The Star of Kazan

39 Rocco

Zed had not forgotten the police officers who had stared at him so hard in the Prater, but as the time to leave came closer he was sure that he would get away.

So when the bell rang early in the morning as he was packing his saddlebags he did not think it had anything to do with him. Then Sigrid came and said there were two uniformed men at the door, asking for the boy with the bay horse.

Zed’s first instinct was to go into the backyard and ride Rocco away down the lane. But it was already too late. The front door was open, the tall man with the bushy eyebrows was standing in the hall. He did not look like someone with whom one could play cat-and-mouse for long.

‘I’ll show them into the sitting room,’ said Sigrid.

Zed squared his shoulders. It had come then. Prison for him for stealing a horse — and for Rocco, what?

The two men were standing beside the porcelain stove: the very tall one and the smaller, tubby one with the gingery moustache.

At least they were polite. They said good morning, shook hands, asked his name.

But then came the words Zed had heard so often in his head.

‘We would like you to come with us. You and the horse. Just halter him — no need to bring his tack.’

So they weren’t just going to charge him. They were going to confiscate the horse.

‘Come along, boy; we have a lot to do.’

There was nothing for it. Zed led them out of the house and into the courtyard.

Rocco was not a vicious animal, but he could bare his teeth as threateningly as the next horse when he wanted to. Now, however, he let Zed down badly, rubbing his face against the uniformed sleeve of the tall man as though he was meeting his oldest friend.

Zed slipped on the halter. His hands were clumsy; misery engulfed him. It was over then, everything was over.

What happened to horses who were taken away by the police? Did they get sold on or spend their days in some wretched compound, a sort of dumping ground for equine down-and-outs?

Or did they simply get shot?

He led the horse round by the back lane and into the square. Rocco was stepping out as if to a party, his feet high, his neck arched, as though impressing the policemen who walked beside him was the most important thing on earth. So much for the instinct of animals, thought Zed bitterly.

They began to cross the square, making their way towards the chestnut trees and the Keller Strasse.

How long did one stay in prison for stealing a horse? Two years, three… no, more probably. Much, much more. Would they put him in a dungeon, or in a cell with murderers and drunks?

‘Stop. STOP, Zed. Wait!’

He turned round and so did the two men who were taking him away.

‘Good heavens!’ said the taller one.

A girl with streaming corn-coloured hair was running across the cobbles towards them. She was barefoot, and still in her dressing gown, but even without shoes she ran like the wind.

‘Stop, stop,’ she cried again — and Rocco too turned his head and recognized someone he knew, and came firmly to a halt.

Annika came panting up to them.

‘I found this last night. Read it, Zed, quickly.’ And to the two men, ‘Please let him read it. Please?’

Zed took the sheet of paper she held out to him.

‘Go on then,’ said the tall man, and took the halter rope from Zed. ‘But remember, we are busy people.’

Zed opened the letter. He recognized the handwriting at once and his heart beat faster. It was from the Freiherr von Tannenburg to the head of the stud at Zverno, asking him to find a horse suitable for his grandson, Hermann. ‘Something very steady and quiet,’ he wrote, ‘as the boy is not a natural horseman. I’m giving Rocco to Zed; I think together they will go far.’

The rest of the letter was about the price he was willing to pay for Hermann’s horse and the details of how he wanted it to be sent.

The letter was dated the sixteenth of March 1906 and had never been posted because the following day the old man had his stroke and neither wrote nor spoke again.

For a moment Zed could not speak. It was as though the man he had loved so much was there beside him. Then he felt an incredible relief and joy. He was not a thief. Rocco was his.

‘He’s my horse,’ he said in a dazed voice, looking up at the two men. ‘I haven’t stolen him. He belongs to me.’

‘Well, of course he belongs to you,’ said the tall man. ‘Anyone can see that. Now please don’t keep us waiting any longer.’

‘Why?’ Zed was suddenly very angry. ‘Why should I come along? I haven’t done anything. I suppose it’s because my mother was a gypsy. You’re going to find something you can use against me and arrest me — my people have always been persecuted.’

The tall man sighed. ‘What’s the matter with you, boy? We’re not from the police.’

‘Well, where are you from then?’

The tall man was displeased. He had thought that everyone in Vienna knew who he was; certainly everyone who owned a horse.

‘Here is my card,’ he said.

Zed looked at it and read: ‘Herr Kapitan Muller, Deputy Director, Imperial Spanish Riding School’.

At the gates of the Stallburg a groom came and led Rocco away into the stables he had passed so often. He went reluctantly, looking back at Zed again and again, but the groom who led him soothed his fears and took him forward.

Zed followed Captain Muller into his office, on the other side of the street. It was a big room, filled with pictures and statuettes of horses and silver cups. On the walls was a tapestry of trophies and rosettes, citations from the emperor and signed portraits.

The captain sat down behind his desk and the man with the ginger moustache got out his pen, ready to take notes.

‘I want to ask you a few questions about your stallion. What is his name?’

My stallion, thought Zed dazedly. Mine!

‘Rocco. His full name is Rococo Florian Devanya.’

The captain exchanged glances with his assistant.

‘Do you know anything about his pedigree? Where was he foaled?’

‘He comes from the stud at Zverno, in Hungary. My father was the manager there till… he was killed.’

‘What was your father’s name?’

‘Tibor Malakov.’

