Читать книгу Against the Wind - Jim Tilley - Страница 11

As he leaves his office in Place Ville Marie and heads to the underground garage, Dieter sees that it’s already two thirty. Later than he’d planned on leaving, but still early enough to stick to the speed limit and arrive at Lynn’s on time. Germany is different. There he can put his BMW 335i convertible through its paces. The one he keeps in Montreal he has to rein in, all those horses under the hood champing at the bit for a little freedom to gallop away. Sometimes he can’t help but yield to the demands of those creatures and the one inside him, an impulse for which he’s often paid the price of a big ticket for a speed dangerously close to an automatic license suspension. Not today though. He can take his time and savor the unfolding drama he’s directing. An opportunity to write the script for the next act, his old high school rival now clearly in his crosshairs. But tonight he’ll disarm Ralph—they’ll be on the same team, currying favor with Lynn. Or maybe it’ll be good cop, bad cop, Lynn undoubtedly viewing him as the bad cop. His life’s story with her. Unlike Ralph, who’s always in her good graces.

The weather report is for solid overcast by the time he arrives in Picton, but right now in Montreal it’s sunny with high cirrus clouds. If it were still summer, he’d drive with the top down, enjoy the feeling of the wind tossing his hair. It would set his heart racing, yet not as much as when he used to take his car to Circuit Mont-Tremblant. Courtesy of a friend who knew its owners well, he was often permitted to use the track. Mostly they made him drive his convertible with the top up, but every now and then he’d run the course a little less aggressively with the top down. As a boy he watched a few Canadian Grand Prix races there, one in particular he’ll never forget—the high school graduation present from his father, who’d arranged for him to meet Mario Andretti after a Formula One event in 1967, which Mario happened to win. The autographed checkered flag is mounted on the wall of his apartment in Montreal. But he hasn’t been to the track in more than four years. His invitations disappeared after his crash in 2008. He totaled the car on the infamous Turn 2 but walked away unscathed. He’s also had a few near misses on the highway, but no accidents. So far he’s been lucky. Except for speeding tickets.

As he passes into Ontario along a straight stretch of road, clouds striding in from the west to overtake the sun drawing a late-in-the-year shallow arc in the sky, he turns his attention to Ralph and wonders what he’s up to. Probably touring Prince Edward County. Will he fall for its natural beauty, be taken in by the bays and inlets and lakeshore, the rolling farms and quaint town of Picton? Will he drive down to the beach and sit on a dune, his former boyhood friend who bounded off to camp every summer to return with tales of sailing and canoe trips? Will he get caught in his reminiscences and let them overcome him or will he see that the proposed siting of the wind farms more than satisfies the legal requirements? Will Ralph support Dieter’s views or undermine them with Lynn? Could they ever be on the same team? Ralph cares only about his own agenda. Though he suspects few people have ever seen beyond the veneer, Dieter knows that deeper down Ralph’s a fucking prick.

Back in elementary school it was different. As young children they were best friends, playing together almost every day after school. Sometimes with Lynn, at Swiss Village where Lynn and Dieter lived. Lynn’s family was granted permission to occupy one of the little brick houses his father’s company built so that its expats wouldn’t have to find a place for their families to live during their stints in Canada—a Monopoly house, red instead of green. They weren’t exclusively for the Swiss; important people working at the company could rent the houses the Swiss didn’t need. Dieter lived in the biggest by far—a Monopoly hotel—because his father ran the manufacturing plant. He was Lynn’s father’s boss. Dieter thought that might have counted for something.

Dieter now sees that what he and Ralph generally played at should have been a sign of things to come. Every time Ralph called him “German,” he protested. The Swiss are not the same as the Germans. Maybe to an American, who too often is willing to lump all Europeans together as non-Americans, but not to a Canadian. A Canadian should know better. Why did he have to keep reminding Ralph that Switzerland remained neutral during the War? It was an odd thing to have to say because war was what they played, positioning their toy soldiers in trenches they dug in mounds of earth on construction sites after the workers had left for the day. They blew up each other’s troops, Canadians against Germans at the battle of Dieppe. They used ordinary firecrackers unless they’d saved enough allowance to buy cherry bombs. Though the Canadians fought valiantly, the Germans always won.

When Lynn joined them, they put away their soldiers and put on Cowboy-and-Indian outfits instead. Lynn and Ralph let Dieter be the Cowboy. With his six-shooter cap-gun, he’d kill them again and again before they were all called in for dinner. But Lynn and Ralph always refused to die, resurrecting themselves to track down Dieter and fire their suction-cup-tipped arrows at his chest. When they killed him, they told him that he was truly dead, that Cowboys couldn’t invoke Indian spirits to bring themselves back to life. Dieter claimed that Swiss Cowboys had that power. And Lynn and Ralph had to allow it because their playground was the woods at Swiss Village.

That was all play. The true rivalry with Ralph started in high school. The school enabled it, even encouraged it. All students belonged to one of four houses, colorfully named Red, Blue, Green, and Yellow. The houses competed both scholastically, grade averages from quarterly report cards posted student by student on large charts adorning the walls of the school’s main hallway, and athletically, results of intramural games displayed on a bulletin board that also charted top athletes’ progress toward a coveted Athletic Letter. Ralph was the best student during the first two years of high school, but Dieter took over that spot when the curriculum turned math-and-science heavy in the junior and senior years. In the gymnasium, Ralph and Dieter, each captain of their houses, pitched their teams fiercely against each other in basketball, volleyball, and floor hockey.

