contest, it was still capable of making a positive impression. The beige convertible hood was practically new.
As the days passed and Sunday July 9 got closer and closer, Yvonne showed ever-increasing signs of nervousness. She knocked over glasses, she couldn’t sit still, she spoke harshly to the dog. And in return he would give her a look both merciful and mild.
Meinthe and I tried to reassure her. Competing for the Cup would certainly be less demanding than making the movie. Five little minutes. A few steps in front of the jury. Nothing else. And, should she lose, the consolation of knowing that among all the contestants, she was the only one who’d already acted in a film. A professional, in a way.
We ought not to be unprepared, Meinthe opined, and he proposed a dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon, on a wide,shaded avenue behind the Alhambra Hotel. I sat on a garden chair and represented the jury. The Dodge slowly moved forward. Yvonne fixed her lips in a strained smile. Meinthe drove with his right hand. The dog turned his back to them and remained immobile, like a figurehead on a ship.
Meinthe pulled up directly in front of me and, bracing his left hand on the car door, sprang vigorously over it. He landed elegantly, legs together, back straight. He dipped his head, sketching a bow, walked around the Dodge with neat little steps, and deftly opened Yvonne’s door. She got out, holding the dog tightly by the collar, and took a few timid steps. The Great Dane cast his eyes down. They got back in the car, and Meinthe leaped over the driver’s door again, regaining his post behind the wheel. I admired his agility.
He was determined to repeat this act in front of the jury. Couldn’t wait to see the look on Doudou Hendrickx’s face.
The evening before, Yvonne wanted to drink champagne. Then she slept restlessly. She was the little girl on the day of the school pageant, almost in tears before stepping up onto the stage.
Meinthe had made a morning appointment with us: in the lobby, ten o’clock sharp. The Cup was scheduled to begin at noon, but he needed some time beforehand to see to certain details: general inspection of the Dodge, various instructions for Yvonne, and maybe also some stretching exercises.
He insisted on being present at Yvonne’s final preparations. When she hesitated between a fuchsia turban and abig straw hat, he cut her off impatiently: “The turban, my dear, the turban.” She’d chosen a white linen coat dress. Meinthe was wearing a sand-colored shantung suit. I’ve got a good memory for clothes.
We went out into the sun, Yvonne, Meinthe, the dog, and I. I’ve never known such a July morning, either before or since. A light breeze stirred the big flag flying from the top of a mast in front of the hotel. Blue and gold. What country’s colors were those?
We coasted down Boulevard Carabacel.
The other contestants’ cars were already parked on both sides of the very wide drive that led to the Sporting Club. Upon hearing their names and numbers called out over a loudspeaker, the couples had to present themselves at once before the members of the jury, who were installed on the restaurant terrace. As the drive ended in a rotary below them, they would be looking down on the proceedings.
Meinthe had ordered me to place myself as close as possible to the jury and to observe the competition for the Cup in meticulous detail. I was to pay particular attention to Doudou Hendrickx’s face when Meinthe performed his acrobatic routine. If necessary, I could jot down some notes.
We sat in the Dodge and waited. Yvonne virtually glued her forehead to the rearview mirror and checked her makeup. Meinthe had donned some strange steel-rimmed sunglasses and was patting his chin and temples with his handkerchief. I stroked the dog, who turned upon each of us, one by one, a look of desolation. We were parked alongside a tennis court where four players — two men and two women — were engaged in a
As the days passed and Sunday July 9 got closer and closer, Yvonne showed ever-increasing signs of nervousness. She knocked over glasses, she couldn’t sit still, she spoke harshly to the dog. And in return he would give her a look both merciful and mild.
Meinthe and I tried to reassure her. Competing for the Cup would certainly be less demanding than making the movie. Five little minutes. A few steps in front of the jury. Nothing else. And, should she lose, the consolation of knowing that among all the contestants, she was the only one who’d already acted in a film. A professional, in a way.
We ought not to be unprepared, Meinthe opined, and he proposed a dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon, on a wide,shaded avenue behind the Alhambra Hotel. I sat on a garden chair and represented the jury. The Dodge slowly moved forward. Yvonne fixed her lips in a strained smile. Meinthe drove with his right hand. The dog turned his back to them and remained immobile, like a figurehead on a ship.
Meinthe pulled up directly in front of me and, bracing his left hand on the car door, sprang vigorously over it. He landed elegantly, legs together, back straight. He dipped his head, sketching a bow, walked around the Dodge with neat little steps, and deftly opened Yvonne’s door. She got out, holding the dog tightly by the collar, and took a few timid steps. The Great Dane cast his eyes down. They got back in the car, and Meinthe leaped over the driver’s door again, regaining his post behind the wheel. I admired his agility.
He was determined to repeat this act in front of the jury. Couldn’t wait to see the look on Doudou Hendrickx’s face.
The evening before, Yvonne wanted to drink champagne. Then she slept restlessly. She was the little girl on the day of the school pageant, almost in tears before stepping up onto the stage.
Meinthe had made a morning appointment with us: in the lobby, ten o’clock sharp. The Cup was scheduled to begin at noon, but he needed some time beforehand to see to certain details: general inspection of the Dodge, various instructions for Yvonne, and maybe also some stretching exercises.
He insisted on being present at Yvonne’s final preparations. When she hesitated between a fuchsia turban and abig straw hat, he cut her off impatiently: “The turban, my dear, the turban.” She’d chosen a white linen coat dress. Meinthe was wearing a sand-colored shantung suit. I’ve got a good memory for clothes.
We went out into the sun, Yvonne, Meinthe, the dog, and I. I’ve never known such a July morning, either before or since. A light breeze stirred the big flag flying from the top of a mast in front of the hotel. Blue and gold. What country’s colors were those?
We coasted down Boulevard Carabacel.
The other contestants’ cars were already parked on both sides of the very wide drive that led to the Sporting Club. Upon hearing their names and numbers called out over a loudspeaker, the couples had to present themselves at once before the members of the jury, who were installed on the restaurant terrace. As the drive ended in a rotary below them, they would be looking down on the proceedings.
Meinthe had ordered me to place myself as close as possible to the jury and to observe the competition for the Cup in meticulous detail. I was to pay particular attention to Doudou Hendrickx’s face when Meinthe performed his acrobatic routine. If necessary, I could jot down some notes.
We sat in the Dodge and waited. Yvonne virtually glued her forehead to the rearview mirror and checked her makeup. Meinthe had donned some strange steel-rimmed sunglasses and was patting his chin and temples with his handkerchief. I stroked the dog, who turned upon each of us, one by one, a look of desolation. We were parked alongside a tennis court where four players — two men and two women — were engaged in a
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