The Horse Dancer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To C, S, H and L

 

And to Mecca Harris

 

 

 

 

 

He saw her yellow dress before he saw her, glowing in the fading light; a beacon at the far end of the stables. He stopped for a moment, unsure that he could trust his eyes. Then her pale arm reached up, Gerontius’s elegant head dipping over the door to take whatever treat she offered, and he was walking briskly, half running, the metal tips of his boots clicking on the wet cobbles.

‘You are here!’

‘Henri!’

His arms were around her as she turned; he kissed her, dipped his head to inhale the glorious scent of her hair. The breath that escaped him seemed to come from somewhere in his boots.

‘We got here this afternoon,’ she said, into his shoulder. ‘I’ve barely had time to change. I must look awful . . . but I was in the audience and glimpsed you through the curtain. I had to come to wish you luck.’

Her words had become jumbled, but he could barely hear her anyway. He was shocked by the girl’s sheer presence; the feel of her in his arms after so many months’ absence. ‘And just look at you!’ She took a step back, allowing her gaze to travel from his black peaked cap all the way down his immaculate uniform, then reached up to brush an imaginary fleck from one of his gold epaulettes. He noted, with gratitude, the reluctance with which she withdrew her fingers. There was no awkwardness, he marvelled, even after so many months. No coquettishness. She was utterly guileless; the girl of his imagination made flesh again.

‘You look wonderful,’ she said.

‘I . . . cannot stay,’ he said. ‘We ride in ten minutes.’

‘I know . . . Le Carrousel is so exciting. We’ve been watching the motorcyclists, and the parade of tanks,’ she said. ‘But you, Henri, you and the horses are definitely the big draw.’ She glanced behind her towards the arena. ‘I think the whole of France is here to see you.’

‘You . . . get
les billets
?’

They frowned at each other. Language was still a problem, despite their best efforts.

‘
Billets
. . .’ He shook his head, irritated with himself. ‘Ticket. Tickets. Best tickets.’

She beamed, and his brief dissatisfaction evaporated. ‘Oh, yes. Edith, her mother and I are in the front row. They simply can’t wait to see you ride. I’ve told them everything about you. We’re staying at the Château de Verrières.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, even though no one was near. ‘It’s very grand. The Wilkinsons have an
awful
lot of money. Much more than we have. It was very kind of them to bring me.’

He watched her talk – distracted by the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. She was here. His hands, in their white kid gloves, cradled her face. ‘Florence . . .’ He breathed, kissing her again. The scent of the sun infused her skin, even though dusk had fallen. It was intoxicating, as if she had been created to radiate warmth. ‘Every day I miss you. Before, there is nothing but Le Cadre Noir. Now . . . nothing is good without you.’

‘Henri . . .’ She stroked his cheek, her body against his. He felt almost giddy.

‘Lachapelle!’

He whipped round. Didier Picart stood at the head of his horse, a groom at his side preparing his saddle. He was pulling on his gloves. ‘Perhaps if you think about your riding as much as your English whore we can achieve something, eh?’

Florence did not know enough French to understand but she caught the look that flickered across Picart’s face, and Heari saw she had guessed that whatever the other Frenchman had said it was not complimentary.

The familiar anger rose, and he set his jaw against it. He shook his head at Florence, trying to convey to her Picart’s stupidity, his irrelevance. Picart had been like this – insulting, provocative – since the trip to England when she and Henri had met. English girls had no class, Picart had exclaimed, in the mess afterwards; Henri knew that it had been aimed directly at him. They did not know how to dress. They ate like pigs at a trough. They would lie down with anyone for a few francs, or the equivalent of a pint of that foul beer.

It had taken him weeks to work out that Picart’s bile had little to do with Florence, and everything to do with his fury at having been usurped within Le Cadre Noir, jostled aside by the son of a farmer. Not that that made it easier to hear it.

Picart’s voice echoed down the yard: ‘I hear there are rooms near the quai Lucien Gautier. A little more fitting than a stableyard, n’est-ce pas?’

