A Three Day Event (12 page)

–
No. No. It’s me, I–I kissed him. I didn’t mean to. But he looked so–and I suddenly–and then I felt ashamed, so I have to know –

–
He’s not your brother. Whatever you feel, get over it. It’s over. It never happened. Do you understand?

–
Daddy, it wasn’t Polo’s fault –

–
I believe you. But it’s over.

There were gaps in the videotape after that. Polo had called. Morrie had seemed both distracted and agitated, but he had said nothing about Ruthie. She had been sent to her room. But she heard Morrie making phone calls for an hour. Then she heard his car pull out of the driveway, and when she woke the next morning he wasn’t there. He had come home in the late afternoon of the next day. Still in his tuxedo!

The videotape of that segment of her life was winding down, but something nibbled at her consciousness for the first time about that day.
Stop. Rewind. There
–
freeze frame.
Oh yes. Well, one mystery solved anyway. There she was, coming to from that fainting spell. There was Polo’s anxious face. And right there across the aisle was Nathalie, still just a girl, staring straight at Ruthie, and her eyes were glittering with pain.

* * *

Fran Briquemont, the Belgian Dressage trainer at Le Centre, had finished his morning assignments, and he was eager to go home to the hot, substantial lunch in the European mode that he and his wife Eva continued to favour even after all these years in Canada. However, it would have been unthinkable to leave without recording in his daily log the progress and/or setbacks he had experienced in the morning’s routine.

There were four young horses he was bringing along, all thoroughbreds off the track, all bought dirt cheap by Roch on spec. Race track rejects were–relatively speaking–a dime a dozen here, a continuing marvel to Fran, who found their quick, intelligent response to training a delightful contrast to the dense, plodding mind and physical heaviness of the European warmbloods he had always worked with in Germany. Some thoroughbreds you could have for the price of the dog meat they would otherwise become. (Fran also marvelled at the North American aversion to horsemeat as a cheaper, healthier alternative to beef for their own consumption).

Roch gave these youngsters to Fran to work with because it was understood that he was the only one with the patience and commitment to put in the thousands of hours necessary to set a proper base on them. If you wanted a well–made horse, one that was supple, balanced, obedient, happy in its work, with a mouth like silk and a readiness for the demands of high performance work, like Jumping or upper echelon Dressage, you had to put in the time. There was no other way.

Or rather there was one other way, much more expensive. You could go to Germany or Holland or Belgium where breeders, steeped in their trade’s proud history, ‘made’ their own young horses, separated the wheat from the chaff, and sold ‘the wheat’ at the astonishingly high prices North Americans were prepared to pay for this convenience.

And this was why the Jumper circuit in North America was overwhelmingly dominated by warmbloods. Of course the warmbloods were more naturally powerful than the thoroughbreds, they had bigger and better natural movement. For purely Dressage purposes they were without peer. But in Fran’s opinion, there was no reason why homebred thoroughbreds of high breeding, and trained properly in the old–fashioned ways, couldn’t use their superior speed, agility, endurance and intelligence to best the Jumper field more often.

He had seen thoroughbreds here that could stand up to any of the famous warmbloods for talent, scope and heart. He remembered one in particular from many years ago, recalled to mind when he met Mr. Jacobson’s friend, Polo. The Grand Panjandrum. And Fran remembered Polo, because he had admired the partnership of horse and rider at the time. A tactful, thinking rider, this Polo.

Fran had admired Polo’s skill afresh while watching him ride at
Le Centre
as well over the last two weeks. Polo had schooled Michel’s horses a few times when the younger man was busy, and he had also tried out some casual prospects Roch was musing over. A few times he had asked Fran for ground supervision and suggestions, which buoyed Fran’s morale. Jumper riders rarely asked a Dressage expert for advice. Polo was one of the few here who realized that extensive Dressage training was the basis for great jumping.

