A Three Day Event (34 page)

Michel hissed and turned away. His inarticulate disgust was brutal in its purity. Shame, like the roused dragon in the fairy tales, rose up and smote Polo with its scorching breath. His mouth dried to flannel, and the words wouldn’t flow, they had to be dredged.

“Michel, listen, I–I say this not as a real excuse, but as a kind of explanatory factor–there was something else stopping me. See…I wasn’t the only one there watching her…and this other guy was also not doing a goddam thing about it.”

Michel whipped around to face him, his eyes glittering with curiosity. “Who?”

“Dr. Dennis Stryker.”

“
The FEI vet
?”

“One and the same.”

“But…”

“Yeah, that was my reaction. But…But…But if the most prominent vet on the circuit, the guy who actually makes the rules on where the line is between discipline and abuse, is standing here watching this horror show, then either it’s really not happening, and it’s my imagination, or there must be some plausible explanation for it.”

He paused, breathed deep, pulled at grass. “So, as I say, I waited that split second too long. By then, the horse had collapsed, and was on the ground, just heaving and groaning. And while my eyes were seeing…what happened next…it was like my body was completely paralyzed.”

“What happened?” Michel whispered.

“She kept on…whipping him…but he couldn’t get up,” Polo whispered back. He would have spoken aloud, after all, they were completely alone, but his throat was suddenly closing up, and twenty years after the fact, he could feel himself shivering slightly all over his body, just as he had then.

“It was…like a dream. My hand was…” he had unconsciously lifted his hand, his fingers fanned open in a ‘stop’ sign. “I kept…looking at Stryker and trying to talk…but the words weren’t coming out…and there he was…just–just
watching
this with no expression on his …” Now the lump in his throat was cutting off even the whisper, and he sketched a vague air gesture to Michel as he got up, took off his glasses, and walked off a few paces.

My turn now. This weekend’s theme, eh? Okay, I’m okay now. Oh Nathalie, you’d love it. Let it all out. I’ll hold you. Not good. Michel knows better. Good guy, just pretending not to notice. Best thing, all this modern stuff is bullshit. Grief counseling. Closure. Gimme a break. There, no more tears. All gone. Blow nose. That’s better. Clean glasses. Back on. Finish story.

He sat back down, and made micro–adjustments to his spurs. Michel was looking very intently at his fingers, which were separating individual blades of grass into perfectly symmetrical strips. Polo cleared his throat, and continued in a tight, but steadier voice.

“Then Andrea just got tired herself, I guess, and she threw the whip down, and flounced off. And then–finally–I could move again, and I ran to the horse, and so did the vet, and–this is the weird part”–the scene was whole and vivid before his eyes–“the two of us just worked on that poor sucker together without saying a word or even looking at each other.

“I somehow got the bridle and saddle off, and he was taking his temperature and his pulse and checking for shock, and then we were washing him down, giving him water and electrolytes by syringe so he wouldn’t tie up, and eventually we kind of hauled him up and he staggered back to the stall.

“He was half dead, though. Stryker set up an I–V, and the two of us took turns sitting with that horse for the next four hours to make sure he was okay, never saying one thing to each other, and then I hand walked him a couple of times, and eventually he settled down and ate a bran mash and dozed off, and we left him with the grooms.”

Michel exhaled noisily. He had been holding his breath without realizing it. “And then you went and found her and gave her shit?”

Polo sighed. “No Michel, I went back to the house and packed my things after telling my groom to get the horses ready for shipping. But this part is going to disappoint you”–

“You didn’t”–

“Michel, you know better than anyone that it takes hours to get ready to ship out. It was late afternoon. Her parents had given me and my horses three days of hospitality.”

“So you actually”–

“Yes, Michel. Yes. I showered, I dressed, I went down, I drank a glass of fucking sherry, I sat across from that cunt and the vet at dinner, I made pleasant conversation with her parents, and I listened politely as they yapped away about the new, the amazing, the magnificent Volvo horse van that they would be the first on the circuit to own. I didn’t look at her or speak to either of them. I then thanked the parents, told them I had urgent business at home, excused myself, and left. And I never saw her again.”

