Passion Play (36 page)

He put the stallion into a trot and, circling, turned it evenly toward the wall, increasing the pressure of his legs, releasing the bit, goading the horse, driving hard and straight at the wall, aware of the dangers of too early a takeoff at a fast pace, which, by extending the length of the jump, would lower its arc. He readied himself for his mount’s sudden refusal, which could unseat him; he also knew that, if pressed too strongly, the horse might hurl itself into the obstacle, not over it.

Its haunches bunching, its head pluming, Captain Ahab began to approach the wall, its strides now shorter, gathering force, then, with its hocks fully extended, its head down, its crest curving, it catapulted forward and up, clearing the wall in a gliding motion, coming down to yet another gentle landing, sprightly and composed.

With applause pursuing him, Fabian rode back to the paddock, past the other entrants awaiting their turns, and steered Captain Ahab toward the farthest corner of the warm-up ring, away from the commotion. Now, alone, in order to block the sudden onrush of images of fall and defeat, of this pitch of time and what lay beyond it, he thought of Vanessa. He let himself wonder where she was in the audience—sitting with her parents and guests, people he had never met and could not even envisage.

The clamor of triumph and defeat spilled around him again as the remaining contestants ran the course. He tried to stop a wave of apprehension when he saw the last of them return, spent, to the paddock. Then he heard his name again, loud, and that of the young American woman from the U.S. Equestrian Team, who had followed the Irish officer at the opening of the event. She and Fabian were the finalists for first and second places.

She looked across the paddock at Fabian, her competitor. She was young, her hair neatly drawn into a snood beneath her riding hat, her hunt jacket and skintight breeches well-cut. There was a quiet confidence about her; in his ill-fitting costume, Fabian felt awkward. As she rode into the arena, her entrance brought the wildest applause yet.

Fabian listened to the applause, aware that he was not seduced by the allure of competition, by the promise of celebrity. All that had mattered to him from the outset of the event was his own safety and that of Captain Ahab. He resented the thrill of danger that audiences seemed to demand.

A riot of exhilaration in the auditorium told him, even before it was announced over the loudspeaker, that the young woman had run the course faultlessly. At best, Fabian could match her performance, but he dreaded the possibility of a jump-off, with the obstacles raised even higher, approaching a mark that few horses were strong and masterful enough to clear.

He heard his name; he was being summoned. Responding mechanically, he left the warm-up ring, emerging from the paddock slowly, almost sluggishly into the bright arena.

The audience was silent. Fabian cantered smoothly into the line of the jump, toward the double oxer. He sensed that to clear the spread, now substantially raised, Captain Ahab needed a fast pace for takeoff. His legs and seat closely gripping the animal, he signaled his readings to go for the jump.

Once again, Fabian allowed Captain Ahab to select its own place for the takeoff, and once again, gathering its hocks, the horse gauged it, its ears pricked up, head and neck extended. Impelled into the air, the animal seemed to float over the width of the spread, its forelegs no longer tucked in under the belly, but this time instinctively unfolded, raised and stretched out as if to better absorb the longer sweep of the jump, the hoofs level with the muzzle. For landing, the horse raised its head, its forelegs reaching out; its croup was high, the hind legs retreating to the ground to absorb their share of the shock the forelegs had already registered; its head and neck low again, the horse was ready to resume the run.

Applause carried Fabian and Captain Ahab at a fast pace to the wall, now over seven feet, looming over the horse’s head, a hulk of awesome challenge. Fabian could not leave this jump to the instinct of the animal. To prompt it over the obstacle with not a finger of space in excess between its hoofs and the wall, he had to guide the horse, even at the risk of another refusal, to take the jump not as an extension of a long driving
stride, but, rather, as a leap from no more than three or four paces, surprisingly close to the base of the wall.

Not a whisper disturbed the audience. Fabian steered Captain Ahab toward the wall, his body at one with the stallion’s, his breath even, his eyes on the obstacle.

