Stones throe, p.8
Stone's Throe, page 8
I would not, however, ride their motorcycle. I knew my Indian better than any other. It would stand me well in the race, and even if other machines were smaller and lighter, few of them had a rider with nearly two decades of experience.
Stars began to fade from the sky as a blue blush crept up from the world's edge. I took a final look at my opponents, choosing from among their expressions and stances those whom I thought would offer the greatest competition. Three struck me as particularly driven. Two were men, one probably Italian and the other perhaps an Englishman. The Englishman was relaxed, confident, comfortable: for him, this street race was akin to home. I liked him at once, though that would not help him to win. The Italian was harder and more intense, but if he had the reflexes to go with his intensity, it would be a tight race to the finish line.
The third was another woman, both younger and blacker of skin than I, who sat on her blue Harley with the confidence of a longtime rider. She felt me looking at her and turned to grin, and with a gasp of delight, I knew her: Bessie Stringfield, America's most famous black motorcyclist. Overwhelmed by the prospect of riding with her, I touched two fingers to my forehead in a sign of such respect it could only be called a salute, and Madame Stringfield gave me a broad wink in return.
My childish pleasure at being acknowledged nearly cost me the first moments of the race, and later I wondered if Madame Stringfield had known precisely what she was doing. I had, after all, counted her among the most promising of my competitors, and it seemed only likely that if they were the best of the best, she would have no compunctions against distracting me as the sun's golden tongue finally tasted the horizon.
I was prepared, though, even if my eyes were not cast forward, and I accelerated as much in response to other bikers surging forward as in awareness of the waking sun burning night from the sky. At once the race was on, dozens of bikes jostling for their places. As soon as we began, half a dozen riders fell, their wheels catching cobbles or gravel or deliberately placed sticks that choked and slew them. Those that survived spun forward, too many at once to fit the narrow streets, for we could not begin this race somewhere so obvious as des Champs-Élysées. Instead we were pressed into tracks meant for foot travel amongst houses that sprang up straight and tall; laundry blew above us and cats scattered in our headlamps. A few more of the racers fell to disgruntled householders with the wit to wait until the race had begun to express their displeasure: rotting fruit and hard bread pelted down, splashing under wheels and sending the less certain wobbling into nearby walls. There were no significant injuries, as no one had reached enough speed to be more than stunned by these minor collisions, but it was not those who fell who were my concern. Only those who leapt ahead, handling their bikes with surety and suavity, held my interest; if I hung back at first to observe them, it was a tactical decision, and not fear, that compelled me to do so.
The Italian was very good, taking corners more closely than a wise man might choose to. He braked rarely, but hard, his thick black mat of hair swinging forward abruptly when he did. Other times it blew back in the wind, as if he had no concern for the state of his skull, or perhaps a great dislike of the slight limitations in visual acuity caused by helmets. I, having greater respect for my brains, wore my helmet loosely, as did Stringfield and the Englishman.
Of those two, the latter rode in the Italian's wake, if less cozily in the corners. It seemed as though the Italian pulled him along; the Englishman's riding was effortless and casual. Stringfield also had no apparent need to take an early lead, though from her deft handling down the chalk marked streets that showed us our route, I had no doubt she could overtake both men easily. The greatest test would be on the home stretch, and the question would be whose bike was the faster: my six-year-old Indian Scout or Bessie's hot-off-the-line Harley.
But the answer lay miles and hours away yet: the track we followed was long and complex, racing through Parisian streets and along the river, avoiding angry police and angrier passersby, all with the wind smearing laughter across my face. The pack was left far behind; the race was between we four, and the rivalries began to define themselves as we reached more open streets and bridges that allowed us room to maneuver. The Italian hungered for the lead; the Englishman, happy in his wake.
Bessie and I exchanged a single glance: if either of us was to lose, we determined with that look, it would be to the other woman. Her smile flashed, and without need for discussion we moved as one to overtake the Italian, whose rash corner-cutting tendencies made him the most dangerous of us. The Englishman saw what we were doing and fell back, happy to allow us the opportunity to remove one of his rivals and trusting, no doubt, that he could catch and surpass us at his leisure.
