A Three Day Event (18 page)

Morrie gave him a week to think it over. Polo would have liked to discuss it with Ruthie. But she had decided rather impulsively before the Royal even began to spend a year in Europe (topping up her already exquisite French, he supposed). There was nobody in the horse world he could count on for objectivity. Hy, surprisingly, told him that doing what you loved was just as important as security. But then Hy was speaking from a position of absolute, life–long security.

So Polo took a hard look at the professional riders who stayed in. Morrie was right. They were still boys in many ways, ego projections and tools of their parents’ or sponsors’ escalating social ambitions.

Polo bought land with the money, a hundred acres in St. Lazare, and put the rest to work in a safe portfolio that Hy recommended. But he was still young. It was too hard to quit cold turkey. So he stayed on the circuit for a few more years to test Morrie’s thesis about Panjandrum being one in a million.

He had no trouble finding sponsors. But it was a rude education to find out some of the things they expected from him. The sponsors–or sometimes their wives or girlfriends. Polo rode some very fine horses, none ever quite as wonderful as Panjandrum. He enjoyed success. Once he won the
Puissance
at 6
΄
9
˝
on a 15.1 hand palomino. That caused a stir. He had a little fan club for a while. He was ‘Leading Rider of the Year’ at Madison Square Garden two years later. But he had already proven himself, he was lonely, the peaks flattened out, and the successes weren’t enough to offset the growing resentment that came with dependence on his sponsors. Or to offset some of the depressing training strategies he was forced to witness in some of his more unscrupulous peers.

He wanted to be in charge of his own life. He became a general entrepreneur in the world of horse sport. Polo had a knack for choosing horses, spotting raw talent in the field. He ‘made’ young horses and competed, but only to sell them. He travelled widely in North America and Europe for a growing and increasingly prestigious client list in Canada and the States. Being an honest horse trader who was free from conflicts of interest, he was something of an anomaly in the sport.

By the time Ruthie came back from Europe, Polo was no longer spending time at the Jacobsons’ Westmount house. But he came over to welcome her home. She wasn’t alone. There was a handsome medical intern there, Marvin Cooper, who shook his hand politely and said he had heard what a great rider Polo was. That was all. Polo looked at Ruthie. Her eyes slid away. He realized then that this Marvin was her future and that he was already her past.

On the day of their wedding Polo found himself in Holland assessing young Jumper prospects for one of his sponsors. He imagined that Ruthie was secretly relieved at his absence. Before leaving he had looked for a suitable wedding gift. He went to Eaton’s and chose an old–fashioned pitcher, decorated in a sentimental tea rose motif, which he thought very English, and therefore appropriate.

Polo had not realized that Jewish brides of Ruthie’s status were ‘registered’ for pre–chosen patterns in their china, crystal and flatware. Polo’s gift stood out as the odd piece amongst the starkly modern designs and crisp colours of the kitchenware Marvin had pressed for.

The couple had left for Winnipeg, where Marvin built a solid career as a neurologist and Ruthie taught high school French, and where they raised a family. Ruthie and Polo continued to think of themselves as friends, saw each other on family occasions. But Polo wasn’t a letter writer, and Ruthie was busy. Mainly they stayed in touch through Hy, with whom Polo remained close.

Some years later–he was thirty–three–Polo married Nathalie Chouinard in a hastily arranged, families–only ceremony at the Chouinards’ gracious Ste. Adele country house. It was the only occasion on which Hy and Ruthie ever met Polo’s mother and siblings.

(Morrie and Clarice were on a long–deferred trip to Israel, Marvin had to give a medical paper in Toronto, and Marilyn had committed months before to chair a Combined Jewish Appeal’s Women’s Division fund–raising event.)

The wedding party was a curious assortment of negative vibrations. The Chouinards had succeeded in masking their hostility to a union they had long fought to sabotage, but the charade left them with little energy to simulate much pleasure in the event. As the Poisson clan, overdressed and overcoiffed for a country wedding arranged themselves in the circle of wooden chairs on the lawn, Bernard Chouinard asked himself what he had done to merit his daughter’s leaving all this to join the real–life version of the TV Plouffe family.

For their part the Poisson family were intimidated by the magazine–ad perfection of their surroundings, and only too acutely aware of the yawning social chasm between the two groups. They huddled together in a stiffly self–conscious agony of discomfort that Polo and Nathalie, keyed to distraction by the tension of the day and all that had preceded it, did absolutely nothing to relieve.

So it was left to Hy and Ruthie, fascinated and intensely bemused by the cultural and psychological crosscurrents of the affair, to summon a lifetime’s formidable arsenal of social skills and perform the successful role of buffer between the two parties. When they said their good–byes, the Chouinards expressed fervid gratitude for their presence.

