Horse Heaven (67 page)

The first thing Leo did was take the gun out of his shoulder holster and lay it on Jesse’s bed, carefully pointing the end of the barrel away from everyone, toward the corner of the room where stood Jesse’s clothes tree with Winnie-the-Pooh on the top. “Son,” Leo said, “I’m going to tell you what happened tonight, because I want you to know exactly the kind of man I am. If you’re going to judge me, and all sons judge their fathers, that’s part of life, then you need to have the whole story.”

“Okay,” said Jesse.

“Now, son, there was once this guy named Henry David Thoreau. He lived near Boston, but they didn’t have Suffolk Downs then, so he wasn’t a racing man, but he said some good things anyway, and one of the good things he said, well, not good in the sense that it is a
happy
thing, but good in the sense
that it is a
right
thing, was that the mass of men live lives of quiet desperation, and of course he meant women, too, since in those days ‘men’ meant women and men and children. The first real racetrack in the Northeast was Jerome Park, you know, that was started by Winston Churchill’s grandfather—”

Jesse thought it was safe here to show interest by asking who Winston Churchill was.

Leo said, “Winston Churchill was a British politician who was short enough to be a jockey, but of course he couldn’t keep his weight down. There’s a famous picture of him with two other guys, Franklin Roosevelt, who was our president, and Joe Stalin, who I don’t believe was a racing man, either, but all sorts of interesting new information is coming out of Russia now, so we could be surprised. Anyway, that’s beside the point.”

Jesse decided it was better to keep his mouth shut.

“My father lived a life of quiet desperation, and this is why. He let the bookies walk all over him. I can’t tell you the number of times my father came home and the bookies had changed the odds on him, or failed to pay him off, or even just ignored him by not taking his bets. You know, when a bookie dies, they always write in the paper, ‘Joe Schmo made his fortune in questionable investments.’ That’s a fact.” He turned to Jesse’s mom, who was still standing in the doorway, and said, “Did you know that, Allison?”

Jesse’s mom shook her head.

“I always thought that was funny. I mean a funny phrase, but the way that they try to skim money isn’t funny at all, and is very like the way that rich and powerful people in general try to take more than their share. You know, speaking of Joe Stalin, I just remembered a funny thing. Once I was thinking about Joe Stalin for some reason, this was back in the East, and right there on the program for some race was a horse named ‘Marxist,’ so I put a hundred bucks on his nose to win, because I was thinking of Joe Stalin, who was a Marxist, of course. Do you know what a Marxist is, Jesse?”

Jesse shook his head.

“Well, they don’t have Marxists anymore, but they weren’t all wrong, you know, because they knew about how money works, and bookies work, and how the track always gets too much of the bet pool, and another thing, too, which is that power always comes from the barrel of a gun. Marxism, you might say, was a whole philosophy about the vig. You know what the vig is? It’s the takeout, what the middleman gets, and how the little fish always pays the vig and the big fish doesn’t.”

Meanwhile, everyone was looking at the gun on the bed.

Leo sighed. “Anyway, son, that Marxist horse paid off thirty-to-one that time, so I always had a soft spot in my heart for Joe Stalin, who came into my
mind just at the right moment for me to go with one of the best long shots I ever bet.”

Jesse wasn’t quite sure where all of this was going, but he didn’t want to introduce any other possible digressions, so he kept his mouth shut. Leo continued to stare at the gun. Jesse’s mom finally stepped into the room and sat down at the end of Jesse’s bed.

Leo went on, “I made up my mind when I was your age that I wasn’t going to live a life of quiet desperation like my dad. Now, that is saying that I
judged
my dad and found him wanting. I know that, and may I be forgiven for that, but it is a natural thing to do, and someday you will do it, too, and you will be forgiven for it, too. Today, when I went to see Park Min Jong, I had that in mind. That I had judged my father, and that, in order for me to be justified about that, I had to act on my judgment. So, you see, when I ran out of here, I was doing that for you, son. And for my father. And for your mother, too. Now, here’s another thing. Korean society is a very patriarchal society. Do you know what that means?”

Jesse shook his head.