Michel looked confused. Polo didn’t blame him. “I just don’t understand…how could a vet…”

“How? Because he has a living to make, because this family is powerful and influential. If he lost their business, it would be more than their ten horses, it could mean half his other fancy clients in that area, not to mention his status at the major shows.

“When I thought about it later, I felt sorry for him. I was only going to live through that hopefully once in my life. How many times do you suppose that bitch got angry when a horse didn’t do what she wanted? I had the distinct impression this was not his first go–around.”

They both got up and started slowly back to the barn. Half way there, Michel turned to him and said, “Polo, I didn’t mean to judge you. I have no right. Sometimes I wonder about how these things happen. I think about us being like–I don’t know–students at school. We study, we follow the rules, and we write tests and exams. Winning in the ring–it’s like acing an exam. You’re on top of the world. But then you see other people are cheating. So you want to tell the teacher. But when you see they really don’t want to know, and they’re breaking the rules too, it’s hard to be sure–to know–and so we end up doing nothing–and that’s wrong, too…”

“It’s why I got out, Michel,” Polo said, spent.

“It’s why I’m getting out,” Michel replied morosely.

“What do you want to do?”

“I’m not sure. One thing I know is, I’m sick of being a nomad, living out of trailers and trucks. I want to come home, Polo. Here–not just
le
Centre
”–he gestured expansively to include some greater landscape of the heart–the townships, Quebec–“it’s the only place I ever felt I really belonged. But I can’t come home to stay if things aren’t right between my father and me.”

“It’s too bad you couldn’t tell him about the Panaiotti girl and her horse.”

Michel looked pained. “It’s hard for me to say this, but I was afraid that even if he knew, he might say, he might want”–

“You think Roch would still want you to marry her, even knowing she was a horse–killer?”

“I don’t know, Polo. Isn’t that terrible? I don’t know how much he wants this success for me. He can’t see any other way. The money is the key. He wouldn’t hurt a horse himself, he’s a good man, but I can almost see him putting it out of his mind, if it meant I would have what he’s worked for all these years. You know how he is…”

Polo nodded. Nobody could set aside bad news like Roch in the service of a higher priority.

And then in a tentative tone Michel said, “Polo, would it be very wrong if I asked you to be there with me when I tell
papa
? He trusts you. You go back a long way together. And it’s going to be very bad. All his dreams…He’s done everything for me…I know what I’m taking away from him…”

“No, of course it’s not wrong. Of course I’ll be with you.” He cuffed Michel lightly on the shoulder. “And–
félicitations
, Michel, I’m sure everything’s going to work out for you and
ta belle Claude
.” Michel’s eyes glowed with relief and gratitude.

And would it be very wrong, Michel, if I gave you a massive bear hug and told you I wish I could be your father for the hour of your independence, so I could bless your new life, so you could embark on it without guilt, and so you wouldn’t have to go through this pain that I am so weirdly feeling as my own?

“Thanks, Polo.” Michel shifted awkwardly from foot to foot for a moment, then said shyly, “You know, I never went to church or anything, but I think I feel the way you’re supposed to after you–you know, confess to the priest.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “So–thanks again,” he winked, “s
alut
,
Père Polo
…”

“
De rien, Michel
.
Me too
…
Salut
.”

In a fugue, Polo gazed after Michel as he walked away, his shoulders broad and square, head high. Then very slowly he moved toward the office to call Fran. He felt old and troubled by a nameless sorrow. He had never felt less like riding a horse in his life.

Michel, self–absorbed in the afterglow of relieved stress, ambled down the long corridor on his way to the lockers. As he passed Jocelyne making the final adjustments to the chestnut’s bridle, he casually remarked to her with unintended, but profound cruelty, “Joc, you don’t have to lie anymore about Thursday night. Polo knew all along it was a completely impossible story. But don’t worry, he knows you did it for me. So if he asks you again, just tell him where you really were.”

And he sauntered off without remarking that Jocelyne was suddenly fumbling blindly with the straps she couldn’t see because her eyes were shot with tears of humiliation and rage.

