Alexi sat slumped against a locker in the Main Lodge at Mammoth Mountain, a ski resort about a three-hour drive from Lake Tahoe. The thirteen-year-old held a Walkman on his lap, bobbing his head to the rhythm of a mean beat while he thought about Susie Taylor.
Alexi had known Susie since kindergarten, when she wore her hair in pigtails and frolicked with him on the playground. She had always been his buddy, one of only a few girls allowed to participate in touch football, softball, and the most exclusive of all-male games, shooting marbles behind the school’s bungalows. But his attitude toward her had changed at the beginning of the seventh grade, when she returned from summer vacation looking more like a woman than the tomboy he remembered. Then, at the beginning of the eighth grade, another girl in his class told Alexi that Susie liked him. In response he gave Susie the only jewelry he owned to seal the relationship, his prized counterfeit silver dollar, attached to a dime-store ball chain. They had yet to kiss.
While Alexi daydreamed about Susie, he waited for Joe, who had gone to consult with other ski coaches about the weekend’s racing events: a slalom a little later that Saturday morning and a super giant slalom on Sunday. Between the two—banging down a rapid-turning slalom course or swooping through the high-speed turns of a super giant slalom—Alexi had no preference. In both cases he faced the challenge of racing against mostly older competition in a new age-group, the thirteen-and-over category.
Alexi spotted a group of older guys marching toward him down the hallway. One of them whispered something in the ear of the largest in the group. Alexi rolled his head back against the locker and closed his eyes, trying to stay focused on Susie. He felt ski poles tapping on his boots and looked up, taking off his headphones.
“You Alexi Rousseau?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Matt Devine, and I own this mountain. I’m going to kick your ass on the slopes today.”
Alexi grabbed his ski poles and hopped off the bench. “Cool,” he said, nonchalantly. “We’ll see what happens.”
Matt leaned forward, measuring himself against Alexi’s five-foot-nine, 145-pound frame. “Nothing but a shrimp,” he said, then turned and laughed as his friends followed him out of the building.
Joe surfaced from around the corner, smiling. “What do you boys call it when you try to psyche each other out with words?” he asked.
“Trash-talking.”
“Yes. Well, some of the boys, especially the older ones, will try to trash-talk. You ignore that stuff. Races are won with your skis and your heart. They are never won with words. So, are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The course has been set. It’s a good slalom run, a little short of sixty gates, all set between ten to twelve meters apart. It’s a little steeper in the beginning before it levels out. Let’s go inspect, and then you can warm up.”
Alexi and Joe rode Chair 1 to access the racecourse, set on a hill known as Fascination. Along with other racers and coaches, they slowly sideslipped downhill while judging the slope, snow conditions, and position of gates.
A Mammoth Mountain race official gave Alexi a racing bib with a starting number. “There are a total of forty-one of you,” he said to Alexi. “We’ll follow the usual format, a race in the morning and again in the afternoon. Lowest combined time between the two runs dictates the order of finish. Good luck.”
Once the race started, Alexi hovered near the top of Fascination, watching the first racers complete their runs. Some of these guys are decent, he thought, but I have yet to see the big kid. He’s probably the real competition.
As his turn approached, Alexi checked his bindings, making sure his racing skis were locked in tight. He fiddled with the protective padding built into his sweater and pants to completely cover his forearms, shins, and knees. Establish your timing, he thought, and don’t make a mistake that’s going to slow you down or knock you out of the course. Like Joe says, there’s nothing worse than disqualification.
Alexi hopped in the starting gate and blasted off, making short, quick turns. He chose a tight line for speed, skiing almost directly at the gates. He found a comfortable cadence as he snapped them away, a mean beat like the one he had been listening to that morning: swish-bam, swish-bam, swish-bam, swish-bam.
Alexi twisted when he finished, eyeing the timer. Nearly a two-second lead, he thought. Pretty good, especially in a race normally won by fractions of a second.
“Not a bad first run,” said Joe, walking over to Alexi. “You made some mistakes but recovered. Get on top of your skis and stay there in the second run.”
I have a huge lead! For once in my life, can’t you tell me I did something right? What’s it going to take?
The two watched other racers navigate the course. When the morning race ended, Alexi held a .52-second lead over Jim Hannum from Heavenly Valley, another Lake Tahoe ski area. Matt Devine held the third position, .65 seconds behind Alexi.
