Seahorses Are Real (23 page)

He sighed and turned away; and she, half amused at his melodramatics, half worried about him, slid gently down onto the floor until she knelt in front of him, her hands on his shoulders.

‘Look,' she began quite seriously, staring him straight in the eye, ‘you've helped me more than anyone else ever could or would. Most people would have run away years ago. You look after me, you support me... you give me money, pay for me to see Terry. Without you... without you…' she stopped, faltering, then carried on. ‘You're brilliant at helping me.'

He stared at her, sad-eyed. ‘It doesn't feel like it some­times.'

‘Well – you – are,' she rejoined quite firmly as if she were telling him off; then dug him playfully in the ribs. ‘Think of all that lovely stuff you get me... all them lovely pressies. I bet you'll be getting me loads of pressies for Christmas up Bluewater,' she winked.

‘Nice try,' he half smiled.

‘And think of all them lovely meals you get me… all them lovely pasta meals!'

‘You hates my pasta meals!'

‘Well, you know, they're alright... they aint so bad... anyways, what about them stories you tell me in the middle of the night to get me off to sleep about the fairies and little shops on the sea…?'

‘You've got your own little shop,' he began in his
Jackanory
voice, his eyes lighting up, ‘on the sea front. Marly's Marvels, it's called...'

‘Oh no no no!' She threw her arms up in the air. ‘Not the kraken again, is it? Not the kraken?'

‘But you likes the kraken...'

‘Well, you know, I mean I do and I don't...'

‘So you've got your own little shop,' he carried on quickly, ‘and you've also got…' his eyes were suddenly sparkling.

‘What?' She pushed at his knees impatiently, sensing something was up.

‘…two tickets to see the Lipizzaner horses perform!' he ended with a triumphant note in his voice.

‘You what?' She stared at him, bemused.

‘I've got two tickets to see the Lipizzaner horses perform next week in London.'

‘You're kidding?'

‘No, I'm not.' he fumbled about in his pocket. ‘They're in here somewhere. It was meant to be a surprise. I was going to tell you earlier.'

She felt the tears start to sting at the back of her eyes and she pressed her face to his knees for a moment before jumping up and pulling him to his feet. ‘Give us a piggy-back!' she giggled, leaping onto his back, and almost ripping her white cotton nightdress as she did so; and they giddy-upped round the room, Marly swishing an imaginary crop and David lumbering about stolidly, knocking knees and elbows into doors and broken furniture; their shadows mingling and entangling quite faintly on the wallpaper like some monstrous mythical two-headed beast blundering about in the flowers. In the end they collapsed in a laughing heap and he rolled her onto her back and kissed her on the mouth and his eyes were chocolate and melting again.

‘You, Miss Marly stole some barley Smart...'

‘What what?'

‘Are going to see…'

‘What what what?'

‘The Wizard of Oz and the wonderful Lippi whatsits leaping and conniving about!!!'

Marly threw her arms up in the air in delight, embracing the giraffes and little weasels on the ceiling, maybe one or two new blooming sunflowers. ‘The silver dancing horses,' she breathed, her eyes shining up into his. ‘The silver dancing horses….'

Part four: Arwen and Elessar

Fourteen

The silver dancing horses stood waiting in the wings: ears pricked, muscles tense, skin super sensitive to the black leather boots pressing into their sides, the soft-gloved hands resting lightly on their withers. Soon. The much-loved voices whisper to them. Soon. The crowd is hushed, waiting, expectant, craning and tenterhooked; and the music has begun: a tremulous fluting, a cajoling violin. A small draught blows through from the cold dark arena, lifting their manes and silk-fine tails; bringing the scent of dampened sawdust where they will imprint their loops and curves, serpentines and figures of eight. Soon. The much-loved voices whisper to them. Soon. There is a deep inhalation, a moment of suspension; then the soft-gloved hands press tightly on the reins, the wind goes singing through their manes and silk-fine tails and the violin cajoles, cajoles….

