A Three Day Event (10 page)

Polo tried to take it all in. After several circuits of the room with his eyes, he walked around, looking closely at the objects on the floor, peering at the damaged photographs–one of Michel and D’Artagnan flying over an Olympic jump had been thrown on the floor and stamped on–and lightly examining the overturned machines. It struck him that, the photographs apart, no real damage had been done.

He thought about what he might have seen and didn’t: no broken windows, no damaged machines. Whatever was on the floor of any value–a kettle, a Xerox machine, the printer–had been placed there, not thrown down. The graffiti were easily removed, the spray paint was the washable kind, the canister said. The mess was just that–a mess to be cleaned up, sorted through. No files had been broken into, he noted. The three freestanding filing cabinets, which might easily have been overturned, stood untouched. He tried a drawer. It wasn’t even locked and slid out accommodatingly to his touch.

There was a message here, to be sure, but a guarded one–a personal act of malice directed at Roch and/or Michel, a warning of worse to come, perhaps. So that didn’t jibe at all with the other, the really horrible attack on the horse.

Roch hung up and came around to greet Polo. “You didn’t tell Hy?”

“No, but he has to know sooner or later. He was getting ready to go out hacking with Manon, so I thought why spoil his
whole
day–”

“Good, good. Listen, I”–he glanced at Marie–France, and said, “M–F, why don’t you go get us some coffee. And relax in the resto a bit.” She nodded and scurried gratefully out of the office.

Roch slammed the wall hard with the side of his fist. “Those
fuckers!”

“You know who did this?”

“I think so. They’re just a few, but they’re pissed off all the time about
le
Centre
–too many of
eux autres,
not enough of
nous autres
. I can’t throw them out. We go back too far. And they have too much influence in the town. They got political friends all over the place. And I think, no, I’m pretty goddam sure that little shit Benoit is part of it. He’s a cousin or nephew of Jean–Claude, but he’s always been jealous of Michel. They’re almost the same age, and he used to ride, but there’s no talent there. He’s a loser, used to have some prestige when the Centre was in his family, now he’s nobody.”

“Why now?”

“I think maybe they heard about Michel going to New York and talking to this guy there. This American guy wants to buy him horses, but Michel’s going to have to train in the States. I knew they didn’t like that, Michel’s like–like public property or something around here–but I never thought”–he gestured helplessly around him.

“Well, they can relax,
papa.”

Roch and Polo looked toward the door that Marie–France had left slightly ajar. Michel was standing there and now took a step inside. His face registered profound revulsion as his eyes roved round the scene.

Normally you couldn’t look Michel in the face or he would cast his eyes down and away. He had been stared at all his life and it had long been a reflex response, especially with strangers. Friends knew better than to stare. Now his mind was occupied elsewhere, and Polo allowed himself to glance up and simply steal a rare moment’s pleasure.

It was an irresistible impulse. Michel was the most beautiful person he had ever known, male or female, and you wanted to look, as you wanted to look at any wonder of nature–a stallion, a dolphin, an eagle. There were things the boy could do nothing about, even if he tried. He could not help his glossy black curls, or his almond–shaped eyes, a true emerald green, nor his eyelashes, black and thick as mink. He could not hide his short, straight nose, classically sculpted bones, strong, square jaw, the sensuous, curving lips, brilliant teeth, or smooth, olive–toned skin. Then too, he was an athlete, and every move he made confirmed it; he was lithe, strong and graceful as a cat.

Polo felt sorry for the boy. What might have been a woman’s dream come true had made life something of a torment for him. Shy and introverted in any case, his evasions usually struck people as arrogance and self–absorption. He couldn’t win. When he forced himself to be friendly, people were star–struck and obsequious.

His brilliant success in riding compounded his detachment from the mainstream of social life. He had made a protective circle around himself with the few other riders he was comfortable with. Polo had known him since he was born, and could count himself amongst the trusted inner circle.

Roch said, his eyes narrowing in angry anticipation, “What do you mean, they can relax–”

“I mean,
papa,
that I’m not going to New York. I’m staying here.
Ce n’est pas la peine.
”

“You mean you’re going to let this bunch of losers tell you what to do with your life–” he gestured toward the picture of the Hunt Club.

