A Three Day Event (4 page)

Liam and Christine went to the movies in Collingwood on his next day off. They talked over a coke at the diner afterwards. He told her a bit about his life in England. He let on that he was lonely. They shared their views on life. She diffidently brought up the question of religion. Was he Catholic? He could tell from her tone that saying yes was not the right answer. He told her–it was true, anyway–that he wasn’t any religion anymore, religion was nothing but trouble. She nodded as if she understood this only too well. She said she thought he might like to meet some friends of her family. There was going to be a rally soon. Maybe he would like to come. He said he would, although he was not sure what she meant by a rally.

And there, at the rally, and afterwards at the Fressermanns’ home, he had met people who understood him. Who
liked
him. Tears pricked at his eyes as he relived the swell of emotion he had felt at the next rally, when the leader had called his name, welcomed him, and everyone had cheered.
Cheered
!

It was during that wonderful year that he learned why he had always been so unhappy. He learned that he was a self–hating person and a victim, always subject to the will and domination of other people. Most white people, he learned, were self–hating.

(Non–white people were not worth comparing himself to. They were inferior races. A lot of people were too cowardly to come out and just say it, but this was something he had known before he came to Flesherton. It was something he and Christine had agreed on from their first talk at the diner.

He had told her that was one of the things he liked about the horse world. Apart from the odd rich Korean or South American who came to train in England or the States, it was an all–white world. What other sport than riding could you say that about today? Except that it was changing. There were all kinds of people getting into it now…)

And why were most Christian white people self–hating? Because they did not appreciate their own worth. Why not? Because other people were struggling to take away the space, the jobs and the good, decent life that was rightfully theirs.

These other people were Communists, Freemasons, homosexuals, and of course the Jews, the worst because they were invisible–in spite of the illustrations and caricatures, Liam had by now met enough Jews who ‘passed’ to know this–the smartest and the most organized. All of these drains of society had access to money and powerful positions. They owned things: the banks, and newspapers and television, so they could control what you thought–that is, if you weren’t vigilant, if you didn’t struggle back. There were so few against so many.

Now he was no longer just an Irish Catholic–what a parochial, dead–end self–definition that had turned out to be. How wrong he had been to blame Protestants and the English for his anxiety and self–doubt. He was an Aryan. He was part of a huge Brotherhood. He had a purpose and a destiny. He was strong, self–determining and respected. He was a man with a mission!

Of course he hadn’t done anything
major
yet, but he had begun. His little band of recruits–Gilles and Benoit, they were timid, they hadn’t yet quite grasped the
essence
of what their task was. He believed it was something to do with them being French–Canadian. They didn’t quite grasp the depth and malignancy of the problem. Their own gripes–being victims of English Canada and all the rest of that crap–were just pure chickenshit. They seemed to understand his
words
–their English was quite decent, really–but they didn’t seem to have the requisite
spirit
for the mission. But it would come. It must…

He froze as he heard Fleur, Jocelyne’s big yellow mongrel, start to bark and then the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Fleur knew all the regulars, she only barked at strangers. Quickly he swept his precious hoard together, stashing it back under the bed. Kneeling on the bed, he peered into the little square of mirror, awkwardly but strategically placed to cover the tiny hole in the wall emerging adjacent to the telephone in the inner office. Swiftly he retied his greasy black hair into a neat ponytail, smoothed his beloved sweatshirt, and went out to investigate.

* * *

“Are you a vet?”

“Wha–a vet!–No, why would you be asking that, then?” Liam stared suspiciously at the visitor, a slim, blond, athletic–looking man in his forties with posh–looking glasses, wearing jeans and a worn bomber jacket. He was absently scratching Maestro’s spackled gray nose, and his relaxed, easy air communicated a sense of comfort in his surroundings.

The man nodded laconically at Liam’s sweatshirt, which of course boldly announced itself as a souvenir of
Tufts University School of Veterinary
Medicine
. That was probably why he had spoken in English, for his accent, though almost imperceptible, identified him as a franco.

