A Three Day Event (40 page)

“Ruthie was a reader,” Clarice began. “And is, of course. But in those days, still a child really, she didn’t distinguish so well between fantasy and reality. She was so tremendously–impressionable, you see. She got into character with whoever was the hero or heroine of the current story. Well, as it happened, when Polo first started coming to the house, her great narrative passion was St. Exupéry’s
Le Petit Prince
. You must have read it in school. It was quite funny, really.”

–Mummy, look.

–I’m looking. What is it, darling? Your book?

–No, mummy. Look at the cover. At the picture.

–You mean the picture of
The Little Prince
?

–Yes. But don’t you see who the little prince is?

–Oh darling, you mean he looks like Polo? Yes, I suppose he does in a way…

“And my dear, she just looked at me in this peculiar way, as if to say I didn’t get it
at all
, and it dawned on me that she didn’t think he
looked like
The Little Prince. She really thought he
was
the Little Prince.” Clarice smiled faintly and shook her head at the still vivid memory of Ruthie’s passionate, scornful eyes when it became clear to her that her mother didn’t
understand
.

“Well, I suppose to Ruthie it must have seemed as if Polo had dropped into our house from another planet. No one ever offered her a more plausible explanation, that’s for sure.” Clarice held up her own beautifully manicured nails for inspection as she noticed Nathalie chewing nervously at the side of her thumb.

“And don’t think for a minute that I didn’t recognize the inherent dangers in that little scenario. It was one thing for her to fantasize about Heathcliff on the moors to her Cathy, but there was no actual Heathcliff in the house when she was reading
Wuthering Heights
, you see.”

“Didn’t you say something to Mr. J?” Nathalie’s tears had dried. She was trying very hard to approach the subject in a kind of objective, historical spirit now, Clarice could see. Sweet, sweet girl. Her feelings too close to the surface, of course, and a bit naïve and unsophisticated in spite of her elite background, which made her vulnerable. But really a very honest, lovable, big–hearted sort of girl. The type a man wanted for the long haul.

Clarice sighed. This was going to be difficult to explain without segueing immediately to the shoebox, but intuition told her to plough on by the long route, and it would be better in the end. For, once she saw the contents of the shoebox, Nathalie wouldn’t be able to take in another word that didn’t bear directly upon it.

“Yes, I did, Nathalie. I told him that very night. But his reaction was not what I expected.

–She thinks Polo is a little prince?

–No, dear. She thinks he is a character from a famous French story–by St. Exupéry, called
The Little Prince
. Here, here it is. Do you see the picture on the cover?

–Oh my God, it’s…him…

–Well, that’s my point. Yes, I agree he does look a lot like Polo, but she’s in some fantasy state where she thinks this fictional character is real. It’s not healthy, Morrie. Morrie, are you listening to me?

“So what happened?” Nathalie was wide–eyed, riveted.

“Nothing very much, I’m afraid. It was a bit surreal. He seemed at a loss for words, unusual for him. Now I know why–but then…it was out of character for him to be so passive. In any case, he certainly didn’t seem to think there was anything to worry about. There was no question of interfering with their friendship, Polo’s and Ruthie’s, he made that clear. I think I became convinced I was overreacting.”

“So if Ruthie was living in a fantasy world, what about Polo?” Nathalie pressed. “No fantasies there, I’m sure. But you said he loved her too.”

“Oh yes, he thought he was very cool and secretive about it, but his eyes were just locked on her whenever she was in the room. But you see, in his case it was fascination. I don’t think he knew any little girls like Ruthie before. She was his…Other, as Sartre would say, or whoever invented that concept. And just as important, she was his teacher. She–how would I say–mediated, she helped to facilitate his entry into the world he had chosen, by giving him some important tools for survival there.

“Polo had a vocation. Horses–it seems a strange thing to have a vocation for. To me horses were a hobby, something you did for fun. But watching Polo over the years I came to understand it can be a very deep thing. That’s something you can relate to very well, naturally. In the end I had to respect it. No priest ever took his calling so seriously. Of course it was a very selfish passion, unlike the priesthood.

“But his sense of–what?–consecration to that world was no less devout. He was totally absorbed in it. Everything he did was calculated to serve that passion, I think. And he needed and wanted good English to feel confident. He wasn’t in school. How else would he have managed without Ruthie who was so coincidentally willing to pour herself into filling that need? So it was fascination and gratitude on Polo’s side.”