The skiers took a break for lunch. Alexi learned that only thirty-two of the original forty-one would return for the second run, since nine had made errors resulting in disqualification. Alexi and Joe repeated the pre-race process by examining a slalom run on the same hill, though newly reset for the afternoon.
When the second race started, Alexi settled back near the top as racer after racer attacked the gates. Matt Devine, skiing before Alexi, added himself to the disqualified when he fell and lost a ski.
I’ve got it made, thought Alexi, standing in the starting gate as the last racer of the afternoon. Hannum’s got the lead, but I had him beat after the first run, and he can’t catch me if I’m solid. So be cool, and don’t DQ like the big kid. Just win another race, and maybe Joe will be happy for a change.
Alexi blew out of the starting gate, but made wider, more cautious turns than normal. He felt smooth through his turns, as solid as a rock. When he completed his run, he glanced at the timer and buried his face in his hands as Jim Hannum and his coaches roared in celebration.
Joe spat on the ground and stomped away, stopping after twenty yards or so and brusquely signaling for Alexi to join him.
Once he was close enough, Joe grabbed Alexi’s shoulders. “This is not the way a boy trained by Joe Rousseau skis,” he said, gritting his teeth. “This is not the way Todd would have skied. You thought that once the loud-mouthed kid slid off the course, you could just go for a Sunday drive. He was never your competition. The boy who beat you was your competition. You set yourself up to think about one, when you should have been concerned with no one other than yourself. I would rather see you ski two runs all out, even if you make a mistake that costs you the race. Remember your name! You are Alexi Rousseau, and today you have embarrassed me.”
Joe glanced away, placing his hands on his hips. “What do you think this is, Alexi? You think these boys aren’t after what you are after, eventually a place on the U.S. Ski Team? You had a chance to win a major battle today. You should have beaten Hannum by at least three seconds. That’s the way you get into another racer’s head. You whip him without mercy. Tomorrow in the super-G you need to make a statement. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Alexi mumbled. He wiped his tears and left for the Main Lodge, searching for a place to hide.
That evening, Alexi and Joe watched videotape of his two runs in the slalom. Joe appeared dispassionate but firm in his instructions while reviewing the first run in slow motion, identifying both good and poor technique. Alexi now had a greater appreciation for his mistakes, most of which concerned his body position at various stages of a turn. Then Joe showed Alexi the second run. Joe pointed to fewer instances of the same problem because Alexi had skied less aggressively, and as a result, showed better form.
“Aggressive skiers take chances,” said Joe. “Chances can result in either disqualification or a fast run. What we want is perfect, aggressive skiing, without mistakes resulting in disqualification. That kind of skiing leads to winning World Cup races, the ultimate goal. Now I have something you need to see.” Joe inserted another tape into the VCR and tapped the play button.
“That’s Marcus Guttenberg,” said Alexi, watching a skier pound down a slalom course.
“Yes,” said Joe. “Look at him, Alexi. A rock-solid stance, perfect knee angulation, his weight over his feet, moving forward and aft slightly to accommodate his turns, and an absolutely quiet upper body. I worked with Marcus ten years ago, before he started dominating the World Cup Circuit. This guy never talks trash. He just hits the snow and destroys the competition. You have to be a destroyer, Alexi, like Marcus.”
Joe fast-forwarded the tape to another clip of Marcus, this time skiing a super giant slalom. Alexi studied the differences in his form between the two races. Joe replayed the tape and then replayed Alexi’s. Alexi’s anger at himself grew every time he watched his second run.
The next day Alexi reported to Mammoth with a tight jaw and fire in his eyes. Gone were his Walkman and thoughts about Susie. He examined every contour of the super giant slalom course, which started on the steep pitch of Cornice Bowl, twisted left around Hair Jump, and rambled across the mountain along Silver Tip until finally curving hard into Fascination, the site of the prior day’s slalom.
The course had forty gates, set between forty- to forty-five meters apart. Unlike the slalom race the day before, the distance between gates permitted greater speed, perhaps sixty miles per hour or more, depending on the skill and nerve of the racer.
Alexi drew the leadoff spot, a placement he disliked because it deprived him of any opportunity to make adjustments based on the success or errors of others. He jumped into the starting gate remembering Joe’s words from the day before. Then he visualized Marcus Guttenberg in a super-G, angulating and gliding.
