The Dance of The Cat and The Owl

Chapter 1

~~~

I wasn't quite twenty years old. I was tired of living in a small town. I was tired of the desert. I was tired of the mountains that ringed the high valley around town like so many disapproving relatives. I wanted to do something. After months of lobbying my family and writing letters, I'd convinced my family I should move to New York City and get a job there. I collected some samples of my work and packed a suitcase. Then, in the fall of 1970, I got on a plane to New York. That part was simple.

I got to New York and, as many people do, got lost in the crowd. I didn't get the job I thought I would, which left me with decisions I didn't want to make. I was staying at the Young Women's Hebrew Association, not the most likely place for a Presbyterian girl, when I was invited to a party. I knew no one there, not even the girl who'd invited me. So I sat in a corner, nursing a warm beer, staring at the wallpaper, wondering what I should do next.

Two French men in the crowd noticed the empty space on the couch and sat down next to me. I said hello.

Their English was dreadful. My French was non-existent. My Spanish was bordertown Mexican slang, their Spanish was proper Castilian and we really couldn't understand each other. We pantomimed a conversation for the next hour. Then they pantomimed an invitation to go elsewhere. I'd finished the beer and had a glass of wine, which someone had topped off with whiskey. I wasn't very sober but they didn't seem threatening so I shrugged and went with them.

Jean Marc, Pierre, and I went down four flights of stairs to the street and walked three blocks to a small restaurant. We were seated at a small table, covered with a white tablecloth, in the middle of the room where I was introduced to Henri and French cuisine.

Henri spoke English. The food was so good I didn't care what language it spoke. That this was the first decent meal I'd had in several weeks probably influenced my perception.

Mandy, what brings you to New York? You do not seem to have the accent of one of the locals.

I came to New York looking for a job. I didn't get the job. I'm not sure what I'm going to do next.

Admirably blunt. Henri apparently translated this information to Jean Marc and Pierre. There was a sigh and nod.

What brings Jean Marc and Pierre to New York?

They were supposed to meet someone. He did not show up. They now have some concerns about their employment.

This was vague, but not necessarily criminal. What business are they in?

Grand Prix racing. They are in the crew of one of the teams.

Grand Prix? Is that like the Indianapolis and Watkins Glen races or am I thinking of the right kind of cars?

Eyebrows arched. I wasn't sure if I'd said something totally wrong or marginally correct.

You know about Grand Prix? There was confusion in Henri's voice.

Yeah, I've watched more than a few car races. I've thought it might be fun to drive something that went that fast.

There was a short conversation in French. I caught one word, I think.

Are there any other girls in your family?

Sisters? No.

Do you race?

Only when the police aren't looking. The family car doesn't go all that fast and the local cops are sort of casual about speeding if you're outside the city limits.

There was an animated conversation, but as I didn't understand any of it I sipped wine and nibbled on bread while I waited. This was much better wine than the Boone's Farm served at the party. The conversation continued and became more heated. I drank more wine. Then I think I passed out.

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, alone, fully dressed except for my shoes. It wasn't the YWHA, this was a real hotel, and it was morning.

I stumbled out of bed, looking for the bathroom, and promptly tripped, landing against the bedroom door with a bang. I heard voices on the other side of the door, excited French voices. The door swung out, away from me, and I fell the rest of the way to the floor.

Mandy! I didn't catch the rest of what was said.

Pierre and Jean Marc fussed and fretted as they picked me off the floor and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Henri was nowhere to be seen.

After breakfast, with real food, not just cold coffee and stale Danish, Jean Marc and Pierre escorted me back to the Young Women's Hebrew Association dorm so I could change. Then we drove out of the city. We arrived at a racetrack. A couple of old cars sat in a building at the side of the track.

As we got out of the rental car a large man, gray and weathered as an elephant, came over, scanned me from head to toe, and walked away. When he came back he had a cigar stuffed in the corner of his mouth and some clothing slung over his shoulder. Here. Go put these on. He thrust a wad of clothing at me, Take off your jeans and all first. Dressing room is over there.

I wandered over to the dressing room. It took me longer than it should have to get out of my jeans and into the jump suit.

Hey, girlie, you get lost in there? There was more than one voice joining the laughter. What size helmet you wear?

I don't know. I stepped out of the dressing room in an ill-fitting jump suit feeling like I'd been caught trying on my father's clothes.

The man pulled a tape measure from a pocket and wrapped it around my head. He grunted and walked away. Ted, we got anything in a small?

He returned with a helmet in his hand. Then he walked around me, checking the fit of my garments. He got to my back, Girlie, this ain't gonna work. All that hair is a fire hazard and the hood ain't that long. You've either got to wrap that hair up under the helmet or tuck it inside your suit.

My hair was waist-length and I was in the habit of pulling it back at the nape of neck and tying it with piece of yarn. I had, of course, put on the jump suit and pulled my hair free to hang down my back.

I looked at the hood in my hand. It was like a ski mask, it would cover your face and head except for the eyes. I freed my hair from the yarn, bent over, curled my hair on top of my head, and pulled on the hood.

Ted, better find me a medium helmet.

Next, I was fitted for gloves and shoes. Everything seemed to be made of wool and none of the colors matched, I had blue gloves, red shoes, a green helmet, and an orange suit. None of it was new.

After I was suited up, Pierre wandered in to see how I was doing. I was embarrassed to realize the big man, George, was fluent in French. There was some joking, I didn't want to know about what, while Pierre checked me out. Then I was led out to the track.

