Nightwork

13

We were eight in the small screening room. My feet ached from the Louvre. The room smelled of twenty years of cigarettes and sweat. The building on the Champs Elysees was a shabby one with creaky, old-fashioned elevators. The peeling signs of the businesses on the floors we passed all looked like advertisements for concerns that were well into bankruptcy and minor evasions of the criminal code. The corridors were dimly lit, as though the people who frequented the building did not wish to be clearly observed as they came and went. With Fabian, Lily, and myself were Fabian’s delightful French lady, whose name was Nadine Bonheur. At the console in the rear was the cameraman on the picture, a weary, gray professional of about sixty-five who wore a beret and a permanent cigarette hanging from his lip. He looked too old for this sort of work and kept his eyes almost completely closed at all times, as though he did not want to be reminded too definitely of what he had recorded on the film we were about to see.

Seated together on the far aisle were the two stars of the film, a slender dark young man, probably a North African, with a long, sad face, and a pert, pretty young American girl by the name of Priscilla Dean, with a blonde ponytail, an anachronistic, fresh-faced relic of an earlier generation of Midwestern virgins. She was primly dressed and looked as proper as a starched lace apron. “It’s a pleasure, I’m sure,” she said, her voice pure Iowa. I was introduced without ceremony to the others, the atmosphere businesslike. We might have been assembled for a lecture on the marketing of a breakfast food.

A bearded, long-haired man sitting apart, who was wearing a soiled denim jacket and who looked as though he had just bitten into something extremely distasteful, merely grunted when I said hello.

“He’s a critic,” Fabian whispered to me. “He belongs to Nadine.”

“Appy to make the acquaintance,” Nadine Bonheur said to me, looking up from a clipboard and extending her hand. Her hand was silky. She was small and slight, but with a perky full bosom, half of which could be seen over her low-cut black dress. She was tanned a beautiful even shade of brown. I imagined her lying naked on the beach at St Tropez, surrounded by equally unclothed dissolute young men. “See what that hassole of a projectionist is doing,” she said to the cameraman. “We only have the room for teartty minutes.” Her accent in English was the sort that sounds charming to Americans.

The cameraman shouted something in French into a telephone on the desk in front of him and the lights dimmed.

For the next thirty minutes I was pathetically grateful that the room was dark. I was blushing so furiously that I felt that, although nobody could see me, the raw animal heat of the blood in my face must be raising the temperature of the room like a huge infra-red lamp. The goings-on on the screen, in color, were what my father would have described as indescribable. There were couplings of all sorts, in all positions, in a variety of backgrounds. There were triplings and quadruplings, animals, including a black swan, lesbian dalliance, and those caresses which we have been taught by Playboy to call fellatio and cunnilingus. There was sadism and masochism and behavior for which I, for one, had no name. As Fabian had said, there was something for everybody. The period seemed to be some time in the middle of the nineteenth century, as some of the men wore top hats and frock coats and the women wore crinolines and bustles, briefly. There were hussars’ uniforms, boots and spurs, and an occasional shot of a castle, with buxom peasant girls being led behind bushes. Nadine Bonheur, scantily dressed, with her mischievous, incorruptible schoolgirl face topped by a long black wig, played a kind of mistress of the revels in the film, arranging bodies with the cool grace of a hostess preparing flowers in a salon before the arrival of her guests. Fabian had told me the script was literate, but since there was no sound or dialogue it was difficult for me to judge just how accurate his estimate was. The film was to be dubbed later, he told me.

From time to time, there was a shot of an angelic-faced young man in a long pink robe, trimmed with fur, clipping hedges. Occasionally he stared soulfully off screen. He was also to be seen seated on a throne-like gilt chair in a stone hall lit by candelabra, observing various combinations of the sexes in the throes of orgasm. He never changed his expression, although once, as the action reached a climax, he languidly picked up a long-stemmed rose and sniffed at it.

To her credit, I heard Lily, seated on the other side of Fabian, suppress a giggle.

“The story’s simple,” Fabian explained to me in a whisper. “It takes someplace in Mitteleuropa. The young man in the robe with the clippers in a prince. The working title, by the way, is The Sleeping Prince. He has just been married to a beautiful foreign princess. His father, the king – that’s going to be shot next week – wants an heir. But the boy’s a virgin. He’s not interested in girls. All he’s interested in is horticulture.”

