The Boatmaker (32 page)

He is drawn to the barns by the warmth he feels in the stall with the Irishman, the horse and the pony. Their kingdom is comfortable, though not always peaceful. The Irishman sometimes goes silent, radiating cold melancholy. The big horse rears over his small subjects, showing his teeth. The pony snaps with hers. But these moods pass quickly, and no grudges are held. Although the man from Small Island is only a visitor in this tiny kingdom, they have come to accept his presence.

Like his time with Rachel, the boatmaker's visits to the barn are a nourishing secret. He witnesses the care the Irishman takes with the horse: his feed, the well-planned workouts, the rubdowns afterward. Leaning on the fence around the track behind the barns, the boatmaker watches as Bold Prince is put through his paces by his jockey, Staedter. The big brown horse goes slowly to warm up, then circles the track at full power. The horse loves to run; Staedter rarely needs his whip. The ground shakes as they roll past, the jockey in his red-and-white Lippsted silks. Clouds of dirt burst upward. Breath thunders in and out of the horse's flaring nostrils. Standing at
the rail, the boatmaker wonders how there could be another horse in the kingdom capable of giving this one an honest challenge.

CHAPTER 23

The race between Bold Prince and The Royal Champion is scheduled for a Saturday just before Midsummer's Eve. On the first day of June, the handbills begin appearing in the Old Quarter. At first there are just a few, put up during the night. As he walks to work, the boatmaker sees the rectangular sheets on walls, lampposts, doors. At the top,
The Brotherhood
is printed in the spiky type of the newspaper's logo. Below, a headline in rounded modern type screams:
Stop the Abomination!
Below that is a single column of smaller type:

Brothers! The horse race between the Crown and the House of Lippsted is an abomination. The Jews are foreign parasites, an infection in the blood of our Mainland. It is outrageous that they have the audacity to challenge the king whose ancestor was converted to the love of Christ by Vashad of sainted memory.

Brothers! We must unite to purge these parasites from our blood! But they are not the only ones who undermine us. The king himself is far from blameless. Even though the spirit of our warrior forefathers runs in his veins, he pollutes himself by stooping to a public display of equality with these worms that invade our flesh and our soil.

Brothers! We must cleanse our cities and towns, our nation! The Mainland must be made pure again through sacrifice. We must rise and rid ourselves of these rootless foreign oppressors—and all who give them comfort. Help us stop the abomination! Join us! Follow The Brotherhood into the New Land!

On his way to the compound the boatmaker uses a fingernail to lift one of these handbills from a brick wall. He reads it, folds it and puts it in the pocket of his canvas jacket before walking on.

As each June day dawns hotter and brighter than the one before, more of The Brotherhood's handbills appear in the Old Quarter, posted invisibly during the night. Soon they cover the walls, hiding the older layers underneath them: images of the king, posters from the previous summer advertising a circus whose star attraction was a pair of Siamese twins, advertisements for
diviners offering miraculous solutions to all manner of problems—drink, rheumatism, failing potency, missing wives.

In the morning the news is there for everyone to see. Gentiles cluster around the bills and talk, some clucking and shaking their heads, some murmuring their approval. Jews stop and read, then move on without speaking.

As the handbills appear, the boatmaker sees things he has not seen before on the Mainland. Drunken workingmen bump Jews off the sidewalk into the street. There are broken windows in Jewish shops. The shopkeepers stand on the sidewalk examining the damage, looking puzzled and frightened.

The weather stays beautiful and warm. Fresh green leaves unfold on the trees that line the long allée in the Royal Gardens around the Winter Palace. The pond near the palace is full. Boys use sticks to push their boats out into the center, where they catch the breeze that comes flowing down between the plane trees.

