JOURNAL OF DIXON AINSLEY
30 July
7:15 p.m.
Astana, Kazakhstan
Writing this quickly while Paulie is having a bath. Today was one of the longest days of my life, even though the hours conform to normality. It started on the plane, where we flew over the polar cap and down over Eurasia to Almaty, Kazakhstan.
“I’m looking forward to the real racing starting,” I told Paulie when we were about to land in Kazakhstan. “Although I do regret the loss of Rupert.”
“Of course you do, and I totally agree.” Paulie made a face, then gave me a considering look. “You do know, of course, that we won’t be able to continue our previous nights’ activities?”
I was surprised by that statement for a moment until I understood what it was she was saying, and felt a little teasing was in order. “We will if you and Melody are able to keep up with the De Dion.”
“Ha ha—oh, how I laugh at your misguided notion,” she said with a snort, and pinched my hand. “The Thomas Flyer is, after all, the car that won the original race. There’s no way your little French car can keep up with us once we let the Flyer have his head.”
“His? Most cars are traditionally thought of as being female,” I pointed out.
“Ours is male. He’s a pain in the ass to drive and is constantly needing attention in the form of replaced tires,” she answered, giving me a roguish smile. “And he’s fast. Very fast. And speaking of fast males, I suppose we could try for a quickie before we start the race, because that’s likely to be the last bit of action we get until you catch up with us in Paris.”
“Bold words, but not at all realistic,” I said with a complacence that I knew she would find objectionable. “Time will show which team is full of bravado, and which has the power to back up its claims.”
She spoke a rude word then, and for the first time in a very long time, I felt a deep well of emotion blossom in what I thought of as the cold remains of my heart. Paulie seemed to light up all the dark corners of my life with a gentle glow of wit, intelligence, and long, long legs.
In short, she was just about the most perfect woman I’d ever met.
That’s one reason why I didn’t kick up a fuss when, after Roger discovered that our car was mysteriously missing, he suggested I join the suffragette team by the act of a pretend marriage to Paulie.
“You understand that I’m doing this only because I’m already pretending to be something I’m not, and adding a fake marriage is nothing more than an extension of the Edwardian gentleman persona you have created for me,” I told Roger later, when he supervised my dressing in what he called my formal wear.
“That’s the spirit,” he said cheerfully, although I couldn’t help but notice lines of strain radiating out from his eyes. “It’s better than having to send your team back home, isn’t it?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure how happy Anton is about going to the Essex team.” I pulled on the pearl gray Edwardian version of a morning coat and spurned the matching gloves that Roger held out. “You are, I sincerely hope, talking to them about the accidents?”
He sighed dramatically. “I’ve told you. I’ve told Paulie. Hell, I’ve told everyone that the Essex Esses are not to blame for all our bad luck. Yes, it was their car that ran into your brother, but I’m convinced that was a simple accident brought on by a bit of unintentional negligence. This idea that you have of putting the Essex team squarely behind every problem that has blighted us is simply unrealistic, and, trust me, if it was possible to pin this curse on any one person or team, I’d gladly do so.” He ran a hand through what was left of his hair. “I don’t know why I can’t conduct a simple television shoot without bringing out all the crackpots intent on destroying my career.”
“If it’s not the Essex team behind it, then who is?” I asked, accepting a top hat that was so glossy, I could see a distorted version of my face in its gleaming curves.
“I wish I knew, Dixon. I really wish I knew. No doubt it was an ill-wisher who followed us across country, but now that we’re in Kazakhstan, we should be rid of that evil influence. I’m not saying everything will go smoothly from here on out, because that’s just tempting the fates, but at least we should be rid of our saboteur, whoever that is.”
I wasn’t at all the least bit convinced of that, but said nothing more on the subject. After all, neither Paulie nor I had any proof other than circumstantial evidence that the Essex team was working through their list to eliminate the cast members.
