A Three Day Event (6 page)

The committee turned as one to stare at Hy in total bafflement. Except for Denise Girandoux whose sparkling eyes betrayed a cautious hope. “The name of the show?” she prompted demurely, encouragingly. “I was wondering about that myself.”

“Whatever is Mr. Jacobson talking about, Marion?” brayed Barbara Lumb. “I’m quite sure Stuart mentioned it several times and it was right on the agenda!” She looked at Hy with undisguised scorn.

Patiently Hy explained. “I meant the official name, of course. The French name.”

Bill Sutherland broke the stony silence following this statement with the first sign of animation he had shown that day. “An interesting point, actually. The FEI has standard regulatory names depending upon the host country’s language. A nice ambiguity here, very nice indeed. I would be more than happy to explore the issue. I daresay it would be something like ‘
Les Championnats Equestres Canadiens pour Jeunes Cavaliers’
or some such”(his accent was execrable, but Hy gave him points for going public).

Stuart Jessop added hastily, “Well, I really don’t think we ought to get into any
political
situations here. Most of our riders are coming from outside of Quebec. This is a
Canadian
event, after all. So why don’t we just stick with the name we have. Of course, that’s
not
to say–” smiling broadly at Denise –“that we shouldn’t have a
bilingual
title. That might be in quite good taste, actually.”

If Marion had left it at that…but no… “No, Stuart”, she asserted loudly, “I call that
giving in
to the separatists. They’ve
had
their referendum, and they voted to stay
Canadian
. Our national events have
always
had English titles. We will have visiting dignitaries from the American federations, after all. There is no reason why we can’t publish French–language flyers and schedules with a French name on them. But this business of
ramming
French down everyone’s throats every time we put on an event in Quebec…”

Hy exchanged a speaking glance with Denise. He saw she was prepared to do the quick and dirty, but in these particular circumstances it would be better coming from a lay person, and even better, from an anglophone. Clearly he was the one anglophone in that room for whom this particular conflict was neither threatening nor unwelcome where a principle was at stake. Her eyes thanked him as he rose to the occasion.

* * *

They were traveling in Roch’s pick–up truck because he had to stop to get a magneto–therapy unit at an Ottawa tack store for use on the “boys,” and Manon’s car was in service, so she had needed Hy’s Audi. Hy was tired and just as happy not to have to drive himself, but the heating unit was volatile and he felt cranky from the morning’s irritations.

They spoke in French, because five hours of English had given Roch a headache, and because Hy didn’t care, and was actually happy in this case to shake the Federation’s dust from his heels. Normally Roch’s rule of thumb was to speak the language of the person he perceived as higher up in the influential scheme of things: sponsors, owners, clients–it was a pre–Quiet Revolution habit he admitted to freely, but now it suited them both to achieve a distance from the committee.

“Is Ghislaine still visiting her parents in Quebec? Because Manon and I would he happy to have you join us for dinner” –

“Thanks, but I have to give
le maire
a nice time tonight at the resto. We’re going to discuss how much the town is giving us for the show,” Roch answered. “Ghislaine will be back soon, but I’m okay, there’s always someone at the barn.”

They rolled along freely. Traffic was light. Hy yawned. He wasn’t used to getting up so early. Roch was up every day at six and in the barn by 7:45. Hy thought back to the final hassle of the day. They had ended with a French name, but there was by now no hope of reconciliation with Marion. The battle lines were drawn. What a collection they were. His mind unwillingly alighted on what his father would have said.
A bunch of goyische kopfen, Hymie.

“You know, it didn’t help when Marion asked your opinion and you said you didn’t care if the name was Japanese, as long as the sponsors paid up,” Hy grumbled.

“I’m sorry, but I get so damned fed up with this political shit,” Roch answered. “It took me fifteen years to get the anglos to come to
le Centre
. Now I got them, business is good, and I don’t want to fuck it up. I hate that at
le Centre
, all these local guys giving me the gears, dreaming of
les bons vieux temps
when it was a little private club. Let them pay the bills if they think it’s so important everyone should only speak French there.”

“You’re very ‘
politiquement incorrect’
,” Hy said, not sure at all if that was the proper way to express his thought or just an anglicism.