This was when the reality of what I'd agreed to started to sink in. I was led out to one of the cars I'd noticed earlier. It was, as such things go, ratty looking. Most race cars only last for a season or two before being rebuilt or replaced. At the very least the cars are repainted each season to reflect any changes in sponsorship. This one was several years old and looked every day of it.

A Formula One car doesn't look like the family sedan. It's built for speed. This means it has four tires, a large engine, and enough body to hold it together and support a driver. There's a tiny windshield, no doors, and no roof. The driver sits with his back to the engine and his feet between the front wheels.

I was stuffed into the car and shown how to shift it, how to start it, and how to stop it. Then I was told to take it around the track a few times at low speed before trying to set any speed records. I nearly laughed out loud at the thought of setting speed records. I'd be lucky enough to make it around the track in one piece.

The engine started with a roar. The noise you hear on television is nothing compared to what you experience while sitting with your back against the engine as the sound rumbles through your bones.

I eased out of the pit and laid rubber in dashes across the pit. I did the first lap at an idling speed of about 60 miles per hour. I gradually increased the speed as I found I could steer the car without wrenching my shoulders.

The car ran out of fuel at the far side of the track after I don't know how may laps. When the guys arrived to rescue me, I was laughing. I'd never had so much fun.

The men sounded excited. It was George who asked, Mandy? Girlie, are you okay?

Yeah, I'm fine. I was just so, so... Thrilled? Was that the right word?

Come on Mandy, out of the car. Since you ran out of gas, we've got to push the car back to the pit and we could use your help.

That was, undoubtedly, an outright lie. George, Pierre, and Jean Marc could have pushed the car around the track three times without a problem. I'm sure George could have done at least two laps on his own without breaking a sweat. I think they just wanted to make a point to poor, dumb, blonde, little me. So I helped push the car back to the pit.

~~~

Chapter 2

~~~

Everyone was quiet on the long trip back to the city. I was still on cloud nine. After getting the car back to the pit, it was refueled, and I drove more laps. Jean Marc and Pierre had been discussing something in undertones ever since we got the car back to the pit. I suspected I was the subject of some of the discussion.

Despite the note Henri had left for me, explaining how the Grand Prix team was looking for a new driver, I didn't really understand why Jean Marc and Pierre would consider me. There had been a candidate, but he'd backed out without explanation. Maybe they were just exceptionally desperate.

When I got back to the YWHA I went up to my room and collapsed. I don't remember having dinner.

In the morning one of the other girls shook me awake. Mandy, you have a call. Mandy, wake up!

Okay. Okay. I'm awake already.

Phone call for you. He sounds nice, who is he?

I've no idea. Who did he say he was? As I rolled out of bed my muscles screamed. It felt as if someone had run a meat hook across my back before stabbing me, several times, with a pitchfork.

Well, he didn't. Marcie wasn't the brightest light on the hall. He sounded sort of French. You know?

Sort of French. Probably Marcie hadn't asked for a name. But if he spoke English, then it must be Henri as he was the only Frenchman I knew who spoke enough English to get through to Marcie. I hauled myself out of bed and down the hall to the phone. Hello?

Mandy, I'm sorry to get you out of bed. Yes, it was Henri. Jean Marc and Pierre were here last night, they want to make you an offer.

I was groggy and not particularly coherent. Offer of what?

Of employment, of course. Mais oui. They were impressed yesterday.

Impressed?

They haven't met any other rookie drivers who drove so well. They want you to go to France, become a Grand Prix driver on their team.

Yeah, and my mother has green hair. Henri, please be serious, it's too early in the morning for jokes.

Mandy, I am serious. If you will meet me at the restaurant for lunch, I will give you the contract.

I made arrangements to meet Henri though, honestly, I didn't believe him. I hoped I wasn't as naive as I must seem.

I met Henri and looked at the contract, in French, and at the English translation. I looked at Henri. Okay. How do I know this translation actually says the same thing as the contract in French?

Henri was crushed. I understand, Mandy. Please take both copies to someone who knows both languages. Personally, I would prefer you take them to a lawyer, but that is me. I will not recommend a person to you as you might feel the person was biased.

I agreed with Henri's reasoning. It just left me with the problem of finding someone sufficiently fluent in both English and French to explain the contract to me.

I left the restaurant and located a phone booth that still had a phone book in it and searched under all the entries I could think of that might fit my requirements. I finally settled on the French Consulate.

The woman I talked with was polite as she set up an appointment for me with one of the consulate attorneys. The appointment was in two hours. I took a few minutes to read the English version of the contract.

Monsieur Vrai was polite, formal, and efficient. He read both documents. He laid them side-by-side and compared them line-by-line. Then he looked at me, Mademoiselle, what do you wish to know about this contract?

First, is the English version the same as the French version, legally that is?

Yes, the two contracts are the same in the legal sense. The wording is slightly different because of the languages, but the meaning is essentially the same.

I understand I am being offered employment with a French concern.

"Oui. You are offered a position with the Team Lamont, a Grand Prix race team. Specifically, you are offered a position as a driver, a trainee."

Monsieur Vrai and I went on in this manner for two hours. I asked the most specific questions I could think of. He answered in his most precise legalese.

I went back to the restaurant and found Henri as he readied things for dinner.

Okay. What do I need to sign? What do I need to do to get there?

Wonderful! He gave me a hug. I will call Georges tonight and let him know.

Georges?

Georges Lamont. He is the team owner. Jean Marc and Pierre work for him.

You mean they left already?