Liam felt a bit foolish, and bloody angry too. He knew a horseman when he saw one, and no horseman would take him for anything but one of the grooms. This bloke was having him on. He didn’t like having the advantage grabbed by a total stranger, especially not when he was in charge. Well, he wasn’t bound to explain that Dr. Gilbert, had given it to him. And for good reason, too.

“No, I’m head lad. Something I can do for you?” he said as rudely as he could without risking a complaint to Roch.

“The barn looks good. Organized. I like to see a clean barn,” the man went on mildly, taking in the scope of Liam’s labours at an appreciative glance. Liam was prepared to be mollified, and these words smoothed his hackles. The following words raised them right up again.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine, the owner actually. There’s no one at the house. I thought he might be here.”

A Jewlover! Be careful.

“Mr. Jacobson’s up in Ottawa for the day, gone up with Roch,” Liam said neutrally, “to some kind of meeting, I believe, for a show they’ll be having here in June.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” He shrugged. “My fault. I didn’t phone. Too bad. I just picked up some information he needs, but I can’t hang around too long. I guess I’ll leave it with Marie–France.” He drew a fat envelope out of the inner pocket of his jacket.

“She’s on her lunch hour, probably in the restaurant.” Liam eyed the envelope avidly. Knowledge was power, and he already knew a lot about the people at the barn. Secrets. And you found them in the strangest ways. You had to be on the lookout. “I could take it for you, if you like. She may be gone by the time he gets back, but I’m always here.”

Polo hesitated and looked assessingly at Liam. It was true that if he left it with the secretary, Hy might not get it until tomorrow. “It’s not particularly urgent, but he’ll want to see it.” He could see the eagerness in Liam’s face.
This kid is going to steam it open if I don’t tell him.
“It’s the quotes for the construction of his arena–you can tell him I’ve attached comments to all three bids.”

Polo thought this boring piece of news would extinguish the light of interest in the kid’s eyes, but he seemed more fascinated than ever. “Mr. Jacobson is building a private arena, then? Beside his house that would be?”

“Yeah, a ‘60 by 120’. Heated. Attached to his barn. It’ll be nice.”

“When?”

Why is this guy so tense about something that doesn’t concern him at all?

“
Probably starting early May, when the ground’s soft enough for a foundation. Why?”

“Oh, just wondering, that was all. Are you–like–in charge of it?”

“I guess you could say that. I’ll be supervising its construction.”

Liam tried to act nonchalant, but his thoughts were racing ahead.
This is it. This is my mission. In May…

He licked his lips nervously. “Well, that’s really fine news, isn’t it just? That’s great. I guess I’ll be seeing you then…”

Fleur charged past them to the barn door, set between the round barn and the main corridor, and jumped up, tail wagging. The door opened and Jocelyne Bastien stepped in. She stopped abruptly in surprise, paying no attention to Fleur’s frantic demands for attention. She glared in naked hostility at Liam, then turned to the visitor.

“
Bonjour, toué! Ça va?”

“Pas pire. Ça va, toi?”

It was clear from the contempt for Liam she’d made no attempt to hide that Jocelyne would have no qualms about communicating it to this visitor. And it was obvious she wasn’t going to speak English for Liam’s benefit if he hung around. Liam slipped quietly away.

“It’s been a long time, Polo,” Jocelyne said warmly.

“Actually, I’ve been here at least twice since Hy bought the place, but you were on the circuit in Florida and before that on the Quebec tour. How’s Michel? I get to a few of the shows, I was at the Royal for a day or two, but we didn’t have time to talk much.”

“He’s okay, I guess,” she shrugged.

“Look, I’m starving. I’m going to grab a sandwich in the
resto
. Are you eating?”

“Sure. Just let me check the boys–” she walked over to the stalls of the three warmbloods, glanced down to see if they’d finished their noon feed, counted and evaluated the texture of the droppings, assessed the water taken from their buckets (more work, but measurable where automatic dispensers were not), gave each one a quick nose rub and kiss, and hung her ski jacket on a hook in the tack room.

Near the window end of the main corridor a glass–paned door led out to the administration and restaurant corridor. This door was locked at night, but left open all day for free passage between the two sections. Jocelyne and Polo walked past the locker rooms (both had bathrooms and showers), the main office, still locked for Marie–France’s lunch hour, and the clients’ lounge. All these rooms were on their left.

