The Horse Dancer, Page 43

  She could see another man on a walkie-talkie now, perhaps summoning security. Panicking, she fumbled in her jacket and pulled out the photograph of Papa. 'Monsieur! Regardez! C'est Henri Lachapelle. You know him. He was here.' She held it in front of him, her arm straight, hand trembling. 'You know him.'

  He stopped, took it from her. The other man was talking urgently now, gesturing towards her. 'Henri Lachapelle?' he said, observing it closely.

  'Mon grandpere.' A lump had risen in her throat. 'Please. Please. He told me to come. Please let me ride for you.'

  The old man glanced behind him at the other horsemen, then at the photograph again. While he was staring at it, the other man walked briskly back across the arena, holding his walkie-talkie. He murmured something in the old man's ear, and nodded towards his handset.

  Both men looked up at her.

  The old man's eyes were assessing her. 'You have . . . you have ridden here from England?' he said slowly.

  She nodded, hardly daring breathe.

  He shook his head a little, as if finding it hard to comprehend. 'Henri Lachapelle,' he murmured. And then he strode slowly away from her, his gleaming black boots sending up clouds of sand. Sarah sat very still on her horse, unsure what to do. Was this his way of telling her to go? She watched the man with the walkie-talkie follow him. Then she saw that they were gesturing to the other riders to move back, instructing them to line up at the sides of the school.

  The Grand Dieu stood at the end of the vast arena. He gazed at her for a long time, and then he nodded. 'Commence.'

  There had been some confusion over where the girl had gone: their guide had initially misheard, taking them to one of the outdoor arenas, before an urgent exchange had them reversing in their tracks. Natasha hurried after Mac, her feet blistered in her court shoes, trying not to let euphoria take over. 'It might not be her,' she had told him, trying to keep the excitement from her face.

  He had raised an eyebrow. 'How many other English girls on horses do you think they see around here?'

  Their guide gestured to them. They had hurried through courtyards, through long stableyards, where horses stood eating peacefully in stalls, out into the brisk winter air until, outside a tall white building, Natasha recognised the ponytailed woman who had met them.

  'Ici, Madame,' she said, beckoning. 'She is in the Grand Manege des ecuyers. Our presentation arena.' As Natasha passed her, the girl had smiled, her eyes wide. 'She has come all the way from England? Alone? C'est incroyable, eh?'

  'Yes,' said Natasha. 'It is.'

  They were back in the front foyer beneath the photographs, the gilded roll of members past. Another door opened, and she saw that Mac, in front of her, had stopped in his tracks. No one spoke. The building was vast, a monument to the art of horsemanship, the echoing space inside dotted with black-clad men on horses. It was like walking into an old master, she thought. They could have stepped back five hundred years. The man with the walkie-talkie murmured something to the girl, who gestured to them to follow her to the audience seating below.

  She felt Mac's hand tugging at her sleeve. 'Tash, look,' he said quietly.

  Natasha followed his line of vision, walking down the steps after him until they reached the side of the arena.

  Sarah was riding very slowly towards the centre. Her horse, the boisterous, glossy animal that had been in such rude health in Kent, was scratched and muddy. Two makeshift bandages sat bulkily on his knees and there were burrs in his tail. His eyes were hollow with exhaustion. But it was Sarah she saw: the child was so pale that she seemed ghostly, ethereal. A huge bruise had half closed one eye; her back and right leg bore a continent of mud. She looked too small for the great horse, her thin hands red with cold. To all this she seemed oblivious: she was lost entirely in what she was doing.

  A short distance away an old man stood unnaturally upright in his black coat and breeches. He was watching Sarah, as she asked Boo to trot, to canter, created small, elegant circles around the men who stood on their own horses, watching impassively. Natasha found she could not take her eyes off her. Sarah looked like someone else, frail and older than her years. The horse slowed to a trot, then moved diagonally across the vast space, his hooves flicking forward in a balletic movement as if each step was suspended briefly by air alone. And then, straightening, almost impossibly, he slowed until he was doing it without moving forward.