Yes. They had the contract ready, it was only a matter of filling in the name. If you didn't accept, they would look again in Europe.

I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or insulted. I ignored it instead.

I spent most of the evening at the restaurant, sitting in a corner of the kitchen, filling out papers. I finally finished and staggered back to the Y and bed. In all it took two months for me to get a passport, a work visa, a plane ticket, and a haircut.

While waiting for all the paperwork to be completed, I started exercising. Henri had been insistent. Since I'd spent much of my life avoiding unnecessary exercise, this wasn't an easy thing. Next I found someone who would help me learn French. When I had nothing else planned I wandered the streets of New York and did what touristy things I could. But mostly I just waited.

When the paperwork was complete, when I had the work visa in hand, I called a travel agent for a one-way ticket to Paris.

~~~

Chapter 3

~~~

The plane landed in Paris at midnight. There was a man waiting to meet me at the gate.

Angel Guzman, who made George look small, spoke Spanish, Basque, and French. He even understood my Spanish leaving me with hopes of being able to communicate with at least one member of Team Lamont.

By the time I got my bags, got through customs, was found by Angel, and got to his car it was nearly three in the morning. By the time we got to the house I could barely stand. Angel tucked my bags under one arm, me under the other, and walked into the house.

Once again, I found myself alone, fully clothed, and not at all sure where I was when I woke up. Someone was pounding at the door.

Mandy? Are you awake? The woman's voice had a British accent.

Yeah, I think so.

The door opened and a not-quite-young face topped with bright red hair popped around the corner. Hey luv, it's time for you to get moving. The boys are waiting. Get your sleepy self out of bed! She came into the room to drag me out of bed.

Okay, okay, I'm coming! What time is it?

It's almost eight. Come on now luv, you need to get moving or the boys will leave for the track without you. She was entirely too cheerful.

I hauled myself out of bed. I'm sorry, I didn't get your name.

I'm Peg, keeper of lost souls for Team Lamont. The loo is down the hall on your left. Better be quick though, the boys will leave if you aren't ready in ten minutes.

I wandered down the hall to splash water in my face. Then I wandered back to the room and put on clean clothes while I braced myself for my first day in France.

As I walked into the kitchen someone handed me a cup of coffee and a chunk of bread slathered with what looked to be orange marmalade. I gazed in wonder at what I held in my hands as I was dragged out the door. The coffee sloshed dangerously as I was stuffed into the back seat of a car between two men I didn't know.

The drive was short but proceeded at breakneck speed anyway. We pulled into a lot and everyone piled out with as little ceremony as they'd climbed in. I managed one or two sips of coffee before being dragged out of the car.

I was herded across the parking lot, through a gate, across a field, and past some buildings. As we passed behind a barrier at the side of the parking lot I was turned over to a woman a few years older than myself.

Amanda Walker?

Yes.

I am Giselle Armound. You will come. She promptly turned around and started off with the rapid click of high heels.

I did my best to keep up, without spilling coffee or dropping bread. I caught up with Giselle as she came to a halt in front of a desk. I don't think she realized how close she came to wearing marmalade and coffee on her silk jacket that morning.

Giselle indicated a man at the desk, Monsieur Lamont, and then she left.

I stood there, dumbstruck, cup of coffee in one hand and bread in the other.

Mademoiselle Walker?

Yes.

Georges Lamont at your service. He stood and offered me a seat. I'm afraid we have not allowed you sufficient sleep after your journey. Please sit. Pierre and Jean Marc have said much about you. Henri has also told me about you. I am hopeful you will live up to their fine words.

The now-cold coffee burned all the way down my throat and through the pit of my stomach.

We will get you fitted for driving today. Then we will have you try out a Team Lamont car, to see if you do as well as you did in New York. You can stay at Madame Suchet's until we leave for the tour. He sat on the edge of his desk and watched me for a moment. You are quiet.

I'm sorry monsieur. I'm still not sure I believe I'm here or that you want me to drive one of your cars. I do hope I live up to your expectations.

Monsieur Lamont smiled. Giselle, take Mademoiselle Walker to Phillipe to be fitted.

Once again I followed the tap of high heels, bright red that morning, down a hall and around several corners. Giselle indicated I should wait while she hunted for Phillipe in the back room. Several minutes later a small, wiry man with a Galouise cigarette stuck between his lips appeared in front of me. He scanned me up and down, circled a couple of times, stood close enough for me to choke on the fumes of his cigarette, then left without having said a word.

Fifteen minutes later he reappeared. Phillipe shoved a wad of fabric into my hands and disappeared again. I put down the coffee cup and examined what I had.

It looked to be two sets of woolen long-johns, one jump-suit in a dove gray with royal blue lightning patterns, one balaclava in the same dove gray, two pairs of socks, and a pair of what looked like glove-liners. Phillipe returned with three helmets for me to try on and a pair of gloves to go over the liners.

While I fought with the helmets Phillipe indicated he wanted one of my sneakers. It took me a minute to realize he wanted to know what size shoe I needed.

Once he was convinced everything was of a proper size, he sent me down the hall to change. I returned with my street clothes in hand because I had no idea what else to do with them. Phillipe looked confused. In my halting French I tried to explain, there were lockers in the changing room but they were all locked. I finally resorted to pantomime to make my point.

Phillipe's reply was to grab me by the hand, drag me back to the changing room, and show me the combination for an unused locker. He gave me a final check before slapping the helmet on my head and pointing me at a door.