“That explains the clippers,” I said, hoping that proof that I was still capable of speech would somehow pale my blushes.

“Naturally,” Fabian said impatiently. “His aunt, that’s Nadine, has been commissioned by her brother, the king, to stimulate his libido. The princess, his wife, awaits him, weeping in one of the towers of the castle, lying in the unused wedding bed garlanded with flowers. But nothing – and, as you see, every possible attraction is tried – nothing arouses him. He looks on with glazed eyes. Everybody is desperate. Then, as a last resort, his aunt, Nadine, dances alone in a diaphanous gown before him, holding a red rose between her teeth. His eyes lose their glaze. He sits up. He drops his clippers. He moves down from the throne. He takes his aunt in his arms. He dances. He kisses her. They fall to the turf together. They make love. There is cheering in the castle. The king declares the marriage to the princess annulled. The prince marries his aunt. There is a three-day orgy in the castle and behind the bushes to celebrate. Nine months later, a son is born. Every year, to commemorate the occasion, the prince and his aunt repeat the dance, in their original robes, as the church bells ring out. It’s all pretty Iranian, if you tell it baldly like this, but it has an earthy charm. There’s a subplot, of course, with a villain who is plotting for the throne himself and has a thing about whips, but I won’t bother you with that…”

The lights went up. I made believe I had a coughing attack to explain the blaze of my cheeks.

“That’s it,” Fabian said, “in a nutshell. It’s camp and it’s not camp, if you get what I mean. We’ll get the intellectuals, as well as everybody else.”

“Miles,” Nadine Bonheur, switching smoothly from her role of incestuous seductress to serious businesswoman, stood up from her chair two rows in front of us and faced us, “Ow you like it, eh? It will lay them in the haisles[9], no?”

“It’s jolly,” Fabian said. “Very jolly. We’re bound to make a packet.”

I avoided looking at anybody as we trooped out to the elevator. I took especial care not to glance at the American girl, who had featured prominently in all the most lurid scenes, and whom I would recognize, even with a sack over her head, on any nudist beach in the world. Lily, I saw, also showed an intense interest in the floor of the elevator.

As we walked down the Champs Elysees toward an Alsatian brasserie for refreshments, Nadine took my arm. “The little girl,” she said to me. “What you think of ’er? Talented, eh?”

“Extremely,” I said.

“She only does these on the side,” Nadine said. “She is paying ’er way through the Sorbonne. Comparative literature. American girls ’ave more character than European girls. You think so?”

“I’m not much of an expert,” I said. “I’ve only been in Europe a few weeks.”

“You think it will be big success in America?” She sounded anxious.

“I’m very optimistic,” I said.

“I’m just afraid maybe we ’ave too much what you call class for the general audience.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” I said.

“Miles, too,” Nadine said. She squeezed my arm, her motives ambiguous. “He is wonderful on the set. A smile for everybody. You must come on the set, too. The ambiance is beautiful. One for all and all for one. ’Ow they work! Overtime, double overtime, nevair a complaint. Of course, the salaries are very small and the stars are on percentages and that ’elps. Will you come tomorrow? We ’ave a scene where Priscilla is dressed as a nun…”

“I’m afraid I’m in Paris on business,” I said. “I’m awfully busy.”

“Welcome any time. Do not ’esitate.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Do you think it will pass the censors in America?” Again she sounded anxious.

“I imagine so. From what I hear they have to pass everything these days. There’s always the chance, of course, that a picture can run into trouble with some local police chief, who can get a theater closed down for a while.” Even as I said it I realized that I was giving myself something else to worry about. If I were a local police chief I’d have the dim burned, law or no law. But I wasn’t a policeman. I was, whether I liked it or not, an investor. To the tune of fifteen thousand dollars. I tried to sound offhand. “How about France?” I asked. “Will it pass here?”

“It is terrible here.” She squeezed my arm illogically again. “You never can tell. A old fart of a bishop makes a speech one Sunday and hall the theaters go dark the next day. And if the wife of the President or a cabinet minister ’appens to walk by and see a poster … you ’ave no hidea how narrow-minded French people can be about hart. Luckily, there is halways a new scandal next week to take the pressure hoff.” Suddenly, she stopped, releasing my arm. She moved off two steps and looked searchingly at me. “To the naked heye,” she said, “you look very nicely built. Ham I wrong?”