“
Comment
?”

“Never mind.” He started to reach automatically for a non–existent car phone, then remembered where he was. “Listen, you need some gas, and I’d better call the office. Can we stop in a minute?”

“No problem.”

At the gas station, Roch disappeared into the
dépanneur
to browse amongst the snack food while Hy telephoned.

“
Tissus Clar–Mor, bonjour.”

“Hi, Debbie. S’me.
Put me through to Howard.”

“Oh, hi, Mr. J. Just a sec.”

Howard gave him a fast run–down of the morning’s offerings: burst pipes in the Ste. Agathe store with plenty of ruined fabric, he was waiting for the insurance company’s call, no problem on a re–order of the fabric, a sudden resignation of the manager in the Pierrefonds store, no big deal, the assistant was an up–and–comer anyway, a screw–up at customs on the stuff from Dusseldorf, Denis was looking into it, a price error in the
La Presse
insert, they’d probably get half off… oh, and Elaine had just checked in from the airport after a good round of appointments in New York.

“She said to tell you she saw your manager’s son on the plane coming back, whats–his–name, the gorgeous famous rider, she recognized him from all the posters, but he looked so pissed off at the world she didn’t introduce herself.”

“Really? Wonder why. Anyway, think you’ll finally make it up to Saint Armand this weekend?”

“Gee, I don’t know, dad. Judy’s folks are expecting us in Stowe. It’s probably one of the last really good ski weekends. And …I know it’s taking a while…I hope you understand…I’m just not quite
there
yet with your new life. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Manon, she’s great, really, she’s great, but…”

“It’s okay, Howie, I get the drift. And don’t worry about it. Anyway, I’ll be home in two hours. Fax me if there’s news on the insurance thing. Bye.’”

Roch was waiting in the truck, guiltlessly finishing off a May West, the chocolate–covered rondelle of cream–filled white cake sold uniquely in
la belle province
. Hy inhaled the sweet vanilla–charged aroma that represented the dominant snack fetish of his whole conscious life, and watched him pick off the lingering crumbs with covert envy. Sometimes he wished he were not so well–versed in the fat and cholesterol content of the foods he still craved but could no longer enjoy.

“Everything okay?” Roch started up and eased back out on the highway.

“About as usual. Nothing Howard can’t handle.”

“So it’s working out okay? You don’t mind not being in charge any more?” Roch glanced at Hy to see if he had taken this as criticism. “I mean, it’s none of my business, but that’s a hell of a responsibility for a kid his age to handle.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve handed over all that much responsibility. I’m still the heavyweight in the big decisions–opening new stores, or acquiring real estate–but in the day–to–day stuff I’m sharing management with Howard–and with Elaine too. She’s doing most of the buying for the bedroom and bath boutiques, and she’s terrific. Both my kids really like the business. I’m lucky. They both have business degrees and Howard is taking this program Harvard University runs for family business transitions between generations. It’s amazing how things can fall apart if you don’t plan carefully. Well, look who I’m talking to–Michel is a
fifth
generation in the family business–we’re ‘
bleuets’
compared to you guys.”

Roch was uncharacteristically silent for a time. Hy hoped he hadn’t offended him by praising his own kids’ education and achievements. He didn’t think so. Roch’s sun and moon rose and set on Michel. As for achievements, in any horseman’s eyes Michel had more than fulfilled a father’s wildest ambitions.

“Elaine said she saw Michel on the plane home from New York today.”

Shaking off whatever thoughts were preoccupying him, Roch enthused, “You bet. There’s a guy there, he owns a phone company. The ones with no cords. Filthy rich. Panaiotti–you heard of him?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think I have. Got in on the ground floor of cellular phones.”

“You got it! Well, he’s crazy for Michel. He wants to sponsor him. They were talking today.”

“Isn’t it a little odd for an American to want to sponsor a Canadian rider?”

“Not for this guy. He has a daughter. She’s a little on the skinny side, but pretty enough. Anyway, that’s not the main thing. She’s an amateur rider. Follows the circuit around. And she’s got the hots for Michel. Get the picture?” He grinned happily at Hy.

“You mean Michel wants to marry her?”

“Sure he wants to. He’s not a fool.”

