Outside Chance (14 page)

The part of the performance that followed was one of Ben's favourites. It featured all the six male riders – including Tamás, the vet, and Sulio, his son, who had yet to reach his fourteenth birthday – proudly riding the Magyar horses with their girthless felt saddles, and demonstrating the native horsemanship that had made them famous. In his commentary, Emilian explained the practical origins of the ‘tricks' the audience were seeing.

The purpose of the unfastened saddles was, he told the crowd, to enable the Csikós to catch and mount their horses in seconds in the event of a stampede or other emergency.

The six, dressed in the Csikós' traditional costume, rode into the arena at a gallop, reined in hard and leapt off the horses, who then dropped to lie flat in the sand at their feet. Within moments their riders were also lying down, and where there had been half a dozen ridden horses, there were now just so many mounds in the dust.

‘The
puszta
, or plains, of Hungary are very large and very flat,' Emilian informed the watching crowd. ‘In days gone by, if a horseman wanted to hide – whether from bandit or lawman – this was the only way to do it.'

As he finished speaking, the six riders got to their feet then stepped up on to the ribcages of their mounts and began to crack their whips with flamboyant enthusiasm. This exercise, the audience learned, was to accustom the horses to gunfire; privately Ben doubted that many of the plainsmen, past or present, led such exciting lives.

Having demonstrated the horses' courage under fire, the Csikós lay down with them once more, resting their heads in the angle of belly and hind leg, and tipped their hats forward over their eyes.

‘Warm, comfortable, and always ready to leap up and make their escape – what better place for a siesta? And when it rained, this . . .' the commentary continued after a pause, ‘. . . was the driest place on the
puszta
.'

On cue, the horses rolled on to their stomachs and sat up like so many dogs, holding the position while their riders moved to sit between their straightened front legs. Ben's cynicism deepened.
Still, it made good entertainment and the applause was greatly appreciative.

Ten seconds later, the horses were on their feet and the Csikós were once more in their saddles.

‘But it's not all work . . .'

One of the riders produced a red bandanna from the pocket of his culotte-like trousers and waved it aloft. With whoops and cries, a madcap game of tag ensued, the nimble horses twisting and turning faster than the eye could follow, as the riders endeavoured to snatch the cloth from each other.

‘Try and keep your eye on the handkerchief, ladies and gentlemen,' Emilian urged. ‘See if you can guess who has it at the end.'

Ben had tried three times before, and been wrong three times; tonight was no different. As the game wound to a close, the crowd shouted suggestions and each rider showed his hands in turn until finally Miklós owned up;
he
had the bandanna.

After they had taken their bows and galloped out Melles, the shire, returned with András and his brother reprising their clowning routine. Partway through this a commotion was heard in the area beyond the entrance. Heads had just begun to turn that way, momentarily distracted, when there came a warning shout and one of the white stallions burst into the arena, galloping wildly with its saddle half under its belly and its rider clinging precariously to its side.

Even though he knew it was a sham, Ben couldn't prevent the lurch of shock that seized his body in that first instant. It was so well set
up. He defied anyone to sit through it with completely unruffled composure. Wrenching his gaze from Nico's play-acting he watched the people around him, seeing in their faces the horror that he'd felt the first time.

As Nico pulled off his miraculous ‘recovery' Ben saw the expressions shift through relief to slightly embarrassed amusement, as the audience looked around them and realised that they had all been similarly taken in. Ben clapped with the rest of them. He had to take his hat off to the troupe; it was a wonderful piece of theatre.

The arena cleared, the lights dimmed, and one by one the riders returned to do a lap in the spotlight and assemble for their final bows. Jeta and Anna sat sideways behind Miklós and András on two of the Spanish stallions, with Ferenc on Duka; Tamás rode Melles, and Ben was surprised to see the young Sulio riding Bajnok – normally Nico jealously guarded the privilege of partnering the black.

The rest of the crowd had noticed Nico's absence too, and had just begun to murmur to one another when they were interrupted by a slow drum roll.

