THE RACER recognizes the spot from the war (and a hundred dreams): the clearing where they buried the grade-school teacher from Blagoevgrad, the old forestry trail sloping down through heavy timber to join the main highway just after it twists, in an almost perfect U, around a hairpin curve. They had come across it while combing the countryside for an ambush site, the Flag Holder, the Minister, Mister Dancho and the Racer. It was a serious business, the selecting of ambush sites; your life could depend on it. They inspected several possibilities, mulled the advantages and drawbacks of each and settled on this one as the most promising; the forestry trail especially interested them because it offered a convenient route for the getaway. At the last moment the Minister, pouring over the map, raised an objection: the gunfire could be heard at the frontier post, he said, which meant they would have to terminate the ambush quickly before help had a chance to arrive. The Flag Holder didn’t agree. It was the very nearness to the frontier, he argued, that made the spot so attractive; the Germans, knowing they were so close, would never suspect an ambush here.
In the end, the Flag Holder was right: the first German to die, the machine gunner on the open mount of the lead truck, had taken off his helmet and was sunning himself atop the turret when the burst of gunfire caught him in the face. The partisans then blew up two trucks which were supposed to be full of tank treads (they didn’t stop to confirm this) and retreated up the old forestry trail into the Pirins on the run, carrying the only one among them to be wounded — a nearsighted grade-school teacher from Blagoevgrad. He had blown off his own leg with a clumsily handled grenade, and was bleeding to death from the stump despite the belt that Mister Dancho had tightened around it.
In the clearing, they scooped out a shallow grave near a dead oak and waited impatiently for the grade-school teacher to die. Tacho wet his lips with a damp rag. The grade-school teacher licked the moisture with his tongue, which had swollen to twice its normal size. He turned his head and saw the stony-faced partisans squatting on their haunches next to the grave, fidgeting nervously, fingering the loose earth, worrying about whether the gunfire had been heard at the frontier.
“I’m trying to hurry,” the grade-school teacher said thickly. And as soon as he decently could, he died.
The clearing has not changed much in twenty-four years. All traces of the shallow grave have vanished, and for a moment the Racer is tempted to hunt for it, to turn up the earth near the dead oak and see if the bones of the grade-school teacher are still there. It sticks in Tacho’s mind that the grade-school teacher came from the Valley of the Roses. He remembers the Flag Holder telling him, just before he set the speed record, how the peasant women harvested dew in the rose fields. It comes to him now: Lev had the story from the grade-school teacher. Tacho would like to put a rose on the grave — if there were a rose around and a grave to put it on.
There is the scar of a campfire in the center of the clearing; several people have eaten here, and slept here afterward. Poking through the debris, Tacho finds some empty cans and a broken can opener which he recognizes as being of Russian manufacture.
“One can opener, broken, manufactured in the Soviet Union and popular with Bulgarian housewives in the early nineteen fifties,” Tacho says out loud — in his mind’s eye he can hear Popov delivering the day’s inventory. “Four empty, rusted cans, apparently opened with this very same can opener. One spoon, rusted, apparently used to eat the food that came from the cans opened by the Russian can opener. One shoelace, black, of the kind used by hunters or frontier patrolmen. One razor blade, rusted, origin uncertain. They say that shaving is the only thing that separates men from monkey. So they say. Sssssssss.”
Tacho feels a great emptiness, which manifests itself as a tightness in the chest. With a conscious effort, he forces himself to concentrate on the ride ahead of him. He sits cross-legged on the ground and methodically eats the food Petar has put in the knapsack: chunks of cured ham, small pieces of dark peasant bread. His throat is dry and he has difficulty swallowing, so he washes down each bite with a mouthful of water from a canteen.
Afterward, his hands burrowing deep inside the pockets of his sheepskin coat, his eyes fixed on the ground, he starts down the forestry trail toward the highway, one hundred forty meters away, kicking aside branches and stones as he goes. He inspects it again on his way up to the clearing, then coasts down on the bicycle to memorize the contours of the trail. He climbs to the top with the bicycle and strips off the sheepskin coat. Selecting a gear, he leans the bicycle against a tree at the top of the trail and takes up a position on the side of the clearing that overlooks the highway to the north.
“Ready, set, go.” He punches Melanie’s stopwatch and dashes for the bicycle, leaps on and starts down the trail, picking up speed as he goes. The trees flash by with only the faintest view of the road between them. He dips onto the hard surface of the highway and stops the sweep second hand in the same instant. It reads nine and eight-tenths seconds.
The Racer makes three more trial runs before he is satisfied that his timing is accurate — for accurate it must be if his plan is to work. If he comes out onto the highway too soon, the other riders will see him; too late and he will never catch up with them and be spotted at the frontier.