One evening, late in senior year, the rivalry spilled out in front of assembled students, parents, teachers, and the principal. It was the final encounter of their high school careers, the championship of the floor hockey season. Spring of 1967. Ralph’s Red team was down 4–3 in the third period to Dieter’s Yellow team when Ralph stole the puck from Dieter and raced down the left wing. Dieter caught him from behind and cross-checked him off the playing surface into the Red bench. During Dieter’s two-minute penalty, Ralph scored to tie the game. And in the final minute, Ralph stood his ground against Dieter’s rush through the Red defense and sent him to the linoleum floor with a vicious elbow to the face. Both benches cleared. Teachers had to come out of the stands to help the sole referee separate the players. The principal called the game. Fathers besieged the principal on their way out of the gymnasium, complaining that he should have ejected Ralph and Dieter but let the game continue to a resolution. Mothers collared him near the front entrance, claiming it was a disgrace to run such an undisciplined school.

The principal ordered both Ralph and Dieter to appear at his office at eight the next morning, where he summarily stripped them both of the Athletic Letters they would have been awarded at the upcoming graduation ceremony. Told them they were lucky they’d still receive their Scholastic Letters. But Ralph received both letters anyway, Dieter only the one. It wasn’t until their twentieth high school reunion that Dieter found out why. The former principal attended the event and, under pointed questioning from Dieter, admitted that Ralph’s father, chairman of the school board, had intervened on his son’s behalf, arguing that Dieter had been the instigator and should be the only one punished.

Dieter and Ralph didn’t see each other after graduation until that high school reunion. That’s when Dieter saved Ralph’s life, during a one-day excursion to the Rouge River for a little whitewater rafting. Because of his canoeing experience, Ralph joined the guide at the back of the raft, but didn’t make it through the first chute. He fell overboard, was sucked under and bobbed like a cork, choking on the water he’d swallowed. Dieter was the one to pull him out of the river. Ralph was so frightened for his life he must have forgotten who Dieter was and thanked him. Dieter asked him right then, when Ralph was still dazed from the near-drowning, where he stood with Lynn. Ralph didn’t say a thing but his look was answer enough. That was the crux of it. By the time Dieter had finished grad school, he realized it wasn’t any of their battles in athletics or scholastics that killed the earlier friendship. Since middle school, he’d harbored a crush on Lynn. In high school when everyone started dating, she ended up picking the Canadian over the Swiss. But Dieter thought he’d ruined it for Ralph and was shocked to hear that he and Lynn were still together in college. Not surprised, though, that she found someone else to marry. Ralph not ending up with Lynn was small consolation. She was the prize Dieter had wanted. Still does. Sometime he’ll have to apologize for what happened between them. But not tonight. Not with Ralph there.

Dieter checks the rearview mirror and sees a car approaching quickly. That guy’s going to get pulled over. Better him than me— Fuck— It’s the OPP. The illegal radar detector he keeps out of sight on the passenger seat hadn’t registered a warning. The cop must have been tailing him at a distance to clock his speed. He’s hosed. Quebec plates in Ontario. Doubly hosed. But not as bad as Ontario plates in Quebec. Dieter pulls over, unplugs the radar detector and slips it under his trench coat on the passenger seat.

“Good afternoon, officer,” he says, forcing a smile through clenched teeth. Bad afternoon.

“For you I guess. That’s a beautiful car you have, but this is not a speedway. Do you know how fast you were traveling?”

“No officer, I’m afraid I don’t. I was trying to keep to the limit.”

“Really? I clocked you at 150 kilometers per hour. This isn’t an autobahn you know.”

Why would the officer have said that? How could he know that I reside in Germany? Probably the BMW. “Yes, I know.”

“License and registration please.”

This guy’s like a German. No chit-chat. All business. “I’m sorry sir. I reside in Europe most of the year and I sometimes forget where I am. Here’s my international license.”

“And your registration please?”

When the officer returns from his patrol car after ten minutes, he looks at Dieter quizzically. “There are no previous infractions listed against your international license, but your vehicle has been stopped twice during the past six months for speeding in Quebec. You were the driver both times. Do you also carry a Quebec driver’s license?”

“Yes sir, but I forgot to bring it overseas with me this trip.”

“Do you maintain a residence in Quebec?”

“Yes, officer, an apartment in Montreal.”

“I would have thought you’d leave your Quebec license there.”

“Most of the time I do.”

“What is your citizenship?”

“Swiss, sir, but I live in Germany when I’m not here.”

“Do you know that I have the right to confiscate your license?”

“Yes sir.”

“This infraction carries a huge fine. With your record, the next time you’re caught speeding like this, your license will be suspended— Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“That means today too. You get stopped again today—here or in Quebec—and you won’t make it anywhere.”

“Yes officer.” Dieter takes the ticket and his documents and tucks them in the glove compartment. For several minutes he sits fuming. This fucking country. There’s no one else on the road. I could have been traveling 200 kph and it wouldn’t have mattered. I can’t wait to get back to Germany for good. He looks in the side view mirror and sees the officer approaching again.

“Officer?”

“Why are you still here?”

“I’m trying to catch my breath. My chest hurts.”

“Should I call an ambulance? The hospital in Cornwall is not too far.”

“No sir— I’ll be fine— You can leave— ”

“I can’t leave until you do. It’s dangerous for you to park on the side of the highway.”

“Okay. Please give me a few minutes.” Dieter raises his window without waiting to hear what the officer has to say. His chest doesn’t hurt at all. He is not out of breath. He sprinkles a little water on his handkerchief and wipes his face. Starts to compose himself for the evening ahead.