“Racer ready,” he heard the starter say. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
Alexi rocked into the steep pitch with a grunt, using his poles to propel himself forward. He made three powerful skating steps before arriving at the first gate and then, thirsting for speed, dipped into a tuck like a downhill racer. He felt an adrenaline rush from a burst of acceleration and held the tuck until passing the third gate. Remembering Marcus, he subtly engaged the edges of his skis, never overturning, and pressed for more and more speed down the hard-packed snow by riding his tails at every opportunity.
Alexi soared toward Hair Jump and a difficult left turn, the first of two sharper turns on the course. He came off the gate before Hair Jump at a perfect angle. He visualized Marcus’s turn, now his turn. Not yet, he thought. Not yet. Now!
In one continuous motion, Alexi raised his arms to the side of his body for balance; he raised his left ski while stepping forward onto his right, bent his right knee inward, then dove across the hill, trusting his skis completely. A ski bent into an arc, an edge bit into ice, and a humiliated thirteen-year-old boy carved a perfect turn.
Alexi stormed down Silver Tip, allowing his skis to run along the shallow but long stretch of hard-packed powder and ice. Forget about risk, he thought. Joe’s not going to accuse me of fear or lack of skill today. He’s going to get his wish, even if it kills me!
Standing further down the hill, Joe watched Alexi’s approach, straining to see as much of his son’s face as he could find beneath his racing helmet and goggles. He discerned acute concentration and pure, superbly controlled, blindingly beautiful speed.
“Ooooooooooohhhh,” yelled a crowd of observers near Joe. “Look at this kid smoke!”
Alexi flew by, appearing to be in a special zone. Joe knew he was readying himself for the toughest turn on the course, a hard right into Fascination. Will he brake in fear, or will he throw his body down the slope with total commitment to the turn? Come on, boy, do it!
Joe lost sight of Alexi. He grabbed his walkie-talkie and signaled Dave Durham, his assistant, who he knew was standing near the top of Fascination.
“He’s heading toward you like a missile,” said Joe. “Tell me if he brakes to make the turn or holds the speed. Look at his body and as much of his face as you can. Tell me if you see fear or what I’m seeing, the next coming of the great one—Marcus the Destroyer Guttenberg!”
“Here he comes,” said Dave. “Come on, Alexi, set it up. Let the ski do the work. Easy, easy . . . Oh, shit! Fear? What fear! He just executed an absolutely phenomenal turn, and then he body-chopped the damned gate, splintering bamboo all over the mountain. This is no thirteen-year-old boy. This is an eighteen-year-old kid skiing his way onto the U.S. Ski Team. He’s gone, Joe. He just flew by me, and he’s absolutely blistering Fascination. Wait a minute. He just went through the finish sitting on his tails. Look at his time! Forget about it, baby, this race is over!”
Joe skied down to Alexi, regarding him neutrally. “You already know there’s going to be a second run. It’s unusual in super-G, but the coaches think you boys need more practice in this event. If you have the lead after the first run, keep it today. I like what I just saw, Alexi. You are skiing with an agenda. Ski that way all the time, and don’t worry about other racers. If your best is good enough, you will win.”
After the first run, Alexi’s time held, slightly more than three seconds faster than his closest competitor, Jim Hannum. Then Joe witnessed a second run equally as impressive as the first. Alexi won the super-G at Mammoth Mountain by a combined time of 6.78 seconds.
Joe stood with Dave as Alexi finished, again the last racer downhill. From about ten feet away, Alexi turned to Joe’s bald, bespectacled partner. “What do you think?”
The short, stocky man ran to Alexi with open arms, grabbing him around the legs and lifting him in the air. “This is the ultimate, baby,” he shouted. “Like one of those fancy musicians and his instrument, skier and skis became one today!” A joyful grin emerged from Alexi as he peeked at Joe, who watched the festivities from a distance.
Yes, Alexi, everyone knows what you have accomplished. You rose to the challenge by surviving my outrage, something that could have broken you. You have courage and the heart of a lion. You will need both.