The right of the corridor was a long panel of picture windows looking out on a courtyard, a quadrangle bounded by this administration wing and restaurant, the corridor of stalls, the feed, hay and machinery storage opposite and the huge indoor arena. In this enclosed square horses were turned out all year and beginners’ classes held in good weather. At the moment the square was tenanted by Popote, Michel’s first pony, now 28 years old and blind, and Daisy, a goat acquired as a retirement companion for her. They lived in the same stall, and Daisy guarded her from the advances of others, equine and human alike.

At the corner on the left, after the lounge, one could exit via the main door. Or, continuing across this passage one arrived at the restaurant, a cozily wood–panelled, pub–like room with a welcoming fireplace, with views to one side of the Jacobsons’ beautiful home, grounds and pond, to the other the inner courtyard, where the antics of turned–out horses amused the watching diners.

There were few lunchtime customers left. Marie–France was paying her bill at the counter, and greeted Polo with affection. “Bad luck. You’ve come on the one day Roch is away! You know he’s usually here seven days a week. Never mind, I understand we’re going to have you with us for a month at least this spring.” She waved and headed back to the office.

They sat down at the outside window, and Jocelyne slapped her pack of Export A’s onto the table. Roch’s sister–in–law Caroline, who leased the restaurant, came over to say hello and take their orders. Jocelyne had already eaten at her tiny flat in the village, and asked for a coffee. Polo was hungry and ordered a hamburger with fries and a coke.

While Jocelyne lit up, Polo took in her appearance. A fresh–faced girl of fifteen when she had started grooming for Michel, she had already shed her bloom at twenty–three. Too much sun, dust, junk food, beer, cigarettes, sleeplessness, tension, and indifference to the most fundamental cosmetic aids had robbed her hair and skin of vitality and colour. Her weather–lined face was pasty, her mousy pony tail lank and lifeless. She looked tense and unhappy as well.

“Michel’s okay, I guess,” she repeated, unprompted, after a long drag at her cigarette. “He’s under a lot of pressure from his sponsors, those guys from Montreal, they’re after him all the time for wins. And from… well, just everything, you know how it is,” she shrugged.

Polo decided not to probe for what was bugging her. It would come out. Grooms were starved for someone to talk to about their problems. They spoke for a few minutes about neutral horse–related events and people.

“I may have a buyer for your young one, that Maestro horse,” Polo finally said.

Her eyes widened. “How did you know Michel was thinking of getting rid of him? He hasn’t said a word to anyone.”

Polo smiled. “Nobody told me. I saw him go at the Royal. He’s good, but he hasn’t got the magic. I figured Michel would find out for sure on the Palm Beach circuit–and I guess I was right.” Caroline set down his hamburger and coke and Jocelyn’s coffee with a cheery ‘
bon app
é
tit’
.

“
Maudit
! You always had the best eye, that’s for sure. I’ll tell him when he comes back from New York. He’s meeting with…maybe a new sponsor. Roch arranged it. Really super–rich this time.”

She sipped at her coffee and Polo attacked his burger. He ate and waited for Joc to get on with whatever it was. Had to be something to do with Michel, because she had no other life. She worked twelve hours a day six days a week, and seven, happily, when asked.

Everyone in the business knew about Jocelyne. Grooms as a group were known to become slavishly attached to their riders, the girl grooms to the male riders, that is, but Jocelyne was a legend even amongst her peers. Eight years of passionate servitude so far with no signs of burnout.

And no payoff either, Polo reckoned. There wasn’t a hope in hell that a young man like Michel and she were sleeping together. Not that in general any of the (straight) male riders took up romantically with their grooms. Polo personally had never seen a love affair blossom between such a pair. Thinking of his own history, he immediately amended that thought. When love affairs did blossom, the grooming stopped. So it was the best way to lose a good groom, for one thing. Sex could be had with any number of people on the circuit, but good grooms were hard to find. He doubted if Michel–no, not Michel, who had his choice of anyone.