‘All the way from the Hapsburg P… Palace in Vienna,' the compère announced, stuttering slightly, ‘these horses have travelled to perform for you tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, an equine ballet to rival Swan Lake! Prepare to be amazed at the intricate steps and manoeuvres of haute école; the acrobatic leaps and jumps of the Airs above the Ground. Prepare to be entranced by the rhythm of their dancing…. Get ready for the equestrian treat of the century, the magic of the snow-white stallions… Horse of Royalty! Horse of the Gods! Horse of living legend! Give it up then, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, for the LIPIZZANER HORSES!'

They step into the arena like stars out of darkness, to the strains of the
Moonlight Sonata
and the roar of the crowd. This is what it's all been for: the days, months, years of training; patient handling, soothing voices, much-loved hands; the rigorous and repetitive movements in the rust-coloured sand of the
Hofreitschule
; gruelling exercises on the lunge to promote suppleness, flexibility, speed and endurance… the good fine oats, molten shoes, dress rehearsals and stable routines; the radios and record players used to accustom their ears to fugues, rhapsodies, arias and minuets; the polished saddles, gleaming bridles, shampooed coats and varnished hooves. All for this! This moment when they step like stars out of darkness to the strains of the
Moonlight Sonata
and the roar of the crowd.

‘Their history has been a t... turbulent one. Exiled and evacuated many times from their homes in Lipizza and the Federal stud at Piber, due to war and military aggression, they have nevertheless continued to flourish and remain to this day the most noble and majestic of breeds. And the Spanish Riding School of Vienna – a masterpiece of baroque architecture designed by Josef Emmanuel Fischer von Erlach in 1735 – is still intact (despite air raids and Adolf Hitler), the only institution of its kind in the world; its purpose unchanged through the centuries – to perpetuate the art of classical horsemanship in its purest form.'

Bred for this: this fiery brilliance, this obedience, this display. Not for nothing are they known as the Horses of Kings, Horses of the Gods, for once upon a time their ancestors bore emperors and heroes into battle, conquered old worlds without swords, discovered new ones without wings. Stamped in their blood and bone is the landscape of their birthplace: the steep-faced granite tors, limestone plateaux, snow-stencilled trees and cut-glass tinkling streams. Before they ever danced beneath chandeliers, they danced beneath the stars on frozen lakes and lagoons, the snow packed hard in their hooves. Before they ever drew strength from the roar of the crowd, they drew strength from the air and sunshine, the fearsome Karst Bora winds. Before their eyes became a part of the spotlight and camera flash, they were part of the deep transparent shining pools, the bright water in the secret ravines. Long ago their hearts pulsed to the rhythm of the seasons, the soft singing breezes. Now they pulse to Aïda, the cajoling violin.

The young stallions are the first to show what they're made of – eager to please, a little green, their coats just turning grey. It's a while before any of them will lead the School Quadrille, for they are apt to be a trifle skittish when the crowd gets overly vociferous or a camera flash is too loud; and it is then the soft-gloved hands must steady them a little, remind them they are perfectly used to brass bands, tambourines, Pavarotti going at it hammer and tongs. They glide into formation in the centre of the ring while the others drift away like smoke, pale ethereal wraiths in the moonlight sonata. Their riders salute, doff their bicorned hats; silver bits clink in velvety mouths and then they're off: flying hooves in unison over the dampened sawdust, beats in one two time like a soft flapping of wings as diagonal pairs of legs rise and fall simultaneously in a high-stepping, syncopated trot. There is a moment of suspension, a space between two hoof beats where nothing touches the ground and they are truly floating, truly floating over the sawdust ring.

‘The ‘passage' is at the heart of haute école. Based on the natural movements of a foal at play, it nevertheless requires great strength and skill. All haute école training is based on principles laid down hundreds of years ago by the great master of classical horsemanship, Xenophon, and is almost unchanged to this day. Even now training is transmitted by word of mouth from generation to generation – no written texts or instructions, just word of mouth from rider to rider, groom to groom.'