But try explaining that to most North Americans. Riders here,
arrivistes
so to speak, with no deep history in the sport, were impatient. They would grab any shortcut so they could be out competing faster. They ended up ruining their horses’ mouths with overuse of strong bits, or making them fearful, over–facing them with too–high jumps, or a hundred other offences against the First Principles of horsemanship laid down by Xenophon centuries ago and never really improved upon.

Fran sighed, thinking of the vast knowledge he had to impart, and the vast indifference with which most of it was greeted. He knew he was not an endearing or charismatic teacher. He was abrasive and uncompromising in his demands. The students here, soft, modern youngsters, resented this. But Fran himself found his methods normal.

Fran had been apprenticed in the military tradition of riding by the great
Reitmeisters,
Ernst Mueller, Karl Schickedanz and Bruno Weill. These riding masters were held in absolute awe, respected and feared by the apprenticing riders of Fran’s youth. No student would dare question or criticize them. Indeed no student would even speak at all during a lesson in those days. (Those who forgot were made to wear tape over their mouth during the next lesson). How very,
very
different from the students here.

But it was time to go home. He put away his journal with dispatch as he consulted the time. Punctual, disciplined and considerate of the trouble his wife Eva took to please him, he was rarely late. Today he had a gift, a piece of news, which would please Eva, and he drove through the quiet streets of Saint Armand with a heart less burdened than it had felt in months.

His lightened mood was dampened, of course, by what had happened to the stallion. That piece of news could wait for a more propitious moment. It would only unnerve her, and to no purpose.

He considered the crime. Ugly, ugly. But what could you expect in a barn left so temptingly open to intruders? Fran actually shook his head in wonder whenever he thought about the general naivete and trustingness of horse people over here. Unlocked barns, no entrance gates whatsoever, let alone guards, even the tack room with thousands of dollars worth of saddles, bridles and equipment, all completely on offer to the most minimal of talents for deception or foul play.

And at horse shows it was truly unbelievable. People left their horse vans open and unsupervised for long hours at a time. They left their valuable
horses
in vans, unsupervised. In Europe such negligence would never arise. Your groom stayed in the van. You kept an Alsatian guard dog beside your gear. And for good reason. Really, these people here were like children…

Home for Fran and Eva was a modest bungalow on the outskirts of the village with a tiny garden from which the two aging, but vigorous pensioners managed to coax a surprising number of staple vegetables. The first lettuce of the season was now on the table as their salad, but it was still too early for the peas, carrots, beans, zucchini, and the rest. The main course was a hearty pot roast with potatoes and brussel sprouts, served with coarse, grainy bread, all to be washed down with foamy dark ale.

Fran kissed Eva and went to wash up without a word. He would wait until they were at table. He was tremulous with joy at the anticipation of the peace he would give her with his news. He joined her, taking his usual place at right angles to her.

Together they raised their hands to their lips and murmured a blessing over their daily provenance, thanking God for his material bounty in providing the good food on this table, and not forgetting to thank Him also for their great good fortune, to be living in peace and security in a democratic country, to be living without fear in their own home, to have honest work in a profession that they both loved, and to enjoy the respect of the people they lived amongst. Then they each spent a silent moment in meditation, thinking of those they had left behind, those who had died, so many, so horribly, trying to do right, help others, remain Christians in a world that had forgotten religion of all kind.

For a moment they both ate and drank in silence. Then Fran set down his glass with careful deliberation and said, “Eva, I have something to tell you.”

From his tone Eva knew there was something important to hear. She set down her knife and fork and looked anxiously at her husband.

“He is gone,
liebchen.”

“For good?” Her voice trembled slightly.

“
Ja. Ja,
he will not come back. They seem sure of that.”

Eva looked down at her plate and automatically picked up her utensils. But she did not use them. Tears trickled down her face, she nodded gently in a mechanical way, and she replied softly, “I am very happy to hear this news, Fran. I think maybe I will sleep tonight.”

Fran closed his gnarled and deeply veined hand around his wife’s dear wrist. Her knife dropped onto the table. He turned her forearm to reveal her open palm. Then with immense dignity and love, he bent to kiss the warm place on her inside forearm where the ugly row of ink–blue numbers stained her creamy skin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
t was no use being a journalist, Sue Parker thought in
frustration, if you couldn’t get at the news when it was happening.