“I used to ski a lot,” I said.

“We ’ave not yet cast the role of the villain,” Nadine said. “’E has two very interesting scenes. One with Priscilla alone and one with Priscilla and a Nubian girl… Maybe it would hamuse you.”

“She’s offering you a job, Douglas,” Miles said. His voice seemed to boom out over all the noise of the avenue traffic. “Protect your investment.”

“It’s very good of you, madame,” I said to Nadine, “but if my mother in America ever saw it, I’m afraid…” I was ashamed to bring my dead mother into this affair, but at the moment it seemed like the quickest way to end the conversation.

“Priscilla ’as a mother in America, too,” Nadine said.

“There are mothers and mothers in America. I’m an only son,” I said idiotically.

“Oh, take it,” Lily said. “I’ll go over your lines with you on the set. And we could rehearse the difficult bits back at the hotel.”

“Sorry,” I said, glaring at her, “I’d really love to do it. But I may be called out of Paris at any time.”

Nadine shrugged. “The trouble with this business,” she said, “there hare nevair henough new faces. Halways the same hequipment, the same horgasms. Some bother time, maybe. You have something – ha kind hof underground sexiness, like a young curé … Ham I right. Lily?”

“Absolutely,” Lily said.

“It would be beautifully perverse,” Nadine said. “Hinnocently rotten. A new dimension. The bishops would gnash their teeth.”

“Some other time,” I said firmly.

“I will work hon you.” Nadine smiled her incorruptible schoolgirl smile.

The two beers he drank one after the other in the brasserie seemed to have aroused the critic with the beard. He began to speak excitedly in French to Nadine.

“Philippe,” Nadine said, “speak Henglish. We have guests.”

“We are in France,” Philippe said loudly through his beard. “Why shouldn’t they speak French?”

“Because we’re stupid Anglo-Saxons, dearie,” Lily said, “and, as every Frenchman knows, undereducated.”

“’E speaks Henglish very good,” Nadine said. “Very good. ’E was in Hamerica two years. ’E was in ’Ollywood. ’E wrote criticism for Cahiers du Cinéma.”

“Did you like Hollywood?” Fabian asked.

“I hated it.”

“Did you like the pictures?”

“I hated them.”

“Do you like French pictures?” Lily asked.

“The last one I liked was Breathless.’” Philippe swigged at his beer.

“That was ten years ago,” Lily said.

“More than that,” Philippe said complacently.

“’E is very particular,” Nadine said. “Halso political.”

“How many times…” He turned angrily on her. “How many times have I told you the two invariably go together?”

“Too many times. Don’t be an emmerdeur[10], Philippe. He likes China,” Nadine explained to us.

“Do you like Chinese films?” Lily asked. She seemed to take delight in baiting the man, in her offhand, ladylike way.

“I haven’t seen any – yet,” the man said. “I wait. Five years. Ten years.” His English was heavily accented, but fluent. His eyes glittered. He was the sort of man who would debate happily in Sanskrit. I had the impression that if he ever got into a conversation with anybody who agreed with him he would jump up and storm out of the room.

“Tell me, old man,” Fabian said, hearty and friendly, “what do you think of our little opus so far?”

“Merde. A piece of shit.”

“Really?” Lily sounded surprised.

“Philippe,” Nadine said warningly. “Priscilla hunderstands English. You don’t want to hundermine her performance, do you?”

“That’s all right,” Priscilla said, in her pure corn-fed, high-school soprano, “I never take what a Frenchman says seriously.”

“We are in the city where Racine presented Phèdre, where Molière died,” the critic recited, “where Flaubert went to court to defend Madame Bovary, where they rioted in the streets after the first performance of Hernani, where Heine was welcomed because of his poetry in another language, and Turgenev found a home.” Philippe’s beard was electric with argument, the great names luscious on his tongue. In our own time, in the same medium – film – we have to our credit at least Grande Illusion, Poil de Carotte, Forbidden Games.

