Horse Heaven (88 page)

Of course the horse was a great galloper—that was his trump card, his ace in the hole, his bottom line, his safety net, his genius—but as a devotee of dressage, what Joy most appreciated was his trot. Limitless balanced himself between the rider and the earth, his diagonal pairs of long legs springing him upward and forward, the delicate ovals of his four hooves only tapping the ground. From ears to tail, his spine was supple and open. Joy knew this in her own spine—she had twisted and lifted a bag on the plane and stiffened herself up. As soon as she rode Limitless the first time, the looseness of his back had loosened hers. His mouth and his tail were the indicators. His mouth carried exactly the weight of the bit, a few ounces, his tailbone flowed out of his spine, then curved gracefully downward, and the breeze picked up the silken hairs and completed their metamophosis into effortless motion. Crouched just over his heart, she posted a light allegro 4/4 rhythm, her hands carrying only the
weight of the reins. His trot was never a containment, always an expansion. Each time it was new. She thought she remembered it, but because it was so pure and uncontaminated by any wiggling or failures in rhythm, it was not rememberable. She had had a dressage teacher once who had told her something impossible, that he could feel the horse’s every breath. But with Limitless, now, there were times when she could feel not only his every breath but his every heartbeat, at least at the trot, when his heart rate would have risen from its usual forty beats to something like sixty or seventy. When Farley flagged her down and told her that was enough for today, she said, “Oh. How long have we been trotting around?”

“About forty minutes. The horse looked so good I didn’t stop you. He—”

“Did we actually move around the course?”

“Sure. You started here, went over there and then there, and now you’re back here.”

“Limitless would be a great, great dressage horse.” And now her feet were on the ground again, and here was Mr. T., standing with his ears pricked, taking it all in. Rafael took Joy’s saddle off Limitless and put it on the white horse, and Farley said, “Go ahead, stretch his legs a little bit. See what he remembers. Everyone here is eating out of Rosalind’s hand. You can do whatever you want. The colt looked good. Tomorrow and Saturday he can gallop a little; then, the morning of the race, he can rest a bit.”

And he tossed her onto the big horse. An image came into her head of a pigeon flying into the coop, home at last. The feel of Mr. T.’s familiar walk replaced the vanished sensation of Limitless’s vast trot. Her hips swayed back and forth, her pelvis rocked gently. She stilled it. He halted. She relaxed. He walked on. In front of her, his long white neck ended in his tapered white ears, now pricked with interest. There were a few other horses about, probably other foreign animals, from England or Ireland or Germany. There was the huge crème-colored grandstand by the finish line, there were white fences threading the turf, and there was the turf itself, as brilliant under the overcast sky as if the sun were within it, shining out green. That was a beautiful word, Joy thought, “turf,” a word full of thickness and moisture and nourishment and color. Of course Mr. T. wanted to come back here. A horse removed from turf, his natural bed, his preferred food, his earliest playground, must certainly be the definition of exile. She urged him into a trot, but instead he began to canter, and rather than rein him in, she let him go forward. He did what she thought he would do, easy canter on a loose rein, ta-dum, ta-dum, ta-dum, the three waltzing beats of a creature who had nothing to flee or to seek. He had won at Santa Anita and she had ridden him there, but riding him here, where he had won his stakes races, was much more delicious, put her in mind of the host of
others who had galloped and raced here for two hundred years, thousands of horses, all related to one another, all incarnations of the same invisible force, each one the center of a tempest of speculation and conversation, but each one silent and mysterious. Everyone acted now as if through Elizabeth they knew the royal road to Mr. T.’s unconscious, but in the best of circumstances, everything she said would only be an approximation, and so he, too, whatever the success of his betting system (“The proof is in the pudding” was what Mr. Tompkins always said as he plunked down quite large sums at the betting windows and sent Plato to pick up quite larger ones at the payout windows), was still only what each of them made of him. Joy supposed that what Mr. Tompkins made of him was just another facet of his own money-magnetism. What Froney’s Sis had made of him was a large, steadying presence. What Farley made of him was the reassurance that what he did as a trainer was harmless and even of some value. What Plato made of him was the model of all the orderly forces of the architectural and dynamic universe. What Joy made of him was simple innocence and love, a horse to ride into the world upon, though the world frightened and dismayed her, a beloved and reassuring large presence. But what did Mr. T. make of himself? She had to admit she would never know. What had he told Elizabeth once? That he was a horse, not a prophet. And a horse needed to graze the rich turf with some equine friends, stroll leisurely from spot to spot, find some shade during the middle of the day.