  Sarah's face was a mask of concentration, the strain revealing itself in the shadows around her eyes, the tense set of her jaw. Natasha watched the minuscule movements of her heels, the tiny messages she sent through the reins. She could see the horse listening, accepting, obeying even through its fatigue, and understood that while she knew nothing about horses, what she was watching was beautiful, something that could only be achieved through years of relentless discipline and endless work. She glanced at Mac, beside her, and knew that he could see it too. He was leaning forward, his eyes locked on the girl as if willing her to succeed.

  The horse's legs moved up and down, a rhythmic dance, his great head lowering in obedience to the task. Only the flecks of spittle that sprayed from his mouth betrayed the effort this movement cost him. And then he was travelling around, dancing a circle around his own hindquarters, a controlled, flowing manoeuvre that made Natasha want to applaud for the elegance, the unlikeliness of it. Sarah murmured something to Boo under her breath, a small hand reaching out to thank him; a tiny gesture that brought tears to Natasha's eyes. Then, as the horse rose suddenly on to his hind legs, teetering, absorbed in the effort of combating gravity, she was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched the lost child and the broken horse giving their all. She felt, she realised, proprietorial.

  She felt Mac's hand surround hers and squeezed it, grateful for its warmth, its strength, afraid suddenly that it might let hers go. And then Sarah was cantering around the edge of the vast arena, a beautiful, slow, controlled pace, almost too slow for movement, her body as motionless as if she had been carved. And as Natasha glanced at the old man, she saw that the others, on the horses, had removed their hats, were sliding them down their chests in a formal gesture, and one by one were striking off in the same direction, following her, their heads dipped, as if in salute to what they had seen.

  Mac dropped her hand and reached for his camera, firing off shots. Scrabbling for a tissue, Natasha realised she was glad. What Sarah had done was magnificent. She should have someone to record it for her.

  The horse slowed to a trot, then to a walk. The men replaced their hats, glancing at each other, as if even they were surprised by what they had found themselves doing. As the girl walked up the centre of the arena, facing the old man, they peeled off to the sides to watch. Sarah, grey now with the effort of what she had achieved, stopped her horse squarely in front of him, all four feet lined up neatly beneath him, his shoulders now slick with the sweat of effort and exhaustion.

  'She's done it,' Mac was murmuring. 'Sarah, you beauty, you've only done it.'

  The girl, breathing hard, dropped her head, saluting the old man, a warrior, returning from battle. The old man removed his own hat, nodding in reply. Natasha could see, even from where she was sitting, how intently the girl was watching him, how every atom of her strained to hear his judgement. She discovered she was holding her breath and reached again for Mac's hand.

  The Grand Dieu stepped forward. He looked at Sarah, as if he was trying to see something in her that he had not already seen. His face was sombre, his eyes kind.

  'Non,' he said. 'I am sorry, young lady, but non.' He reached out a hand and stroked her horse's neck.

  Sarah's eyes widened as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. She clutched Boo's mane, then glanced to the spectator area, perhaps seeing Natasha and Mac for the first time. Then, with an almost imperceptible breath, she slid off her horse in a dead faint.

  Twenty-six

  'Excess of grief for the dead is madness; for it is an injury to the living, and the dead kn
ow it not.'

  Xenophon, On Horsemanship

  She was silent for the short journey back to the chateau, accepting without protest Natasha's hand around hers, perhaps there for reassurance, perhaps from fear that she might disappear. They didn't push her to speak; it was understood that this was not the time for questions.

  When they reached the chateau, Natasha took Sarah upstairs to her room, undressed her as if she was a much younger child, and laid her on the big bed. As she brought the covers over the thin shoulders the girl closed her eyes and slept. Natasha sat beside her, one hand resting on the arc of her sleeping body, as if that small human contact might offer comfort. She was not sure she had ever seen anyone look so pale, so hollowed-out. Now that she allowed herself to consider the scale of what Sarah had been through she was profoundly shaken.

  For a few moments after the Grand Dieu had given his verdict, chaos had broken loose. As Sarah had hit the sand she and Mac had run, in tandem, into the arena, Mac scooping up the seemingly lifeless body as the Grand Dieu caught hold of the horse. Dimly aware of the shouted exclamations, Mademoiselle Fournier's hands flying to her face as Mac passed through, Natasha remembered being surprised by how effortlessly he had lifted Sarah, as if she weighed nothing, and how moved she had been by the protective way in which he held her close to him. Some minutes later, as Sarah gradually came round in an office close by, they had placed themselves on each side of her, Natasha cradling her head. The epic nature of her journey had briefly separated her from them, making her someone to whom neither of them knew how to respond.