I emerged from the warmth of the building into an area called the paddock. Since this was a permanent track, shared by a number of teams in different motor sports, the track enclosed a park-like field. There were buildings outside the circle of the track, within the paddock, near the bleachers of the stadium. Inside the track were a few small trees and a barren area that might be grass come summer. Right now, in February, the field was covered with dead grass, ice, and patches of snow. Around both sides of the track were concrete barriers, to keep vehicles away from spectators. There were two pit areas, where drivers brought vehicles for refueling and tire changes during races, along the outside of the track and another on the inside of the track. When I stepped out of the building I could hear the roar of an engine as a car passed by.

The car was gray and blue, a Team Lamont vehicle.

As I stood watching the car start around for another lap I was grabbed by the shoulder and dragged toward a shed housing a cannibalized vehicle. In some time past it might have been a Formula One car, now it was a body, on blocks, without an engine. It did still have a seat, steering wheel, and pedals. I was directed to get in.

As I slide into the cockpit someone tightened the harness around me. A second person checked the fit of the harness and made sure my helmet fit against the seat properly. A brace was positioned around my neck, limiting my movement. Then someone, possibly the first person, it's very difficult to tell people apart once they're suited up, stood and looked at me.

Instruction started as someone pointed out the gearshift and drew a pattern in the air, Une, deux, trois...

To indicate I understood at least part of what I was said, I pushed in the clutch and started through the gears, Premier, deuxieme, troisieme...

Bon! There was real excitement in the man's voice.

I began to realize everyone thought I spoke no French so the little bit of French I knew seemed impressive.

I spent the rest of the morning shifting gears on order. The clutch was so stiff I needed both feet to get it fully engaged. The steering, though not connected to tires and ground, wasn't much easier. And it was cold sitting in the shade in that shell of a car.

At lunchtime I was helped out of the car. Even with two sets of long johns and two pairs of socks under my jumpsuit I was stiff. Lunch was served in one of the building. There was bread, wine, cheese, and lots of nice, hot food.

I couldn't find Jean Marc or Pierre and didn't know anyone else. I just grabbed an empty chair and sat down. There was a handsome, dark-haired man already at the table. I was so hungry I ignored him and started eating. He, in turn, stopped eating to stare at me. Politely, I hoped, I asked him to pass me the butter. He put down his glass of wine and leaned towards me as he continued to stare. I repeated my request.

Hey, Pierre! I thought you said this one was American.

I turned to look in the direction the man was facing to see what might have been the top of Pierre's head.

Yes. She is American. Why? Pierre sounded confused.

You said she didn't speak French. But, she sounds sort of, maybe Russian? And though she doesn't sound American she eats like one. So what is she?

While I didn't understand all of what he said, my face burned and I wanted to hide as everyone in the room turned in my direction.

Pierre stood up and called over, Mandy, did you learn French?

I learned a little. I heard people make comments as I gripped the chair to keep myself from diving under the table in embarrassment.

The man across from me smiled. Well, Mandy, if you are going to learn French properly, you might as well learn to eat like a French woman. He set a glass of wine in front of me as he moved my coffee cup out of reach, My name is Yves. If you drink the wine you may forget about your embarrassment.

I drank the wine, while wishing for my cup of hot coffee, and finished the rest of my lunch. Yves finished his lunch as he tested my knowledge of French and corrected my table manners.

After lunch I sat inside and learned about flag signals instead of sifting gears.

Flags are used to signal drivers during a race because they're colorful and don't require a driver to hear anything over the sound of the engine. Perhaps most important, flags can be used while people stand safely behind the barrier at trackside.

After a long session of flag reading I was taken out and harnessed into a car with an engine. I was told to drive around the track slowly and bring it into the pit when signaled. Bringing a car into the pit safely is critical. There are generally twenty, or more, men in the pit waiting to change tires, fill the fuel tank, and do other minor service. Bringing a car to a safe stop, at the right place, from race speeds takes practice.

I drove around the track at a sedate 60 miles an hour watching for the flag. Then I brought the car into the pit to stop. The crew moved up to the car as if to perform service, backed away a few seconds later, and signaled me to start another lap. Though not as bad as shifting gears for three hours, it was tedious.

It was getting dark and people were ready to go home. I was in the car, in the pit, waiting for someone to help me out of the car.

Pierre signaled me to open my helmet. Mandy, how would you like to take the car out full speed? Do a few laps like in New York. Or are you too tired?

Full speed? Not slow?

Pierre nodded.

I'm ready.

The tank was refilled and I started the engine. The signal flag dropped and I took off. In New York I'd done a couple of slow laps before getting up to race speed. This time I just floored it on the first lap and held it down until I was flagged in.

It was late when Angel pulled me out of the car. I couldn't seem to stand up on my own so he carried me into the locker room and helped me get my shoes, gloves, and helmet off. I managed to get myself back into my jeans and sneakers. I even got back into the car under my own power before I fell asleep on the shoulder of the man next to me.

~~~

Chapter 4

~~~

Okay, this waking up in bed fully clothed, not knowing how I'd gotten there was getting to be a habit. Peg was shaking me. Knocking on the door had been insufficient.

Hey, luv, wake up! Get your running shoes on, the boys are waiting!

I opened an eye far enough to realize it was still dark out, Peg, what time is it?

Time for you to go for a morning run with the boys. Now, out of bed! With which admonition she pulled me out and onto the floor.

I struggled to my feet, my left leg was so sore I could barely stand, and went down the hall to the loo. Peg brought me a sweatshirt and my sneakers so I could dress without losing more time.