Alicia was drinking coffee in her office at Lil’s Place, perusing one of the local Lake Tahoe-area newspapers she had been receiving since starting a subscription three years before. She thumbed through the sports section and saw Alexi’s picture above the caption ALEXI ROUSSEAU DOMINATES MAMMOTH MOUNTAIN SUPER-G. Below the caption she read an article summarizing the race results from the prior weekend.
Alicia grinned but understood very little of what she was reading, other than that her son had won a ski race of some kind. She eyed her phone, hesitated, and then called the Squaw Valley Race Department.
“Hello, this is Dave.”
“Hi,” said Alicia, thankful the voice belonged to someone other than Joe Rousseau. “I’ve been reading about the ski races this past weekend at Mammoth Mountain, and I have a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
“I saw there were two races, one called slalom and the other called super-G. What do those terms mean?”
“Well, ma’am, you basically have four different racing disciplines: slalom; giant slalom, which is sometimes called GS; super giant slalom or super-G; and downhill. The first is the shortest course, but it has more gates than the others to force more turns. The others gradually increase in length as they decline in gates. This means that slalom is the slowest, and downhill is the fastest in terms of pure speed. Does that help?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” said Alicia, thinking she preferred Alexi skiing slalom because of the speed factor. “I guess the shortest one measures turning ability, and the longer races gradually de-emphasize turning and emphasize speed.”
“I’ve turned you into an expert. Ready to race?”
Alicia laughed. “Now tell me,” she said, “this past weekend I noticed a Squaw Valley boy won the super-G by several seconds and finished second in the slalom by a really slim margin. This must be good, right?”
“Ma’am, you’re talking about Alexi Rousseau. To put things in perspective for you, Alexi raced against some tough kids, especially the one who beat him in the slalom. That kid comes from a racing family. His older brother just made the U.S. Ski Team. So Alexi’s results aren’t good, they’re fantastic. He is definitely on his way.”
“Where is he on his way to? I mean, where does this all lead for a kid his age?”
“The racers in our full-time program, like Alexi, get coaching six days a week during the ski season. Barring injury or burnout, some wind up skiing in college, but the best go on to the U.S. Ski Team and race internationally. We’ve had some darn good ones, both men and women, who’ve done that in the past. We all think Alexi is headed in that direction.”
“You mean he eventually has a chance to ski in the Olympics?” asked Alicia, stunned.
“Well, it’s possible, but people get confused about the Olympics. An Olympic race is just like any other World Cup race in terms of what it means for standings during the season, except medals are awarded. Don’t get me wrong, we like to win them, but we like to win World Cup races period, including races in the World Championships. Let me put it like this. If I were still racing and had a choice, I would take the World Cup title in a discipline over Olympic gold any day. Theoretically, you could have a guy or gal win a gold medal and never finish in the top three in the same event again. To win the World Cup title requires a lot of consistently good skiing the entire season. To win the granddaddy of them all, the overall World Cup title across all of the disciplines, means even more. Then you’re the big boss.”
“How long does a career in skiing last, on average?”
“The ones at the top can ski into their thirties if they avoid major injury. Nowadays, there’s a lot of money to be made. In Europe—that’s where most of the really elite ski racing goes down—the sport is a lot more popular than it is in America. Our American racers who’ve done well can hardly walk around unrecognized in Europe, but in America not many people know them outside of the racing fraternity.”
“I see. Dave, you have been extremely helpful, and I appreciate it.”
“Assuming you ski Squaw, ma’am, stop by and say hello the next time you’re here. I’ll introduce you to Alexi’s father. He’s much worse than me. He’ll talk to you about racing until you’re blue in the face.”
“I will do that,” said Alicia, not meaning it. “Oh, one last question, and I won’t take up any more of your time. When is there another race at Squaw Valley that Alexi Rousseau is likely to enter?”
“Alexi will race this coming Saturday in a GS.”
After hanging up the phone, Alicia cut out Alexi’s picture and the race results, then posted them on her office wall. Still brimming with excitement, she rang Celia’s extension.
“Whatcha doing?” she said when Celia answered.
“Trying to figure out bell-shaped curves, population distributions, and my absolute worst nightmare—standard deviations. This statistics stuff is kicking my ass. I didn’t know we had to study this for psychology. Want to give a sister a little help?”
“You don’t even have to ask. But I have something to show you. Come on down when you get a chance.”
“Get a chance? Hell, I’m bringing my book right now.”