Since arriving at the Centre early that morning, she had literally stumbled on two potentially fabulous stories, only to be shunted aside before she could start to make sense of things. Plunging innocently into the vandalized office had electrified her. You didn’t have to read French to smell the politics in that room. And the horse! Wow! That was obviously something you didn’t see every day in a stable, as Roch’s response had unequivocally communicated.

Nobody would talk to her about the morning’s events. She might as well settle herself in the condo they had arranged for her and get in some of the sleep she had missed driving last night. But she was too wired. She had to find out
something
or she would burst. But where to start?

She had been hovering around the office from which people had been entering and leaving all morning, waiting to see Roch and apologize. She hoped she hadn’t wrecked her chances for a decent relationship with him. He was the director; everyone else would take their cue from how he treated her.

First the blond guy with the totally sharp designer glasses had gone in. He’d stayed. Then Michel–
what a hunk
!–had arrived, not stayed long, slipped past her, eyes down and averted, just as well, maybe, he might have recognized her from her trip to Palm Beach. Then Bridget, the stallion’s owner had arrived, it seemed, word was sent to the office, Roch had slipped out to the barn to meet her and brought her back there. The way
she
looked, there was no point in talking to her or Roch, they would have ordered her off the premises in a shot. But Sue knew she’d get to her sooner or later. She’d had her sights set on Bridget Pendunnin long before this incident.

Finally some time after that the ginger–haired, freckled vet came in from the barn and headed for the office. He was a ‘type’, Sue could see at once from his uptight body language. And a nerd. He had a plastic pen shield in his shirt pocket.
Quod erat demonstrandum.

Sue was a world expert on nerds, as they were the only men who were ever attracted to her. This one, she figured, might be one of two types: either he was the anal–compulsive hoarder kind who ranged his pocket change in tidy little denominational piles on the bureau at night, or he had a car littered in year–old chocolate bar wrappers and every pair of sunglasses he had ever owned in his life on the dashboard. He had attempted to answer a few questions for her before going in, but he was stuttering so badly she gave it up and let him escape after a minute or two.

A few minutes later the vet left with Bridget. She looked awful. Sue stayed out of their way. And then the owner arrived. Sue introduced herself. He–Mr. Jacobson–seemed distracted, but was polite and welcomed her to the Centre, adding that he trusted her accommodations were satisfactory, hoping she’d understand why he couldn’t give her any time at the moment, etc. Nice manners. And well–spoken, articulate, to the point. He’d make a good interview later.

The owner left at the same time as the cool–looking blond guy. That one stopped to answer a question or two when she pounced, and she could see right away he was too savvy to let on anything important. But he had promised to talk to her when things settled down, tell her about the show, the course he was designing, blah, blah, what a yawn all that seemed like now. Really cute sense of humour, though, also good in an interviewee.
Napoléon Poisson? Whew! Impressive name. Yeah, my dad had a thing for emperors. I think I got off better than my brothers Charlemagne and Vespasian…

Ah! Finally here was Roch emerging from his lair, wearing a jaunty straw fedora. She noticed that he was nicely dressed in comparison with most of the horse trainers she had so far met. He wore well–cut, modish jeans and a quality denim shirt. His paddock boots were clean, and he smelled pleasantly of some kind of manly aftershave. A pair of chaps were thrown over one shoulder. Without his graying hair and balding dome to call attention from his face, he was astonishingly youthful–looking. ”
Encore toué.
You still here, slick?” he asked, smiling as though they were old, casual friends.

“Yeah. Uh, I’m sorry if I was out of line–” she jerked her head towards the barn, causing her helmet of thin, straight hair to jump and sway jerkily–“it was kind of unexpected…”

“No problem.” He had already set off briskly down the hall to the barn. She was just another piece of jetsam in his wake of daily problems, it was over,
that was then, this is now
, and she could see she no longer registered in his mind as being of the slightest importance.

