Passion Play (34 page)

Gathering her in or letting her out, idle or tense, sliding into her or taking root, he held her to him until she was beyond
strength, energy, feeling, her mind open no more to the sensations her body insisted on bringing to flood.

From that peak, she toppled. To open her again, to make her conscious of her freedom to withdraw, to stay inviolate, he knelt over her, poised in the space that divided them, his hands thrust back, his body erect, the cone of his flesh close to her face, ready to brush her cheeks or lips, her chin, her neck. She gathered him in, avid to make fast her hold on him, to strip him of the freedom that was his, to force him to surrender to his own flesh and, by that act, reveal that when he was with her, like her, he was powerless against sensation. With his hands still thrust back, he started slowly pushing into her, moving, swaying, then plunging, filling her, swelling. Her head tilted back, she fought for air, but in her freedom chose to retain him, drowning as she sought to swallow, her eyes open, her feet drumming against the bench. Her arms, suppliant in defense, then arrested by will, stopped in midair, reluctant to initiate an assault or to surrender to him. As her eyes closed and her arms dropped back, he receded, leaving her mouth open to the flush of air, but with her first deep breath, she once again reached toward him in silence, empty now of all but their shared need. The drumming of her feet subsided, a dwindling echo in the small wood hutch.

Fabian looked down at her face. She had waited for him to return; now she would wait for him no more. She was beyond waiting, beyond the deed she had once imagined. She was finally free of him, free of herself.

In the late autumn, Fabian found himself on the road again, moving from stable to stable and giving lectures, always in search of work. On his way to Massachusetts, he detoured to New York, his destination the National Horse Show at Madison Square Garden, a venerable annual event drawing horses and riders from all over the world.

Even though the show had been in progress for almost a week, Fabian was curious to see the remaining events. And there was another reason; during their recent encounter, Vanessa had told him that Captain Ahab, her stallion, a present from her father, had qualified at the Garden for the Stanhope Cup international open, puissance class, a jumping event in which the score rested on the horse’s performance, power and endurance in clearing a number of large obstacles. The prize—a silver cup and a substantial purse—had been established by Vanessa’s grandfather, Commodore Ernest Tenet Stanhope, and was the grandest the show could confer on a horse.

When Fabian had talked to Vanessa last, she had been almost certain that she and her parents would not be in New York for the show, and she had been pleased to learn that Fabian would be there to see her horse perform.

The Stanhope Cup was one of the major events of the show’s closing days, and as Fabian walked into the Garden, he caught the stir of anticipation, its excitement overcoming his distrust of competition.

Men in black tie or tails and top hat, their ladies nests of jewels and heavy, trailing furs, crowded onto escalators and moved along the round stairwells and huge corridors that spiraled the auditorium. The flame of scarlet hunt coats blazed wherever Fabian looked.

The vaulting auditorium was filled and seething with activity. Attendants put the last touches to the ring and the course; judges checked the distance between obstacles; television crews set up their cameras and lights; photographers leaned over the barrier around the show ring, trying out the most favorable angles to catch jumps.

Dizzied by all that splendor and feverish preparation, Fabian left the auditorium and walked behind the main arena, to the paddock, an area set aside for practice riding, for stabling the horses and housing the equipment, tack and supplies. There, at the Stanhope tent and stalls, he hoped to catch a glimpse of Captain Ahab, familiar to him from several local competitions in Totemfield. Because the area was not open to the general public and required a pass for admittance, Fabian had taken along the jacket of his book
Prone to Fall
and presented it to the guard as his credentials. Impressed with Fabian’s photograph on the back cover, and his equestrian accomplishments listed on its flap, the guard let him in without a pass.

In the paddock, a more orderly life reigned. Fabian passed the rank of tents and stalls housing major national and foreign equestrian teams, their horses bearing insignia of the most renowned stables. He saw breeders and owners with their families, fleets of trainers and coaches, riders practicing and dressing for one event while their fellow competitors recovered from another, grooms currying and saddling and unbridling the mounts.

At the far end of the passage, he found the Stanhope Stables tent and stalls. The baroque family coat of arms stood out boldly against the deep blue stain of the stalls, the red fabric of the tent, the yellow wool of the horse blankets and hoods.

Fabian came upon the head groom, a man who remembered him from a time when Fabian had taught his young son at the Double Bridle Stables in Totemfield. The man, crippled in his youth by a fall from a horse, hobbled among the horses and tack with the aid of two canes.