‘This is a special moment,' Emilian announced dramatically. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness a feat of extraordinary skill and daring. Nicolae Bardu will demonstrate – for perhaps the first time in this country – the almost unbelievable Great Plains Five: the
Puszta Otus
!'

The drum roll intensified and Ben joined the rest of the audience in looking towards the entrance expectantly. This was new to him, too.

A fanfare of trumpets heralded Nico's triumphant reappearance and, after keeping them waiting for a few more expectant seconds, he erupted into the spotlight riding a tide of galloping horses and whooping at the top of his voice. As they swept around the arena it could be seen that he was actually standing on the rumps of the two rearmost animals and holding the reins of those and three others in his hands, somehow keeping their jostling forms together and also finding time to crack the whip above his head.

He circled the arena twice at great speed, to rapturous applause, before guiding the Magyar horses into the centre where the rest of the troupe were gathered, and jumping down with a flourish. At once, the horses separated a little, and it became obvious that all that had held them together was their own forward motion and Nico's skill with whip and reins.

‘Ladies and gentlemen; the
Puszta Otus
!' Emilian cried. ‘Thank you for sharing this evening with us. We hope you have enjoyed yourselves. If you wish to meet the Csikós and some of the horses, please make your way to the foyer when the lights come up. No unaccompanied children please, and please to hold on to the hands of children under twelve. Thank you. If you have had a good time, do come again and please, tell your friends about us.'

Outside the arena, five minutes later, Ben waited in the shadows and watched while Nico, Jeta, Ferenc and András supervised the introduction of the crowd to Duka, Melles and Bajnok.

‘Not too close – give the horses some room. Now, who has a birthday today?' Ferenc enquired, as the people gathered round.

Several of the children put up their hands.

‘And which of you deserves a treat?'

‘Me! Me!' Most of them started to jump up and down.

‘OK. Make a nice queue and we'll ask the horses if you can sit on their backs.'

Suddenly, at least twenty more children remembered that it was their birthday, too. Smiling, Ben watched as the queue grew and grew. Ferenc didn't seem to mind; in fact he appeared to be enjoying himself. It was a side of his character that Ben hadn't seen before. Then, as the first of the happy children were lifted on to the horses, Ben caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the other side of the crowd. He shifted position to try and get a better view but the man was no longer there. Skirting the throng, he scanned the shadows in vain for another sight of him, trying to remember where he'd seen the man before.

‘Ben! What did you think of our show tonight?' Jakob came out of the darkness.

‘Amazing! It gets better every time.'

‘Ah, this is nothing. When you see the complete performance you will not believe your eyes,' he said proudly. ‘Listen, you will stay tonight, yes? We have plenty of room.'

‘Well . . . If you're sure.' He didn't particularly relish the idea of the drive home. His business with Truman could surely wait an hour or two in the morning.

‘Of course I am sure. I said so didn't I?' Jakob clapped him heartily on the back. ‘Now I must find Emil . . .'

Alone again, Ben glanced at the crowd around Nico, Ferenc and the others and decided, as his last cup of coffee was but a distant memory, to head for the catering wagon. He knew that once the horses were settled it was customary for the troupe to gather there after a performance for hot dogs and beer, and he was sure that Gyorgy would have preparations well under way.

The area around the horse-transporters was quiet and dark. There was a light inside the first of them, where he knew Vadas and the other Arab were housed, but the next two were in darkness, the ramps down and waiting for Bajnok and Duka to finish their public relations exercise.

As he drew level with the last of the lorries there were definite sounds of activity from inside. Heavy scraping noises and several dull thuds were punctuated by bursts of excited discussion. The words were unintelligible to Ben, spoken in the Csikós' native tongue, or a mixture of that and Romanes, the language of the Gypsies.

There was another more violent outbreak of banging, and Ben hesitated. Something was obviously wrong. He knew he should go and see but the thought caused a swift stirring of panic deep inside.

While he stood in an agony of indecision, a door opened in the side of the horsebox and a slight figure jumped down into the rectangle of light it shed and ran towards Ben.

Sulio.