The two men exchanged glances. ‘It begins to become clear,’ the captain said. ‘I met your father once or twice. A man who knew his job. He died trying to stop a fight, I believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘And Rocco was foaled there. Do you know his dam?’

‘She was a mare we got from a man called Count Halvan. He used to get horses from the stud at Lipizza and cross them with Arabs he bought from a breeder at Cadiz. They’ll have the papers at Zverno.’

‘So one could be certain of some Lipizzaner blood. A quarter.’ The captain was speaking in a low voice to his assistant. ‘That might be enough to get it past the committee.’ He turned back to Zed. ‘Now tell us how you came by him. Tell us everything you know about the horse.’

So Zed told them about the visit of the Freiherr to the stud and the finding of the foal. Now that he was no longer afraid of being branded a thief, he told them everything: about his efforts to stop Hermann riding him, about the Freiherr’s death.

‘But you yourself have been riding him? And training him?’

‘I had to ride him up to a point. I rode him to Vienna. But he’s very young — just four — and I didn’t want him to do unnecessary tricks. The things he does were mostly the things he wanted to do. He likes learning things.’

Captain Muller nodded.

‘And the levade he performed in the Prater? The one that saved the life of that little boy? Did you teach him that?’

Zed flushed. ‘Not really. He likes to rear up and… well, I suppose I moved my weight a bit and showed him how to hold it… but I know horses have to be trained very carefully and that’s a movement that needs their muscles to be mature. With the boy in the Prater it was mostly his instinct.’

‘Hmm. It’s true horses don’t trample people if they can possibly avoid it, but I think there was rather more than instinct at work there.’

There was a knock at the door and a messenger in a brown uniform with brass buttons put his head round the door. ‘Here’s the report from the stable, sir.’

The captain took it, and read it in silence. Then he said, ‘This is only the result of the first quick examination. But it confirms what you said — the horse is just four years old, and in good shape physically. And they’ve found the Zverno brand on his withers.’ The captain leaned back in his chair. ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘if you know the story of the Emperor’s Horse?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I don’t know if it’s a true story. Nothing is written down about it, but it’s part of the heritage of the Imperial Spanish Riding School.’ He folded his hands. ‘A s you’re aware, it is only the white stallions that are trained to become performers and to learn the “airs above the ground”. And even then, of all the stallions bred at Lipizza, only a very few are suitable for the training. The work is incredibly hard, for both the horse and the rider, and it takes years of patience. A horse who doesn’t enjoy the work is not suitable. Such horses are sent back to Lipizza or to our farm near Piber, and either sold as riding horses or kept for stud.

‘So you will see then that the horses we have here are all greys… the “white horses of Vienna”, that is our trademark, you might say.

‘But in every performance now there is just one horse that is not white. A horse that performs along with the rest: a bay horse. And it is known as the Emperor’s Horse because having it in the troupe is supposed to bring luck to the Imperial House of Hapsburg and to the city.

‘Apparently many, many years ago there was an epidemic at Lipizza and a great many of the horses died. It was impossible to send all the greys they needed in Vienna, so the manager sent along one bay. He was called Siglovy Rondina. He was a Lipizzaner all right, but he didn’t turn white. As you know, Lipizzaners start dark and turn light gradually — but not all of them do. Some stay dark and sometimes among them you get a bay. This particular bay turned out to be a wonderful horse to train and they put him into a performance just once, with apologies to the audience. That’s him over there.’ He pointed to a picture on the wall behind him. ‘But he was a great success, and that year none of the horses at Lipizza died; the epidemic was over. And the stable men said the bay had brought luck to the Imperial Spanish Riding School and it came to be called the Emperor’s Horse. One year they couldn’t find a bay, all the horses they used were white, and that was the year that the empress was assassinated… And another year when they didn’t use a bay the crown prince died. Since then we’ve always tried to find a bay to work along with the rest — and that horse, whatever his real name, is known as the Emperor’s Horse. So that’s how the story came into being. We don’t advertise it because everyone knows the Lipizzaners are white, but for the people who work with the horses it’s important.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Now do you see what I’m trying to tell you?’

Zed shook his head.

‘Come, boy… We have a bay now, but he’s old and the bay we tried out as a replacement has not proved suitable. We think… it is possible… only possible, not even probable, let alone certain… that your horse… that Rocco could be trained to become part of our team. That he could become the Emperor’s Horse. There are many difficulties. We only use horses that have Lipizzaner blood, usually pure, so that is one hurdle. There are always sticklers for the letter of the law. And he might prove to be quite unsuitable after further training. But the question I brought you here to answer is this. Would you be prepared to give Rocco to the Imperial Spanish Riding School? You know how we work — it would take several years to train him, and he would have only one rider always, so it is a decision for life.’

Zed was silent. He imagined Rocco disappearing through the great gates of the Stallburg forever. Imagined him turning his head reproachfully as Zed allowed him to go to strangers, heard his whicker of reproach. Tears stung his eyes, and he bent his head. But he knew what he had to say. He had owned Rocco knowingly only for a few hours, and now he must let him go. ‘Rocco is a person who happens to be a horse,’ he had said to Pauline. How could he deny him his chance?

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

‘Would I be able to see him sometimes… to talk to his rider… or is it not allowed?’

The captain looked at him impatiently. ‘Don’t be silly, boy. His rider of course would be — you.’