“Hey! Hey, wait–” she trotted after him–“hey, give me a break here! I’m supposed to be doing this backgrounder, like interviewing people and finding out how things work around here. Aren’t you going to, like, give me any cooperation? I mean, where do I start? Can’t I talk to you for a minute?”

“No time, Suzy. Gotta lesson to give.”

“Uh, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d prefer ‘Sue’. I hate being called Suzy, actually.”

“Is your name Sue? I call
all
the girls Suzy. I’m not too good on names…gotta run…speak to you later…” and he was out the stable door like the rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland.

I call all the girls Suzy. That is so…sexist!

Curiosity and indignation struggled for pride of place in her mind. Yielding to curiosity, she ran out the door and caught a glimpse of him rounding the corner, heading to a warm–up ring, one of several carved level into the slopes of the hill bordering the barn on the storage and utility side. She followed. He wouldn’t object to her watching him give his lesson, surely, and she could learn something about his training methods at least.

A rider was warming up in the ring, a tall, slim girl on what looked like a skittish brown thoroughbred. When Sue had started out a year ago on her “E–Quest,” as she dubbed it, she knew next to nothing about horses or horse sport. She had learned a lot in a short space of time, and by now she at least knew the difference between a thoroughbred–a hotblood–and a warmblood, between high–strung and what the riders called ‘bombproof’.

The girl turned as Roch called out an instruction. Luckily she was English–speaking. “Roch, I can’t get her to do
anything
today. She’s being such a
brat.”

“Take her over the X at a trot
.”

The girl trotted the mare dutifully over a small arrangement of crossed poles. He had her do this several times, then added a ‘vertical’, a pole laid straight across the standards as a next element. This was the classic warm–up for jumping lessons, and something Sue was familiar with.

Next she would do these two jumps at a canter, and then he would create a small winding course of variegated obstacles, distances and minor challenges–a ‘wall’ of fake gray stones, an ‘oxer’, two poles spaced a foot or wider apart in the same element to encourage width of scope, and sundry other combinations. Coming around turns without the shoulder of the horse ‘falling in’ was a constant feature of the course in order to exercise the rider’s ability to balance and set the horse up for the new distance. She was supposed to know exactly how many strides would bring her to her ‘spot.’

Finding your ‘spot’ was the bottom line for all jumper riders. Sue had had this drummed into her by several of the riders she hung out with. You could achieve some proficiency in this through practice, but you needed a natural feel for it too, and some riders never really captured this quintessential technical rubric. The optimum spot determined the horse’s trajectory from take–off. Relatively unimportant with low jumps, it became more and more critical to a successful completion the bigger they got. Bringing a horse to a bad spot was, even Sue knew, the cardinal sin of jumper riding, and this girl seemed to be unusually hopeless, as her horse began stopping regularly as soon as the height of the jumps increased.

Finally Roch told her to get off. Sue had noticed that he had strapped his chaps on at the beginning of the lesson, so his interventions must happen regularly with this student. Flushed and annoyed, the girl turned the mare over to Roch. He mounted, took her into a rhythmic canter, just establishing a nice pace for several laps, then popped around, nice and smooth, doing the whole little course in a fluid, classic demonstration of sound horsemanship.

He was relaxed and natural on a horse, very agreeable to watch. On the second circuit of the jumps the horse suddenly stopped at the wall. Roch whipped her smartly, twice, cracking the air and making Sue wince a bit. Then he took her back and jumped the same wall three times in succession. By the third time she gave no sign of hesitation.

Now the girl was back on and did one circuit, without Roch’s seamlessly accurate striding, but without mishap. On her second tour the horse stopped at the wall. Immediately she laid into her with her whip. Roch bellowed, “
What are you doing! Why are you hitting the horse?”

“What do you mean, why am I hitting her?
You
did when she stopped!”

“I hit her because she could jump it if she want, and she doesn’t want.
You took her to a bad spot.
She has no confidence to jump it. It’s
your
fault. You never hit the horse when it’s
your
fault. You understand?
Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”
The girl was very red in the face, conscious of an audience. “I’m obviously a totally awful rider, and there’s no point in going on today. I’m sorry, but I simply can’t
respond
to that kind of bullying.”

