by Feliz Faber
Louis took his time to answer. “Good, I think,” he said eventually, but he didn’t sound completely convinced.
Any response Will might’ve come up with remained unsaid, since Nic returned then, wearing a puzzled expression on his face as he talked on a cordless telephone.
“Sorry, would you repeat please? I didn’t quite get that.” He gestured between the phone and Louis before pushing a button on the device. A male voice came through the speaker, loud and a little desperate and with an accent thick enough to cut.
“Here is Polizeihauptmeister Landthaler from the Autobahn police Mannheim. Is there someone who speak German?”
Louis snatched the phone away from Nic. “Ich spreche Deutsch,” he said, and was answered by a sigh on the other end of the line.
“Na, Gott sei Dank.”
As Louis and the caller started conversing in German, Will gave Nic a questioning look. “What happened?” he whispered.
“I’m not sure,” Nic said, equally quietly. “Something with the police, the autobahn, and a horse transporter….” He paled. “Mon Dieu, Jacques—this must be about… Louis, qu’est qui s’est passé?”
Louis held up a hand, a look of grim concentration on his face as he listened to the rapid-fire German on the other end. Some questions and answers later, the phone fell silent. Louis looked up, his face as pale as Nic’s. He dropped the hand that still held the device to his lap. “Jacques had an accident,” he said in a halting voice. “He’s fine—well, not quite, he has a head injury and probably broke something, they weren’t sure. At least he was conscious when they took him to the hospital, and they are getting in touch with his family right now. But Dauphine—” He swallowed, took a breath. “Nic, Dauphine ran into a truck. Seems she hit the cab from the side as the truck swerved to avoid her… that was a policeman on the phone, he said she’s badly hurt, she’s bleeding… he’ll get the vet to the phone—”
A female voice drifted up from the phone still in Louis’s lap and he quickly brought it back up to his ear—unnecessarily, as this was with the speaker still on.
“Hello?” the woman repeated, then continued in fluent English. “Dr. Glockner speaking. Are you the horse owner?”
“Trainer,” Louis answered numbly. “The owner is in the States, but I— We—”
“It’s fine,” Dr. Glockner interrupted. “I’m afraid we don’t have time to get in touch with him anyway. Sir, I’m sorry, but your horse is fatally injured. I need your permission to euthanize her.”
“Are you sure you can’t do anything to help her?” Nic’s voice was loud, as it had to be so the veterinarian could hear him, but there was also an accusatory tone to it. “She’s not a racer, but a broodmare, and quite valuable at that. Is she so severely injured it justifies putting her down?”
“She broke both her front legs,” the woman said, and even the tinny version of her voice Will could hear conveyed sympathy. “From the way her neck looks, she must’ve done some damage to her upper vertebrae. And her nose is smashed in, nasal bone and jaw broken. She can hardly breathe.” Dr. Glockner must’ve heard the pained noise Nic made, because her voice turned even gentler with her next words. “I gave her something for the pain, sir, but there’s no point to delaying the inevitable. It’s a miracle she’s still alive anyway. Let me put her out of her misery.”
A silent look, a brush of Louis’s hand over Nic’s, and Nic closed his eyes and let his head drop. “Do it,” Louis said into the phone.
“Thank you,” Dr. Glockner said softly. “I’ll do it right now. I’ll put the police back on for you. Goodbye, sir.”
Louis shut off the speaker for his conversation with the policeman, which went on for quite a while. All the time, Nic sat hunched over, hanging his head, hands dangling between his knees. Will wanted to reach out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder but didn’t, unsure whether the gesture would be welcomed.
Only after Louis had hung up did Nic straighten and utter something loud and heartfelt and with so many hissing and growling sounds in it that Will was sure the words couldn’t be rated PG-13. Then he sighed and turned to Louis. “Well. What happened?”
“The policeman didn’t know much more.” Louis shrugged. “Apparently Jacques lost control; they think because a tire blew out on the transporter. They aren’t sure how Dauphine got out yet. Seems Jacques crashed into the guardrail and the loading flap came off. On a positive note, there were no other vehicles involved, the truck has only body damage, and the truck driver is in shock but unhurt. Landthaler was confident he’d be able to talk to Jacques soon. He promised to fax us a full police record for the insurance by tomorrow.”