Ten seconds to get down the forestry trail. In ten seconds, Tacho calculates, the four Bulgarian riders, pushing uphill in third gear toward the hairpin curve, will cover one hundred twenty meters. Tacho paces off one hundred twenty meters down the highway and ties his handkerchief to a twig on the side of the road to mark the spot. When the last of the four Bulgarian riders reaches the handkerchief, he will dart for his bicycle and ride down the forestry trail and come out — god willing — right behind them. Then it will be just a matter of keeping up.
In the clearing again, Tacho strips off the hiking boots and peasant clothes that the Trainer provided. From the knapsack he pulls his old riding suit, the one he wore so many years ago in the Valley of the Roses — black riding shoes, red shorts and a green T-shirt with the number eight in red on the back. It is the same uniform that Tacho has designed for the four riders.
He packs his hiking clothes in the knapsack, and wraps the knapsack in the sheepskin coat and hides the bundle behind some bushes in the woods. He looks at Melanie’s watch — half an hour to go — and forces himself to urinate. Then he checks the bicycle again. He is about to lean it against the tree when he remembers the Trainer’s warning about the traction, so he lets a small amount of air out of both tires. That done, he takes up his position on the edge of the clearing overlooking the highway. The Trainer has left some rock candy in the pocket of his shorts, and he sucks noisily on a piece. After a while he feels chilled — nervousness, he thinks — and begins to run in place to keep warm.
He is still running in place when the truck with the loudspeaker and the big sign in front (“Pull over—bicycle race in progress”) hauls into view. A police car follows close behind it. Five minutes later two motorcycle policemen come along, and right behind them Tacho spots the four Bulgarian riders, with big Sacha riding point. As the last of the four riders glides by the white handkerchief, Tacho spits out the rock candy and dashes for the bicycle.
“Any time now,” the male secretary whispers discreetly in the Minister’s ear — he knows, from long association with him, that he is very bored. They are standing in the middle of the bridge that spans the river that marks the frontier with Greece.
“We greet you,” the Greek Colonel intones, “at a moment when the friendship between our two neighboring countries is ripening — “
“Could you start again, please, Colonel,” a man with earphones yells. “The voice level wasn’t right.”
“We greet you” — the Colonel smiles toward the camera at exactly the same point in his speech — “at a moment when the friendship between our two neighboring countries is ripening into a bud that will flower in this fertile— “
The Minister signals the translator, who is muttering in his ear, to stop and listens to the voice drone on in Greek. When his turn comes, he speaks briefly, modestly, about the historical roots that bind all Balkan peoples together, about Bulgaria’s desire for friendly coexistence with its non-Communist neighbors, about the bicycle race now in progress being a first concrete step in that direction. Then the Colonel and the Minister shake hands for the cameras.
“The truck,” one of the border guards on the Bulgarian side is shouting. Its arrival is the first exciting thing that has happened since he was transferred to the frontier post some weeks before, after having had the misfortune to witness a minor disturbance while he was on guard duty in front of Dimitrov’s tomb. “The truck is here.”
The news spreads to the people on the bridge. Civilian functionaries and military aides from both countries crane on tiptoes for the first glimpse of the riders. Suddenly the border guards on the Bulgarian side cheer wildly. An instant later the team swings around a bend into view.
“They’re ours!” the Minister’s male secretary cries. “Our boys are ahead.”
“How very interesting,” the Minister murmurs coolly, amused at all the commotion being made over some bicycles. Barely visible in the gathering dusk, the Bulgarian riders dip down an incline past a wire-mesh frontier gate that is wide open and pedal onto the bridge.
“We congratulate you,” the Greek Colonel yells in the Minister’s ear; he is obviously disappointed, but determined to play the good loser.
“He congratulates you,” the translator repeats, cupping his hands and yelling into the Minister’s other ear, but the Minister is not paying attention, the Minister is watching the riders and frowning.
“I thought there were four riders to a team,” he shouts to his male secretary.
“The newspapers did say four — “
The five Bulgarian riders, arched gracefully over their handlebars, their wheels almost touching, their shirttails whipping around their waists, flash by the Minister and pull for the Greek side of the bridge.
“Stop them!” the Minister stammers, starting into the roadway after them. “STOP THEM!” he screams, but his voice is lost in the uproar that the riders leave behind them like a wake.
As they touch Greek soil, the first four riders put on a spurt of speed, but the fifth rider, no longer pedaling, drops back, gasping for breath. Coasting past the red-and-white-striped crossing gate, he thrusts his right fist deep into the sky as if the race has ended. Flash bulbs pop around him. A girl runs toward him and flings her arms around his neck, pulling him from the bicycle. People mill around them, puzzled. Soldiers shout. A siren wails.
On the bridge, an officer dashes up and whispers something in the ear of the Greek Colonel. He glances quickly at the Minister — it is difficult to tell from the Colonel’s face whether he is annoyed or embarrassed — and hurries off without saying goodbye.