  And then Sarah had looked up at Mac, uncomprehending, and closed her eyes again, as if what she saw was too much to cope with.

  'It's all right, Sarah,' Natasha found herself saying, stroking her sweaty, matted hair. 'You're not alone. You're not alone now.' But the girl hadn't seemed to hear her.

  The resident doctor, summoned from the other end of the Ecole Nationale, had diagnosed a fractured collar-bone and severe bruising, but recommended that what the child needed more than anything was rest. Tea was brought. Orangina. Biscuits. Sarah was urged to eat, drink, and obliged half-heartedly. Voices spoke urgently in French. Natasha barely heard them. She held the girl, who seemed unable to support herself, trying to will strength and courage into her. Trying to apologise for all the ways in which she had failed her.

  C'est incroyable. The tale had spread swiftly across the Ecole Nationale, and groups of people emerged, some in jodhpurs and peaked caps, to glimpse the young English girl who had ridden halfway across France.

  C'est incroyable. Natasha heard it whispered as Mac carried Sarah to the car. She observed, as if from a distance, that the glances that followed them were a little less admiring. As if Sarah's triumph could only have been achieved by some deficiency on her and Mac's part. She felt no resentment at this; in her view they were probably right.

  Boo was taken to the veterinary centre to have his injuries dressed and would spend the night in the stables. It was, the Grand Dieu remarked, the least they could do for such an animal. Mac said afterwards that he had stood in front of the stable for some time, gazing over the door as Boo, fed, watered and bandaged, lowered himself on to the thick straw and rolled, with a low groan of pleasure, in the deep, golden bedding.

  'Alors,' the old man had said, not looking at Mac. 'Every time I think I know everything about horses, there is something more to surprise me.'

  'I feel the same way about humans,' Mac said.

  The Grand Dieu placed a hand on his shoulder. 'We will talk tomorrow,' he said. 'Come to me at ten. She deserves an explanation.'

  And now, finally, Sarah slept, Natasha watching her as if the price of keeping her close was eternal vigilance. Late afternoon stretched into evening, the skies darkening to black. Natasha had eaten a bar of chocolate, drunk a bottle of water from the minibar and read a few pages of a book that had been left by a previous guest. Sarah did not stir. Periodically, alarmed by the girl's stillness, she would creep over and check that she was breathing, then head back to her chair.

  When she emerged into the corridor, some time after eight, Mac was waiting for her. He looked as if he had been there for some time. New lines were scored into his face, she noted, the strain of the last few days revealing itself. She closed the door quietly behind her. He got to his feet. 'She's fine,' she said, 'but she's out cold. Do you want to see--'

  He shook his head. Then he let out a long breath, attempting to smile. 'We found her,' he said.

  'Yes.' She wondered why neither of them seemed to feel the elation they might have expected.

  'I keep thinking--' He broke off. 'The way she looked . . . what could have happened . . .'

  'I know.'

  They stood there, not moving. The corridor was steeped in the smell of old polish; the ancient rugs muffled sound. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

  He took a step closer and nodded to his room. 'You want to crash in mine?' he said. 'I mean, if she's in your bed, you'll have nowhere . . .'

  There would always be another Maria.

  When she spoke, her voice was neutral, businesslike. 'I - I don't think she should be left alone,' she said. 'I'll sleep in the chair in there. I wouldn't feel--'

  'You're probably right.'

  'I think so.'

  'I'll be next door if you need me.' He tried to smile, his face sad and too knowledgeable, as if Sarah's return had allowed him, too, to consider how close they had come to triumph and disaster. And, just for a moment, she couldn't help herself: her fingers touched the new lines under his eyes. 'You need to rest too,' she said softly.

  The way he looked at her then made her see that she was lost. All that vulnerability, that love . . . a steel door sliding back to reveal something she had thought long disappeared.

  And then it was gone. He was staring at his feet. Fiddling in his pockets. 'I'm fine,' he said, not meeting her eye. 'You two sleep well. Call for me in the morning.'