“And so you–just like that–stopped worrying that it might, you know, develop into something real?” Nathalie asked doubtfully.

Clarice smiled nostalgically. “I kept a sharp eye out, my dear, you can be sure. But not so they noticed.” She took a single cashew nut. “And I found out that I could trust Polo–note that I say Polo, not Ruthie, I never knew from day to day what planet I would find that girl on–when it came to boundaries. He never transgressed a single one. That boy had the most exquisite sense, without it ever being spelled out, of what he was entitled to, and what not. It made it easy to include him when it suited, and not when it didn’t. He wasn’t envious of what the other children had, their possessions, their trips with us, none of that.

“So you see, he knew that anything other than friendship with Ruthie was a taboo kind of thing. He knew that even a single step out of line would end Morrie’s patronage. He was never going to risk that. It would have shut him out of his idea of the Garden of Eden. No apple, no snake, could have seduced that young Adam. I came to see that very quickly. He’s a practical sort of boy, Polo.”

Clarice poured herself another half glass of sherry. “So in a way, because he put any such expectations out of his conscious mind, his feelings for Ruthie had no more reality than her foolish fantasies. And, since we’re being honest, my dear, I will tell you that somehow I just knew–not that either Polo or I would ever have dreamed of discussing such matters–that he was sexually active elsewhere. And pretty early. That was reassuring in its own way too.

“When they grew up, all those airy–fairy feelings just…dissipated…disappeared. Or got sublimated into this lovely friendship they have now. So you see, Nathalie, you have nothing to worry about in that regard.”

Nathalie murmured bitterly, “Disappeared? They were both pretty grown up when Ruthie came to the horse show in St Lazare that time. Nobody was worrying about transgressing boundaries then.”

“Oh my,” Clarice sighed. “Were you there when…? What bad luck.”

“So you knew about that?” Nathalie said accusingly.

“Ruthie told me the next day. She was mortified. And terribly ashamed of herself. Honestly, Nathalie, I would say that was the exception that proved the rule. As I recall it was a very upsetting day for Polo. It was a kind of watershed in his career, no? Truly, my dear, it was the one and only time.” She paused. Really, that was bad luck, her having been there. The poor child’s face was so stricken, as though it were yesterday.

“Don’t you think you should–let’s see–look for closure and move on, as they say? It was so long ago, years before your real relationship with Polo began,” Clarice chided gently. “Jealousy can eat you up, you know. It’s never constructive. You may have good reasons for being unhappy, Nathalie, but don’t blame Ruthie. Ruthie would never take what isn’t hers, even if it were on offer. Which,” she added emphatically, “it most certainly is
not
.”

“I wish I could be of sure of that as you are.”

“No one can be sure of honesty when it comes to other people. One can only answer completely for oneself. But when you love someone, unless there is direct evidence to the contrary, you would do well to act as though you are sure.”

Nathalie was silent for a long moment and seemed to look inward. “You know, Mrs. J., the way you tell it, even though you seem to be praising Polo, it isn’t a very flattering picture. It’s as if everything he did was only to make sure he got what he wanted, to go on with his riding.”

“When people are driven by a single passion in life,” Clarice said slowly, “they can be difficult, as well as attractive. I mean difficult in the sense of seeming to be…detached emotionally, even to the people they love. They don’t mean to be, but they’re just so consumed by their work, or their art, or their vocation.

“If you realize that you need to have the electricity they tend to throw off, if that’s what sparks your interest in life, then you have to make a conscious choice about how you’re going to accept them. At least this is how I see it. You can say to yourself that they’re selfish and unfeeling, and withdraw and feel hurt. Or you can love them
for
that passion, because a true passion, like real art, well, it’s rare.

“Morrie had that kind of drive, but it came more from an immigrant’s insecurity than a sense of vocation. Our early years together weren’t easy. He was consumed with achieving his success. I also felt neglected and exploited. I found that I only became truly reconciled when his single–mindedness ran its course a bit and he had the time and the maturity to re–order his priorities in life. I must say that I was amply rewarded for the wait in the end.”

“What happened in the end?” asked Nathalie.

“What always happens,” said Clarice quietly. “He realized that his passion and his success were empty vessels without the equally important achievements of loving and being loved.”

“Family,” said Nathalie softly, “when you became a family.” Her eyes filled.

“Exactly, dear,” said. Clarice.