The horse obeyed, moving at a smooth pace. Almost at the spot from which Fabian wanted it to leap, he tightened his calves, bracing himself and the animal for their supreme effort. Again, the horse followed his command, gathering in its hocks all its energy, readying itself to spring up for the takeoff. With its haunches well under its belly, Captain Ahab pushed off, its hocks about to straighten, its crest arching, head lowered, when, from the audience at ringside, at Fabian’s right, a loud shout of “Take it, Fabian, take it now!” pierced the silence. Unwittingly, Fabian turned his head for an instant to the source of the voice that was so familiar, catching a glimpse of Alexandra Stahlberg, her tunic tight and golden, leaning out of her seat, beside Michael Stockey.

Curved like a dolphin, Captain Ahab already had cleared the wall with its forelegs; its hoofs were now higher than its belly, its croup rising, its head descending. In the glimmer of time that Fabian glanced at Alexandra, his body inclined backward, his weight shifted over the animal’s hind legs, hampering their passage over the wall; the delicate balance of control snapped. Off-balance in its descent, Captain Ahab twisted jarringly, hooking the top of the wall with its hocks. A moan rose from the audience as the horse, its head up, sank onto its forelegs, a section of the wall brushing the animal’s croup and toppling behind it. Momentarily unseated, about to fall over the horse’s mane, Fabian regained his balance with a reflex that placed him back firm in the saddle; simultaneously, just as the animal was about to fall, he curbed it, pulling the reins to lift the horse’s head even higher and unweight its forelegs. Steadied by Fabian, its hocks absorbing the full impact of the landing, Captain Ahab rebounded and continued to run, returning its rider for the last time to the shelter of the paddock.

There Fabian heard his name announced again, a final summons to the arena, where Captain Ahab would be awarded second
prize. Fabian was startled, as he rode toward the judges, to see Vanessa in their company: it was she who had been appointed to present the prizes that bore her family name. He removed his hat and put it under his arm, leaning forward to look at her when she pinned the rosette to Captain Ahab’s bridle. She looked up to him, and he took her hand; he saw her eyes wet with tears, her lips framing the words “I love you,” soundless, perceptible only to him. He experienced the same pain of separation he had felt each time she had left him in his VanHome. It was as if—with the judges, their retinue, the reporters and photographers, her family and friends all around—no longer tangible, she was a mere extension of points of space and time she occupied in his memory. He put his hat back on and, backstepping Captain Ahab, turned and trotted away.

In the paddock he delivered the horse to the head groom, who, excited by the success of the stallion, almost forgot to tell Fabian that Hayward, already attended to by a doctor, was now asleep, and there was no need for further concern.

Fabian changed quickly back into his clothes. Anxious to avoid a meeting with Vanessa’s family and another confrontation with Alexandra, he merged with the departing crowd and sneaked away from the sprawl and tumult of the Garden. He was soon lost in the throng of the city and before long arrived at his VanHome, its Signs,
SELF-REACTOR: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,
an effective deterrent to the lawful and lawless alike.

Fabian was on the last stretch of a trip to Palm Beach, curious to see Wellington, the resort designed and built as an enclave for polo, its stables and fields a lavish habitat for the player, his ponies and his game. There he hoped to find those willing to play him.

He was entering the expressway; he had paid the turnpike toll, met and matched the stare of the attendant assessing the splendor of his VanHome, and started to pull into the center lane, building up speed, when he noticed a state police car passing him, the trooper waving to flag him to a stop.

He slowed down, pulled over to the shoulder of the road, and lowered the window at his side. The signs on the sides of his VanHome read
INTERSTATE STAGECOACH
, and he did not expect any trouble with the law about them. His registration was in order; he had not exceeded the speed limit.

The trooper came over to the cab and looked up, smiling. “Sorry to stop you, sir,” he said, “but if you’re Mr. Fabian, the owner of this”—he paused and leaned forward to read the sign—“of this stagecoach, then we have an urgent message for you.”

“I am,” Fabian said. “But from whom?”

The trooper reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a
telegram, which he handed to Fabian. “From the State Continental Bank, Palm Beach branch,” he said. “They expected you to come this way and asked us as a courtesy to flag you down at a turnpike booth.”