He gave up his canter and came down to a trot, then a walk. Then he stopped and rubbed his nose on his knee, sighed, and moved off at the walk, once again pricking his ears, looking around. Perhaps, Joy thought, this would be the last time she would ever ride him. If he wished to stay behind after they left, his wish would be granted by Rosalind. The horse sighed. Joy sighed. She saw that everyone, including her own better self, expected her to leave him behind.

“N
OW
,”
SAID
F
ARLEY
to Roberto, “they haven’t had rain so far this week, and there’s no rain predicted for tonight. Longchamp is
always
deep and holding for the Arc, but it isn’t this year.” They were way out on the course, near the starting gate, so far away from the grandstand that it looked compact, like the bull’s-eye of a target. Farley walked toward the right-hand rail, the inside rail in France, and drove his heel into the turf. Roberto came along behind him. Roberto was still a little sleepy, and having a hard time listening. Farley said, “Don’t be surprised if the horses are bunched right around you. European races tend to be more tightly bunched at the beginning.”

“He hates that,” said Roberto. “He’s gonna trot if he has to, to let them get ahead of him.”

“That would be very unorthodox,” said Farley. “Don’t let him do that.”

“I was joking, boss.”

“This is new to me, Roberto. I’ve thought about this race for thirty years, and watched it five or six times, but being out here, this is new to me. The fact that the turf is as firm as a California turf course is in our favor. The fact that they’re going to bunch very tightly on the turn is not in our favor.”

“You know, boss, I think about this over and over, but I don’t have anything to think. You shoulda got Stevens or McCarron or someone like that.”

“Bottom line, Roberto? Stay on him, keep going, and see what he wants to do.”

“I know how to do that, boss.”

E
ILEEN CRAWLED OUT
from under the covers. Rosalind was already up, sitting at a little table. Not far from her were Eileen’s little dishes, one full of kibble, the other full of water. It was nice to know they were there, but not an issue of great urgency. Eileen jumped down off the bed, and spent some time stretching and yawning, pointing her back toes one at a time, especially flexing and extending her hips, stretching and curling that essential canine muscle, her useful tongue. When she tightened her little tail, she could always feel it there, much longer than it really was. That was the one lasting riddle of Eileen’s life, where the rest of it had gone. Ah, well. Now she stood foursquare and regarded Rosalind. She had to admit that Rosalind looked good lately, as good as any dog you could name. Her fur was glossy, her eyes were bright, her blood coursed robustly through her flesh (something Eileen, as a predator, was quite sensitive to). Her flesh itself was warm and soft. Eileen recognized that, too. There had been a down period, a period of what had seemed to Eileen to be a sort of chill. During that period, a dog could nestle into Rosalind all she wanted and never warm up. Why else had she barked at Rosalind in those days? Wake up, fix this, I don’t like it. Now, though, you could wake up panting in the middle of the night just from lying next to Rosalind, inside the covers or out.

“Time to get up,” said Rosalind.

Had the woman not noticed that she was up?

“I thought Al would be here by now.” There was a sigh.

Al. Here. Eileen had thought he was gone for good. She had thought, in fact, that they were pretending to be looking for him, the way you pretend to
look for a tennis ball, rather than really looking for him, the way that you look for a rat down a hole, and that, after going through the motions for some length of time that only Rosalind would know, they would end that activity and go home and do something else.

Rosalind picked up the phone and said, “Ah, bonjour, monsieur. S’il vous plaît, je veux téléphoner un restaurant par le nom Pré Catalan. Ah, merci.” She patted her lap and smiled, and Eileen went over and jumped into it. Rosalind rolled her over and tickled her on her stomach. Then she said some things about their plans for later in the day. Wherever they were, Eileen liked it. There were dogs everywhere, little, interesting dogs with many many opinions that had to be corrected by her, Eileen, and there was no getting into bags or crates or being ashamed of oneself as a dog. Wherever it was they were, dogs were held in high esteem here. Rosalind said, “You need to go out. I’m almost ready.” But they waited, still, and Rosalind looked several times at her arm, and got up several times and went to the window. Eileen came to feel that lifting her leg on the foot of the radiator was very tempting.