Coming from the light into the darkness the boy nearly ran into him but, seeing him at the last moment, he stopped and grabbed Ben's arm, saying his name with a breathless mixture of relief and urgency.

‘Ben. Ben! You come now! Please! You help us!'

Resisting the insistent tug on his arm, Ben looked round helplessly but no angel of mercy hove into view.

‘What's happened? What's wrong?'

In his agitation Sulio garbled something incomprehensible, lapsing into his own language.

‘Slow down – slow down,' Ben told him. ‘In English.'

‘Ben. You must come. Please!'

There was just enough light to see the beseeching look in the boy's eyes and, in spite of his reluctance, Ben allowed himself to be led, half-running, towards the open door.

As they reached it the banging started again with renewed vigour and Sulio leaped inside, confident that Ben would follow.

It was the first time Ben had been in the back of one of the transporters; in fact, it was the first time he'd been inside a horsebox of any kind since he was about the same age that Sulio was now. As he followed the boy towards the back of the lorry the thudding intensified and he could feel the whole vehicle rocking on its suspension.

The partitions in the main body of the transporter, usually arranged to form several small travelling compartments, had been folded back and arranged so that two larger stalls were
formed. In the first of these one of the Magyar horses was shifting nervously, looking back over its shoulder towards the other compartment.

With mounting apprehension, Ben went further.

Sulio stopped in the entrance to the second stall, spoke rapidly to whoever was inside, then turned wide anxious eyes to look at Ben as he caught up.

Ben paused in the doorway, taking in the scene.

The occupant of the stall, another of the Magyar horses, had rolled too close to the partition and got itself cast, its legs trapped in a tangle against the wall and, just to compound matters, its head was wedged in the corner. In an effort to try and stop it panicking, Tamás had thrown his jacket over the animal's head and was kneeling on its neck. The partition bore the evidence of the battering it had taken from the steel-shod hooves and the horse's chestnut coat was drenched with sweat.

Tamás looked up at Ben from his position in the corner.

‘Ben . . .We need to get a rope . . . on his legs,' the vet said, breathing hard.

‘Where do I find one?' Ben asked, his voice giving no sign that he was fighting a rising tide of terror.

Sulio tugged at his sleeve and lifted a canvas lunge rein from the rubber matting.

‘Here. I bring – but . . .'

‘It's too dangerous – the boy's not strong enough. We'll have to pull him over and . . .' Tamás rode a determined surge by the horse,
‘. . . and out of the corner, or he could break his neck.'

‘We should get some more help,' Ben said, trying to function normally while a voice in his head was shrieking,
You can't do this. Get out, now!

The vet shook his head. ‘No time.'

Sulio held the roughly coiled, flat canvas rein out to Ben.

‘You do it,' he said imperatively, unaware that he was asking Ben to relive a nightmare.

Somehow Ben found himself advancing into the compartment, the lunge rein clasped in his shaking hands and his eyes fixed on the ungainly bulk of the upturned barrel of the horse.

‘Right. Make a loop,' Tamás instructed, ‘and see if you can get it over his back legs. Both, if you can.'

When Ben was a couple of feet away from the horse's rear end, it suddenly launched into a fresh attempt to free itself. With a groan of desperate effort it lurched and began to thrash its legs against the partition wall. The noise was deafening and the hot sweaty smell of the animal filled Ben's nostrils. He froze, rooted to the spot, his chest constricting as a cold wave of panic washed over him.

The voice in his head was thunderous.
Get out! Now!

‘
NO, BEN, GET
back!'

Even as he stood there, transfixed, hands caught his shoulders and pushed him further away, sending him staggering into the wall next to the opening. The shock of the contact seemed to clear his head and as he spread his arms against the padded metalwork to regain his balance, he could see that help had arrived in the capable shape of Jakob and Emilian.

In the corner by the door the Magyar saddle was propped against the wall; alongside it was one of the bullwhips used in the display. In a seamless movement Jakob snatched up the whip, with its twelve-foot thong, turned towards the horse and, employing a deft flick of the wrist, sent the plaited leather snaking out to coil itself round the animal's front legs. The thong only made a turn or two, but that was all that was needed.