“Look!” said Alicia as Celia walked in a few moments later, pointing to the article on her wall.
“Damn, he looks just like you,” said Celia. She read the article. “It sounds like the little booger is still too fast to catch.”
“I know,” said Alicia, grinning. “There’s a race up at Squaw Valley next Saturday. Want to go?”
“Sure, I’ll roll with you, especially if you get me to understand statistics by then, Ms. Miracle Worker.”
“Okay,” said Alicia, laughing. “Let’s get started.”
Alicia and Celia hiked to the base of Red Dog, the site of that day’s giant slalom at Squaw Valley. They saw the course and a group of teenage boys riding on a ski lift up the hill. Alicia and Celia stepped into their skis and rode the lift to the top, then struggled halfway down, selecting a good point for observation among a crowd peppered along the roped-off course.
Alicia had brought binoculars, planning to see her son close up only through a high-powered lens. She trained her eyes on the starting gate, adjusted her view, and followed the course to the finish area. She looked for Alexi but could not find him.
“This is really exciting,” said Celia. “I can feel the energy in the air.”
Alicia noticed the course had cleared, and a large group of boys was waiting at the top. One of them moved into the starting gate. He took off in a mad scramble and eventually shot right past her.
“Damn, that boy can ski!” said Celia.
“No kidding,” said Alicia as she followed him with her binoculars into the finish area. “Can Alexi really be that good, I wonder?” She watched more boys zip down the mountain, three of whom were disqualified, while others ripped through the course more impressively than the first racer.
“We haven’t seen anybody really smoke this thing yet,” said a man standing next to her, “but the kid in the gate should change that.”
Alicia glanced at the man, who had been talking to his friend. She refocused on the start, where a skier stomped from ski to ski. She recognized Alexi.
“He’s the kid I’ve been telling you about,” said the man to his friend. “He looks like he’s ready to rumble.”
He looks angry, thought Alicia, like he wants to kill someone. Is that a snarl? What is going on? Is he psyching himself up, or is something wrong?
Alicia saw Alexi bend his knees, rock back, and blast through the starting gate, taking two strong skating steps before banging through a gate. He pressed through his turns, smoothly attacking the course. His rhythm appeared perfect, as though skier, gates, and snow were finely integrated.
Alicia studied his face as he approached her. She saw an intense glare, and then she caught a hint of a smile when he accelerated out of a turn. At the same moment, she heard a groundswell of roars as Alexi exploded even faster downhill.
“I told you this kid could smoke,” yelled the man next to her.
“Damn straight!” said his friend.
Alexi flew right past her, traveling at unbelievable speed. Don’t fall! She blew a sigh of relief when Alexi skidded to a stop in the finish area.
“He must be faster than the others by about ten seconds,” she said to Celia, noticing that a series of displaced gates had been left in his wake.
“It may seem that way,” said the man, turning to Alicia, “but he’s probably got about a two-and-a-half-second lead or so.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s major, lady, and no one’s going to catch him. That kid means business. I saw him at Mammoth last weekend. Nicest boy you ever want to meet, but on the course he’s turning into one bad hombre. He’s establishing supremacy the old-fashioned way, by taking names and kicking ass, pardon my French.”
I’ve seen him happy and I’ve seen him sad, thought Alicia, but now I’ve seen fury. I hope you’re right, mister, and nothing is wrong.
Alicia focused her binoculars back on Alexi. She saw him face a gray-haired man, who started an instruction, bending down and shifting his upper body to the side as his knees went in the opposite direction. Alexi watched, then smiled when a bald-headed man patted him on the back. Suddenly a cute blonde girl about Alexi’s age ran up and hugged him, then gave him a peck on the lips. Alexi seemed surprised by the kiss, bashfully grinning.
Oh, he has a girlfriend, and he seems so sweet and innocent with her! I love it, and now I can relax. He can be as brutal as he has to be on a ski slope if that’s what it takes, just as long as he otherwise stays my sweet, sweet baby.
Alicia reached for her camera, which had a powerful zoom lens attached, and snapped a picture. She and Celia stayed for the afternoon race, and she eventually learned that Alexi won the giant slalom by a combined time of 4.43 seconds.