Eileen investigated her kibble, but what need of it was there? Here, she had noted with satisfaction, dogs sat on chairs at tables and ate from spoons, and what they got was not kibble by any stretch of the imagination. “Okay,” said Rosalind, at last.

They went out the door, into the elevator, out of the elevator. Eileen knew at once that there were several dogs in the lobby, but she pretended not to notice them for the moment, only puffed herself out a bit and lifted her head. Rosalind said to the man across the desk, “I expected Mr. Maybrick early this morning, and I can’t wait for him any longer. I have to get out to Longchamp. Please be sure he gets my note when he arrives.”

“Of course, madame.”

“Merci.” Still she lingered, and then they walked out into dog heaven.

R
OSALIND HAD NEVER SEEN
such a crowd for a horse race. Cars, cabs, vans, buses already congesting the arteries and side streets of the whole west end of Paris, as if every citoyen were deserting the ville for the bois. Buses had plates on them from every country in Europe, and metropolitan buses were frequent and teeming as well. She snapped Eileen’s leash on her collar, but then carried her anyway—there were too many feet. You could not say the weather was good—dry but overcast, as it had been since their arrival. It was good weather for having lots of pensées, and Rosalind had been having her share. She had not really gotten into any sort of exuberant or even light-hearted
mood yet, though she had spent two pleasant evenings with Farley and Joy and the others, as well as some artists and artists’ agents she knew. She had eaten well, passed time at the Pompidou Center, had her hair cut, and bought some underwear that cost as much as outerwear. She could not even say what her pensées consisted of, and the others seemed subdued, too. But she went from activity to activity, not in the state of merry pleasure that she had expected when she came up with this idea, but in a state of suspension. This food was all very well, this wine was excellent, these paintings were first-class, but they were not reaching her, and so it was with the crowds at Longchamp. They streamed past her and gathered around her and fragmented and streamed away, and were apart from her in more than just their conversations in a language she did not understand well. Perhaps it was simple. Perhaps she missed Al.

Certainly, she had made the wrong plan for meeting him. Thoughtlessly, she had brought along the pass that would get him into the owners’ enclosure. If she went in there with it, then he would not be able to get in there himself. She should have left it at the hotel, but she hadn’t been sure he would go to the hotel if he were really late. Now, standing among the regular patrons of the track, she saw that it would be astounding if he found her. She made her way over to the walking ring, which was built like a theater in the round. Tiers and tiers of staring faces looked down upon the horses they were just bringing out for the first race, and the horses looked like alien beings, as they always did if the crowd was very big. There were a lot of horses in the first race—twenty or something like that. Rosalind picked out the winner at once—number seven, brown, two white hind fetlocks. Her powers had modified themselves recently. Instead of bestowing wishes, she now seemed to recognize those upon whom wishes had already been bestowed. It was something of a relief. She scanned the tiers of faces, but Al’s wasn’t among them.

By the fourth race, she had given up looking for him, and decided that, if there was finding to be done, it was Al who would have to do it. In this state of suspension, the looking was exhausting her, and anyway she wanted to see the horse and Farley and the others and be taken into the enclosure of privilege and given a glass of wine and a warm greeting. Eileen, who did not like the crowd at all, shivered against her, and that reminded Rosalind that it was cold here. The other dogs had coats on, which made Eileen look even more like a barbarian than she was. No doubt about it, even though she had been to Paris many times and felt quite at home there, Longchamp, where she had a horse running in the Arc, where she was about to take her rightful place at the privileged center, made her feel very Appletonian. Instead of watching the fourth
race, a sprint, she presented her pass, went through the gate and out the other side, toward the barn. Then she remembered never to assume anything, especially that Alexander P. Maybrick would not be able to enter any enclosure he might wish to enter, and that gave her a moment of hope, but when she got to Farley and Joy, they hadn’t seen him, either, and were surprised that he wasn’t with her.