The four men from my carpool, Eric, Paul, Robert, and Laurent, were waiting. One of them slapped me on the back as we started out the door and down the street.

Paris is a lovely city, on a warm, sunny day in spring. On a cold, windy, dreary February morning before sunrise in a light rain, Paris isn't any more inviting than the backside of a crazed mule.

The men started down the street at a brisk trot. I followed along as best I could, which meant I quickly fell behind. I just wasn't in any condition to run for more than twenty feet at a stretch.

About a mile into this wonderful experience, I reached the point where I couldn't breathe. I stopped in the middle of the street, bent double, gasping for air.

Robert came back, looking for me. The men had gotten several blocks ahead before they realized I was missing and Robert had been elected to find me.

I leaned heavily on Robert as he led me back to Peg Suchet. Eric, Paul, and Laurent waited for us in the kitchen. There were expressions of concern as Peg hauled me down the hall to the bathroom. Her ministrations included Vick's VapoRub under my nose, a cold washcloth on my forehead, and a glass of warm water she'd only let me sip. It took a half hour for my breathing to stabilize.

Peg collected dry clothes from my suitcase while I sponged off some of the sweat. I succeeded in getting dressed before wandering out to the kitchen to apologize for my lack of conditioning. Before I could say anything I was once again handed a cup of coffee and a slice of bread with jam and dragged to the car.

We got to the track and repeated the day before. I spent the morning in the car without an engine, shifting gears and steering across non-existent pavement. Yves joined me for lunch and grilled me on my French and my manners. The afternoon was more flags and some instruction on getting out of the car in case of emergency.

Late in the afternoon I was again allowed the treat of taking a car out on the track and pushing it as hard as I could.

I'd arrived in Paris on a Tuesday morning. I repeated the run in the early morning, the day at the track, and the collapse in the evening, through Saturday. My body was exhausted and my brain felt bruised. I was learning a new language, a new culture, and a new job all at the same time. I was about ready to call it quits and go home.

Sunday morning arrived with Peg shaking me awake again. Hey, luv, time to get your sleepy self up! How could she be so cheerful in the morning?

Peg, it's Sunday, I thought we had the day off.

Sure you do luv. Just as soon as you get yourself properly dressed and attend church. You do have a dress don't you?

Church? I'm supposed to go to church? Peg, I haven't set foot in my own church in three years!

Mandy, luv, in this business you need all the blessings you can get, no matter what priest does the blessing. Go get yourself cleaned up and dressed for church, now.

I didn't have a dress. I did have a skirt, and a presentable sweater, which appeased Peg only slightly. She was even less impressed with my dress shoes but at least they weren't sneakers.

The six of us walked to the local parish church, a small stone structure with a small cemetery and a large oak tree in the yard. There were two priests sharing duties for the parish, one close to retirement and one recently out of seminary. As mass was read, partly in French and partly in Latin, I watched a bird trying to peck its way through a window.

After mass we all went to a restaurant for lunch. So far it had been the most relaxed day I'd spent in Paris. Then Peg told the men to go on their way while she took me shopping.

My mother had always objected to my wardrobe as unfeminine and sloppy. I saw my choices as comfortable, easy to care for, and inexpensive. Mom had tried to get me to buy clothes from my Aunt Candace's dress shop, but I resisted. Candace always looked stylish and polished, the envy of many women in town, I just couldn't imagine spending that much time getting dressed every day. Anyway, dresses weren't popular at school.

Peg was now determined to provide me with some article of clothing more feminine, more appropriate for church, than anything I'd worn since my mother stopped dressing me. It was an uphill battle. Not the least of the problem was my lack of money. I'd left for New York in September. By the time I met Jean Marc and Pierre in November I was almost broke and ready to go home. The offer of employment and subsequent delay had consumed even more of my cash. Though my folks had wired me money before I left New York, I didn't have a lot of cash and I didn't have a bank account with reserves to draw on.

Instead of going to a nice store to look for a dress, Peg and I wound up back at the church, in the basement, checking to see what hand-me-downs might fit. Peg thought I should get the pink cotton shirtdress with full skirt and round collar. I preferred the brown wool skirt and orange print blouse. I took both outfits. I also got a pair of low-heeled pumps that weren't too badly worn.

On our way out we almost ran down the older priest. No, that's incorrect, I nearly ran over the poor man as I turned a corner. I tried to apologize, but my French didn't stretch that far. Peg stepped forward.

Madame Suchet! How are you? He reached around me to embrace Peg, And this is one of your nieces, Madame?

No, Father Mahy. This is a new employee of Team Lamont. I brought her for mass and to get some new clothes.

I see. And how is Monsieur Suchet?

No change I'm afraid.

For some reason, I'd never thought to ask Peg about her husband. I'd assumed I'd simply missed meeting him. The look of concern on the priest's face and the tone of his voice indicated there was something wrong with Peg's husband.

He is still in hospital then?

Yes.

I will go by to see him this afternoon then. Take care my child and bless you both.

As the old priest walked past us I looked at Peg, I'm sorry, I didn't know. Is it serious? Is there anything I can to do help?

Peg patted my arm, Don't worry luv. Charles has been in hospital for months. The only way he'll probably get out is in a coffin. I've known since I took him in that this would probably be the last time. Her voice trailed off as she looked across the cemetery.

I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say, so I gave her a hug.

There were tears in Peg's eyes as she gave me directions back to the house. I walked back alone to drop off my new clothes. Then I walked around the block looking for a pay phone.

With my crazy schedule, I hadn't yet called home to say I'd arrived in one piece. All I needed to do was find a phone and figure out how to place a collect call from France.