It was a decision that saved him; he, of all of us, had the most time to react. I, being quicker than most, survived as well, but both the Italian and Stringfield were taken in the chest as a rope—a rope, not, grâce à dieu, a wire, which might have cut them in half at the speeds we were traveling—jumped up across the end of the bridge we crossed. Both of their motorcycles careened wildly, the Italian's into and through the thin stone railing, Stringfield's turning on its side and skidding across pavement. Sparks flew, and the shriek of metal promised that the fresh blue paint would be scarred when she righted it.
Of the two, Stringfield herself fared a little better than the Italian. He had already stretched the rope forward with his impact, offering her the barest instant to respond. Rather than being thrown backward as he was, she caught the rope under one arm, saving herself from bouncing across the road as her Harley did.
The Englishman and I, ducking below the twanging rope, each took a breath to look behind us in dismay and horror, then to meet one another's eyes as Bessie and I had done only a moment earlier. There was challenge in our gazes, to be sure, but also concern: making certain that the other was unharmed, that the sabotage had not ended the race. Once we were certain it had not, collusion became part of our strategy as well: together, the Englishman and I raced on, determined that we would best this course. For my own part, I was also determined that I would search out and bring to justice those who had threatened both the race and innocent lives.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There were no further mishaps, or at least not of the deliberate and malicious kind. I saw other racers make errors as they tried to catch the Englishman and me, but my sensation was that, having thinned out the forerunners, our adversary had done all that was necessary. The rules of the race were clear: each day's course was worth a certain number of points, offered in descending order depending on time elapsed and placement across the finish line. To ride away on Signor Panterello's new motorcycle, its patents in hand, the winner not only had to place highly each day, but attain overall what an auctioneer might call a reserve bid: in his determination that only the very best and most deserving would win the bike, Panterello had declared there would be no winner if fewer than three hundred course points were assigned to the first place rider. In exchange, I was given to understand that he had grudgingly conceded that the sponsors could bring teams to the race, allowing them to choose the best rider for that day's course. Had it been otherwise, I would not have been allowed to ride in the English boy's place.
In a moment of retrospect offered by a clear stretch of street, I was offended that Khan hadn't asked me to ride for him from the start. It was true, perhaps, that as a Centurion I was somewhat more difficult to locate and draw into a plot than a speed-loving youth who could be found at any racetrack. But we were comrades, brothers-in-arms, and I would have gladly come at his call.
Of course, had I done so, it might be me with the broken leg and shattered ribs now lying in the hospital bed, with no one left to finish the race on Khan's behalf, for he could never hope to ride himself. His weight was too great even if one did not consider the inhuman strength that would undoubtedly wrench the handlebars and front wheel off the motorcycle at the first enthusiastic twitch of muscle. Regarded that way, it seemed the fates knew their business and should be left to it, as I was left to mine.
In my moments of reflection, the Englishman moved ahead of me, though not to a dangerous lead. The sun was high now, less than an hour from its zenith; we were meant to be finished with the race before the noon hour, or all who completed the course would be docked a certain number of points. The Englishman and I had only a little distance left, and those behind us would have to make haste, for it seemed our destination was la Louvre, where the police would certainly congregate once it was realized the finish line lay there. More than fifty riders had started with us today; I wondered briefly how many had begun yesterday only to be met with disappointing arrest after the morning's ride, and how many fewer might meet at the sunrise starting line on the following morning.