At night Rachel comes to him. As they lie together, she reaches out to touch the scar on his nose. Since he refuses to tell her how he really got it, she has been forced to make up her own explanation. In Rachel's story, the boatmaker's scar is the remnant of a mysterious Small Island initiation rite. Although her education is not as
extensive as her brother's or the king's, she is as well educated as any woman on the Mainland. At university she read accounts of rituals practiced by tribes in Africa and on the Pacific Islands. She knows that cutting, bloodletting and scarring are often required for a boy to become a man. She imagines similar things happening in the darkness of Small Island. To her, the boatmaker's silence, his refusal to discuss the scar seriously, are part of the ritual. The men of the tribe have been sworn never to talk about it with anyone—especially not a woman. Her story began as whimsy. But it soon lost its fictional quality and became a part of her experience of the boatmaker, as real as any other part of him.

“I don't believe you got this at work.”

“No?”

“No, I don't believe it. You are too careful. Too careful with tools, at least.” She laughs. “I think this is something you got in a rite of initiation. I think you are a tribesman. Not really civilized at all.”

The boatmaker is getting used to this woman's teasing humor; he is smiling at her in the dark.

She covers his eyes with one hand. With the other she reaches for him and finds him surging toward her. He pulls her close, rolls onto her and holds her down, his eyes covered by her hand.

He lashes himself to her the way two fishing boats are lashed together to ride out a squall—out of sight of land, yawing and bucking while the thunder shakes them and the lightning passes over in the dark. The two boats remain that way, gunwale to gunwale, until the storm has passed, the wind eases, the rain softens and the sky begins to lighten. Then the sailors check the rigging and the soundness of the hulls to see how they have weathered the storm.

Afterward, as they lie smoking, Rachel Lippsted's mind is running over her own motivations. Despite having been in this bed many times, she still cannot decide whether in being here she is following her brother's will or rebelling: extending their family or leaving it behind her.

The boatmaker is not thinking about Rachel. He is thinking of the handbills that appear each night in the Old Quarter, their words so much like those of Father Robert's sermons. He knows how dangerous the priest can be. But he does not share his fears with Rachel. He does not want word to reach Jacob Lippsted, with only days remaining before the race. He knows how important this race is to Rachel's brother.

The morning of the race is bright and clear, the sky a blue army on a long retreat from the earth. The boatmaker rises, relieves himself, washes at his basin, wonders how things are going in the barn. The Irishman knows it is the
big day. Does Bold Prince? Does the pony? Perhaps they have already been brought to the stables at the Royal Racecourse. He's stayed away from the barn for the last two weeks, to allow them to prepare. Nor has he seen Jacob Lippsted, who will watch the race with the king. He isn't sure where Rachel and the rabbi will be sitting. Probably they will not be in the royal box, which will be filled with princes, dukes, soldiers and businessmen, some no doubt members of The Brotherhood.

The nightly fall of handbills has become a blizzard blanketing every wall of the Old Quarter. Their message inflames the Christians and frightens the Jews, who have begun to stay indoors unless they have an errand to run, and then they do it without lingering. The boatmaker hears of meetings, some of them at the Grey Goose, where direct, violent action is discussed.

He pulls on his overalls and canvas jacket, laces up his boots. Puts cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket, feels the handbill he removed from the wall when they were first appearing, like the first flakes of a blizzard. He drinks coffee with his landlady. He can tell she wants to talk, but he has no time to listen to her concerns about the changes taking place in the Old Quarter.

Outside, the streets are empty, which is highly unusual for a Saturday. It is the Jewish Sabbath, so he is not
surprised no Jews are abroad. But there are almost no Gentiles either. Usually the streets and Christian shops are bustling on Saturday, which is the time for a half-day of work and a long night for celebrating with music, drink and women of the town. Now the sidewalks are empty. Shopkeepers stand in front of their shops, looking left and right down empty pavements. The barber stands at his door in apron and striped sleeves. He nods to the boatmaker. The newspaper dangling from his right hand is
The Brotherhood
. Inside, the bench where the native sat snoring is empty.

The race is at noon. The boatmaker wants to be there early, to find his way through the crowds, say hello to Donelan and pat the big horse before everything happens. First, though, he must pay a visit to the compound.