The head groom told Fabian that Captain Ahab was already in the practice ring adjacent to the entry to the main arena, being warmed up there by Stuart Hayward, a young man from a prominent Southern family who had frequently ridden the stallion for the Stanhopes, working his way up through novice, junior and open events until he had qualified for major competitions. Riding Captain Ahab to victory in the puissance class at the Garden would be the culmination of all his efforts.

Inside the warm-up ring—unusually small in proportion to the number and height of the obstacles erected around it—Fabian saw that, in preparation for the main event that was to start in half an hour, several riders had already begun to pace their mounts at an even rhythm over the practice jumps. Next to the ring, he noticed the spectacular silhouette of Captain Ahab, an American Thoroughbred of impeccable lineage and breeding. At his side, the rider was in the process of adjusting the horse’s tack.

Fabian walked briskly over to Hayward. The young man was slightly taller than Fabian, with strong thrusting legs, blond hair falling with unruly charm over his forehead. Fabian could see him on a college football team or behind a tennis net.

“I’m Fabian,” he said, extending his hand.

Hayward shook Fabian’s hand with the well-bred deference of the young toward those twice their age and accomplishment. “So you’re the polo player who once taught riding in Totemfield?”

“Right,” said Fabian. “A long time ago,” he added.

“Vanessa always says that you gave her more than any other teacher, Mr. Fabian,” Hayward said, a tinge of admiration coloring his voice.

“I’m glad Miss Stanhope thinks so,” Fabian said.

Hayward kept looking at him, as if Fabian’s presence were a source of reassurance. Fabian felt a spontaneous warmth toward this young man, so forthright in his manner and bearing.

It was only after Hayward returned to the adjustment of Captain Ahab’s tack that Fabian noticed how pale the young man was. Even though the warm-up ring was cool and he had not yet been riding, Hayward’s forehead and upper lip were filmed with perspiration. His hands were trembling at the saddle. Sensing Fabian’s scrutiny, Hayward suddenly mustered bravado.

“C’mon, Ahab,” he called out, joking as he mounted the stallion, “let’s go after our white whale!”

Circling the warm-up ring twice, his posture faultless, Hayward posted to a slow trot, then held firmly in the saddle during the canter, with Captain Ahab prancing a bit, still uncertain of the new environment as Hayward approached the first fence. His shoulders and hands forward, toes up, heels down, he kept his eyes ahead, maintaining his seat well in the saddle, his calves and the inner curve of his legs in intimate contact with the horse. As the animal cleared the obstacle, the line of the reins from the horse’s bit to Hayward’s elbow remained unbroken, a fluent stream through his fingers, permitting the horse the scope it needed. In the descent, Hayward smoothly sank back into the saddle, his ankles flexed, his knees absorbing the shock of the landing, the reins taut once more, the connection between the rider’s hand and the horse’s bit unruffled.

It was a perfect jump. Fabian, pleased for the younger rider, was about to leave the warm-up ring when he saw Hayward suddenly tilt sideways in the saddle, losing his balance. Jarred by a sudden tug of the reins, Captain Ahab refused to take the next jump, braking in panic before it, hind legs digging into the sawdust. Hayward quickly regained his seat and pulled out of the line, allowing other riders to continue their practice. Swaying in the saddle, he rode over toward Fabian, and when he pulled Captain Ahab to a halt, he almost toppled to the ground. Fabian reached up and grasped him by the elbow, to help him dismount. The young man’s face was sallow, beaded with sweat. He looked ill.

“What happened?” Fabian asked calmly.

Hayward looked at him with unfocused eyes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I feel—I feel strange.” He kept swallowing as if his mouth were parched.

“What is it?” Fabian insisted, leaning him against the ring’s wall, undoing the stock at his throat, loosening the starched noose of his collar and unbuttoning his jacket.

“I took some pills before,” Hayward muttered thickly.

“What pills?”

Hayward’s eyes were shut; he seemed close to fainting. “To steady my stomach through all this,” he stammered. He gestured forlornly toward the main arena.

“How do you feel now?” Fabian asked.

Hayward slumped against the wall; he tried to drag himself up, but could not stand erect. “I don’t think I can ride.” His hand smeared dust as it wandered over his face. “Maybe I should try anyhow.”