The so-called wedding was short, mostly because neither Paulie nor I understood the Russian spoken by the person Roger had found to pretend to officiate, but I had to admit that it was an oddly touching ceremony nonetheless. Paulie looked more beautiful than I thought possible in a dress of purple with a fussy bit over the top, her eyes almost luminous when she stood next to me at the great arched windows that overlooked the hotel’s garden.
“Your responses to all the questions are ‘da,’ which is basically you saying yes,” Roger had told us before the cameras started filming. “I’m told it’s not strictly the proper response, but since this wedding isn’t real, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Not in the least,” I told him. A thought occurred to me, and I asked Paulie, “Do you speak Russian?”
“Only a few swearwords. Dad said I was American, so I needed to learn English, not Russian.” She shrugged. “I only speak a little French and German.”
“I have to say I wish you had a little Russian under your belt, because I’m afraid the only words I know are the ones I read in the phrase book flying to New York.”
“Eh. We’ll be OK. I have an electronic translator thingie on my phone, and part of the fun of an adventure is to overcome obstacles, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, and took her hand. Tucked away in my pocket was a ring Paulie had worn, since there was no time to go shopping for one. She held a small bouquet of white and blue flowers and smiled at me throughout the ceremony.
Oddly reflective, I took stock of my life at that moment. There I was, a glorified accountant for my brother’s estate, standing in the middle of a country far removed from my roots, holding the hand of a woman whose shining spirit filled me not just with happiness, but with a sense of rightness that I’d never experienced.
I decided I was getting sentimental over a faux wedding, and took my emotions in a firm hand.
“Right,” Roger said, consulting his watch once the filming had stopped and Paulie and I had been pronounced reality TV husband and wife. “We have just enough time for a wedding breakfast, and then we’ll have the official setoff at noon. I believe the hotel has managed to pull together a meal for us . . .”
We followed him into another room where a group of round tables had been set up. The Esses were already there, perusing the dishes that servers were setting up. Other servers were quickly putting down place settings and arranging wineglasses.
“No wine!” Roger said sternly, and, with the interpreter in tow, herded the server who was wheeling out a cart filled with bottles back toward the kitchen.
“I feel like I should be toasting you, or at least giving a speech, since I was the best man,” Max said, lifting his water glass at Paulie and me. “But since the cameras are off, and time is at a premium, I’ll just say good racing.”
“Good racing,” everyone murmured.
There wasn’t a lot of conversation after that—I suspect people were tired from the long flight, but also nervous.
I glanced at Paulie, next to me. She was pushing her food around, not eating any of it, but moving it around on the plate in artistic mounds.
“Not hungry?” I asked her.
“No.” She bit her lower lip, making me instantly want to kiss her. Dammit, since when had I allowed my self-control to slip in that way? “To be honest, I’m a bit jumpy.”
“Frightened?”
“No, more . . . I don’t know. Nervy, I guess. I feel like my skin is about to twitch with irritation.”
“I’m a bit on edge myself.” I pushed back my plate. There was some sort of seafood stew, which I hadn’t partaken of due to a shellfish allergy, as well as a quiche and a beet dish that was tasty despite its appearance. “I think it’s the combination of our first day of out-and-out racing and the disasters of the last couple of days.”
Her glance slid over to where the Essex team sat, but she said nothing, just nodded and pushed her food around into a different arrangement.
An hour later, we were assembled in the parking lot, listening while Roger went over the course of the race from this point out.
“Naturally, we can’t cover three cars with two camera crews, although I will say that it is quite a bit easier filming the three of you than the original seven.”
Sam was filming Roger while he spoke, but spun around to catch Paulie and me. Behind Sam, Tabby, holding the big boom microphone, gestured toward her face while she smiled widely. Obediently, I put a smile on my face and my arm around Paulie. She shot me a startled look.
“As you all know, this is where the race truly becomes a race,” Roger continued. “Henceforth, there are no time checks, no speed limits that you must adhere to—other than those of the countries you’ll pass through—and most importantly there is no starting and stopping time. That said, I will remind you that you all signed a statement guaranteeing that you will not drive more than eighteen hours in a single day. While I know you all want to win, we don’t want anyone else being injured.”