She rode stiffly out of the ring and back to the barn.

Sue walked over to Roch, who was dismantling the jumps. “I’m sorry if that happened because I was watching.”

“No problem. It happens sometimes.” He smiled lazily at her, hands on his hips. He bent towards her in speaking, looking directly into her eyes, and she found him to be infringing her ‘comfort zone.’ This was perhaps a
québécois
thing, she found francophones needed less space between themselves and their interlocutor than English–Canadians. She backed away a fraction.

“Maybe she has her period, what you think?” His eyes were dancing, daring her to take the bait.

Boy, did he ever get my number fast. Bastard.

Determining to take the high road, Sue ignored the barb and even wheedled at him as she pleaded for some time to talk. “Listen, just give me a half hour. Let me buy you lunch. You have to eat anyway.”

“Too busy today. But I’ll find you someone. Come with me.”

They walked down the main aisle. The girl was untacking her horse, whose bridle was tethered by two cross–ties attached either side of the corridor. She looked sulky, and coloured up as Roch approached.

While slipping past her, Roch pinched a fold of flesh at her waist. She shrieked theatrically. He retorted mockingly, “Hey, you better watch out, you, you’re taking some weight. What man he’s gonna want you then,
hein?”

Sue stopped dead in her tracks.
He has just managed to offend all of womankind in at least three distinct ways, probably more if I had time to deconstruct all the semiotics at work here. Boy, he must run through an awful lot of female students.

“Ro
–och, you are just
so–o bad
! No really, you’re
terrible
!” the girl exclaimed. But she had brightened up considerably, and was now going about her grooming with renewed vigour. Her eyes followed him down the corridor.

Roch stopped at the passdoor and glanced back to find Sue still standing with her mouth open.

“That,” she said, “was the most politically incorrect dialogue I’ve ever heard in my life!”

“Ah, c’mon, Suzy. Fuck all that political shit. You think the stable, it’s all about politics. I know what you see when you look at us, what you saw this morning. You come with me. I’m gonna show you what’s going on here, why it’s special. Forget the fucking politics. C’mon.”

She started to walk slowly. He clapped his hands briskly. “C’mon, you. Don’t keep a man waiting–men don’t like it, don’t you know that?” And he laughed, very pleased with himself and life in general. She approached him on automatic pilot, her face a study in disbelief.

Roch was enjoying himself hugely with this funny, and funny–looking, little woman. He knew he should be in a rotten mood over the morning’s events, but his optimism was a helium balloon, pressing for a chance to soar free. The morning’s trauma was a low ceiling, but there had been so many in his twenty–five years here, and things always came right in the end. His mood was improving by the minute. Things would sort themselves out. As she drew level with him, he squeezed her neck in a friendly way and tugged on her hair. She wasn’t pretty, but she was female. He couldn’t help himself.

* * *

Polo found a message from the condo office tucked inside the doorframe.
Please call your wife.
He wondered if he should be alarmed. So far he had always called Nathalie, and he had seen her just a few days ago. Everything had seemed fine–or at least she had been healthy, and intending to spend a few days with her parents in Outremont for the weekend.

“Nath–ç
a va?
”

“
Que oui.”
Her words were slurred.

“Are you drinking?” Polo was shocked. Nathalie had never drunk anything stronger than wine or beer, and then only socially, evenings, in all the years he’d known her.

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“You were supposed to be spending a few days with your parents.”

“And yet, as you obviously have deduced, I’m not.”

“What’s going on? What’s wrong? Your parents, are they–?”

“My parents are fine. Bernard and Pauline are carrying on, setting a proper example for
le Tout–Montréal
in matters social, cultural, fashionable, and financial as usual. Nobody’s sick. No, that’s not true, I tell a lie
. I
, your wife, am sick. Sick at heart.” She was enunciating every word carefully. She was quite drunk.