expected of me, squeal with delight, offer appropriately warm expressions of surprise or happiness or thanks to each. I imagine everyone wants to get close enough to touch the marvelous car that we’ve driven halfway around the globe. I invite them to sit in my seat, explain the gadgetry I used to navigate, show them what’s in the trunk.

  One cousin’s little boy is overwhelmed by the commotion and starts to cry. In a breach of rally etiquette, someone cuts one of our stuffed animal talismans off Roxanne’s front grille and gives it to him. Secretly, I know this little brown bear is one of the reasons we made it to Paris. Now it’s in the hands of an eighteen-month-old who knows nothing of its significance, nor why he’s been given such a stained and distressed stuffed animal. He cries harder. I know how he feels.

  Yesterday in Reims, the capital of France’s champagne country, we’d bought a
special bottle to contribute to what I’d imagined would be our Place Vendôme festivities. I expected a reunion scenario with everyone bringing champagne, corks popping, spumes of bubbly erupting and drenching us all. I guess even after thirty-five days of imagination failures, I still hadn’t learned. Our bottle is it. We eke it out in droplets, just enough for everyone to have a sip. Disappointment, then regret washes over me. Why didn’t we buy more when we had the chance?

  Through the dull haze of sound one thing comes into painful focus. I can’t imagine any other routine than being in the car each day. Outside of the car, I no longer fit in. I feel naked, exposed, like a worm under a freshly upturned stone. I know that the ranch, my home, waits for me, as do all the friends who could not be here today in Paris, but I can’t fathom returning to pre-Rally life and can’t imagine what a post-Rally life will be.

  I notice Bernard on the other side of the car, surrounded by a crowd of his siblings and children. Our tight cocoon, spun over the hardships of the past thirty-five days, ruptures just like that. I wonder if he feels as I do, bewildered by the commotion, longing suddenly for the quiet certainty we had in Roxanne: that I was by his side all day every day, and he was by mine. “Look at me,” I want to shout, “Remember that I’m here,” as I’m drawn one way and he’s drawn another. I strain to see him as hands grip his shoulders and nieces tug on his shirt. Then his head turns, he searches for me and our eyes meet, just as they did more than two years ago on the courthouse lawn. There’s no need to speak, even if our voices could be heard across the clamor and tumult of the crowd. Yes, we nod to each other, we will find a way.

  Post P2P Blues

  Back at the ranch, weeks pass and I find myself still sifting through the detritus of the Rally. Others thrill to the glory of what I’ve done, but I can’t seem to. The amount of worrying I’ve done during the past thirtyfive days has had an unpleasant aftereffect. It’s worn me out. I’m a welltrained worrier, but this was more than even I was in shape for. It’s as if I’d run a marathon after training half an hour on a StairMaster.