Fabian opened the envelope and glanced at the telegram; it asked him to come to see the branch manager at his earliest convenience.

“How did they know I’d be coming this way?” he asked. “Even I wasn’t sure I’d be making the trip.”

The trooper adjusted his sunglasses. “Is there anything these banks don’t know?” he asked.

To Fabian, whose dealings with money had been mostly a reality of cash in hand, the negligible income from his books attended to by remote agencies, banks seemed an impenetrable geometry of computing and calculation, negotiated by people caged behind counters and Formica desks, people so programmed to be efficient, civil, ready with a practiced smile, that the very juices of life had been leached from their bodies. Like the cash machines that were posted in bank lobbies, transacting the lives, on approval, of the sentient creatures in their presence, delivering or withholding money in accordance with some higher wisdom, the men and women who worked in banks were to Fabian as functional as currency itself, at once as abstract as the hieroglyphics of mathematics and as concrete as the cash without which he could not feed his ponies or move his VanHome from one place to another.

He became increasingly apprehensive as the expressway opened onto the suburbs of West Palm Beach, row upon row of trailers, now permanent homes, fenced in neat cubes of arid space, a solitary palm tree or hedge the only relief. He could not remember who might be aware of his presence in Florida or interested in his whereabouts. He had mentioned his destination to only a few people—the manager of the stable where Big Lick had been freshly shod, the mechanic who had checked the brakes of his VanHome, the barman or waiter in a restaurant he had stopped at. Yet none of them knew him sufficiently to care where
he had been or to take note of where he was going. Then it occurred to him that perhaps Stockey or someone else at Grail Industries would think of enlisting the aid of a bank to track him down, since Florida was a plausible region for a polo player to visit during the winter.

He arrived at the center of Palm Beach. The State Continental Bank had a private parking lot, an open-air showroom of limousines, with chauffeurs lounging at the wheels of precious curiosities refurbished to eccentricities, of lavish cars built to order. Some chauffeurs looked up from their newspapers to stare at Fabian’s VanHome.

Inside the bank, a middle-aged woman in spectacles and a pastel linen suit listened to his request to be taken to the manager. She made no attempt to conceal her disapproval of his jeans and work shirt, but after a brief consultation in another office, returned to usher him in.

The bank’s manager, a slender man about Fabian’s age, was cool and skeptical, his Palm Beach elegance frosted with financial propriety. He was more candid than the woman in his baffled appraisal of Fabian, and, with a not well concealed sight, he directed Fabian to an adjacent conference room, an intimate retreat reserved for the bank’s important patrons.

Fabian took a lounge chair, and the manager settled across from him in an armchair and opened a leather portfolio. He looked up with a smile intended to undercut the tedium of the bureaucratic protocol he had to follow.

“So you are Mr. Fabian,” he announced briskly and then continued as if no reply were in order. “Is all this information correct?” he inquired pleasantly, handing Fabian an index card with typing on it.

Fabian read the card: his full name, place and date of birth, the names of his parents, his Social Security number, the address of his publisher. All were correct, neatly typed.

“It looks all right,” he replied, “but I still don’t know why you’ve asked me to come here.”

The manager spread his hands in a gesture of apology. “I do hope this hasn’t caused you any inconvenience, Mr. Fabian, but there was just no other way to let you know that we had been authorized to take temporary custody of your property until you
could be located.” He removed a letter from the portfolio; Fabian could see that the letter was typed and had an envelope attached.

The anxiety stung him that some past negligence, a failure, perhaps, to meet a payment on his VanHome, had resulted now, so many years later, in a claim on his property, a demand initiated by someone using the bank as an intermediary. Instantly, he put himself on the defense.

“I am sole owner of everything I have,” he said evenly. “I have not authorized anyone to take charge of my property.”

The manager lifted one hand in apologetic explanation. “Of course you haven’t. I’m afraid I haven’t made myself clear, Mr. Fabian.” He placed the letter and the envelope ceremoniously on the small table next to Fabian. “We were entrusted with the title of this gift, with most specific instructions from both the donor and the officers of the donor’s original trust, that notification of the gift be made to you expressly, in person.”