Lace

  If only she ever got the chance.

  The slalom race was due to start at ten o’clock that morning. Urged by Maxine, wearing her best yellow ski jacket and her beautiful silver fox hood, the girls were again on top of the Eggli. Shepherded by the sportsmaster, they had caught the little green bus from Gstaad, up the mountain to the funicular, which carried the skiers even farther up. At times the dark green pines shuddered and snow fell silently from their branches.

  Although it was early, the girls shared a mug of hot, red Glühwein as soon as they reached the summit restaurant, for they knew they would soon be numb with cold. Their sportsmaster explained again that ski racing was a combination of trained technique, superb physical fitness, the best equipment—and favourable weather conditions. On a gray day, when visibility was low, a skier would be able to see only a short way ahead. The hazy white sky would merge with the snow and it would be impossible to see where the track ended and the sky started, whether there was mountain ahead or a vertical drop. In bad conditions, luck was more important than when the weather was perfect, for the sunlight showed up uneven ground so that every bump, ridge, dip and rut was clearly defined by shadows on the snow.

  When the girls left Gstaad that morning, the steep icy slopes had glistened in what had been the first sun of the week. But by the time they reached the summit, the sun had disappeared between low clouds and it had started to snow—not hard, but just enough to reduce visibility. The officials at the top of the slalom course decided to start the race twenty minutes early before the snow worsened.

  The only sound on the muffled mountain was the crunch of snow under their skis as the girls glided down to the finishing post. On either side of the course a soft beige row of fencing leaned away from them and disappeared up the quiet white mountainside. The 300-yard course with a drop of 300 feet was staked out to the right of a clump of pine trees. Fifty pairs of coloured slalom poles had been driven into the snow to make fifty “gates” at five meter intervals. This race, the Men’s Slalom, was an individual event. Each skier would not only be competing against the other racers but against his own best time as he skied alone down the first course, then the adjoining course. The fastest aggregate time would decide the winner.

  Pierre Boursal didn’t think he had much chance of winning. There were thirty-seven starters, including three members of the team and the other reserve. However, one reserve would need to qualify for a team place, because the day before Leist had broken his collarbone in a car crash.

  Suddenly impatient, Pierre thought why wait when he could ski? He went up in the funicular and streaked down the piste. More than anything else in the world he loved silently slipping downhill on skis, using only his body and earth’s gravity to flick like a hawk over the magical white surface. For him, it was the ultimate physical exultation, that thrill of constant risk and deliberate danger when he allowed himself to go a little too fast and just out of control. He had first been put on skis when he was a tiny child and quickly discovered that it was the only way he could escape from his glamorous mother and her insufferable hordes of would-be lovers, crowding the smarter parts of Saint Moritz every year. Rather than be dragged along in the wake of that mob, Pierre used to take his skis and seek the solitude and purity of the snow at the top of a mountain, and hear in that celestial silence only the faint noise of his skis as he carved his own path through the virgin snow.

  Pierre was not a good scholar and by the time he was thirteen, his only source of joy and satisfaction was skiing. Afterward, carrying his skis through some village street, he loved to notice two responses from passersby; sometimes he would see a little group staring up at his trail and hear them exclaim, “Only a madman would attempt the Scharnfürts today,” or “Did you see how fast his descent was?” Sometimes, in ski villages where he was known, Pierre would notice that he was being pointed at in the street, that men were muttering and turning their heads to look at him from the opposite sidewalk.

  Only his mother and father were unaware that their son skied like a demon.

  It was not until the president of the multinational company that was sponsoring the junior team congratulated Monsieur Boursal at a banker’s dinner in Zurich on being the father of a future champion that Pierre’s father realised his son was neither untalented nor lazy—he was merely not interested in scholastic subjects.