“That means that the father rules the roost and everybody pays attention to him. And when I went to see Park Min Jong, and I had my gun with me, I had all of these things in my mind, and also my fourteen hundred dollars. If there is fourteen hundred dollars coming to my family, that I have earned for them, then, as a man and a father, I have to get it, you know.”

Jesse hazarded a nod.

“That’s one of my principles. And”—he drew a wad of cash out of his pocket—“I got it.” It was a biggish wad, so Jesse thought he must have gotten it in small bills. Leo peeled a five off the outside of the wad and laid it on the covers, on Jesse’s knee. He said, “There’s something for you, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I learned a lesson with that money, son. Ask me what it was.”

“What was it?”

“I learned that the Koreans will respect you if you stand up to them. The Chinese won’t, and you never want to stand up to a Russian, you know, just stay away from a Russian bookie, no matter what. The Jews are still the best, taken all in all, and I don’t say that because we’re Jewish, you know. It’s just all lessons. Life is a set of lessons, and if you pay attention every day, you’ll learn them.” He stood up. “Got that?”

Jesse nodded.

“You’re a good boy,” said Leo. And he pulled Jesse’s mom up by the hand, and put his arm around her waist. She said only the second thing she’d said all night, which was “Don’t leave the gun, Leo.”

Leo turned and picked up the gun, looked at it, weighed it in his hand, and said, “Son, when you come to judge your father, remember that I had the guts to take it, but I wasn’t dumb enough to shoot it, okay?”

“Okay.”

Leo hit the light as he went out of the room. After a moment, when he knew his parents’ door was closed, Jesse got up and opened his curtains, but there was nothing to see, no moon and no stars. He lay down again, on his back, and pulled the covers up to his chest. Leo didn’t have to tell him anything more about Park Min Jong in order for Jesse to know for a fact how it had gone there. Leo, of course, thought that when the bookie gave him the money he was also giving him respect, but, Jesse realized, how could that be true? Right then, in the middle of the night, it was as if he saw Leo through the bookie’s eyes, small-time. All the talk. The whole system. The racetrack itself. Everything about it was very small-time. All the theory in the world, and even all the money in the world, couldn’t change that.

N
OW THAT
R
OSALIND
had realized that her function in life was simply to follow instructions, she had many fewer problems. One offshoot of the Information Revolution was that instructions everywhere abounded, and most of the time you could follow them in any one of three to ten languages. And, then, people came into the gallery, workmen, artists, other dealers, customers, friends, and they were full of instructions, too. Artists, for example, were paragons of instruction. Following their wishes on exactly how and where to hang each of their pieces was a Zen exercise in discipline, futility, patience, and, finally, removal of the self from the material plane of existence. Friends and other dealers were full of instructions on how to deal with various artists, and Rosalind noted them all. The telephone rang all the time, and voices from all over the world told her where to pick things up, what to pay for them, where to ship, how to wrap, what to expect. Rosalind nodded and smiled and knew exactly what to do and what spirit to do it in.

It was with this practice under her belt that she was standing in her gallery toward dusk one evening, appreciating a moment of calm comfort (the February weather on Madison Avenue was gloomy and chill, therefore the gallery was bright and warm), when she answered the phone, and was instructed by
Krista Magnelli to go out to Belmont the next morning and see Limitless. “He’s been at the track for two months now,” said Krista. “I just have a niggling worry. For one thing, I don’t like to call your trainer and pry, and for another, I’m sure nothing’s wrong.”

The fact was that Rosalind knew exactly how to follow this instruction. She had driven out to Belmont Park countless times. No consultation with any authority in any language was at all necessary. But it was a good thing she had been following instructions so carefully for such a long while, because otherwise she would have felt her heart jump at the thought, and not for joy. She might even have reeled backward a centimeter or two at the very idea, or had to shake her head to clear any small fog that settled there. But because she was so practiced now, she just said, “Well, Krista, it probably is time for me to check on things out there. Thank you for reminding me. Al has been back and forth to Russia so much, and I’ve been—”

“You know,” Krista said, “it’s not like I’ve had a bad feeling or anything, I mean, no more so than the usual bad feelings that I get about everything.”

“We certainly would have heard if anything were off with the horse. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Well, the thing is, I
don’t
have a bad feeling.”

“I’ll be happy to go see the horse.”

“It’s very reassuring to talk to you, Rosalind.”

“I’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of.”