“It’s what I’ve been waiting for. But he hasn’t re–ordered his priorities, as you put it. It’s taking too long. I can’t wait any more, Mrs. J. I don’t believe it’s going to happen. And I can’t live any more on Polo’s passion…” Nathalie said, her voice low and husky. Her eyes were dark pools of sorrow, and Clarice’s heart quickened with a surge of maternal sympathy.

“There are limits to the most patient of loves, Nathalie. Timing is everything in life. I have something to show you, something you should have seen years ago. I hope it isn’t too late to do some good.” Clarice reached for the shoebox.

CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

“Y
ou won the Grand Prix, and you knew you’d qualified
for the Team,” said Thea.

“Yeah,” said Polo warily.

“You came out of the ring, and you were told my husband wanted to speak to you,” she continued.

“Yeah.” What was the point of all this lead–up, he wondered.

“And he said”–

“Thea, I don’t want to be rude, but where is all this heading? You said this had to do with Morrie, and he wasn’t there…”

“I’m trying to find out if Morrie had his facts straight, and if he did, why he felt he had to get involved himself. Is it true that my husband actually told you that it was you
personally
that he didn’t want on the Team?”

“That depends on how you see the word ‘personally’, I guess. He said it was a question of the Team’s ‘cultural homogeneity’–that he didn’t think I would ‘fit in’. Actually,” Polo smiled a bit grimly, “he seemed to imply that he was doing me a favour, saving me the discomfort of being the odd man out. Mind if I get another beer?”

Thea said nothing as Polo went to the fridge. He opened the bottle and poured out the beer, but didn’t sit down at the table. He leaned against the kitchen counter and waited for her to go on.

“Why didn’t you say anything back to him? You knew he had no right to make such a decision.”

“I did tell him I didn’t think the owner would agree to lend the horse to another rider…”

“Polo, you know what I mean. How could you let him get away with such an incredible insult?”

Polo stared into the beer. “It’s the $64,000 question, isn’t it,” he said quietly. “I’ve asked myself maybe a million times how it was that I heard him saying it, and I didn’t…” he stopped and considered how he could put it. “You know, if he’d said I wasn’t a good enough rider, that I won by a fluke, I think–no, I know–I would have lost it. I would have punched him out or something–well, not really, but I would never have let it go without a fight.

“But it was so out of left field that at first I didn’t even know what he was talking about. I mean,” he laughed softly, “what the hell was ‘cultural homogeneity’? I wasn’t sure I understood either word, to be honest. ‘Homogeneous’ sort of clicked in after a second, but…cultural? What, my riding wasn’t
artistic
enough?”

He shook his head and drank. Thea smiled faintly. “Then it kind of dawned on me in one of those slow movie double–takes. Hey, he means it’s because I’m a
pepsi
. I was–stunned for a second. Couldn’t believe it. It was the last thing in the world I would have expected as a reason.”

“But even when you realized, you didn’t lose your temper, or punch him out, or anything else…” said Thea.

“No, I didn’t. I was young and naïve. And I guess–I guess I did what a lot of French–Canadians did in those days when an English Canadian with authority laid down the law on something. I assumed they had the right…actually, come to think of it, I’m sure I was the last French–Canadian in Canada to get the news that times had changed, but you know in horses we’re always a long way behind the curve, it’s a pretty isolated world. It’s hard to believe it was only twenty–some years ago, eh?”

“Polo, did it ever occur to you that it wasn’t really–or at least only–you he didn’t want on the Team? That the cultural homogeneity thing wasn’t only about you, but about Morrie too? You know, owners are very visible at the shows. There’s a social component. Your owner wasn’t exactly a social fit with the others.”

Polo made a plosive sound of irritation. “Thea, I just don’t have the patience for this, you really have to get to the bottom line here.”

Thea nodded. She took a deep breath.

“Harold and I flew back to Toronto late that Sunday night. Monday morning at 7:30 a.m. I pulled the curtains open in the living room, and saw Morrie Jacobson sitting in his car at the curb. Or rather I saw a little man in a big Cadillac who appeared to be asleep at the wheel, parked outside our house. I only found out who he was when he rang the bell and introduced himself.”

Polo felt his heart thudding hard and fast in a chest that suddenly seemed too small to contain it. “He–he drove overnight to Toronto?”

“Yes. He was wearing a tuxedo. You said he’d been at a wedding.”