  Now, Pierre moved down the Eggli with perfect style and breakneck speed, skiing to the limit—and a little beyond. Unlimbering before the race, Pierre swung around the most difficult bumps, then veered off the piste and into the deep virgin snow, leaning backward so that his ski tips wouldn’t catch the powder. The snow plumed up behind him, a silent diamond spray. He cut back onto the piste, then crouched low, elbows to knees, into a final schuss with skis flat and fast, head down and sticks tucked under his arms. His anxiety was forgotten. All he felt was the sheer physical sensation of his body, the snow and the heady, cold champagne-sparkle of the winter air at this high altitude.

  Carrying his skis, Pierre walked up the side of the course, trying to memorise it, because competitors weren’t allowed a trial run down. The right route would only become apparent when he was on it, flashing through the maze of bamboo poles. As he waited his turn, he would watch the skier before him, trying to work out the course from his movements. Total concentration was essential because the gates were pitched irregularly and often closely together; it was very easy to crash into a pole or miss a gate.

  Today’s course didn’t look too difficult; two steep drops, both near the beginning of the descent, several sharp “V” turns, one of which was almost immediately followed by an exceptionally tight twist that would have him straining uphill to reach it. That was the bastard to watch for.

  Pierre reached the top of the course and waited with the other competitors, shuffling up toward the start, breath visible in the frozen air. He had drawn number 8, a good number because the track would be defined by the seven previous racers but wouldn’t have developed the deep ruts that might catch the ski tips of the last few racers.

  Now he was next. Pierre checked the red knitted headband that kept the hair out of his eyes and prevented his ears and forehead from freezing. He cleared his throat, spat in the snow, then stood at the top of the run. Tense, poised, flexing his shoulders and neck, impatiently he slid his skis backward, forward, backward, waiting for the starter to touch his shoulder and his boot to start the timer.

  Now!

  As he leaped off, Pierre was conscious of a black, silent human hedge of spectators alongside the course. He swooped down, then took a sharp left turn above his first gate. Before he was through that gate, he would be preparing his crouching body for the next gate, and deciding where his turn would be for the gate after that. From the moment he started to train, his instructor had yelled at him to “think two gates ahead,” and “Faster, faster, faster.” He had been taught to start cautiously, get the feel of the course, then—as soon as he had his rhythm and momentum—to move as fast as he could without losing control.

  He snaked sharply to his right through the gap, legs slightly apart for balance, crouching low, then transferred his weight onto his inner leg as he leaned into the mountain. With a scraping, skating motion his lower, outer leg pushed, pushed, pushed him around and on.

  After the steep drop at the eighth gate his body began to adjust to the rhythm of his movements. Pierre felt the tension leave him and his heart pumped unusually loudly as excitement took over from anxiety. As each gate flicked past, there was a flash of relief.

  Suddenly his skis shuddered, then rattled on the sharp dip to gate 14. Pierre fought to regain control. For a few terrifying seconds he hit black ice where the racers before him had scraped away the thin covering of powder snow. Almost immediately came the third steep drop. He swung to take an awkward gate on his left. His skis shuddered badly against the ice again and for a moment he lost control. Abruptly he stopped thinking two gates ahead and saw only the couple of bamboo sticks imm
ediately in front of him, an impassive challenge.

  He made a painful effort of will, lips tight and eyes bulging as he regained his mental control, then grimly swung through the next gate, his concentration once more two gates ahead, hardly noticing—as he swept past—a blue-jacketed casualty who was crawling to the side of the course.

  This was that sneaky little tight turn. He felt a gate pole shudder against his upper arm. Almost immediately came an even tighter turn on almost the same level. He quickly pushed himself upward with his outer ski and felt his leg muscles quiver with the effort. It was going to be too much for his legs, he’d never make it. He jerked to the left to avoid a pole that had fallen sideways and hadn’t been straightened.

  He nearly missed the thirty-fourth gate and again his concentration faltered as he checked his speed and just missed a headlong crash into the pole. Shaken, his first reaction was to slow down, but his inherent determination urged him ahead and with the tenacity of a born champion, he skied even faster through the next ten gates.