CHAPTER TWENTY

R
uthie arrived at the entrance to the indoor dressage
arena
and saw Fran standing with arms crossed mid–way on the short side of the huge rectangle, intent on the progress a horse and rider were making around the arena’s perimeter.

She walked over and was about to greet him when Fran suddenly shouted, “
Forward
! More
forward
!”

Ruthie startled, then realized that he was addressing the rider. She hadn’t even glanced at him yet, but she looked now as he came down the long side of the arena towards them, and realized with a slight shock that it was Polo on a beautiful chestnut–coloured horse with a broad white stripe down his face, and four long white ‘socks’ reaching almost to the knees.

He wasn’t doing very much, so Ruthie couldn’t imagine what Fran had meant by ‘more forward’. The horse was, after all, moving with a will, at a long–strided walk, with his head down and practically touching the ground. The reins were loose. This was riding? What a yawn.

She could see that Fran’s attention was bound up in watching the horse again, so she watched in silence too, trying to imagine what was making him frown in so fiercely concentrated a manner.

“
Ja
, this is better. He begins to work a little,” Fran said.

Work
a little? thought Ruthie. He’s not doing anything, he’s just walking.

Ruthie watched the horse approaching down the long side. In a few seconds he would cross right in front of her. But Polo’s stern and shuttered expression, the fixed and inward set of his gaze warned her off the little wave and chipper hello she’d been preparing. It was quite possible, she thought, that he didn’t even see her. (He did.) So she kept still and said nothing. As he continued along, the horse still walking, the head still rhythmically bobbing in its extended downward position, as though it had lost something and was short–sightedly peering at the ground to find it, she grew a little impatient and bored.

“What’s he looking for?” she joked to Fran.

“The horse?” Fran asked in surprise. “He seeks the ground, of course.”

Now what the hell did that mean? He clearly wasn’t kidding.

Fran peered at her. “
Ach
, you make the joke,” he said with evident satisfaction at his perspicacity. “So you do not know about horses. You do not yourself ride?”

“Not only do I not ride, Fran,” Ruthie said, “this is exactly the second time in my life that I have even
watched
someone riding close up. And in both cases the rider has been Polo.

“But what a difference–the last time I saw him ride he was in a stadium in front of hundreds of excited spectators, leaping over huge barriers at a terrific speed, whereas now…” she paused as she groped for something to say that would express her boredom politely.

“It is, as the well–known saying about dressage goes, like watching paint dry,” Fran concluded for her with a wry and knowing smile.

“We–ell, since you yourself put it that way…”

“When you do not realize what you are looking at, it can seem quite dull. Perhaps I would surprise you if I said that you are observing two very remarkable things in this arena. First of all, this rider is performing the most important element in the formation and the schooling of a well–made jumper.”

“But he’s just walking around the arena with his reins all loose and the horse looks like he’s falling asleep,” protested Ruthie.

“
Nein
!” said Fran crisply. “The horse is not ‘just walking’, he is walking at a slightly faster pace than he wants to go. He goes
forward
, at a
working
walk, because the rider drives him so with his seat. This is the beginning of his schooling.”

“So why is he ‘seeking the ground’, as you put it?”

“We say seeking the ground, but we mean that he looks for the contact with the rider. He wants it. But the rider teases him. He takes, just enough with the reins to give the appetite for contact. Then he gives, more than the horse expects, and each time he gives, the head goes lower, seeking always the contact.” Fran pointed to the horse. “In this way he makes the horse go long and low to stretch out his back muscles, to warm him up and make him supple.

“And he makes him walk just a little faster than the horse would choose. Therefore the rider says to him,
I
am the master,
I
set the pace, we are going to work now. Look closely as they come toward us and pass. Watch the hand on the outside rein. He is now just starting to put him on the bit.”

Ruthie watched carefully. The reins were taut to the mouth, and she could see the horse’s head was a little higher. The neck seemed to arch up a bit.

“
Halbe–parade
! More
halbe–parade
in the corner!” Fran barked.

Ruthie had studied German, but was unfamiliar with this expression. “What does that mean? It sounds something like ‘half–halt.’”