“
Papa,
think a minute. Some of those guys were part of the D’Artagnan consortium. They’re thinking about starting a new one. You can’t burn your bridges with them over politics, we have to go along with things a bit…and besides, I don’t want to go…”

“Oh,
marde,
Michel,
you
think! Think what you’re giving up. Think about your life–”

“I do,
papa,
I do.” Michel’s voice reverberated with repressed passion. “It’s all I
do
think about these days, believe me, I–”

Roch opened his mouth to interrupt, and the telephone rang beside Polo. He picked it up, listened a moment, and hung up.

“That was Gilles,” he said. “He’s at the bus station. The truck is there. He said to tell you the keys are in the ashtray as usual. He’s going home. To think, he said. And to talk to his priest.”

Roch exchanged a swift and inscrutable glance with Michel. He turned away and bit his lip. Roch thought three things:
Gilles was already scared when he walked into the barn. Michel knows more than he is going to tell me. I don’t think I want to know what Michel knows
. Except that only the first two thoughts appeared in his conscious mind.

Marie–France walked in with a cardboard container holding several cups of coffee, which she set carefully down on a square of clean space near the corner of the desk where Polo was half–sitting.

Roch turned back to the inner office, calling over his shoulder, “M–F, get me a locksmith. I want him here
today
.”

CHAPTER SIX

W
aiting for the water to boil, Guy arranged a tray,
piled
biscuits on a plate, rinsed the teapot with hot water, and reached up to the tin box on the shelf over the stove for two bags of Earl Grey tea. Leaning back to peek around the corner into the living room, he noted that Bridget had not moved. She still lay quietly on the sagging chesterfield, holding a cold compress to her forehead.

“Coming in a minute, Bridget,” he called out with somewhat theatrical cheerfulness. There was no response at all. He bustled about the kitchen with exaggerated domestic energy to suggest normalcy, a strategy he thought best under the circumstances.

She had taken the attack on Rockin’ Robin very hard. Now she needed TLC and the most generously lavished sympathy. Still, there was no question of his going to her and consoling her in any
physical
way…

The very thought of holding Bridget, or anybody for that matter, made Guy feel quite queasy. In fact, knowing that he would never be called upon to touch Bridget was in Guy’s eyes one of the most satisfying aspects of their excellent alliance. That was not Bridget’s style in any case, even if they had been engaged in a physical relationship. She would want to
endure
the pain in the most solitary, stoical way.

“Here we are, dear.” He set the tray down beside her on the coffee table, deftly manoeuvred several days’ accumulated newspapers and a chocolate–coloured Labrador retriever off the neighbouring wing chair, and settled himself to pour out.

“Tell me again,” she said in a dull, muffled voice.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to dwell on it, Bridget? I mean, he
is
going to get well.”

“Tell me again,” she said, as if she had not heard.

Guy sighed. “Well, the tongue was cut about halfway up with the wire. Probably someone had him licking on something sweet or maybe even massaging his back–you know how the horses let down their tongues when they relax–although frankly that would make more sense if there were two people–and, well, I guess there could have been…

“He lost about a pint of blood. That’s not a lot for a horse, it just seemed like a lot because it was so visible everywhere. A horse’s blood volume is only about eight per cent of its body weight. They can lose ten percent of that without having any serious physiological effects at all. So he didn’t go into shock because there wasn’t enough blood loss, also because it probably didn’t even hurt that much after the initial surprise.

“He’s able to drink, although I told Roch I wanted bottled water and a bucket given by hand obviously.

“As to eating I talked to Dr. Forget at St. Hyacinth and he agrees that, as long as he’s on a fair amount of ‘bute’–I’ll inject him myself, and I have him on the maximum dose, along with antibiotics, of course–he can try a little bran mash several times a day. He should be able to take it in, and then the next day grass, hand–fed until he figures out a new way to graze. Well, it’ll be a lot of work, and with Liam gone, unless you want the students…”

“I’ll do it,” she muttered.

“Did I tell you that I read about a similar case in Sweden? A Dressage competitor in second place before the finals, she did it to her rival’s horse. Can you imagine? And yet the vets said they couldn’t tell the rival
not
to compete in the finals, after stitching him up, because he was still
technically
‘sound’. I guess in a way it’s the perfect way to do damage to a horse without actually doing any
real
damage, if you see what I mean.”

“There’s a journal article for you somewhere in this, isn’t there, Guy? I mean, I can tell from your voice that part of you is getting your veterinary kicks out of this.”

“Bridget, how can you say such a thing!”

“Admit it. You’re feeling pretty bloody chuffed!”