  Not another sharp drop? He thought, I’d like to get the bastard who laid out this course. . . . Surely, this must be the last one . . . ?

  Then suddenly Pierre could hear the encouraging rhythmic roars of the crowd. He knew they yelled in time to your turns if you were going especially well. He thought, I mustn’t listen, I must concentrate.

  Then, dear God, no—there was another steep drop. . . . Recklessly, Pierre used it as a springboard, and his whole body lunged forward as he forced his skis onward and summoned up his remaining energy to propel himself past the finishing post.

  He suddenly felt euphoric. Not bad. . . .

  After all the competitors had finished the first descent, Pierre led by 1.50 seconds. Fourteen of the thirty-seven starters had dropped out.

  The second slalom was laid out beside the first course and speeds were usually faster because the racers had loosened up, but weather conditions had now worsened; it was cold and overcast with a deceptively gloomy light. Visibility was almost at the danger point and Pierre wondered whether the race would be cancelled. Please God, no, he prayed.

  This time, at the end of his descent, he didn’t feel euphoria, only tired anxiety. He thought his time was good, but was it good enough?

  He skied over to the huge notice board where the times were marked up, and stood by it, his back to the slalom course, as he watched the figures go up.

  Maxine kept away from him and held her breath. The course was claiming more than its fair share of victims; one had overshot the gate when taking a steep, icy drop. Then a pole hit another racer in the face, luckily resulting only in a slight concussion and a black eye. One racer caught his ski in an icy rut and took a tremendous tumble into the fence that guarded the course, scattering spectators as he broke his left leg in three places below the knee. Pierre held his breath hopefully and he couldn’t help inwardly rejoicing when, three minutes later, his personal rival, Klaus Werner, neatly wrapped one ski around a pole and cartwheeled gracefully out of the race, uninjured.

  Suddenly, number 8 went up on the board, with a time of 1.56 minutes. Maxine clambered through the snow to throw her arms around his neck, as she yelled, “Pierre, you’ve won, you’ve won!”

  And to her surprise, and his, he kissed her with passion. He whispered, “I’ve got to go with the team, darling. Meet you at the Chesa in half an hour.” Then he was surrounded by instructors, fans and fellow racers grinning and slapping him on the back.

  Maxine waited for him at the Chesa. They were both too excited to eat, although they drank from the obligatory bottle of champagne. After half an hour, Pierre—who hardly ever drank—put his arm around her and said, “Now we go to my room, eh?”

  “Now?” said Maxine, doubtfully, longing to and yet afraid.

  “Now.”

  They clumped through the streets as congratulations were shouted at Pierre. How long did it take to do it? wondered Maxine as she slunk along at his side.

  The ski team chalet was empty. They clattered up the wooden stairs in their heavy ski boots.

  Pierre’s room contained two narrow beds. He put the ashtray outside the door before locking it—the standard signal to his roommates.

  Maxine wanted to leave but she also wanted to stay.

  Pierre started to undress her quickly, kissing her whenever she started to say something. Maxine wanted him to stop but she also wanted him to go on. Should she tell him she had never been below the waist?

  He flashed a careless smile, expertly unsnapping her bra hooks with one hand. “Don’t worry, I have been in this situation hundreds of times.”

  “Hundreds?” said Maxine, relieved, shocked and cross.

  “Well, enough.” There was a struggle over her ski pants as she clutched them to her body, so Pierre started to pull off his own clothes. As he unzipped his trousers Maxine shut her eyes. Then she opened them, jumped onto the bed and hid her head under the quilt like an ostrich.

  “Pierre, it’s daytime. I’m shy. Anyone might look through the window.”

  “We’re three stories above the ground,” he laughed, but obligingly he drew the lace curtains.