“And what have we gathered tonight to discuss? A comic and distasteful attempt to arouse our basest emotions…”

“Do not sound, chéri,” Nadine Bonheur said calmly, “as though you are too fine to fuck. I could gather testimony.”

The critic glowered at her and waved for another beer. “What have you shown me? The rutting of an empty-faced American poupée and a Moroccan pimp, the…”

“Chéri,” Nadine said, more sharply now, “remember, you are halways signing petitions against racism.”

“That’s all right, Nadine,” Priscilla said. She was spooning away at a huge bowl of ice cream with chocolate sauce. “I never take what a Frenchman says seriously.”

The Moroccan smiled benignly, his English obviously not up to complicated observations on aesthetics in that language.

“Made in France,” the critic said, “written in France, composed in France, painted in France — You remember —” He pointed an accusing finger at Nadine. “I ask you to remember what that used to mean. Glory. Devotion to beauty, to art, to the highest aspirations of the human race. What does your Made in France mean? A tickling of the balls, a lubricity of the vagina …”

“Hear, hear,” Lily said.

“English lightness of character,” the critic said, leaning forward over the table, jutting his beard fiercely at Lily. “The Empire is gone. Now we will emit a Buckingham Palace snicker.”

“Old man,” Miles said amiably, “if I may say so, I think you’re missing the point.”

“If I may say so, sir,” Philippe said, “I think I am missing nothing. What is the point?”

“For one thing, the point is to make a dollar or two,” Miles said. “From what I’ve heard, that isn’t completely against the French character.”

“That is not the French character. That is capitalism in France. They are two different things, monsieur.”

“All right,” Fabian said good-naturedly, “let’s leave money out of it for the time being. Although permit me to point out in passing that the greatest number of pornographic films and the most – ah – explicit ones – come out of Sweden and Denmark, two Socialist countries, if I have my facts straight.”

“Scandinavians,” the critic said. He snorted, dismissing the North. “A mockery of the word Socialism. I piss on such Socialism.”

Fabian sighed. “You’re a hard man to do business with, Philippe.”

“I have my definitions,” Philippe said. “I define Socialism.”

“China, again,” Nadine said. She made a small, wailing sound.

“We can’t all live in China, now, can we?” Fabian spoke reasonably. “Whether we like it or not, we live in a world that has a different history, different tastes, different needs…”

“I piss on a world that needs merde[11] like the merde we saw tonight.” Philippe called for another beer. He would have a belly like a barrel by the time he was forty.

“I went to the Louvre with my young friend this afternoon.” Fabian waved in my direction, his voice gentle. “And yesterday I treated myself to a visit to the Jeu de Paume. Where the Impressionists are collected.”

“I do not have to have the museums of Paris described to me, monsieur,” Philippe said coldly.

“Forgive me,” Fabian said. “Tell me, monsieur, do you disapprove of the works of art in these museums?”

“Not all of them,” Philippe said reluctantly. “No.” “The nudes, the embracing figures, the busty madonnas, the goddesses promising all sorts of carnal pleasures to the poor mortals below, the beautiful boys, the reclining princesses … Do you disapprove of all that?”

“I do not gather what you are heading for, monsieur,” Philippe said, sprinkling beer on his beard.

“What I’m getting at,” Fabian said, all patience and bonhomie, “is that throughout our civilization artists have presented objects of sexual desire, in one form or another, sacred, profane, lowly, elevated – the stuff of sensual fantasy. For example, yesterday in the Jeu de Paume, I saw, with pleasure, for perhaps the tenth time, the large canvas by Manet, Le déjeuner sur l’herbe[12], the one with the two superb ladies lolling naked on the grass with their fully dressed gentlemen friends watching admiringly and…”

“I am familiar with the work,” Philippe said flatly. “Continue.”

“Obviously,” Fabian said with relish, “Monsieur Manet did not mean for the viewer to understand that nothing went before that moment and that nothing would happen after the moment. The impression I get, at least, is one of delicious familiarity, with all that that connotes… Are you beginning to follow?”

“I understand.” Philippe was surly now. “I do not follow.”