…
but he looked so pissed off at the world that she didn’t introduce herself.

“I mean, has he
said
he wants to?”

“Hy, you got to understand something. Michel, he has no education past CEGEP. He’s a rider. That’s all he knows. I spoiled him, I admit that. I always said, you just ride, I’ll take care of everything else. It costs a fortune to compete. A lot of the riders come from rich families. Okay, you’re pretty rich, Hy, but even you don’t know what kind of money we’re talking here. I’m not rich and I never will be.

“When he was young I scrounged money from everywhere for him to compete. From the Optimists Club. From my MP. From my MNA. Anywhere I could. It’s never enough. He’s never sure if he’ll make the next season. Do you remember ‘D’Artagnan’, that horse he went to the Olympics on?”

What horse lover didn’t remember Michel Laurin and D’Artagnan? At nineteen, a recognized prodigy in the sport, Michel had been the youngest rider in history to win both the World Championships and an Olympic medal on the same horse. The horse had been a national treasure, his name resonant with glory even to people who never followed equestrian sport. And Michel became a local god in the Quebec media.

“Of course I remember. They were amazing!”

“Well, maybe you don’t remember what happened to that horse. The guys that owned him, all these
pure laine
Québecois
who were so excited to see their
p’tit gars
get famous and make them so proud, after the Olympics these same guys grabbed the money when a big American rider offered them a price they couldn’t say no to. They didn’t even tell Michel they were thinking about it. The same day he found out, this American guy’s van pulls up at the barn, and they walk out with the horse.” Roch’s face was stony with memory.

“I didn’t know that, Roch.” Hy tried to imagine someone walking into Howard’s office and asking him to leave, putting up a new sign on the door…

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining about what they did. They paid $75,000 for that horse–Polo found him in Belgium–and they got offered $750,000 three years later–American dollars!” He shrugged. “You can’t blame them.”

There was a short silence. The morning’s blowing snow had given way to bright afternoon sun, still high in the late March sky at three o’clock.

“So you see,” Roch continued in ordinary tones, “I got no use for romance when it comes to Michel’s future. These new guys who own the two big horses he has now, sure they’re all over Michel, they love him like a son. But if he stops winning, or they get a really good offer, or one of them goes bankrupt and needs the money…” He hoisted his shoulders in a huge Gallic gesture of frustration.

“But Roch, if he marries this girl, he’ll probably end up in the States. No rich girl from New York is going to want to live in Saint Armand.”

Roch shrugged again.
“C’est la guerre, mon ami.”

“By the way, what happened to D’Artagnan? I never heard about him after Michel stopped riding him.”

“The American rider–Gully Gray–he never won anything much on him. The horse was always a tough ride, but Michel made it look easy… anyway, the horse had surgery for something and–lucky for Gully–he died on the table…”

“You’re not saying”–

“In this business nobody ever says anything. All I’m saying is that the guy couldn’t ride him, and looked like a fool, and then the horse died.
C’est la vie, vieux…”

* * *

‘You have one message!
Hi, Manon. Elaine.
I just want to thank you for lunch yesterday. Sorry your daughter couldn’t join us. I’m off to New York for the day. I really appreciated our talk. I’m really okay with everything, and now that she and Jacques are a couple, I think my mom is too. I’d love to come out to Saint Armand, not this weekend, but probably next if that’s okay. Love to daddy. Bye’.

Manon Jacobson smiled as she surveyed her table setting with approval and made a cursory circuit of dinner’s progress in the kitchen before heading off to her bath. The meal would have to be something nice. Poor Hy would be exhausted after two three–hour drives and the kind of long meeting she knew he hated.

She had made the chicken soup yesterday, so she could skim the chilled fat off easily today. According to Hy she was actually approaching the standard for chicken soup by which all efforts must be judged–his mother’s–and she was serving roast veal (de–fatted gravy) with steamed leeks, new potatoes and swiss chard. And on the side fresh baguette with roast garlic (instead of butter), already filling the kitchen with its aromatic presence. Mm. No dessert except paper–thin slices of sponge cake and chilled melon or sherbet, of course. But a nice burgundy, and decaf cappuccino
après
. Hy wouldn’t suffer.