“That’s right,” Polo heard himself say. “I talked to him at about 11 p.m. I told him what happened. He didn’t seem as interested or angry as I thought he would be. I remember that…it made me feel kind of sorry for myself…”

“
Kind o
f
?
Polo, you really are…never mind, that’s not important. Anyway, he rang the bell, I opened the door just a little bit, and he pushed it open, hard, and just walked in. It frightened me, of course. Harold was still upstairs, and even though Morrie wasn’t a big man, it was obvious he was a very angry one.”

Polo didn’t trust himself to ask any questions. Let her tell it her way.

“He was very polite, though, in a Mafioso kind of way. ‘I’m Morrie Jacobson,’ he said, ‘Polo Poisson’s sponsor.’ Then he said, very slowly and carefully, as if he were talking to someone who didn’t speak English too well, and looking at me with the arrogance of someone who’s–I don’t know–at the time I actually wondered if he had a concealed weapon on him, his look was that fierce and scary, ‘I understand there’s been some kind of mix–up about Polo’s eligibility for the Team. I’d like to straighten this out with your husband. So if you’d ask him to come down here, please, I’ll have a private word with him.’”

Polo was transfixed. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of anything to say. Thea no longer seemed aware of his presence, in any case. She stared blankly ahead of her, intent on memory.

“I must have gone upstairs to get Harold,” she said, frowning at the gap in her recollection, “because the next thing I knew, Harold and Morrie were going into the study and they closed the door.”

“So–you don’t know what was said…” Polo said hoarsely.

“Oh yes, certainly I do,” Thea said briskly. “There’s an air–conditioning vent that connects with one in the upstairs hall. I’ve listened to many a conversation my husband assumed was private. So I heard it all pretty clearly, and I remember it well…”

–I’ll get right to the point, Ankstrom. Either that boy of mine is on the Team by tonight, or you’ll be in the national news by the end of the week.

–How dare you walk into my home and threaten me!

–What does it matter how? I did dare is the point.

–You have nothing to say about decisions that are taken in the Team’s interests. Get out of my house. Or I’ll call the police.

–Call them. Go ahead. Think they’re going to arrest a guy in a tuxedo that your wife let in to talk to you about fucking over Canada’s best rider? And what if they did? I’ll have a nap at the station while I wait for my lawyer. You don’t want to mess with this lawyer I know, Ankstrom. He grew up on St. Urbain St. He’s a barracuda. He eats Wasps like you for breakfast.

–It’s in the boy’s best interests. He’s young, he’ll have other chances.

–You creep, you don’t get it. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Listen, I’m tired, I been driving all night. I only had one hour to do some due diligence on you, but I got enough to start making your life miserable. So don’t pretend we’re negotiating here. I’d really like to get home.

–Due diligence? What unbelievable arrogance. You don’t know anything about me. And I’m sure none of your…people would either. We don’t exactly move in the same circles, do we?

–Here’s what I already know from a few of my Toronto buddies, Ankstrom. I know your so–called brokerage business where you spend maybe two hours a day rolling over your wife’s relatives’ treasury bills and Canada bonds because you’re so fucking busy sucking up to your fancy horse pals pulls in enough money to put you in a semi–detached in Etobicoke, not in a Rosedale mansion. I know you’re living off your wife’s money. That’s all I need to know. A man who lives off his wife is scum in my books, a nothing, a nobody. If he’ll do that, he’ll do anything. That’s what I learned in one hour. You give me a few days, and I’ll find the broads, the gambling, the little boys, whatever it is–because with guys like you, there’s always something. I know the way you think. You think if you’re tall and thin with blue eyes, and your people came from England, your shit doesn’t smell. Your wife seems like a nice lady, Ankstrom. Classy, like mine. You think long and hard about what you got to lose. And then think about what this little Yid has to lose by fucking you over like you did my boy. I got nothing more to lose, nothing. If you don’t give that boy what he earned, you bastard, I’ll get you if it takes the rest of my life…

Thea had gone quite pale, and a faint sheen of perspiration had raised a sickly glow on her cheeks and forehead. She pressed a hanky several times to her face, tucked it into her sleeve, sighed, folded her hands on the table and looked at the pretzels.

It’s my move, thought Polo. He felt light–headed, his mind a blank. What she had said–and God knows what it had cost her to tell it like it was–that was Morrie.
Morrie
. She couldn’t have made that stuff up in a million years. His heart raced. He leaned back harder into the support of the counter. He wished he were sitting down. He didn’t even know how to start processing what he’d heard.