“Perhaps,” Fabian said, “if Manet had had the time, he would have painted some scenes of what went on before that peaceful, suspended moment and what would go on after it. And they might not be so terribly different from some of the scenes that were screened for us tonight. Shall we admit that dear Nadine is perhaps not as great an artist as Manet and that sweet little Priscilla might not be as agelessly attractive as the ladies in the painting, but that in its modest way, Nadine’s film springs from some of the same basic motives as Manet’s oil…?”

“Bravo,” Nadine said. “He’s halways trying to get me to fuck him hout in the hopen hair. Don’t deny hit, Philippe. Remember Brittany last summer? Hall that sand up my has-sole.”

“I deny nothing,” Philippe said unhappily.

“Sex, love, whatever you call it,” Fabian rolled on sonorously, “is never just plain flesh. There is always an element of fantasy involved. Each age looks to its artists for the fantasies that deepen or improve or even make possible the actual act. Nadine, once again in her modest way – forgive me, dear…” He leaned over and patted Nadine’s hand in a fatherly way. “Nadine is trying to enrich the fantasies of her fellow men and women. In this dark, joyless, imaginatively stunted age, I would say that she should be saluted, not criticized.”

“Talk the hind leg off a donkey,” Lily said, in full Cockney, “that one would.”

“You can say that again, sister,” I said, remembering what Fabian had already talked me into in the space of one afternoon. It suddenly occurred to me that he must be a disbarred lawyer. Disbarred for a very good reason, no doubt.

“Someday, monsieur,” Philippe said, with dignity. “I would like to have a discussion with you in my native language. I am at a disadvantage in English.” He stood up. “I have to rise early in the morning. Pay the bill, Nadine, and let us find a taxi.”

“That’s all right, Nadine,” Fabian said, waving his hand, although she had made no move toward her purse. “The refreshments are on us.” The plural did not escape me. “And thank you for a jolly evening.”

We all stood up and Nadine kissed Fabian on both cheeks. She merely shook my hand. I was a little disappointed. The film had had its effect on me, blushes or no blushes. The touch of her lips would have been bracing. I wondered how the Moroccan boy, who had disported with her as her undeniably willing partner in at least two long scenes, could stand meekly aside and watch her go off with another man. Actors, I thought. They must divide themselves into compartments.

“Do you live near here?” Fabian asked Miss Dean.

“Not far.”

“Perhaps you’d like us to escort you home—”

“No, thanks, I’m not going home,” Priscilla said. “I have a date with my fiancé[13].” She put out her hand to me and I shook it. “G’bye, see you in church,” she said. I felt a small, rolled-up piece of paper in my palm. For the first time I looked directly at her. There was a little smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were a deep sea blue, the tide coming in rapidly, bringing incalculable sunken treasure.

“See you,” I mumbled and closed my hand over the bit of paper as she stepped away.

Outside, on the avenue, in the soft wet air of the February Paris night, after we had parted with Priscilla and the Moroccan and the cameraman, I dug into my pocket, where I had dropped the piece of paper. I unrolled it and, by the light of a streetlamp, saw that it had a telephone number written on it. I put the piece of paper back in my pocket and hurried after Fabian and Lily, who were walking ahead of me.

“Glad you came to Paris, Douglas?” Fabian asked. “It’s been a lively day,” I said. “Most educational.” “It’s only the beginning,” said Fabian. “There are vistas ahead of you, vistas.”

“Did you believe all that stuff you were spouting back there?” I asked. “About Nadine and Manet and so on?”

Fabian laughed. “Not at the start maybe,” he said. “I was just giving in to my normal reaction when I hear a Frenchman start orating about Racine and Molière and Victor Hugo. But by the end I damn near had myself convinced that I was a patron of the arts. That includes you, of course,” he added hastily.

“You’re not going to put your name – our name – on it, are you?” I said, alarmed.

“No.” Fabian sounded almost regretful. “I suppose that would be going too far. We’ll have to find a company name. Have you any ideas. Lily? You’ve always been the clever girl.”

“Up, Down, and Over Productions,” Lily said. “Don’t be vulgar, dear,” Fabian said prissily. “Remember, we want a review in The Times. We’ll have to put our minds to it in the calm light of day. Oh, by the way, Douglas, get a good night’s sleep. We’ll be up at five. We have to drive out to Chantilly for the workouts.”