It did not now matter. I gunned the Indian and she leapt forward, making up the inches I had lost to the Englishman. Together we roared around street corners to alarmed shrieks and enthusiastic curses. Suddenly, though, we were in the clear: passersby had taken to the sidewalks and vehicles of all other manner had pulled aside, offering us no more traffic to dodge through. Relief and dismay pricked me in equal parts: I did not wish to see anyone accidentally harmed, and yet the thrill of darting through traffic, adjusting for its flow and for the unexpected gifts and difficulties it caused, was a not-inconsiderable part of the joy of riding. But in the last few hundred yards it seemed it would be only about the speed of our bikes and the skill of their drivers. Wheel and wheel, the Englishman and I raced onward, each of us grinning with violent intensity.
I prided myself on the quickness of my reflexes; anyone who uses her fists and wits for her living must. Yet it was the Englishman who sensed that something was once more amiss, and acted before I so much as saw what threatened us.
He thrust out his right arm, impacting my left with astonishing strength. A bloom of pain was muted by astonishment, and instant retaliation only foresworn by the need to twitch the Indian's handles into alignment again. But I was already off course, losing precious inches that would cost me everything in the race to the finish line. Moral outrage seized me, for I had not imagined my opponents would resort to such blatant cheating—
—and then horror drowned outrage as the Englishman's front wheel hit the oil slick I had not seen; the oil slick that he had saved me from, judging his own course already too set. I watched him, not the so-close finish line, in cold-bellied terror as he lost traction and slid at desperate speeds across gleaming oil. Clear oil, oil with the sharp sweet scent of kerosene, not the dark and easily visible stain or pungent scent of motor oil. We had not been meant to see it at all; only a fortunate ray of striking sun and the Englishman's quick wits had saved me from the fall he now took. And fall he did, terribly, with the weight of his speeding bike crushing one leg while the wildly spinning wheels threatened the other as he tried to kick away.
A match arced in the air, hardly visible in the bright light of day, and flames roared before la Louvre. The width of the oil slick became clear: it went on for many yards, farther than the Englishman's speed would carry him. Farther than speed would carry even his bike, which he kicked free of and which carried on, its weight helping it slide as much as it hindered it. The Englishman, less weighty, slowed more quickly and came to his feet just as the inferno reached him, his face set with nothing but raging determination to survive.
I could not stop. I could not stop in time: the finish was so near and my speed so great that even as I slammed a foot down to pivot the Indian around, even as I wrested the handlebars sharply to the side to spin her, I crossed the line in record time, albeit facing the wrong direction.
The whole of the oil slick was alight already, the Englishman barely visible in the licking orange heat. I crushed my eyes closed for an instant, envisioning what I must do. Then, never one to take my eye off the target, I returned my gaze to the Englishman, begged a favor from the Fates, and plunged into the flames.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The heat was tremendous, snatching greedily at my clothes, my skin. Khan's silken colors, pinned to my leather jacket, blazed and clung to the coat; it would burn through in moments, if I could not escape the fire and fling myself to cooling earth. I was grateful beyond reason that I wore leather—the helmet, the goggles, the gloves and jodhpurs, the boots that were my usual footwear—for without all of those things my desperate rescue attempt would be dashed before it even began.
Knowing the oil lay beneath me was perhaps half the battle; it could be accounted for, adapted to. Strangely, the fire offered some assistance: in places it had already burned away the fuel, leaving drier patches of stonework beneath my tires. But knowing was not enough, not with flames licking what skin was bared to it; not with the Indian's weight wobbling and trying to spin out of control as I rushed through the gates of hell to save an innocent man.
He had not moved, when I reached him, as if he realized that I came for him and that I could too easily lose him in the flames should he leave his post. The nerve of the man, to be able to stand within the fire...! I counted myself amongst the bold, but did not know that I could have been so stalwart at the heart of an inferno. And yet there he stood, waiting. I even thought that I saw his lips shape numbers, as if he had counted the seconds until my arrival, and then, expecting me, moved as fluidly and certainly as any Centurion might have: a long leg swung out and over the Indian's tail, and he was with me, face buried against my shoulder, arms knotted around my waist as we rode through the flames. With his added weight, the Indian was more stable, and in no time we shot free of the fiery lake.