“Well, yes, I was pleased how it all went–I mean, I take some justifiable pride in the stitching job, it’s not an easy thing–” he looked at her with mild reproof–“and, well, naturally there’s an element of satisfaction in dealing with an unusual situation, and with such a valuable animal. He’ll be off stud service for a while, of course…”

Bridget groaned. “Oh Christ, did you call Manon? Did you cancel for today?”

“Oh no, I’m sorry, I forgot all about it in the excitement. I’ll call her now. What time is it? Eleven. We said the early afternoon, didn’t we?” Guy turned to the telephone beside him and dialed.

Bridget’s mind wandered off as Guy chattered on in French with Manon. After ten years in Saint Armand she had barely managed to achieve even a minimal ability to function at the local
dépanneur.
Substantive conversations were quite beyond her. She had given up a long time ago. When she was with unilingual francophones, she resorted to the time–honoured British tradition of simply speaking louder English. This tactic usually intimidated them into pretending they understood her. Fortunately there were very few horse people in Quebec who didn’t speak English with some degree of fluency. They wouldn’t last long in the sport otherwise.

Guy had been a godsend to her in that respect. He was one of those lucky ones with a perfectly bicultural background, father francophone, mother anglophone, schooled in both languages, and finally so seamlessly at home in both cultures he was often unaware which language he was speaking. Fittingly, he responded with equanimity to both the English and French pronunciations of
both
his names.

When Bridget was with him, he became her unofficial translator and interpreter. He liked that, she knew, because he could then be secondary to the conversation while remaining an integral part of it, and therefore didn’t stutter in these situations. It was only when spoken to directly, face to face…

She knew of course that she was also a godsend to
him
, proof of which was that he never stuttered in her presence, even when looking straight at her. Bridget was not, in fact, exactly sure what it was about her that evoked his confidence, but she wasn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Bridget heard the conversation picking up animation on Guy’s side. Manon must be thinking her stallion was a bloody jinx by now. This was the third rendez–vous with her mare that had been aborted. The first time Guy had been called away on an emergency, and Bridget never liked her stud to cover a mare without a vet handy, the second time the mare had mysteriously failed to come into
estrus
.

And now this.

Bridget could tell from the rhythm of Guy’s speech that he was now fairly launched on a blow–by–blow description of the wound.
Christ!
She thought back to the moment of realization in the barn. At first she could not take in what had happened. Then, when she saw poor Robin–and at that point they had cleaned up all the blood, but still…–she had just gone sort of numb. Her mind had shut down.

But she had still insisted that she felt okay physically. Roch had said
you’re a funny colour for an okay person,
which was the right thing, she even laughed a bit, and he had insisted she go directly into his office with him and sit down until Guy had finished. Then he pulled a bottle of brandy out of his drawer and made her drink a glass. The fiery draught had jolted her out of her stupor and she was able to absorb the fresh shock of the vandalized office. She was also able to think about what she should say and how she should say it.

Roch was there with her and so was his friend Polo. Polo had been in and around the grounds for two weeks by this time, but their paths had rarely crossed, and then only superficially. He was always at the jumper arena or the Jacobsons’ property, while she was always out on the cross–country course or dealing with students. She hadn’t thought much about him before, but she began to try and take his measure now, because it was obvious after a minute or so that–whether Roch was aware of it or not–this man and not Roch was in charge of the occasion. He had nodded to her when she came in and looked directly at her with unsentimental curiosity.

Sipping her brandy and saying nothing at first, she watched and listened as the two men continued their discussion, which her arrival had interrupted, about the various possibilities surrounding the morning’s disasters. At first they continued to speak in French. It was obvious that Polo spoke a more refined version than Roch. It fell nicely on the ear, not exactly like the kind she had failed to learn in school–what she thought of as
real
French–but rather like that of the news announcers on the telly here. Roch’s natural speech patterns just skirted a plangent
joual,
but she had heard him with clients, the press and public figures, and knew he could rise to the occasion if he had to. After a moment Roch remembered her unilingualism and apologized, and they switched.

Bridget made no attempt still to join the conversation, because she was becoming more than a little uneasy about dealing with Polo on such an important matter as this attack on her horse. Who the hell
was
he, anyway? She was listening and looking with total concentration, but she found she could not
place
him, a failure extremely rare in her experience, and given her talent for mimicry based on stereotypical cultural and linguistic norms. His English was accented, but excellent, made more so by contrast with Roch’s. Then too, his body language and gestures set him apart from the common background he was alleged to share with Roch.