“Urgh.”
Beyond Paulie, Melody stood with Max and Tessa. There was a distinctively unpleasant cast to Melody’s face, an expression that just got worse when she wrapped her arms around herself.
“You are also bound to follow the route set down by the race officials. You should reach the northern oblast city of Petropavlovsk this afternoon. If you wish to push on to Kurgan, you will be well inside the borders of Siberia. Following that, you will proceed through Yekaterinburg, Izhevsk, Novgorod, and Moscow. After that, you leave Russia behind and travel through Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Germany, the Czech Republic, Switzerland, and of course France. This follows much of the route of the 1908 race, which of course will thrill our viewers.”
Paulie’s fingers bit into my arm. I raised my eyebrows at her, mouthing, “Scared?” at her.
“Are you kidding?” she whispered. “I’m so excited, I could scream. I feel just like Nellie Bly!”
“Erp.”
We both turned to look at Melody.
“You OK?” Paulie asked her.
“I think something I ate didn’t agree with me,” Melody answered back.
“You can sleep in the backseat while Dixon and I drive,” Paulie told her. She nodded, but didn’t look in the least bit enthusiastic.
I cast a worried eye over Melody. She was looking worse, if that was possible, a light sheen of perspiration now glistening on her upper lip.
“Naturally, we expect good sportsmanship to be the credo that you live by, at least during the race.” Roger chuckled at his own joke. No one else so much as smiled. “It’s up to you whether or not you wish to take pity on a fellow racer on the side of the road with a blowout, but keep in mind that the cameras will be filming those adversities over other, more mundane possibilities.”
“What’s the matter?” Max leaned to the side and looked worriedly at his daughter. “You look as green as a frog.”
“I feel green.” Melody moaned, clutching herself tighter.
“As mentioned in the itinerary, the support vehicles—that is, my car and the two cars with the camera crews—will be changed at each border. But fear not—the GPS trackers on your cars will allow us to quickly locate you and catch up for filming purposes.”
Melody swayed and put her hand over her mouth. She was sweating profusely now, and both Tess and Max had moved next to her, murmuring questions and suggestions of treatment.
Roger consulted a clipboard. “I believe that’s it. You all know the rules, and I know you will adhere faithfully to them while providing exciting scenarios for our viewers. Remember: you don’t race just for your own satisfaction, but for the millions of people who will be cheering you on over the other racers.”
Everyone other than the Essex team and Roger were now watching Melody with worried glances.
“I believe that’s all I have. Good luck, stay safe, and remember to save your interesting bits of conversation for the cameras! Are there any questions?”
Melody swayed again, staggered forward a couple of feet, and vomited all over Roger’s shoes.
He looked up while she was still retching, doubled over with her hands on her knees. He pinned Tessa back with a look that should, by rights, have stripped the hair from her head. “You told her to do that, didn’t you? You told her how you spewed all over my shoes the first day we met, and she decided to duplicate that event, didn’t she?”
“Of course not. Don’t be stupid,” Tessa snapped, and rushed forward with Max. “She’s sick! She has food poisoning!”
Melody wretched several times more, then collapsed, her face drained of all color and her flesh moist and clammy.
Paulie offered her services as someone who’d had numerous first aid courses, but there wasn’t much she could do other than suggest that Melody see a doctor. After an urgent discussion with the translator and the hotel people, Max finally arranged for medical aid to check Melody out. They took her away to the hospital a short while later.
Max and Tessa followed the ambulance in Roger’s car, while one of the production assistants drove the Ducal car after them.
“You come with us,” Roger yelled from the passenger seat of the car, gesturing at the second film team. “Tabby and Sam can go with the other two. I just hope to hell that they don’t get too far ahead, or Max and Tessa will never catch up . . .”
Ah. Paulie is done with her bath. I’ll finish up another time.