“What workouts?” I had no idea where Chantilly was and for a moment I thought that it was a special place where actors in pornographic movies kept in shape. From what I had seen that evening, a day’s shooting involved as much physical expenditure for man and woman alike as ten fast rounds with a bantamweight prize-fighter.

“Our horse,” Fabian said. “There was a cable waiting for me at the desk when we got back from the Louvre this afternoon – by the way, you did enjoy the Louvre, didn’t you?” “Yes. What about our horse?” “The cable was from my friend in Kentucky. Somehow, he found out about the splints. He’s not ready to buy at the moment…”

“Oh, God,” I said.

“Not to fret, dear boy,” Fabian said. “My friend in Kentucky wants the animal to run in one decent race before he puts his money down. You can’t blame the man, can you?”

“No. But I can blame you.”

“I’m afraid you’re starting our relationship on the wrong note, Douglas,” Fabian said, hurt. “We just have to explain matters to the trainer. He has great faith in the horse, great faith. All he has to do is to make sure the horse is fit and pick the appropriate race to enter him in. The trainer’s name is Coombs. An English name, but his family’s been in Chantilly since the Empress Josephine. He’s a wizard at picking appropriate races, an absolute wizard. He’s won races with animals they were about to sell to pull junk wagons. Anyway, you’ll love Chantilly. No lover of horses should come to Paris without seeing Chantilly.”

“I’m no lover of horses,” I said. “I hate horses. I’m scared stiff of them.”

“Ah, Douglas,” Fabian said as we reached the hotel, “you have a long way to go, a long, long way.” He tapped me, old comrade, on the shoulder, as we went in. “But you’ll make it, I guarantee you’ll make it.”

I went up to my room, looked at the bed, turned down for the night, and stared at the telephone. I remembered some of the scenes in the movie I had seen that evening and decided I wasn’t sleepy. I went down to the bar and ordered a whiskey and soda. I drank slowly, then took out the slip of paper Priscilla Dean had put in my hand and spread it out before me on the bar. “Is there a telephone here?” I asked the barman.

“Downstairs,” he said.

I went downstairs and gave the number to the girl who was on duty there and went into the booth she indicated to me and picked up the phone. There was a moment’s silence, then à busy signal. I listened to the signal for thirty seconds, then replaced the phone. So be it, I thought.

I went back to the bar, paid for my drink. Ten minutes later I was in my bed. Alone.

The name of the horse was Rêve de Minuit. Lily, Fabian, and I were standing with Coombs, the trainer, in the morning mist at the head of one of the allées in the forest of Chantilly, watching the exercise boys gallop in pairs and trios. It was seven in the morning and cold. My shoes and the cuffs of my trousers were muddy and wet through. I was hunched in my old, sooty, greenish overcoat, the same one I had when I was at the St Augustine, and I felt citified and out of place in the dripping woods, with the smell of wet foliage and steaming horses all around me. Fabian, ready for any occasion, was wearing jodhpur boots and a smart, short, canvas hunting coat over his houndstooth jacket and corduroy pants. An Irish tweed cap sat squarely on his head and moisture glinted on his mustache. He looked as though dawn was his favorite time of day and as if he had owned a string of thoroughbreds all his life. Anyone seeing him there for the first time would be sure that no trainer would be able to pull any crafty trainer’s tricks on him.

Lily, too, was dressed for the scene, in high brown boots and loose belted polo coat, her English complexion brought to its genetic perfection by the dank atmosphere of the forest. If I intended to remain in their company – and by now I would have been hard put to figure out how I could disentangle myself – I would have to rethink my wardrobe.

Coombs, a booted, ruddy-faced, sly-looking, tiny old man with a gravelly outdoor voice, had pointed out our horse to us. He looked like every other brownish horse to me, with wild rolling eyes and what seemed to me dangerously thin legs. “He’s coming along nicely, the colt, nicely,” Coombs said. Then we all had to duck behind some trees as one of the other horses started running backward toward us, almost as fast as if it had been going forward. “They’re a little nervy these cold mornings,” Coombs said indulgently. “That one’s only a wee two-year-old filly. Playful at that age.”