From what she had gathered via the usual sources, he had been a professional horseman in his youth, a jumper rider, famous, it seemed, for a number of years. Then he had gone on to an eclectic variety of businesses, all horse–related and apparently successful. He was said to own a large, valuable property in St. Lazare, a nice house, an excellent barn and arena. She had heard he was married, but so far there had been no sign of a wife in Saint Armand. On the other hand, she had never seen him with a woman, and he had disappeared for whole days at a time, so probably went home then. At the restaurant he sat alone, reading, or with Michel or Roch or occasionally with the owner.

Nobody had said anything about him being educated–by educated she meant beyond high school, where most horsemen’s formal schooling stopped, certainly where Roch’s had–but if she met him anywhere else, she would have sworn he was a university graduate. There was about him what in North America was called ‘preppiness’, an air physically evoked by his urbane carriage, shaggy blond hair and elegant square–framed glasses. She could picture him in khakis and moccasins, a button–down denim shirt, loosened school tie and blazer, a book bag…

These images made her uneasy. He looked far too clever for her liking. She didn’t mind intelligence in the service of science, what Guy had, or in the service of her other needs, such as Thea’s very useful computer skills, but this Polo looked at her with his cool, hazel eyes as if he knew what she was thinking, and
that
kind of intelligence she normally stayed very far away from. Now she went back over their conversation in her mind.

“I suppose you know that Liam’s left with no explanation?” he said to her.

“Do you think he did it? Robin, I mean. It would make sense. He hated my guts,” Bridget answered as calmly as she could, remembering Liam’s ugly, close–set eyes, his oily, pocked skin, sneering smile and that irritating, insinuating, lisping Irish lilt.

“Why did he hate you?” Polo asked politely. He leaned against the edge of Roch’s desk with a foot propped on a chair.

“He didn’t appreciate some of my views on Irish inbreeding,” she answered with a touch of asperity. “I’m an outspoken person, you see. Some people don’t appreciate home truths.”

“What particular home truth do you think might have caused him to take offence?”

“I passed a remark one day about the schizophrenia rates in Catholic Ireland being six times higher than in the rest of Europe as a result of inbreeding. He wasn’t over the moon about it.”

“Is that true?” Polo was clearly taken aback, whether at the information or her audacity in suggesting it, she couldn’t say.

“Probably. I think I read it somewhere. Anyway, it bloody well could be. Look, the point is he hated me for a reason. I said those things to him because he–well, he got across me. He hated English people. It’s a common enough thing. Losers, insecure people, they think the English are all snobs and take it personally. They either suck up or badmouth us. It’s a two–way street. He used to say the Brits were a race of faggots. We were oil and water.”

She tossed off the last of the brandy, and gestured at the mess in the office. “What do
you
think? You don’t suppose Liam did this little job, though, do you? I mean, he doesn’t speak a word of French–he makes
me
look bilingual. Which, as anyone here will tell you, I am bloody well not and never will be.”

Roch said, “Me, I don’t think Liam, he did the horse. I don’t like that guy, for me he’s
bizarre,
but one thing it’s sure is he knows horses, and it’s for sure he cares for them. I got to say he was the best one ever with the horses. It’s piss me off I got to get somebody else and train them when it’s the busy season.”

“Who else hates you, Bridget?” Polo turned back to her after considering Roch’s statement a moment.

“There’re a few guys around who don’t appreciate the fact that I’m an outsider. Things have been getting more political lately–” she broke off to acknowledge an inarticulate growl of frustration from Roch–“well, I’m sorry, Roch, but it’s getting worse. Even you couldn’t control yourself the other day–” and then she hesitated, suddenly wary, thinking she had already said enough for the time being. The radical separatists made her uneasy. Why should she name them? They might not be so restrained next time.

But she knew them, people like Benoit’s cousin, Jean–Claude Desrochers, who still rode at the barn and looked sulphurously out at the Jacobsons’ grounds from the restaurant where he always ended the day with a drink. He hadn’t made any secret of his feelings. He wouldn’t even talk to her anymore, pretended not to understand, even though his English was perfectly fine. Maybe she’d been a little too obvious about
her
feelings, maybe those little ‘takes’ she did on the ‘
séparatisses’
at local parties had got talked about–had set somebody off.