“
Ja
,” said Fran. “This is what it means. The half–halt is the most important aid in all of riding. Watch his hand closely as he approaches the next corner.”

Ruthie thought she might have noticed the muscles of Polo’s forearm tensing a bit, but nothing more. “What did he do?”

“He squeezed on the rein, that is all, just a squeeze, as you would squeeze an orange. At the same time he drives with the seat and leg. And the horse has no choice, he must collect himself.”

“Collect…?”

“He comes together. Three minutes ago, he was long and spread out. His weight was all in the front end. Look at him now, what do you see?”

“Oh, you’re right. He seems more squished together, and his head is up and his neck is arched.”

“This is because the rider’s driving motion with the seat makes him bring his back end under and transfer his weight from the forehand to the back. Now he is light in the front, not pulling, and in the back, where resides the great power, he takes more weight. Thus he may launch himself for the jump, where the power is so important. Also, he makes himself balanced, and with the mouth he has full contact with the rider. He leans not into the bit, and altogether the rider has him, as we say, ‘in his hands’. Now he is on the bit. Now he works.”

“And he does this all because of these…half–halts?”

“Mainly, yes, and the other aids. The seat, the back and the legs command his direction, his speed, his bending, his stopping and starting.”

“The
seat
stops him? He doesn’t pull on the reins?” Ruthie asked.

“The seat and back and legs do most of the stopping, the reins should not do so much. Force is not necessary when the horse is in the rider’s hands. But this is something only the advanced rider can do.”

“Interesting,” Ruthie murmured, her mind unconsciously at work kneading the scene before her into something conceptual, a critical dough compounded of external object, subjective image, symbol, and yeasty theme.

“But the half–halt is the rider talking to the horse,” Fran went on, “the half–halt is ‘pay attention’, I am about to ask you to do something. Maybe I ask that you stop looking at that very fearsome waving flag, or that you bend into this corner without your shoulder falling in, or maybe I ask you to look sharp because we are going to jump a five–foot fence. It matters not.

“When the horse is frightened or unsure, the ears and the tension of the body telegraph ahead that he will try to run away. The horse is a timid creature, he needs constantly the reassurance that he is safe. Partly the legs wrapped around him tell him this. Partly the half–halt, which says both ‘I am in charge’ and also ‘I will protect you’. Be not afraid. And similarly, whenever you ask the horse to do something, you must telegraph to him ahead, and the half–halt is the tool for this.”

“Oh, he’s finally trotting now,” Ruthie said, pleased to have a little action to look at.

“Do you see the horse’s ears?” asked Fran.

“Yes, they’re twitching back and forth. Does that mean he’s nervous?”

Fran chuckled. “On the contrary, it means he is saying to his rider, “I listen, I am paying attention”, and he does this with every half–halt. Thus the two speak to each other in their private language. If the ears are pointed straight ahead, it means he pays attention only to what he sees, not to his rider. It means he is
thinking
about what he might do. Perhaps run away, perhaps jump to the side in fright.

“This independent thinking the rider may not allow. Of course, if he pricks the ears before a jump, this is natural and normal. He sees what is coming and he focuses on his job. In everything, however, the horse must be in complete submission to the will of the rider.”

Seat, legs, hands, driving motion, control, tease, contact, private language, submission. Who knew riding was so sexy?

Fran was well into his theme. “Ideally, the horse is in something like a hypnotic condition.
This
is the control of the good rider, not the cruel force of the strong bit in the mouth. But ninety percent of riders, they have not the patience for this gentle formation, and so they depend on the equipment for control, and thus they ruin the mouths of the very good horses they have spent so much money to buy.”

The horse was approaching down the long side at a vigorous trot. Ruthie noticed that Polo’s legs were long on the horse’s flanks, not bent at the knee jockey–style as he had been when jumping. She was impressed that Polo could sit so securely into such a bouncy–looking motion.

This time as he passed, Ruthie said indignantly, “Well, he may be paying attention, Fran, but he certainly doesn’t like it. He’s frothing at the mouth!”