  Suddenly he was lying naked beside her, gently prying her hands away from her face and kissing her naked breasts in a determined manner that Maxine found wildly exciting. Torn between embarrassment and ardor, she involuntarily twisted around toward Pierre’s body, burying her head against his chest so that she couldn’t see anything. Then she stiffened again. Now she could feel his muscular nakedness and smell his desire. And she could feel something else. Stealthily she pulled her hand away, but Pierre firmly took it and drew her hand gently downward. Maxine tugged it back rather sharply. Softly, insistently, Pierre again pulled her hand downward and clasped it over his flesh. Maxine decided to pretend that it wasn’t her hand. She was terrified of doing something wrong, of hurting him. Did you bend it forward? Did you rotate it? Could it snap off?

  There was a loud knock on the wooden door. “Monsieur Boursal! Photographers downstairs.”

  They both froze. Pierre cursed and sat up crossly.

  “Tell them . . . Tell them I’m asleep. Exhausted. Later.”

  There was another pause, then footsteps clattered away down the corridor.

  Pierre turned back to the matter at hand. Maxine was surprised that her stroking should have such an effect on him, should render him so helpless, that she was lying here under the warm quilt sending this man berserk just by gingerly touching his thing.

  “Let’s get those damned trousers off,” muttered Pierre as articles of Maxine’s clothing went flying across the room from under the quilt.

  She risked a furtive peep downward and froze again. The size! But it was an impossibility, she would be cut in half! “I’m frightened, I think we should stop,” she said, stopping. With a groan Pierre also stopped.

  “You’re right, you’re too young,” he said reluctantly. Whereupon Maxine was furious and grabbed the thing again.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” muttered Pierre, rolling on top of her nevertheless.

  Then suddenly it wasn’t so painful and the thing was in and they were moving together.

  “Am I doing it right?” whispered Maxine, worried about the rhythm. It was a bit like doing the samba horizontally, Maxine thought, but should she be moving with him or in the opposite direction?

  “Just don’t think about it; don’t worry about a thing,” he murmured in her ear. She lay there feeling waves of warmth lap over her. She felt a strange tingling all over her, then found herself instinctively responding to him.

  Suddenly he started to move more frantically, with increased urgency. He arched his back, gave a strangled gasp as if in pain and collapsed on top of Maxine. For a moment she thought he had fainted, but after a few minutes he made a noise like a sleepy, contented puppy and then he dozed off.

  All was well. Or was it? She felt a sense of relief that it was over, that she had crossed a hurdle and was a real woman, but she al
so felt strange—exhausted, but wide awake; tense and uncomfortable. Pierre’s arm lay under her back and she didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing him. Slowly she inched down the bed until his arm was under her neck and she was hidden by the quilt. She felt lonely. She shut her eyes and wanted to cry.

  Was that all? All they had speculated about and hoped for after lights-out, all that had been hinted at in a hundred magazine romances? This damp patch of bloody sheet under her elbow, the unfamiliar, sweaty smell of bodies, that sour smell, this sticky stuff trickling over her thighs.

  All she felt was a longing to be clean, lying in her own bed in her own room with the sun shining in the window through the lace curtains. What she wanted more than anything else in the world was a bath.

  She must have done something wrong . . . Or else he hadn’t done something right.

  “In training for some things, out of training for other things,” Pierre said as sleepily he raised his head and looked at her. “Oh, Maxine, you have the most wonderful breasts,” and with great concentration he pounced on them.

  Soon Maxine felt more cheerful, then she was caught up in warm waves of delight. Her body started to move to his rhythm, she couldn’t help it, she felt that she was melting into him, or was he melting into her? She stretched her hands around his body and pulled his hard strong buttocks against her. “Please don’t stop, please don’t stop, please don’t stop,” she gasped urgently. She felt poised like a frozen waterfall, then her body arched again and again and what she felt was an amazing pleasure, every bit as good as one had heard about—in fact, better.

  The hammering on the door grew more frantic. Maxine woke with a start, felt the warm naked body next to hers, and jumped again.