All of a sudden they lose their momentum, the music changes to a honky-tonk piano and the silver dancing horses are trotting on the spot, hopping about on their toes like cats on a hot tin roof. The riders are sitting quite still but the horses are dancing about on their toes as if the sawdust itself were burning, turning their coats from fetlock to forelock a melting molten gold. Either that or invisible strings are dangling from the ceiling and the silver dancing horses are only giant toy puppets. The crowd gasps in astonishment; a child leans over in excitement, drops her ice-cream cone into the ring; it hits Majesto Deus on the nose…

‘This is the ‘piaffe', sometimes known as the trot of deep inflection. Great impulsion but no forward movement.'

…making him startle and prance out of line. He awaits the reprimand from the black leather boots, but it doesn't come; only the soft voice telling him that this is the sort of thing he must expect. Later on there will be garlands, bouquets, rosettes, never mind ice-cream cones! He feels the gentle pat on his neck. All is forgiven. As far as the audience is concerned it was just a part of the dance. He moves back fluidly into line, side by side with his playmate Favory Adonis, as they canter the length of the arena. The ground is soft beneath their hooves, soft as the meadows round the castle at Piber where free of rein and man's command they leapt over catkins and lilacs in bloom, scattered powder snow like stardust, crunched through rock crystal frost. Before they were chosen for the
Hofreitschule
… Now they race under streamers in a floodlit arena, their riders still as stone… they pirouette by the curtained exit…

‘Lighter than a Nureyev… airier than a P... Pavlova…'

flank to flank, shoulder to shoulder, just as they were in the meadows at Piber…

180

270

360 degrees…

The crowd gapes; children point and cry out. They must surely be clockwork horses on an old tin musical box…

The music stops. The lid snaps shut. The lights go off and they're gone in a puff of smoke.

The
Pas de Deux
comes next, a ballet for two, one horse an exact mirror image of the other. Every trace of the honky-tonk piano has gone and the music has changed to a faltering piccolo, an eerie bassoon. Two riders come out in blue and gold Renaissance dress, their horses pale and delicate as finely wrought silver. They weave in and out of the darkness, spinning their spells of moving light, their riders still, stern and unsmiling, the horses' eyes like glass. This is a dance in dreamland where the soul takes flight, where images are half real, half imagined. It is difficult to see where one horse ends and the other begins for they move in synchronicity, reflecting, merging, dissolving into one hoofbeat, pastern, bright-crested neck. This is a dance of buried treasure, of winter and long-forgotten things. This is a song from the shining pools where eyes turn into a liquid fire, where velvet mouths are silver dipped and this is a dance in the secret ravines where hoofbeats resound. Echo. Resound. The faltering piccolo takes up where the crazy bassoon left off, playing the same refrain in a different key. Even the audience is deceived. Is it one horse or two? Is it one rider and his shadow? One horse and his spirit drifting in and out of darkness, spinning spells in moving light?

Now it's his turn. Siglavy Parhelion. The crowd has waited for him. The arena has waited for him. The world has stopped and waited for him. Siglavy Parhelion: the flying horse.

‘Performing the Airs above the Ground is the horse they call Pegasus and his master of almost twenty-five years – First Chief Rider Colonel J Lebronski. Two times Olympic Gold Medallist, Grand Prix Champion and chosen in 1992 to perform on the South Lawn at the White House, this is his last grand tour before his retirement in June. It gives me great pleasure then, ladies and gentlemen, to be able to introduce to you tonight, the great horse himself, the unique, one and only Siglavy Parhelion – better known as Pegasus, the Flying Horse!'

He recognises the sound of the applause, even the compère's words; and he knows the music off by heart.
Gloria all' Egitto
. He places each hoof down carefully in the dampened sawdust ring and bows his strong and graceful neck in response to the roar of the crowd. It's the last time they'll cry out for him, those bright pale faces that shine in the darkness like the flowers on the steep-faced granite tors. The music throbs deep in his veins as he moves in time to the Grand March from Aïda. He always comes out to the Grand March from Aïda.
Gloria all' Egitto. Gloria all' Egitto
. Warrior! Conqueror! King!