~~~

Chapter 5

~~~

Monday morning started with another attempt, on my part, at going for a run. I did get a few feet further this time.

Classes on shifting, steering, and emergency responses continued. In an emergency there was no time to think, reactions had to be instinctive. One way to do this was instruction on top of instruction until the brain was too tired to object.

After lunch, Peg took me to the bank. Because of the length of the Formula One tour, pay was generally deposited directly in a person's bank. Many people arranged for bills to be paid by their bank.

Because of the nature of the business I was entering, the banker, Monsieur Pelletier, insisted I draw up a will. At twenty you don't think much about dying, so this caught me off guard. The banker was adamant. I objected. Peg was adamant. I objected. They both sat and stared at me. I gave in and specified my heirs in the event of my death. I also specified who to contact in case I became incapacitated.

Monsieur Pelletier then insisted a portion of my salary be put into savings and investments. Considering how little I was being paid I didn't think I'd have anything extra to invest. The banker didn't even bother to answer my objections as he filled in the blanks on the form.

He shoved the paper across the desk for my signature. I read through the numbers and shoved the paper back. No. Twenty-five percent of my salary is too much. I have to eat.

Monsieur Pelletier simply turned the page around and shoved it back for my signature. I, personally, invest 35 percent of my salary. Then he simply sat and stared, waiting for a signature.

I looked to Peg for help but she avoided me.

If the investments return... money. I didn't know the French word for dividend. What is done with that money? Is it made available to me?

Monsieur Pelletier sat back in surprise, No. The money is, naturally, re-invested to make more money for you. I guess my frustration showed. However, if you have need of funds, you would be allowed to withdraw money at specified intervals. And there is also the savings account, which is fully liquid.

I looked at the numbers on the page again. I thought of the tiny salary I was being paid. I picked up the pen and looked at the numbers again. I looked at the banker. I signed the papers.

I was given an assortment of phone numbers, account numbers, and names, to contact at the bank to have money wired to me. Since the account held the minimum necessary, and future deposits were uncertain, I was unable to get a credit card. Checks wouldn't be ready before the tour started and might be delayed further because I didn't have an address in France, not even a post office box.

While I was there, I arranged for a safety deposit box for my few items of value.

By the time everything was taken care of, the afternoon was shot. Peg took me to a local cafe and bought both of us coffee.

*****

Friday morning was different. Things were being packed up. The drivers were in Monsieur Lamont's office instead of on the track. Giselle's high heels could be heard tapping a machine-gun staccato from one part of the office to another as she directed men on what was and wasn't to be loaded for shipment.

Pierre, as lead of the pit crew, was in the thick of things. I wanted to ask what was going on, but couldn't get his attention. I finally located Jean Marc, sitting in a corner, checking boxes of spark plugs.

Jean Marc, what's going on? Why is everything being packed up?

Good morning, Mandy. Relax, sit down, keep me company for a while.

I sat down on a worn out tire. But what's going on?

We leave Sunday for tour. It takes a couple of days to pack up everything we'll need. Uniforms, cars, parts, people. I'm not sure which is the harder to get on the plane.

Jean Marc's utter calm was infectious. This chaos repeats itself every year?

It repeats itself at the end of every race, when we get ready to go to the next course.

And how often is that? I don't remember the schedule.

Eleven races. We do this, he waved his hand toward the chaos, at least twelve times this year.

I watched as Jean Marc moved from checking spark plugs to checking cables. Is there anything I should be doing to help?

That would be wonderful. Here's a list of the parts. Why don't you take this page and see what you can find?

I spent the rest of Friday and most of Saturday locating parts, separating used from new, marking the actual count of parts on the boxes, and gossiping with Jean Marc.

Saturday night three cars, several dozen uniforms, and probably a couple of tons of parts were loaded on a chartered plane. Sunday morning drivers, pit crew, mechanics, masseur, owner, medic, engineers, and a few family members got on the plane for Johannesburg, South Africa.

The switch from winter to summer was extreme. It had been snowing when we left Paris. It was hot and dry when we landed in Johannesburg. Flowers were in bloom and birds chirped in the warm sunshine. I developed a nasty cold within twenty-four hours of landing.

Team Lamont arrived almost three weeks before the scheduled race. Georges Lamont had tossed a coin and decided to chance the expense of an extra week in a hotel in Johannesburg against the possibility of the track in Paris being iced over. Two of the British teams had made a similar calculation and were already there.

Giselle had made most of the hotel reservations months ago, before I was hired. It was customary to put two or three of the men in one room to save money. Now they had to figure out where to put me. Georges took a count of all the females on the plane. Most were wives. Three were young daughters of team members.

I would have preferred sleeping in the utility closet, I might have gotten more sleep, but I wasn't offered the choice. Instead I was put in a room with two of the daughters. The older girl was five.

In the morning Robert pounded on the door. I got dressed for the run just as I had in Paris, jeans, sweatshirt, and tennis shoes. Though it was six o'clock in the morning I nearly melted before completing the first block. Once again the guys left me in the middle of the street gasping for breath. The walk back seemed to last an eternity.

The hotel doorman eyed me with concern. I sat down, too hard, on the sidewalk to gather strength for the walk through the lobby to the elevator. I was still gasping, like a fish out of water.

I hadn't been there long when a man came out of the hotel. He began yelling at the doorman. Get that tramp away from the door you fool! You know it's bad for business to have trash like that sitting in front of the hotel! Get it out of here!

But sir, is a hotel guest.