“A bad fall might finish off both you and Captain Ahab,” Fabian said.

“What do I do, Mr. Fabian? Should I ride?” Hayward’s eyes flickered blearily as he tried to stretch in the tight riding clothes.

“You’re ill,” Fabian said. “You won’t have leg control, you can’t keep your balance.”

“There’s nobody else to take my place. It’s too late—Captain Ahab was announced, and everybody expects him to jump.”

“A lot of riders withdraw at the last minute,” Fabian said. A slow vision of what he was about to do, of what he had to do, started to unfold, the knowledge gathering momentum like a polo ball rolling inexorably toward the goal posts. “In any case, I’ll ride Captain Ahab,” he said, the ball through the goal posts, his vision now complete.

Hayward looked at him in disbelief. “You, Mr. Fabian?”

“Why not?” Fabian said. “That’s the least you and I can do for the Stanhopes,” he added forcefully.

“Would you really?” Hayward mumbled, his doubt dispelled.

“Let’s go,” Fabian said. “I need your clothes.”

“Maybe I should go and tell Vanessa that you’ll ride Captain Ahab for her,” Hayward murmured, almost to himself.

“Vanessa?” Fabian asked.

“She was here with her family and their guests only a few minutes ago. They went to their box,” Hayward said.

Fabian’s first impulse was to go and see Vanessa, even to glance at her from afar, unseen. Then it dawned on him that if he rode
Captain Ahab, Vanessa would soon be watching him, his every move under the spotlights of the arena. For a moment he panicked: he might discredit himself in her eyes and in the eyes of her family and guests; he was no longer certain whether he should ride Captain Ahab. But he quickly reassured himself that just as riding Captain Ahab was an event in his life, the judgment others passed on him was an event in theirs.

He looked at the clock. The puissance class was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. Swiftly, he tied Captain Ahab to a post.

Hayward was about to collapse, his sickness and the anguish of his helplessness blotting out his awareness of what was happening. The object of curious stares from the other riders, Hayward submitted to being steered by Fabian back to the Stanhope tent, where Fabian slid him onto a cot.

With panic in his eyes, the head groom listened as Fabian told him he intended to ride the stallion. “I’ll have to tell Miss Vanessa,” he said, hobbling about frantically on his canes.

Fabian cut him off abruptly. “There’s no time. Call a doctor, then notify the show secretary that, as an emergency substitute, I’ll be riding Captain Ahab; they know who I am.” He started to pull off Hayward’s riding boots as the head groom lurched out of the tent.

On the cot, Hayward was in a stupor, his breath heaving. Fabian stripped him of his riding clothes and briskly slipped on the breeches and the jacket. The boots were most important, and they fit, despite a light pressure on his insteps. He fastened Hayward’s entry number around the jacket and, seizing the hat, whip and gloves, bolted from the tent.

Captain Ahab was still tethered to the post, its eyes sidling with only slight apprehension as Fabian began to adjust the stirrups. The warm-up ring was emptying, the other contestants allowing their mounts a brief respite before the event. Fabian mounted the stallion and started to walk it slowly around the ring, testing the horse’s mood—and his own.

He reviewed the elements of the competition: how the horse and rider would be confronted at the start with six obstacles, two of those eliminated at the completion of each round of jumps, and the remaining obstacles raised progressively for the next round. The course took its toll gradually, as mounts and riders,
failing to clear the fences, were eliminated. Finally, only two formidable obstacles would remain, a spread of double rustic gates and a massive wall that, in its progressive elevation, could exceed seven feet.

He could not keep the terror back, recognizing that as a horseman he would soon face the fiercest demand of his life: performing on a mount he had never ridden before, in a realm of horsemanship in which he had never excelled and was not sufficiently practiced. The lowest obstacle in the Stanhope Cup was among the highest he had ever negotiated; the highest was one he had never even contemplated. He dared not permit himself to think that, in the presence of thousands of spectators and fans, most of them passionate followers of the sport, he and Captain Ahab would be competing against horses possessing exceptional jumping power, ridden by seasoned veterans with scores of championships to their credit, their names burnished with the celebrity of national trophies, world cups, Olympic medals. He could not know whether the audience would take his attempt as gallantry or insult, if they would be vocal in their anger and displeasure with the arrogance of a horseman flaunting his ineptitude on such a formidable national stage.