Black Diamond

ground. In the millisecond before his face plowed into the earth he felt as if he’d been hit by a train, and then he felt nothing at all.
    He didn’t lose consciousness, but he was still dazed when the sponge came, and then suddenly it disappeared. Blinking and groggy he rolled and saw Jules had abandoned the sponge and was running to separate Pons and Lespinasse. Pons was down on his back and bleeding from his nose, and Lespinasse was standing over him and roaring, “You little prick, you did that on purpose. You were clear, you bastard, and you gave Bruno a suicide pass. What kind of shit are you?”
    It certainly felt like a suicide pass to Bruno. Pons had deliberately passed him the ball just as the two young opponents were in range to hit him, and Pons had been in the open with only one player to beat and another team member outside him. Bruno felt too disoriented to think about blaming Pons or anybody else and felt only that the world had become a cruel and hurtful place. He coughed and spat out blood. His teeth still seemed to be in place. Gingerly, he moved his legs and arms, and they seemed to work. Jules came back with the sponge, and Bruno rolled to one side and was sick.
    “You’ll be okay,” Jules said, looking carefully into his eyes. “Did you lose consciousness?”
    “I don’t think so,” Bruno said. “Not really. I’m okay.”
    “We’d be down to thirteen men if you leave the pitch,” Jules said. “The ref sent Lespinasse off. He should have sent that little shit Pons for pulling that trick.”
    “How much longer to play?” Bruno asked.
    “About twelve, fifteen minutes, plus injury time. Mostly yours.”
    “Help me up.” Bruno limped to his feet and stood, swaying. The ref came across and took Bruno’s face between his hands and looked searchingly at Bruno’s eyes.
    “Have you been concussed?”
    Bruno shook his head. It hurt. “No,” he said. “I can play.”
    “Just as well because you’re two men down already,” the ref said. “Your teammate’s taken himself off with that nosebleed.”
    He looked to the sideline where Lespinasse stood glowering beside the trainer as Pons limped off the pitch. Both men ignored him. A cheer came from the crowd as Bruno forced himself to trot back to his teammates. He heard a woman’s voice calling his name. He turned, and Pamela was waving at him, and then beckoning him urgently to leave the pitch. He shook his head. Stéphane patted him gently on the back, and then lined up to restart the game. Bruno bent down not knowing whether he’d be able to get up again.
    The mud was now so thick that there was no difference between the dark blue shirts of the oldsters and the light blue of the younger men. It was all mud, and the ball was a sodden, slippery mass, too elusive to hold. The mud sticking to their boots, the older men were almost too tired to move. The youngsters had taken charge.
    Bruno glanced over and saw Pons at the sideline. He was fresh from the shower, with his Chinese chef, Minxin, beside him holding a tray with a bottle of champagne and four flutes. There was no sign of the nieces. Pons poured out the glasses and offered one to Pamela and the other to Fabiola. The two women waved the glasses away, their eyes intent on the pitch. Bruno barely heard the whistle as Pierrot kicked off and the old men lumbered grimly forward once again.
    At last the final whistle went, the game ending in a draw, thirty-five all. As the players all lined up to shake hands,Stéphane said, “Bruno, I’m going to ram that champagne bottle up Pons’s ass. And if this town’s crazy enough to elect him I’ll shoot him before he sets foot in the
mairie.
”
    They limped off to the showers, the youngsters still fresh enough to trot ahead, whooping that they would take all the hot water. That suited Bruno fine. Cold water was probably what he needed. He ignored Pons and the glass of Pol Roger he offered and stopped in front of Pamela.
    “Didn’t you see me waving for you to come off?” she said, handing him her champagne, which she had now accepted. He nodded, almost too tired to speak, but he emptied the glass.
    “The game was almost over,” he said. “I was okay.”
    “You played well,” she said, and leaned forward to kiss him. “I don’t know the game, but I could see that.”
    “Hold on a moment,” said Fabiola. She put her hands to his head, regardless of the mud, and lifted his eyelids. She looked searchingly into his eyes and