Only then did the Indian betray us, finding a final unexpected splatter of oil that caught its front wheel and sent us flying. The earth was up and the sky down, cloud-scattered blue and stone-patterned pavement entangled in a flail of leather-clad legs and elbows. We landed together with a crash; the Indian, largely unharmed, skittered to a stop some yards away, its back wheel whirling madly in the air.
For the space of three gasps, my opponent and savior lay atop me, both of us wide-eyed and stunned at our survival. Then, with two swift movements, he stripped from me my helmet and goggles, and flung his away as well.
A shock of golden hair fell forward to brush my forehead—that was how close we were, as close as lovers, and in the aftermath of rescue, equally intense. His deep-set eyes were vividly, sharply blue and his features bordered on the attractive side of ungainly: a too-large nose and a thin, expressive mouth that suddenly twitched in a smile and rendered him inexpressibly compelling. He spoke with the cultured vowels of an educated Englishman. "My thanks, good woman. I hope that someday I might be able to return the favor."
He cast one look away from us, seeming to assess some situation there, then sprang upward as though the flame had given him new vigor. He offered me a hand; I took it and he pulled me to my feet, his gaze locked on mine. "You will, I think, know where to find me should such an occasion arise. Until then, goodbye."
He strode away—across the finish line!—and left me gaping at the edge of a pool of flame, my heart beating wildly in my chest and my feet commanding me to move, to follow him, as I had never been compelled to follow anyone in my life. I knew the signs of instant infatuation; these were not those, though they were not unlike that delightful sensation. I also knew the strength of attraction in the aftermath of fear, but that was not this either. I believed that, had I seen him on the street and locked eyes with him, I would have been equally impelled by a desire to be near the fire that burned within that man, to warm my hand at it, and, I knew with raw and startling simplicity, to die in it if he should so require.
"Madame Stone!" Reporters—reporters who ought not have been there, given the race's secrecy and illegality, but reporters who were none-the-less there, and whom, it now seemed, the English motorcyclist had seen and intended to avoid—reporters swarmed me, showing the press's usual idiotic lack of fear for dangers such as the still-burning fire beside us, and thrust cameras into my face. "Madame Stone," came their shouts, "Madame Stone, how does it feel to have saved TE Lawrence's life? Tell us, Madame Stone, did you know it was Lawrence when you went into the fire? Madame Stone, are you intimate with Lawrence—?"
Their questions faded into insignificance as I turned, stunned, to watch one of the most famous men of my lifetime hasten away from the notoriety he had never wanted to pursue. He looked back once, not at the reporters, but directly at me, and I felt again the overwhelming strength of his presence as he offered the briefest wink and smile, then disappeared so swiftly into the crowd that even his height and astonishing persona were swallowed by it. It was all I could do to not run after him myself, and had my attention not been drawn elsewhere in just that moment, I might well have done.
But a new roar silenced the reporters, the crowds, even my own racing thoughts, and like those around me, I sought it eagerly, and finally saw the beast we were all racing for.
My breath caught in admiration. Signor Panterello had approached its design with innovation and an eye for streamlining. Its front fender flared as it approached the body, creating an elegant flow to guide rushing air; in fact, everything about its shape was intended to let air spill past easily. The engine was encased, with intake valves and pipes to ensure it would not overheat, and the paint—if it was paint; somehow it seemed to be the metal itself—was two-toned, black with bold white lines that lent themselves to the idea of speed. A low, deeply angled windshield had been added, creating a space in which a smaller rider could huddle, reducing wind sheer even further. A black leather seat nestled at the machine's waist, and nestled in that seat was Josephine Baker, adorned in black and white herself, as if she had always meant to ride Panterello's motorcycle.
I could not help myself. After the race, after the fire, after encountering Lawrence of Arabia himself in such a way, discovering Josephine—who was meant to be hiding—jauntily displayed atop the extraordinary motorcycle was more than I could bear straight-faced. I burst into laughter, glanced at her confident pose again, and laughed until the tears came.