“I don’t know a thing about ski-racing techniques,” she said to Celia, “but I see a difference between Alexi and the others. He’s smooth, while most of the others seem to struggle. I’m at peace now, Celia, especially with my choice to give him away. It was fate. He’s special as a skier, which is something he never would have discovered if I had kept him or given him to a couple other than the Rousseaus.”
I’m glad you found peace,” said Celia, “at least where Alexi is concerned.”
Five months following her visit to Squaw Valley, Alicia lay in a fetal position on her bed at three o’clock in the afternoon. A ceiling fan whirred above her while the sounds of Lil’s Place seeped into her room. Her private line had been ringing periodically for a couple of hours, but Alicia stared at an empty wall, ignoring the sights and sounds around her, including the knock on her door.
“Alicia, it’s me, Celia. I know you’re in there, so open up.”
“What?” mumbled Alicia. The knock increased to banging.
“Open the door, or I’ll break the damn thing down!”
Alicia struggled into a sitting position. “Hold on!” she said. She tiptoed to the door in her bare feet, opened it, and rushed back to the safety of her bed.
Celia charged in. “What is going on with you?”
“Nothing. I’m tired.”
“Every day? I haven’t seen you in a week, and even before you didn’t seem yourself. Stand up. I need to show you something.”
Alicia groaned while Celia grabbed her arms and pulled her back into a sitting position.
“Come on,” said Celia, dragging Alicia off the bed to a spot before her mirror. “Look at yourself, and tell me what you see.”
“I look exhausted. I don’t sleep at night.”
“Girl, your hair is scattered all over your head. Your eyes are bleary, and those pajamas are just hanging on you because you’ve lost so much weight. What happened to the woman who takes care of business? Where did she go? In her place I see someone suffering from depression, and my observation is not based on books. I’ve been there before. So tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me. Besides, you don’t see any tears.”
“I haven’t seen you cry since you gave Alexi away. Maybe that’s what you need—a good cry. Regardless, I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.”
Alicia took a deep breath, shaking her head. “It’s over for me, Celia,” she finally said. “I’m done. No more Ph.D.”
Celia stepped back. “No way! Why?”
“Data. I’ve been collecting as much as I can find from a load of different sources, but the stuff I need is just not available right now, and I don’t see an end in sight. And it’s not like I held back. I live at the library. I’ve made calls all over the world. Nothing! All of my work, all of my hopes and dreams—I have nothing other than some measly odds and ends. I can’t even run a decent regression. Do you know it’s been three and a half years since I finished my coursework? The people I started with almost six years ago are done. Dr. Drake warned me, but I just had to follow my heart and do my own thing. My grandmother and father always told me to be strategic, and I thought I had made the right choice, but I’m a fool. I’ve lost the bet, and the model is worthless. Do you hear me? Worthless! So now you have it. Aren’t you sorry you asked?”
Celia frowned. “You can’t give up, Alicia. You have too much at stake. Don’t you want to make your family proud? Don’t you want to go home?”
“You’re not listening,” shouted Alicia, returning to a fetal position. The telephone rang.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Celia.
“It’s probably Dr. Drake, checking on my progress or lack thereof. I don’t want to talk to him.”
Celia reached over and answered the phone. “Hi, Lucy,” she said, then paused. “Not good,” she continued. “Our girl is in the pits.” Celia brought the phone to Alicia. “Here, Lucy wants to talk to you.”
Alicia struggled to sit up. “Hey,” she muttered.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours, and you sound terrible. What happened to Tough Nut?”
“She’s either dead or on a long vacation. When I figure out which one, I’ll let you know.”
“She’s on a short vacation, and it’s about to end. I have good news for you. Claude Matter is in San Francisco on business. Remember Claude? He’s the guy you met in Hong Kong.”
“Lucy, I’m in no mood to entertain.”
“You won’t have to entertain. Claude has something for you, and you’re going to want it. Believe me. He’ll be there in about an hour. Ciao.”
Confused, Alicia hung up the phone. “Lucy doesn’t understand,” she said. “She has Buddy’s friend, someone I met months ago, coming by for who knows what reason, and I don’t want to be bothered.”
“You need to take a shower and clean yourself up,” said Celia, “unless you plan to run him away as soon as he sees or smells you.”
Alicia bounced out of bed in a huff. “Ugh,” she said, studying her reflection in the mirror. “Why didn’t you tell me I look like a mess?”