The exercise boy finally got the creature under control and we could come out from behind the trees. “How are the splints, Jack?” Fabian asked. The connoisseur of paintings and sculpture who had led me around the Louvre and who had discoursed on Manet to the critic the night before was gone now, replaced by a knowing horseman, expert on the fine points and obscure ailments of the equine race.

“Ah, I wouldn’t worry, man,” Coombs said. “He’s coming along something splendid.”

“When will he be ready to run?” I said, the first words I had uttered since I had been introduced to the trainer. “I mean in a regular race?”

“Ah, man,” Coombs wagged his head ambiguously. “Ah, man, that’s another question altogether, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want to push the colt, now, would ye? You can see he’s not totally hardened yet, can ye not?” He had the damndest Irish-English way of talking for a man whose family had lived in France since the Empress Josephine.

“He does look as though another couple of weeks of work wouldn’t do him any harm,” Fabian said.

“He still seems to be favoring his off foreleg a bit,” Lily said.

“Ah, ye noticed, ma’am.” Coombs beamed at her. “It’s more psychological than anything else, you understand. After the firing.”

“Yes,” Lily said. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Ah, and a pleasure it is not to be having to hold the hand of an anxious owner.” Coombs beamed more widely.

“Could you give us an estimate?” I asked stubbornly, remembering the six thousand dollars invested in Rêve de Minuit. “Two weeks, three weeks, a month?”

“Ah, man,” Coombs said, head wagging again, “I don’t like to be pinned down. It’s not my way to raise an owner’s hopes and then have to disappoint the good man.”

“Still, you could make a guess,” I persisted.

Coombs looked at me steadily, his little gray eyes, set in a thousand wrinkles, suddenly winter-cold. “Ay, I could guess. But I won’t. He’ll tell me when he’s ready to run.” He smiled jovially, the ice in his eyes melting instantaneously. “Well, we’ve seen enough for the morning, wouldn’t ye say? Now let’s go and have a bite of breakfast. Ma’am…” Gallantly, he offered Lily his arm and led the way out of the forest with her.

“You’ve got to be careful with these fellows, Douglas,” Fabian said in a low voice as we followed along a path through the woods. “They can be touchy. He’s one of the best in the business. We’re lucky to have him. You’ve got to let these old boys make the pace themselves.”

“It’s our horse, isn’t it? Our six thousand bucks?”

“I wouldn’t talk like that where he could hear you, old man. Ah, it’s going to be a lovely day.” We were out of the forest by now and the sun was breaking through the mist, shining on the coats of the horses that were ambling in slow strings back toward the barns. “Doesn’t this lift your heart?” Fabian said, throwing his arms wide in an expansive gesture. “This ancient, glorious countryside in the fresh sunshine, these beautiful, delicate animals…”

“Delicate is the word,” I said ungraciously.

“I am full of confidence,” Fabian said firmly. “What’s more, I will make a prediction. Before we’re through, we’ll make our mark on the sport. And not with only one six-thousand-dollar reject. Wait until you come to Chantilly and see twenty horses working out and know they’re all yours. Wait until you’re sitting in an owner’s box at Longchamps and see your colors parade by before a race… Wait until…”

“I’ll wait,” I said sourly. “Happily,” but although I carefully kept from showing it, I, too, felt the attraction of the place and the horses and the canny old trainer. I couldn’t go along With Fabian’s manic optimism, but I felt the power of his dream.

If speculating in gold and risking huge sums on lunatic pornographic films written by an Iranian and starring a nymphomaniac Mid-western student of comparative literature at the Sorbonne could result in thirty mornings a year like this one, I would follow Fabian gratefully. Finally, the money I had stolen had achieved a concrete good. I breathed deeply of the sharp country air before I went into breakfast at a long table in the Coombses’ dining room, where the shelves and walls were reassuringly covered with cups and plaques the stable had won through the years. The old man poured each of us a generous shot of Calvados before we sat down at the long table with his plump and rosy wife and eight or nine jockeys and exercise boys and girls. The aroma of coffee and bacon in the room was mixed with the smell of tack and boots. It was a simpler and heartier world than I had imagined still existed anywhere on the surface of the earth, and when Coombs winked at me across the table and said, “He’ll tell me when he wants to run, man,” I winked back at him and raised my mug of coffee to the old trainer in return.