Goldengirl

The eight finalists for the 200 metres slipped into the arena at five-fifteen, while a men’s track final was in progress. They walked as a group toward the start on the far side of the field, carrying their sports bags, not speaking, nor attempting communication, insulated from each other by the need to focus the mind. No group at all, really: eight lonely girls with eight dreams.

Dryden watched the limbering-up through his field glasses, calisthenics interspersed with frenetic bursts of running, apparently improvised, but familiar from earlier rounds as fixed, elaborate rituals. Krüll went in for repeated knee-raising, hopping and jumping in series, while Goldine favored lying and sitting exercises followed by short, swift dashes along the turf.

The starter ordered them to prepare.

They peeled off superfluous layers under the inspection of the TV cameras and moved onto the track.

When the crowd became quiet and the runners flexed from the hunkered position to the forward tilt ordered by ‘Gotovo,’ Dryden’s field glasses focused not on Goldine, but Ursula Krüll. That Cassandra-like pronouncement of Melody’s — ‘This isn’t the crunch’ — had nagged at his brain, refusing to be subdued. Melody had always fatalistically accepted what Dryden had only dared by degrees to consider as a possibility: that Goldine would win her three gold medals. In Melody’s mind the Games were a bore, a formality to be got through. Dryden had never been confident enough to think like that; each heat was a hazard, each final an ordeal. He had never projected his thoughts beyond Moscow in the way Melody had, because so much hinged on the achieving of those three victories. Now, two short races from realization, it came to him with paralyzing clarity what this was really going to achieve. He saw what Melody had seen from the start, and he recoiled. Goldine was poised to win her second gold, and if she beat Krüll now, the third would surely follow.

A defeat would sacrifice a fortune, undo the work of weeks, but what was the alternative?

Goldengirl.

He saw her as Melody had always seen her. Saw a monster. Saw himself.

He wanted Krüll to win.

The gun fired and they were moving, Krüll on the inner lane, Goldine out in 4, but Dryden kept the glasses on the German. She had got a smooth start and was running the bend, angled over the white curb, stride measured to take the strain without loss of power. Each time the back leg straightened, sharp lines defined the muscle tissue of thigh and calf, but it was unforced movement. He could see the soft side of her face ripple, her chest bob with the rhythm.

And she was overtaking other runners. Through the glasses he saw her reach and pass the Cuban girl in lane 2. Others successively came back to her as the bend unwound and the inequality of the staggered start was corrected. An Australian with the diagonal green stripe. Muratova, overstriding. The crowd roared its support, but Krüll went past.

Into the extreme right of Dryden’s field of vision, level with Krüll’s track shoes, came a blur of gold, the airborne mass of Goldine’s hair. She was about a metre and a half clear, and because she was several lanes closer to the glasses it looked as if Krüll’s shoes were reaching out to claw the shimmering hair. They were reaching it. Sheer strength was bringing the German level.

Ursula, come on!

The finish line couldn’t be far away, and the blue of East Germany was edging ahead. Angles can be deceptive, but at the moment they passed level with the glasses, Krüll was decisively coming through. Her arms reached up in triumph as she crossed the line.

But this anticipation of success was miscalculated. Sensing victory in the last strides, she had imperceptibly eased. Goldine had galvanised, forced herself into contention again, and dipped for the tape. There was no question that she had won.

‘Two up,’ said Melody indifferently. ‘Or two down, depending on your point of view.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Dryden. He hadn’t said a word to Melody about his support for Krüll.

‘Down.’ She held out a hand toward the finish area. ‘Prostrate. Flat on the grass. Got it?’

Both girls were supine after their efforts, lying almost side by side, gasping to reclaim the oxygen, indifferent to the clamour around them.

The result was posted before they were on their feet.

200 METER FINAL

1 SERAFIN USA 21.88 NWR

2 KRÜLL GDR 21.89

3 MURATOVA URS 22.45

‘World record!’ said Melody. ‘How about that?’

‘Who cares?’ said Dryden.

Melody simply raised her eyebrows.

Between the Finals of the 200 and 400 metres was a half-hour interval. When Goldine sat up and learned she had set a new world record, it pleased her, but she wasn’t surprised. It had felt fast, and she had expected to run inside twenty-two seconds to defeat Ursula Krüll. She glanced across at the German, got to her feet and held out her hand to help her up.

‘Come on. One more to go.’