Rubbish! Now get it out of here!

I considered turning to watch the scene but didn't have the energy. I saw Eric, Robert, Paul, and Laurent returning from their run. They were half a block away.

I heard angry footsteps crossing the pavement as a voice muttered, Stupid kaffir. If you're not going to get rid of the trash, I will.

But sir, she with the French men.

A hand clamped around my upper arm and dragged me to my feet. Well, I don't want any French whores in the hotel either!

A familiar voice thundered from the entryway behind me, Amanda! What is going on here?

Monsieur Lamont, they think... this man is trying to throw me out. He thinks I'm a whore. Now that I was vertical my legs could almost hold me up.

The hotel man let go of me as suddenly as he'd grabbed me. Mr. Lamont, you know this girl?

Mademoiselle Walker is a member of my team. I expect her to be shown the same courtesies you extend to the rest of my team. Monsieur Lamont's anger would have been less potent had his voice not been so quiet.

By this time Robert was on one side of me, Paul on the other, with Eric and Laurent standing behind me in case I fell their way. With five, apparently angry, French men facing him the hotel official backed down.

I'm sorry Mr. Lamont. I had no idea this girl was on your team. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything in way of apology? He was beginning to understand the team would not be staying at his hotel next year.

Monsieur Lamont looked at Robert, The bus will be here in twenty minutes. Get yourselves back here in time. And see what you can do for Amanda.

I was escorted to my room to get cleaned up. When Paul pounded at my door a few minutes later Angel stood behind him, a pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of orange juice in the other. I was handed a mug and asked to pick a beverage to start with. Then we went downstairs for the trip to the track. The large quantities of coffee and orange juice I drank on the way to the track had no discernible effect on my cold.

With multiple teams sharing the same track things became more complicated. Efforts were made to schedule drivers for certain times in hopes of avoiding accidents. Senior drivers had priority. Being at the bottom of the list, I was the very last to get on the track.

I passed the day with my usual training routine though stuffed-up sinuses made my eyes water. Lifting weights was sheer torture. And all the while the sun shone and the birds chirped and the flowers nodded in a light breeze. I wanted to shoot the birds and stomp on the flowers, I just lacked the energy.

My turn to do laps finally arrived. I was strapped into the car and sent out to practice. I made the first five laps in good time. Then something terrible happened. I sneezed. With both hands on the wheel, and a full face mask on my helmet, there was nothing I could do to stop the sneeze. For a split second my eyes were off the track as my body recoiled. When I looked up the outside barrier of the track was only a few feet away from my front wheel. I yanked the wheel and skimmed by the barrier with a couple of inches to spare.

Yanking the wheel of a car going 130 miles an hour is not the best idea in the world. Within a second or less I was away from the outside barrier and well on my way to hitting the inside barrier. Naturally, I leaned on the wheel the other way and found myself spinning across the track like a top.

Once you lose control of a speeding car there's not a fool thing anyone can do for you. Either you recover from the problem or you say your prayers and hope your guardian angel is paying attention. Those few seconds felt like hours. I finally regained control and limped back toward the pit at a sedate 80 miles an hour.

Whoever had the flag was waving it violently. Pierre signaled me to cut the engine and open my helmet. I was still shaking as I shut off the car.

A screaming, red-faced, Monsieur Lamont was next to the car almost before it stopped. I didn't hear a word until I took off my helmet.

Amanda Walker! What do you think you were doing? Why did you lose control of the car? What were you doing? Monsieur Lamont's face began to purple.

I sneezed.

You are sick? Who let you drive? He turned on Pierre, How could you let her drive if she has a cold? You know better than that, especially with a new driver.

Pierre screamed back, She didn't say she was sick! She didn't look sick! If she doesn't say anything, how am I to know?

The argument continued for another ten minutes. Monsieur Lamont screamed at me, he screamed at Pierre, Pierre screamed back, and I sat in the car and sank further and further into the cockpit while I tried to stay out of the fight. Finally Pierre went one way and Monsieur Lamont went another, both still muttering under their breath.

Yves helped me out of the car, My dear Mandy, I see I have more to teach you. You should have told Pierre you had a cold, then he could decide if you should drive. And you have upset Monsieur Lamont. You did not talk back as you should have.

I was supposed to talk back? At home that would get me in even more trouble.

We are French. We get excited. We yell and scream at one another. It's over. We're friends again. This English reserve, it's... it is not easy to understand.

Yves, at home, if you yell at someone, it's because you're angry with them. Just yelling to yell? I don't know. I had doubts I would ever be able to overcome that particular reflex.

Yves shook his head, Now you need to get cleaned up for dinner.

Helmet in hand I walked back to the locker room. Since I was the only female using the locker room, this took coordination. I was generally the last person into the dressing area in the morning and the first one in the evening. Since I'd been delayed, I sat in the hall and waited for the men to finish.

Finally, it was my turn and I started to undress. When I tried to unzip my jumpsuit, I screamed. My hands worked, my fingers were fine, even the elbows flexed correctly, but I could not lift my arms. Any attempt to lift them set off searing pain across my shoulders down to my elbows. I banged my head against the locker door and screamed.

Everyone within earshot came running. I continued to scream and cry as I tried to explain what was wrong. There were sounds of sympathy and comprehension. Someone pushed me down to sit on the bench. Someone else cleared the room. I was left in the locker room with the masseur and the medic.

Miss Mandy, it would appear you have torn some muscle in your shoulders. This condition, while it is very painful, generally heals quickly. The medic, Marcel L'Enfant, had signed on for a season before completing his medical degree. It appeared I would be his first case of the season.