Fran laughed out loud, rare for him. “Oh, that is very good, Ruth. Frothing at the mouth.” Ruthie rolled her eyes a bit as he lingered, the stereotypical pedant, over the hilarity of her false observation, and humbly waited for the explanation.

“Again it is the contrary,” Fran explained with the mounting warmth of the didact in love with his subject. “The horse makes the cream in his mouth because he is
happy
, he is content. He plays with the bit. He chews it, like the child his biscuit. He makes more and more saliva as he plays, and thus the cream.”

Creams because he’s happy…Hello? Symbolism 101! Do these riders ever talk about the imagery of their sport? Would Polo laugh or would he get mad if I kidded him about this?

“
If the horse comes back from the schooling, and he has made not the cream, but has a dry mouth, this is bad, this is when you know the horse is tense, or he has lost the feeling in the mouth through too much bad riding with the heavy hand. With such a horse there can no real enjoyment for rider or horse.

“This horse you see here has the exact amount of contact that he wishes. Your friend is a beautiful, sensitive, intuitive rider. He hurts the horse not at all. It is as if the reins are an elastic band. The hand of this rider feels to the milligram the weight he needs to keep the contact without ever hurting the delicate mouth.
Ach
, with these thoroughbreds it is a joy to work, they are so responsive.”

Sensitive, intuitive
. Ruthie wished she could turn off the spigot of her aesthetic imagination and simply accept what Fran was saying for what it was.

Suddenly the horse came from the trot to a dead stop in front of them. “Is he square?” asked Polo.

“Right hind back a bit,” said Fran. Magically, it seemed to Ruthie a second later, the horse drew the misaligned hoof to line up with the other. What had Polo done? She hadn’t seen him move a muscle, yet his seat or leg must have sent a signal. The horse was clearly in his thrall. And her earlier boredom had fallen completely away.

Then Polo and the horse went from the stop into a lovely, floating, cadenced canter and did circles, big ones and smaller ones, sometimes smaller circles spiraling into bigger ones and back again. He did these on the ‘left hand’ and on the ‘right hand’ as Fran provided a running commentary, explaining the purpose of each exercise, the muscle groups benefited, and the link to jumping skills.

Polo made the horse change the leading hoof in a kind of skipping motion on a diagonal across the arena–these were ‘flying changes’, Fran explained, and absolutely necessary for balance in the jumping arena as the horse followed the snaking course. He did dead stops from the canter, backed up, cantered collected, extended, did ‘shoulder–in’ at the trot, pirouhettes, again collected canter, extended trot, working canter. The hoof cadence notched up and down like heartbeats in a runner doing interval work. In a half hour Ruthie had learned a lot, as Fran waxed ever more expansive on the process.

She was actually sorry to see the schooling end. She felt it had been a bit like watching ballet. For the final few minutes Polo released the reins to complete looseness at the walk and the horse immediately relaxed into ‘long and low’. Fran said, “The horse knows his work in the arena is done. This is his reward, and at the same time he stretches again the back muscles, just as the human athlete does after his training.”

Polo walked the horse over to where they were standing. Fran took hold of the reins near the rings to each side of the mouth and played the bit back and forth. The horse tossed his head, clanked his teeth against the bit with agreeable cooperation, and viscous spume dripped copiously to the ground. Fran chuckled with pleasure.

The animal’s body steamed gently into the arena’s cool air. The pleasing aroma of oiled leather and clean warm horse, also a touch of clean warm Polo, swirled into Ruthie’s sensory zone. She breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and was momentarily, dizzily, transported back more than twenty years to that other day of Polo and horses and her imagination…

Once is a random event. Twice is empirical evidence. Cause and effect. I can never watch him ride again. Not worth the wobbly knees and this feeling of warm ink rushing through the map of every neural pathway in my body
.
What would have happened if I hadn’t said anything to my father after the horse show? What if I’d gone with my feelings, with all that pent–up adoration? I wanted him then, I want him now. When have I ever not wanted Polo…? And I think…I know he wanted me too. Then, of course, not now. But if I’d gotten him? What then? Oh sure, a trip to the moon on gossamer wings…for one delirious week, maybe. And then? A disaster of epic proportions.