Ruthie had wanted to steal a private moment with Polo to offer him a special personal wish for his happiness, but the opportunity never presented itself. Nathalie never left his side, and in spite of the bride’s demure and proper behaviour, Ruthie felt an unmistakable chill coming her way every time their eyes met. At the time she couldn’t imagine why.

* * *

It was time–past time–to have children. Polo knew it. But he couldn’t. Whenever he pictured Nathalie pregnant, desire died in him, and he felt the urge to run away. She begged him to see a professional, a therapist. He couldn’t do that either. She pressed for joint counseling at least. He wouldn’t go.

Finally one day, bitter over his stubborn–in her eyes peasant–like–resistance to some kind of systematic analysis of his problem, and aiming with a lover’s unerring instinct for the armour’s fatal chink, she said she guessed you could take the boy out of St. Henri but you couldn’t take St. Henri out of the boy.

Inarticulate with rage, Polo had come so close to hitting her, his heart racing so fast, it frightened him. He stormed out of the house and stayed away for a week. When he came back, a subdued and chastened Nathalie promised him more time.

She thought she’d lost him, and thinking that, believed she would die of grief. That had been a year ago. Now he’d had his time. And now Nathalie knew she wouldn’t die of grief if he left her again. Or if she left him. But she thought she might die of grief if she didn’t have a child.

And that was it. And that was it…

It was time to go to the Jacobsons’.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
he mood was subdued in spite of the champagne Manon
insisted on serving to celebrate their reunion. They gathered outside on the deck in the soft evening air to appreciate the view, and as if by consensus avoided discussion about the unpleasantness at
Le Centre
that morning. Polo commented on the afternoon’s progress in the arena. Ruthie praised the scenic pleasures of her morning run.

Manon commended the new gardener’s skill and efficiency in bringing along the landscaping plans in the gardens–they peered over the railing to admire M. Boulerice’s work on the vibrantly coloured, densely planted borders–and down at the stadium too.

“He’s wonderful,” Manon said, “he seems to know exactly what shrub or bush should go where, and his flower sense is excellent. I really enjoyed working out the designs this afternoon. But you know, Hy,” she turned to him with a frown, “I was surprised to see that all the material for the show was just sitting out on a table in the V.I.P. section. I mean, it’s protected from the rain, but I would have thought they’d deliver it wrapped in bags or heavy paper or something to keep it clean.”

Hy looked puzzled. “But it
was
wrapped. I was there yesterday when it arrived. In fact, I remember thinking that there was so much material we should have it locked up somewhere until they get to work on it.” He shrugged. “I guess somebody needed the wrapping for something else. I should have locked it all into the press room.”

No one commented for a few seconds. Then, mustering a host’s requisite animation, Hy said, “Ruthie, why don’t you show Polo the pictures we brought back from Montreal. And I’ll help Manon get dinner together.”

Polo followed Ruthie into the house. She
was
thinner, her face more angular than he remembered, not as attractive in his eyes, and she still looked a bit peaky, but it was clear that she was making every effort to avoid the usual pitfalls of depression. Her clothes were new and expensive–looking. Her feathery dark curls bobbed gently in a chic, cloudy swirl around her heart–shaped face, and she wore enough make–up, subtly and expertly applied, to cover the dark rings around her eyes and bring a soft touch of pink to her lightly–tanned skin.

She hadn’t seemed at ease up to now, and Polo wondered why. He asked himself if he was sending subliminal messages of his own leftover discomfort from Nathalie’s call. They stopped in the hallway where Hy had arranged a balanced, attractive grouping of photographs, many of them featuring Polo at various stages of physical development and equestrian achievement. Ruthie seemed to relax and enjoy herself as soon as the distant past became the focus of their conversation. For a few moments they each let their eyes roam amongst the pictures.

“Do you remember that pony? Look how proud you are here…”

“That’s Nikki. I remember every pony and horse I ever sat on…”

“And this is cute, you must have just won something important, you’re grinning like the Cheshire cat, you forgot all about having a full set of braces…”

“Oh God, don’t remind me. It was torture.” He bent down to peer more closely at a smallish photo. “This is nice, the one of Morrie and Clarice dancing…”

“And rare. He was so self–conscious about being shorter than her. He loved dancing, but he didn’t usually like to see pictures…”

Hy joined them with the champagne bottle. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. I can hear the nostalgia is flowing nicely.” He gestured to one of the larger pictures, occupying a place of honour at the centre. “Do you have a copy of this one?”

Polo shook his head. “Not the original, but I have the newspaper clipping of it.” The photograph featured Polo on a handsome bay horse sporting a huge rosette on his bridle. Standing to each side of the horse’s head were Morrie and a tall, Nordic–looking man staring directly into the camera with gelid eyes and a tepid smile.