As he enters the gate, he sees Sven Eriksson crossing to the townhouse. The door opens. The long canvas coat disappears. The door closes.

In the workshops and storerooms only half the usual number of men are present. The workers in the compound never speak much to the boatmaker. Today it seems they are not speaking much to each other, either. The only sounds are boots on flooring, wood being set down, tools being taken out and used, brushes swishing as they spread oil and varnish on clean wood.

In the storeroom the piece he has been working on sits under worn canvas loosely tied with old rope. He unties the rope, lets the canvas fall. What he has been working on stands complete: the boatmaker's version of the secretary from Father Robert's office. It is made of walnut, dark and austere, built as two separate pieces that can be taken apart for moving. The top half has bookshelves, gothic arches holding the glass. The lower half is a writing desk that folds down, revealing drawers and cubbyholes. Below the desk are three large drawers. All of it is made to last for generations.

Now that it is finished, the boatmaker can see the whole piece clearly. But he does not know how well he has done. All he can do is leave it for Eriksson, who will tell him whether or not he has made a piece of Lippsted furniture. Regardless of the answer, he knows he will not be returning to the compound as an apprentice. He takes off his canvas jacket and hangs it on a nail next to the secretary, handbill still in the pocket. Canvas and rope lie in a heap, their work done. The boatmaker turns and heads out of the storeroom into June sunshine.

As he approaches the racecourse, the crowds thicken and he moves with them as they home in on their destination. All around him are men in work clothes: denim, corduroy and canvas, with heavy boots, rough hands and
flat caps. The gentry are in their carriages, being carried toward their own entrances. Among the workers, the feeling is not of holiday, as it was on the king's birthday. Instead, it is sour, with muttering and angry talk, bottles and flasks passed from hand to hand, along with the handbills of The Brotherhood. Those who can read are reading the words of the bills to those who cannot.

The crowd ahead of the boatmaker parts. The racecourse comes into view: a long oval of brown earth, firm and dry, enclosed by a tall wrought-iron fence like the one around the Winter Palace. At the far end stands the main building, built of brick, with a slate roof overhanging boxes for the gentlefolk. The royal box is at the very front, down at the level of the track. Uncovered grandstands for ordinary citizens extend from the main building like long arms embracing the track. These stands are filling with workingmen, a hum of talk and drink running through them. Above the roof of the main building two flags are flying. One is the flag of the kingdom, with its blue and yellow quarters. The other is the king's battle streamer, a long, narrow white pennant with a red cross. Under the slate roof, the royal box and the boxes nearby are empty.

The boatmaker makes his way through the crowd, an unremarkable worker wearing overalls and boots, with a drooping mustache and a scar on his nose. He
doesn't enjoy crowds, doesn't like being pushed, shoved, even brushed by people passing by. He picks his way among brown cloth, blue cloth and canvas, finding openings, turning sideways to let beefier men pass without touching.

In back of the main building he finds a door that seems to lead to the stables. He passes through and finds himself in a small area between buildings, enclosed by an iron fence. At the far end, in front of the door leading to the stables, stands a beefy policeman rocking gently back and forth, holding his truncheon against two rows of silver buttons that rise over his blue belly like a road climbing through a mountain pass.

“No entrance. Horses, horsemen and owners only past this point.”

“Donelan asked me to come back and say hello. The trainer for the House of Lippsted.”

“Yes, I know Donelan. He asked you to come back, did he? You don't look like much of a horseman to me.”

“No. But Donelan asked to see me.” It isn't true. But the boatmaker doesn't think the Irishman will mind. And he wants very much to see the three of them before the starting pistol is fired.

“Alright. Go ahead. You look harmless. But if I find that Donelan hasn't asked for you . . . If I find out, for
example, that you're one of those newspaper johnnies in some sort of disguise, I'll find you. Even in this unholy mess of a crowd, I'll find you—and make you regret your bitch of a mother ever whelped you. Do I make myself clear?” he asks, tapping the truncheon into a meaty palm.