“Thank you so much.”

The important thing to understand was that, if you were simply going out to see your former lover because you wanted to or needed to, then of course you would be uneasy, but if you were going out there because you were instructed to, then there was no need to be uneasy, because your instructions, as they evolved, would also include instructions about how to know what to say and do in your former lover’s presence. And so there was nothing to worry about.

Eileen, who had been sleeping in the broom closet, nosed open the door and came into the wide space of the gallery. She stretched deliberately backward, then deliberately forward. She seemed to propel every mote of stiffness from her tail through her shoulders, then out through her upraised black little nose. Then she shook herself vigorously and looked at Rosalind. Rosalind hardly spoke to her anymore, at least not to give her commands. Each of them had taken full measure of the other and arrived at a permanent understanding. Eileen would not under any circumstances give up certain modes of expression that she deemed necessary to her well-being. On the other hand, she would come, sit, stay, lie down, be quiet, be affectionate, and respect Rosalind’s belongings
without being prompted. For a Jack Russell, Rosalind had been told, this verged on sainthood. Rosalind picked up her coat. Eileen came over and sat down beside her. Rosalind turned out the lights in the office and the storeroom. Everything else was buttoned up tight. Eileen followed Rosalind’s clicking heels down the stairs, out the door, down the street. At the restaurant where Rosalind had agreed to meet friends, she paused outside the door, leaned down, and opened her totebag. Eileen jumped in, lay down, curled up. Rosalind opened the door and walked in. Of course the maître d’ had seen the dog get into the totebag, of course the totebag bulged suspiciously, but the maître d’ said nothing except “Let me show you to your table. Your party is already seated.”

Rosalind knew that everything about her was a topic of conversation among her friends, several of whom faithfully repeated all the gossip about her to her. They greeted her so enthusiastically, even affectionately—Darlene and Max, Wanda and Fred, Danielle and Isaac—partly because they had been discussing her just moments ago. She set the bag of dog gently in the corner and went around the table, kissing and smiling and exclaiming. She
was
glad to see them. She didn’t mind that Max snapped at Darlene, Darlene whined at Max, Wanda laughingly exhibited Fred’s failings to everyone, Fred drank, Isaac’s voice could be heard all over the restaurant, and Danielle brought out a little scale for weighing her portions and talked only about grams of fat on the menu. She didn’t mind that they speculated about her, that they doubted whether she could make the gallery go, that they thought Al’s new business interests were keeping him away from home a
lot
of the time, that her attachment to Eileen seemed eccentric. She didn’t mind that they guessed she had had, was having, an affair, but no one could figure out with whom.

She ordered the risotto with saffron and bay scallops and the crispy zucchini with flecks of arugula and chanterelle mushrooms for herself, and a half-order of mashed sweet potatoes for Eileen (“Hold the mint”). And then it only took her a minute or two to grant everyone’s wishes. Fred exclaimed, “My God, they’ve got a Badia a Coltibuono. It’s seventy-eight dollars, but I’ve always wanted a taste of that.” Max picked up Darlene’s hand and put it sweetly to his lips; Darlene said, “I know where I can get that money for those geezers. Rosalind, don’t you know someone at the Rockefeller Foundation?” “I do,” said Rosalind. Wanda said, “You know, my shoulder was aching all day from this weather, but it feels fine now.” Isaac said to the waiter, “Are there onions in that dish?” And the waiter said, “No, sir.” And Danielle said, “Oh! Bon! The ladies’ room has come free. I’ve been waiting at least twenty minutes!” This happened all the time now. As soon as Rosalind gave the signal, and she herself
didn’t know what that was, the wishes of everyone around her were satisfied at once. Actually, it was a good indicator—only about 10 percent of any group were wish-free at any one moment. Rosalind was rather surprised at that, especially now that she herself was one of the wish-free ones.

The granting of wishes did not have a prolonged positive effect, but it was good in the short term, as a form of relief. It was like when Rosalind used to smoke, in her twenties. Smoking had not made her feel good, only feel the cessation of the desire for a cigarette. Wishes coming true, she noticed, did not make her friends feel good, only feel the cessation of that particular wish, and the more she noticed that, the fewer wishes she herself had. Her meal was set before her. She tasted it. It was good.