Ruthie asked, “Who’s the uptight guy? When was this?”

Polo smiled ironically. “That was when I was twenty–one, the year I won five out of seven classes at the Royal Winter Fair and became their first French–Canadian Grand Champion ever. Which is why Harold Ankstrom, chairman of the Federation, is looking like he’s come straight from a proctology appointment. Not to mention that he’s not exactly ecstatic to be sharing the moment with Morrie.”

Hy added drily, “You’d have seen a real smile if it were Rob Taylor on the horse and George Montagu Black as the owner. You can almost see his teeth grinding.”

Polo now remembered how curiously aggressive Morrie had been in that moment of triumph. “The photographer took the picture and said, ‘That’s a really beautiful horse you have there, Mr. Jacobson’, and Morrie looked right at Ankstrom and answered, ‘Yeah, I wanted to own him the minute I saw him. Reminded me of the horse this Polish general used to ride through Lodz on his way to the whorehouse.”

Ruthie shrieked, “
No
! Oh, you’re not
serious
! That’s tacky, even for daddy. I mean, really…”

Hy and Polo were enjoying her retroactive embarrassment hugely. Hy chuckled, “That’s nothing, Ruthie, you never worked with him in the stores. He could be pretty crude. But it was all part of his charm, eh Polo?” Polo laughed in agreement.

Ruthie went to take a closer look at Harold Ankstrom. “Ankstrom. So is this the man who’s married to the lady I met this afternoon? Thea?” She looked at Polo who said, “
Was.
They divorced a long time ago.”

“Oh. Because he isn’t the type I would have thought…because when I was introduced to her today, I remembered I’d met her years ago–at that horse show I went to in St. Lazare.” She resisted the urge to glance up at him.

“Too bad about that show for you,” Polo said, and then Ruthie did look up quickly. “You got heat stroke. Bummer, eh?”

“I’ll never forget it,” Ruthie agreed ironically, but Polo just kept running his eyes over the pictures. He’s forgotten, Ruthie thought. And that’s a
good
thing, she reminded herself.

“How do you remember Thea from so many years ago?” Hy asked Ruthie, refilling their glasses as they settled into chairs in the living room.

“Oh, by her voice, of course–‘her voice was ever gentle, soft and low, an excellent thing in woman…’–and don’t give me that look, Polo, I’m allowed to quote something once in a while if it’s really appropriate–and in this case it truly is.”

“I agree,” said Hy. “I found the same thing when I first met her at the C–FES meeting. It has a hypnotic quality.”

“Anyway, I kind of recognized her face, she’s quite lovely still.”

“How did you meet her?”

“Oh, I was standing around looking terribly out of place, which I was, and she asked if I was looking for someone, and I said I’d come to see Polo ride, and she immediately kind of took me under her wing. It was lucky meeting her, though. She explained about all the different classes, and who was technically good, and who was a natural, and who looked good but really wasn’t–it was quite an education actually.”

“What did she say about me?” Polo asked.

Ruthie coloured up again and laughed a bit self–consciously. “Well, if you must know, I thought she had a bit of a crush on you. She waxed quite poetic, said you were one of the true artists in the sport, the Nijinsky of the jumper world–I
mean
, okay, graceful, yeah, even I could see you were special, but
Nijinsky,
jeez–and all kinds of other stuff. I remember I was sort of taken aback, and even a little annoyed.”

“But why were you annoyed? I certainly don’t mind being compared to Nijinsky–whoever
she
is–”

Ruthie automatically started to explain, caught the gleam in his eye, and laughed. “Got me again. Still the same old
mazzik,
I see. I never can figure what you know and what you don’t, Polo. Your referential stock is so uneven it’s hard to know when you’re bluffing.”

“
Je vous en prie
,” Manon announced with a flourish toward the dining room…

Dinner was gazpacho in glass bowls, poached salmon with dill–yogurt sauce, steamed asparagus, new potatoes, and watercress salad. Manon preened a bit in the glow of the usual accolades. Hy expatiated on the wine he had chosen for the occasion. It was sipped and also duly praised.

“What did I hear you calling Polo before?” Manon asked Ruthie.

“
Mazzik?
Oh, that was the nickname The Duchess gave him. It’s a Hebrew word but a Yiddish pronunciation. It means–I guess ‘a lovable rascal’ would be closest.”

“And your nickname was
ziess,
right? That means ‘sweet’, doesn’t it?” Ruthie nodded.

“Obviously wishful thinking on the family’s part,” Polo added flippantly. Ruthie lightly stuck her fork into the back of his hand. “Okay, okay. I take it back. Gosh, we seem to be reverting to childhood at quite a furious pace here. It’s the downside of nostalgia.”