Henri’s hand tightened around Florence’s. He tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke: ‘You could be the last man on earth and she would be too good for you, Picart.’

‘Don’t you know, farmer boy, that any whore will have you if the price is right?’ Picart smirked, placed a perfectly polished boot in his stirrup and vaulted on to his horse.

Henri made to step forward, but Florence stopped him. ‘Darling . . . look, I’d better get to my seat,’ she said, backing away. ‘You need to prepare.’ She hesitated, then reached up and kissed him again, her slim white hand pulling the back of his neck towards her. He knew what she was trying to do: tug his thoughts from Picart’s poison. And she was right; it was impossible to feel anything but joy when Florence’s lips were on his own. She smiled. ‘
Bonne chance, écuyer
.’

‘
Écuyer!
’ he repeated, momentarily diverted, touched that in his absence she had discovered the correct word for ‘horseman’.

‘I’m learning!’ She blew a kiss, her eyes filled with mischief, with promise, and then she was gone, his English girl, running back down the long stables, her heels clicking on the cobbles.

Le Carrousel, the annual military festival, traditionally marked the end of a year of training for the young cavalry officers of Saumur. As usual, the July weekend was thick with visitors to the medieval town, keen not just to witness the passing out of the young cavalrymen but the traditional displays of cavalry riding, motorbike acrobatics and the parade of tanks, their great hulls still scarred from the war.

It was 1960. The old guard was teetering in the face of an onslaught of popular culture, of shifting attitudes and Johnny Hallyday, but in Saumur there was little appetite for change. The annual performance of the twenty-two elite French horsemen, some military, some civilian, who comprised Le Cadre Noir, the highlight of Le Carrousel weekend, was always enough to guarantee that the tickets were sold out within days – to the local community, to those who were imbued with a sense of France’s heritage, and, on a less cerebral level, to those intrigued by posters all over the Loire region promising ‘Majesty, Mystery, Horses that Defy Gravity’.

Le Cadre Noir had been born almost 250 years earlier, after the decimation of the French cavalry in the Napoleonic Wars. In an attempt to rebuild what had once been considered a crack band of horsemen, a school was created in Saumur, a town which had housed an equestrian academy since the 16th century. Here, a corps of instructors had been gathered from the finest riding schools at Versailles, the Tuileries and Saint Germain, to pass on the high traditions of academic riding to a new generation of officers, and had continued to do so ever since.

With the advent of tanks and mechanised warfare, Le Cadre Noir faced questions as to the usefulness of such an arcane organisation. But for decades no government had felt able to disband what had, by then, become part of France’s heritage: the horsemen in their black uniforms were iconic, and France, with its traditions of L’Académie Française,
haute cuisine
and
couture
, understood the importance of the tradition. The horsemen themselves, perhaps recognising that the best way to ensure survival was to create a new role, widened their remit: as well as teaching cavalrymen, the school opened its doors to reveal its rarified skills and magnificent horses at public performances in France and abroad.

This was the Le Cadre Noir in which Henri Lachapelle now found himself, and that night’s performance was the most symbolically important of the year, in the home of Le Cadre Noir, a chance to demonstrate hard-won skills to friends and family. The air smelt of caramel, wine and firecrackers, and the heat of thousands of gently moving bodies. Around the place du Chardonnet, in the heart of the École de Cavalrie, its elegant, honeyed buildings, the crowds were already swelling. The carnival atmosphere was amplified by the July heat, the still evening, an inflating air of expectation. Children ran to and fro with balloons or sticks of candy floss, their parents lost in crowds that surveyed stalls selling paper windmills and sparkling wine, or merely walking in laughing groups across the great bridge to the pavement cafés of the north side. All the while a low hum of excitement emanated from those who had already taken their seats around the Grand Manège, the vast sand arena of the public performance, and now sat impatiently, fanning themselves and perspiring in the dimming light.