How was I able to get my helmet off earlier and now I can't even unzip my suit?

It's like the people who run on broken legs. The adrenaline in your body hid the pain for a while. Now the adrenaline has worn off and the pain has begun. I will go get some medicine for the pain. Guillaume will help you get undressed and showered.

Guillaume was the team masseur. He was maybe sixty, gray haired and jovial. He reminded me of a clean-shaven Santa Claus, but I wasn't convinced I wanted him to undress me. We stared at one another for a couple of minutes after Marcel left. Then I saw the corner of Guillaume's mouth twitch upward.

Will it help if I promise not to look?

The tension and pain ganged up on me. Tears and laughter combined, after all, I really didn't have a choice.

Guillaume managed to get me cleaned up before Marcel returned with the pain killers. While Marcel checked my shoulders Guillaume massaged my arms. Then Marcel checked my forehead.

Miss Mandy, the next time, don't pound your head so hard. You are going to have a colorful bruise on your forehead. It does not suit you.

Maybe I should try some makeup.

No, I don't think that will help. Maybe, just brush your hair forward?

They were still trying to cheer me up as they escorted me out of the locker room. Then Marcel went to report to Monsieur Lamont and Guillaume turned me over to Pierre. I expected a scolding. Instead Pierre wrapped an arm around my shoulders and walked me out to the bus while discussing plans for dinner.

Jean Marc and Angel took turns feeding me at dinner. The food was excellent but I was too embarrassed to feed my growling stomach.

Jean Marc sat next to me on the way back to the hotel, Mandy, you didn't eat much tonight. That is not good.

I feel so helpless and useless, not to mention frustrated and humiliated.

A broken leg, a broken arm, a torn muscle, all cause problems. We've all been through something like this. It's nothing to be embarrassed about.

I still wasn't sure, I still felt like a useless idiot, but it made me feel a little better.

Pain pills combined with the wine from dinner to make me drowsy. I slept through the chattering of two little girls and Robert's pounding on the door for the morning run. It was almost noon when I awoke.

I awoke with two little girls on the bed next to me. One of them held a bright red lipstick, the other held an equally bright, green eyeshadow. My face felt strange. Their giggles told me I should be concerned. I tried to smile and shoo them off the bed but my arms weren't working and my face was stiff. My attempt to sit up was blocked by a large makeup case positioned on my belly.

A voice came from the adjoining room, Madeline! Suzette! Where are you? Madeline! Suzette! It's time for lunch. High heels tapped on the hardwood floor as the woman came closer. Madeline! The gasp could have been heard three rooms over. Madeline! Suzette! What have you done? My makeup!

The children were swept off the bed as the woman collected her makeup. As she lifted the case off my midsection I sat up. Her scream was deafening as the makeup case flew over her shoulder and across the room.

I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you!

The woman backed across the room clutching her chest. I did not see you. What... what have the children done? Your face! Oh, no. That will be hard to get off. Oh dear. Face cream. Do you have face cream, for cleaning?

No, I don't. I don't often wear makeup. I stood in front of the mirror. An interesting effect isn't it?

My eyes were rimmed with three different shades of lipstick, one cheek was coated with blue eyeshadow while the other was adorned with multiple shades of green eyeshadow. The bruise on my forehead was decorated with mascara and cream blusher. My lips were coated with something white and my hair had been twisted into spikes with the aid of hand lotion, then wrapped with rubber bands and highlighted with red nail polish. It might have been an undercoating of facial mask that made my face feel stiff. While my face would be easy to clean, the nail polish would have to be cut out of my hair.

Would you please help me clean this off? I injured my shoulders yesterday and am having trouble washing my face.

Yes. Of course.

Madame Deudon spent the next hour helping me get the makeup off my face and the nail polish out of my hair. I looked almost presentable when she finished.

Christine Deudon was the wife of Team Lamont's senior driver, Charles. She'd heard all about Georges' crazy notion of having a woman drive Grand Prix, she just hadn't realized it was the new driver who'd been bunked with her daughters.

I accepted Christine's offer of lunch and an afternoon of window shopping.

I watched her with interest as we moved from shop to shop. She commanded attention without making a fuss. She simply assumed someone was there to assist her and help magically appeared. Christine Deudon was beautiful, dignified, well dressed, and charming. I had never met anyone like Madame Deudon before.

~~~

Chapter 6

~~~

The next day I ran with the guys. From somewhere deep in the stacks of uniforms Phillipe found some running shorts that almost fit me. I probably still looked like a tramp, I definitely still had a cold and couldn't keep up with the guys, but at least the shorts were more comfortable.

Pierre wouldn't let me get in a car to drive until I stopped sneezing and my shoulders healed. My arms were useless for lifting weights. So I was surprised when the trainer pulled me into the gym and put me on the weight machine.

Jean Luc simply stated, Nothing wrong with your legs, so we'll work your legs.

We worked my legs until they felt like over-cooked spaghetti. Jean Luc graciously allowed me to break for lunch when the growl from my stomach drowned out his commands.

After lunch I investigated the paddock before returning to Jean Luc. More teams had arrived to prepare for the first race of the season. Two more British teams were there, one with sleek, black machines the other with antiseptic, white cars.

As I wandered around outside the track, watching the seasoned drivers do their laps, I ran into someone. We both wound up splayed on the ground. I thrashed around on the ground like a fish because I couldn't seem to get my feet under me. The man reached down and offered his hand.

Merci. I'd not spoken English with anyone for three weeks and had begun