* * *

Nathalie was struggling to make sense of the photograph on the coffee table in front of her. Clarice had simply laid it there without comment, and she could feel the older woman’s eyes on her as she looked at it. It was very old, she could see that from the sepia tones and the crackly lines, also from the much handled edges gone soft and clothlike to the touch.

At first she had automatically smiled because it was Polo in the picture, a rare childhood photo of Polo as a happy, curly–haired boy, sitting on a chunky, dun–coloured pony with a wildly bristling mane, smiling confidently into the camera’s gaze. Then the impossibilities began to sink in, one by one, and she was finding it difficult to process what she was seeing. Clarice had moved from her chair to sit on the sofa quite close to her, almost as though she knew she might be needed for physical assistance at any moment.

This photograph, it’s too old, Nathalie thought. Those bulky riding pants, they couldn’t be…that smile, the teeth are perfect, but Polo had awful teeth, he wore braces for years…no glasses…who is that older boy standing beside him…not Hy, but a Jacobson, he could be Ruthie’s twin brother…she felt a cold
frisson
down her back, and was frightened. Without comment, Clarice picked up the photo very gently and turned it over.

On one side there were a few lines written in–Hebrew? Yiddish? The writing was in real ink, quite faded. On the other, ball–penned more recently in English, were the words: ‘Markus Jacobson, aged 11, with Morrie. May, 1931, Lodz, Poland. Our little prince.’

Nathalie looked at Clarice with shocked, questioning eyes. Clarice said quietly, “Morrie’s brother. I never knew about him myself. Morrie left me a letter, explaining. It’s so simple in the end. And”–she pointed to an envelope, still sealed–“one for Polo. It’s for you to give to him. I’m not going to tell you not to read it first. You decide.”

“What happened to him?” Nathalie’s voice trembled as she picked up the slim envelope with only the word ‘Polo’ on it in strongly drawn capitals. She could feel the outline of a paperclip and a business–size card through the paper.

“He died. Not in the Holocaust, thank God. No, it was the kind of story that happened to all kinds of people in those days. Morrie couldn’t stand what was happening in Europe and begged his parents to emigrate. This was the early thirties. But they wouldn’t. He was only fifteen, but he left on his own. He somehow made it over to Canada before it got really difficult, almost impossible from about 1933 on. Immigration for Jews almost closed down entirely after that until after the war. Not Canada’s finest hour, but that’s another story. Morrie promised his brother he would send for him. Morrie was going to get rich and bring everyone over. That was his plan. Well, he got rich, but it was too late. Markus would never have been allowed in anyway. He was ill, tuberculosis probably. Lucky, when you consider what happened to the others.”

“And he never told you about him?”

“There’s two schools of thought on pain, dear,” Clarice said sadly. “Some think it has to be shared at all costs. I think Morrie felt that if he ever started to talk about it he wouldn’t be able to function. He would sink into a depression and never recover. The terrible guilt. The ‘if onlys…’ you see. I can’t say he was wrong.”

“So it was a complete secret–and then”–

“And then Polo fell into our lives, as if he’d been sent”–Clarice’s voice broke, and she reached for a tissue–“you know, every time I think of Morrie walking into that room and seeing him with the picture of Hy in his hands, I just…”

Nathalie put a comforting arm around Clarice’s shoulders. The two women sat in teary silence for a time.

Clarice finally drew a deep breath, wiped her eyes in two tidy strokes, and said, “It’s a tremendously emotional subject for me, dear. I think I had better stick to the facts, or we’ll never get anywhere.”

She cleared her throat. “Nathalie, Morrie wrote these letters when he was pretty sure he was close to dying. I didn’t even know
that
. I knew his heart wasn’t strong, there had been episodes, but he kept from me what his doctor had told him, that there wasn’t much time. In his letter to me, Morrie apologized for that and for…Polo. He… oh my, I thought I was going to be the strong one for you…just a minute, dear…”

Clarice blew her nose, and sat up very straight. “He felt very guilty towards the end–for exploiting Polo as he did. For taking advantage of Polo’s love of horses. Morrie liked horses, but it would probably have been a passing thing if not for Polo. Morrie said it was irresistible, it was such an easy way to …pretend, as though he’d been given this second chance…Markus had loved horses…it was a way of dealing with that gnawing grief…but he knew it was wrong, he knew he was using Polo.”