The Mare

Paul

I went to meet them in the lot so I could pay the driver; there was something indescribably moving and dignified in the taxi’s slow approach up the winding dirt road. “I’m so glad you made it!” I said. “She’s just about to do her first event, but she’ll go again!”

Dante said hi and looked down. I put out my hand to Mrs. Vargas, but she did not take it. I could not read her face. She was looking off to the side of me with an expression that would’ve been bewildered except that it was also stiff with purpose, almost robotic. She nodded curtly at me and instead of following me, practically led me back to the bleachers.

But the green meadow, the sky, the small-town banners flying on the wind — even from behind I could feel the softness and novelty of it interrupt her purpose. She looked at some resting horses as we passed the stable, then turned her head to look at the children riding in the arena, parents applauding for them. Dante cried, “There she is!” And Velvet, in the arena, rode right past the bleachers as we approached, her face transformed as it had been on the day I saw her ride. Mrs. Vargas’s face lit up in amazement, as before a religious icon come to life. Ginger turned to her and smiled with near-crazy radiance as she made room for us to sit.

“Who is that little black girl?” said a woman seated in front of us.

“They said she’s from Brooklyn.”

“Where’d she learn to ride like that in Brooklyn?”

The horse went into a spirited, near-chaotic trot.

And Silvia’s face went dark with anger. It made no sense. She went from joy to rage in seconds. Ginger said to her, “I can’t tell what’s happening, but I think she just did really well!” Then she registered that Mrs. Vargas looked like she was about to explode. The explosion was diffused, though, when one of the two women in front turned around, beamed, and asked, “Is that your daughter?” She apparently repeated herself in Spanish, because Mrs. Vargas rather sheepishly replied, “Sí.” The woman said something else, probably “You must be so proud,” then turned around. Whereupon Mrs. Vargas looked Ginger in the eye and said something that sounded like a curse. Even the women in front of us stiffly cringed; Ginger flinched, then subtly held her ground. It occurred to me that we were looking at a lawsuit.

“Dante,” I said, “could you translate what your mother just said?”

He seemed not to hear me.

“Dante,” I said, “could you—”

And, with a weirdly sly face, he averted his eyes and replied: “She says, ‘Black is beautiful, tan is grand, but the white man is the big boss man!’ ”

A couple of people turned to look at us reprovingly. I felt myself blush.

“Dante,” I said, “I don’t think your mother said that. It’s disgusting.”

He said it again, louder.