“So what was yours, Hy? What was your nickname?” Manon asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Hy chuckled and Ruthie nodded vigorously in agreement.

“No, really.”

“
Kaddish.”

“Kaddish?”
She frowned. “Isn’t that the prayer you say over the wine?”

“‘Fraid not
.
The wine prayer is
kiddish
.
Kaddish
is the prayer you say over the dead.” At the look on her face he protested, “Well, you insisted. Honest, that’s what he called me when he got sentimental. Because I was the son and I would be the one to go to
shul
and say
kaddish
every day after he died.”

“
Mon Dieu
, but to use it as a nickname…” she murmured.

“Yeah, and it’s really so out of character,” Hy retorted with a sly grin, “I mean, Polish Jews–especially from his generation–are normally such lighthearted, fun loving, larky people, you wouldn’t think he’d be capable of that kind of morbidity, would you?” Ruthie giggled guiltily, but appreciatively.

Manon sighed and Polo patted her hand sympathetically. “Death by sarcasm. It’s slower than arsenic, but just as toxic.”

She smiled good–naturedly, and Polo went on, ignoring the miscreants across the table, “Have you noticed he only gets really bad when Ruthie’s around? What do they call it–co–dependency? You know, you should make him talk to you more often in French, he only has the knack for sadism in English.” He winked at Hy and Ruthie who tried without success to look penitent.

“Old habits die hard,” Manon sighed ruefully. “Remember, he was my boss before he was my husband.” She turned back to Hy and said, “I was going to ask how your mother got to be called The Duchess, but now I’m afraid to.”

Hy chuckled and set down his cutlery. “Now that actually is a funny story,
les enfants,
and I happen to remember it vividly because as an eight–year old what did I know from metaphors, and what dad said seemed pretty amazing to me.” He laughed again, shaking his head at the memory.

“C’mon, Hy, let’s have it,” Ruthie prodded impatiently. “I always thought it was because she just looks so aristocratic. But is it going to bruise my shell–like ears? I mean, is this going to be daddy speaking English or Chabanese?”

“Oh, definitely Chabanese.” And in response to Manon’s puzzled expression, “We used to say he was speaking Chabanese–you know all the
shmatta
factories are on Chabanel St.–when he was particularly crude.”

He sipped his wine. “Okay. Dad was in the kitchen with Izzie Bienhacker, who got into curtains and blinds after peddling some of dad’s lines when he first came over from the old country. Izzie was thinking about renting space in this little strip shopping centre in St. Laurent, the first one dad bought with
Clar–Mor
as the anchor.

“And Izzie was
kvetching
that the unit rent was too high, he could probably do better ‘by Shapiro in Laval’, and dad was such a hustler, I don’t have to tell you, and so anxious to make the sale, so he says to Izzie, he says, ‘listen Izzie, you won’t do better with that
goniff
Shapiro. You won’t do better anywhere than the price I’m giving you. I’m not bullshitting you, I mean,
I’m puttin’ my schlong on the table here…’
“–

Hy started to choke with laughter, Ruthie moaned ‘
oh no’
and sank her face into her hands (but giggling) and Manon looked in puzzlement at Polo who whispered something to her at which her eyes widened and her mouth fell slightly ajar.

“And my
mother
,” Hy went on between fits of laughter, “and my
mother
overhears this and says in this really to–the–manor–born kind of way, ‘
you know, Morrie, a simple ‘I’m being very sincere’
would convey the same message in a more civilized way
.’” Hy and Ruthie were roaring uncontrollably now. It was infectious.

“You had to see–” Hy broke up again, and mopped at his eyes with his napkin–“you had to see the look on Izzie”s face.” Ruthie was by now doubled over in giddy abandonment. “So does that–oh God, it was funny–does that answer your question, pumpkin?”

Manon opened her mouth to reply and the telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said and slipped into the hall. Hy was still shaking his head, repeating, ‘a simple I’m being very sincere would convey the same message…’ and started to laugh again.

“It’s for you, Hy,” Manon said, “Albert Legendre from the Taschereau store. He says Howard’s left for Stowe and it’s important.”

Hy excused himself, still chuckling.

The three relaxed into a companionable silence for a moment, the glowy intimacy of shared laughter circulating in the air amongst them.

“I don’t mean to sound pathetic or anything,” Ruthie finally said, her voice still weak from laughter, “but that is honestly the first really good laugh I’ve had in”–her eyes looked into the distance and her fingers counted against her thumb–“thirteen months. Because,” she continued almost dreamily, “it was a year ago April that we knew it was cancer,” she sipped at her wine, “and not the right kind….” Her eyes stayed focused in the distance for a moment, then suddenly she startled.