  Sarah slept so deeply that when she awoke it took several minutes to work out where she was. She raised her head from the pillow, her eyes gritty, and saw out of the long window the distant leaves of a horse-chestnut tree. A car passed, and the sound hauled her into wakefulness.

  She pushed herself upright, conscious of the stale smell of her skin, her grubby clothes. It was then that she spotted Natasha. She was curled up in an armchair, a blanket pulled up to her chin, her bare feet just visible.

  Sarah vaguely remembered the feel of her hands stroking her hair, the surprising timbre of fear and relief in her voice when she'd said her name. And then she thought back to the arena, the sorrowful look in the Grand Dieu's eyes when he had said non.

  Something painful lodged in her chest. She lay back on the soft white pillows and stared up at the high, high ceiling, the only visible barrier between her and a huge, empty world.

  Non, he had said.

  Non.

  'If she doesn't want to talk, I don't think we should push her.' Natasha was standing in the great hallway while Mac settled the bill.

  She gazed down the steps to where Sarah waited in the back of the car, her temple resting against the rear window. She appeared to be staring at nothing.

  'It's not just that she doesn't want to talk about her grandfather, Mac. She doesn't seem to want to talk at all.'

  The police had found her passport, with the empty wallet and a few belongings, on the road to Blois. Even the handing over of the precious dog-eared paperback of Xenophon did not stir her from inertia.

  Mac took back his credit card, and thanked Madame, who had insisted on making up a small package of food for the girl. Everyone urged Sarah to eat, Natasha thought, as if food could fill the huge holes that had swallowed her life.

  'She's exhausted,' he said. 'She's been driven by this idea for the last however long it was, perhaps a lot longer than we know about, and she's just been told it's not going to happen. Her grandfather died. She's ridden five hundred miles or more. She's shocked, tired and dis
appointed. And she's a teenager. I think it's in the handbook that they're meant to spend vast swathes of time not talking to you.'

  Natasha wrapped her arms around herself. 'I suppose you're right.'

  The sun emerged sporadically, as if it was playing cat and mouse with the loaded grey clouds, but none of them noticed that the short drive from the chateau to Le Cadre Noir was picturesque. The gateman had obviously been warned to expect them; Natasha saw him peer curiously at the back seat as they passed through.

  Mademoiselle Fournier was waiting for them outside the main stables. She greeted them both with kisses, as if what they had been through had made them familiar to each other, then held Sarah's shoulders, beaming. 'How are you feeling today, Sarah?' she said. 'I am sure you needed to sleep.'

  'Fine,' she muttered.

  'You want to see your horse while we are waiting for Monsieur Varjus? Baucher has had a very comfortable night. He must be strong, we think. He is just over here . . .'

  She had begun to lead them towards the show block when Sarah cut in: 'No,' she said.

  There was a brief, awkward silence.

  'I don't want to. Not now.'

  Mac's apology was audible in his voice. 'I suspect Sarah is probably waiting to speak to the Grand Dieu.'

  Mademoiselle Fournier's smile did not falter. 'Of course. I should have thought. If you would follow me?'

  The office was lined with photographs, certificates and medals. Natasha watched as Mac examined each image closely.

  Monsieur Varjus entered, as if he had just come from some other, more important task. He brought with him another man, whom he introduced as Monsieur Guinot, something to do with the course administration. Sarah sat between her and Mac. She seemed, Natasha observed, to have shrunk in on herself, as if she had decided to take up less space in the world. Natasha's hand edged towards her, but travelled no further. Since waking that morning, Sarah had reinstated the wall around her. The vulnerability of yesterday had dissolved.

  The Grand Dieu was wearing his black uniform, his boots polished to a deep gloss, a flattening of his hair telling of previous hours on horseback. He sat at his desk, and considered Sarah for a moment, as if surprised again that a child of such a size could be responsible for what he had witnessed the day before. He explained in heavily accented English that Le Cadre Noir accepted no more than five new members each year, usually only one or two. There was an exam, overseen by some of the most senior horsemen in the country, for which the minimum age was eighteen. To join, she would not only need to succeed in all these but would have to be a French national.