Alicia was waiting in her office when Claude arrived, carrying two hefty bound volumes. He initially eyed Alicia strangely, as though struggling to recognize her, but then he smiled. Alicia rose and greeted Claude like a complete stranger, wanting him to drop off whatever he had and leave.
“I’ve been thinking about you and your project since our dinner in Hong Kong,” said Claude, dropping the volumes on Alicia’s desk. “I had hoped to get this to you sooner, but it’s hot off the press, so to speak.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Alicia, looking at Claude in confusion.
“Lucy didn’t tell you?” He pointed toward the volumes. “I thought you still needed this. Perhaps it’s all a big mistake.”
Alicia’s eyebrows furrowed as she opened a glossy black cover, labeled Volume One. Studying the cover page, her eyes flashed back and forth between Claude and the title of the document. She turned to the table of contents, and her mouth dropped open. She frantically thumbed through pages, her eyes growing large at the sight of numbers, tables, graphs, and explanatory notes.
“This is it,” she whispered. “This is the data I’ve been looking for, except it’s more comprehensive than what I had ever hoped to find. And it comes from the World Bank?”
“It’s a study the bank commissioned,” said Claude. “It contains post-World War II economic data for selected countries in Western Europe and Southeast Asia, along with Japan. You said it needed to be benchmarked across countries to permit comparative analysis. I think that’s what you have, Alicia.”
“How . . . ? I called the World Bank and got nowhere,” said Alicia, closing the cover and stroking it gently.
“I have a contact there. I talked to him after we met. He said he didn’t have anything then, but if something became available he would let me know. He called a few days ago and said he had a study he thought would be of interest. I knew I had to be in San Francisco today for a business meeting, so I decided to bring it with me. Anyway, I hope this information is helpful.”
“It hasn’t been published yet, right? There’s no way I could have missed it. I’ve been looking for this kind of stuff constantly. Don’t tell me it’s been published.”
“You’re right, Alicia, you haven’t missed it. But the information, I’m told, is final and reliable. It will be published in a few months. If it’s what you’re looking for, you’ve got a head start.”
Alicia grabbed the volumes, clutched them to her chest, and stumbled backwards against the wall as tears formed. “Finally,” she blurted, sliding to the floor. “I couldn’t take it anymore!” She exhaled a guttural sob, and then another, until she wept convulsively, allowing the frustration, doubt, and fear, so long internalized, to finally escape.
Once spent, Alicia placed the volumes on the floor. She glanced up and found Claude’s hands extended toward her, his face full of compassion. She wiped away her tears and took his hands, then felt herself being lifted. She fell into his arms, with her head next to his, and held him tightly without saying a word. She kissed him softly on the cheek.
“I will never be able to repay you,” she murmured, stepping back with a tearful smile.
Claude’s eyes were closed, his lips trembling. “Wow!” he said. “You, uh, just repaid me, although no repayment was necessary.”
“I’m sorry to have been so abrupt when you first arrived,” said Alicia, breaking into a smile. “I’m embarrassed for falling apart.”
“That’s okay. I understand—I think. But maybe you’ll do me a favor?”
“I will certainly try,” said Alicia. Here it comes, she thought. What’s the price tag?
“When you finish your dissertation, will you please send me a copy to read? And when you publish your first articles, please send those over as well.”
“Claude, it would be a great honor.”
Claude smiled and started to leave.
“Wait,” said Alicia, stopping him. “Why did you do this for me?”
Claude shrugged, as if surprised by her question. “Because you’re good people, and I believe in the potential of your work. When I asked you about your data in Hong Kong, I knew that my friend would know if something might be on the horizon. He owes me big time, and I called in a chip. I hope it proves to be fruitful for you, and if I can help further, please let me know.” Claude paused. “My firm is opening a San Francisco office. They’ve asked me to get it started and head it up.” He handed Alicia his business card and left.
Alicia called Lucy. “You’re right,” she said, “the vacation is over. Claude is such a sweet person. Outside of my family, he’s the only man who’s ever done anything for me without expecting something in return. I’m not looking for a romance, but now I’m curious about him, and he just made a friend for life. Got to go, Lucy. It’s time to start taking names and kicking ass, pardon my French.”
“Welcome back, Tough Nut.”