Nic jumped up and started pacing. “God, yes, the insurance company. Merde, this couldn’t have happened at a worse time, could it? We can’t even really afford losing the cut on Dauphine, and now—shit, what about our car and the transporter? I’ll need to go to Caen first thing tomorrow, talk to Auffay at Lloyd’s—again, God damn, he’ll think we’re jinxed with all the shit that happened lately….” He stopped and grabbed his head in both hands, fingers splayed and clawing at his bald skull as if he were looking for hair to tear on.
“Lloyd’s likely has someone in Germany who can look into things there.” Louis got up and rounded the table to stand in front of Nic. “And if it looks as if they’d be raising trouble for us, we can ask Francis to send someone over from his firm’s Paris office. Thank God he’s the owner involved in this.” Louis reached up to touch Nic’s cheek, and Nic lowered his hands and met Louis’s gaze, taking a deep breath.
“Yes, and most importantly, thank God nothing worse happened to Jacques. We should get in touch with his wife.”
“I’ll ask Kim to do that tomorrow. She and Amélie are friends,” Louis said. “Right now, we better tell Francis what happened to his horse.”
Will wasn’t sure if they’d forgotten about him and only continued to speak English out of habit. He decided to remind them of his presence. “Can I help?”
As Louis took up the phone again, Nic turned to Will with a rueful smile. “Thank you, Will, but no. In fact, I’m afraid we’ll be quite busy for the rest of tonight and tomorrow. We’re being bad hosts. I’m sorry.”
Will waved him off, eavesdropping with half an ear on Louis talking to Francis’s voice mail. “Never mind, I understand that. I think I’ll go to bed, then. Um, is the morning gallop still happening?”
“Of course it is,” Nic said. “Though I won’t be there to explain things to you like I planned to, and Louis will be riding.”
In other words, it was probably going to be as boring as watching the afternoon training had been. Under the circumstances, it was unreasonable for Will to feel disappointed about that fact, and impolite to boot. He shrugged. “That’s fine with me, no problem.”
Yet Nic seemed to have caught on something. “On the other hand, would you rather come to Caen with me tomorrow? Most of our American guests have at least the Memorial Museum on their agendas, and the Bastion—the Caen Castle—is considered a must-see, too.” He regarded Will thoughtfully. “This is your first visit to France, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy playing tourist for a while instead of wading through horseshit all the time.”
“Well, I’m afraid you got me there,” Will said, trying hard not to blush as hedonism warred with his sense of duty. He had hoped to “do” some sights while he was here, and Caen was indeed among the boxes he hoped to tick.
Louis came up behind Will, clapping his shoulder. “Or you could do both,” he said. “I need to have a trailer hitch installed on my car, now that we don’t have Jacques’s Land Rover anymore. I planned to do that after morning gallop anyway and then join Nic at Lloyd’s. If you don’t mind waiting for me at the body shop, you can take my car from there and go exploring on your own. What do you think?”
Will turned his head to meet Louis’s eyes and reached up to pat the hand on his shoulder. “Sounds like a plan.”
IN HIS room, Wil
l rattled around for a while. He listened to the evening’s recordings and even started transcribing them, but gave up on that soon. He surfed the net, checked his e-mail—nothing that couldn’t wait—opened his article draft, and closed it again. He took a shower, got into bed, and turned out the light. And at last, in the darkness, he did what he’d known he’d end up doing all along. He dialed Francis’s number.
“This is Francis LeBon. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message,” the silken, honey-dark voice said. Will took a deep breath.
“Hi Francis, it’s me. I’d really like to talk to you. Call me back when you’ve got a minute, okay? Thanks.”
Determined not to get his hopes up too high, he put the phone back on the nightstand and got under the covers.
Still, sleep was long in coming that night.
Ten
WHEN Will entered the kitchen on the next morning, the day staff was just trickling in. The mood was somewhat subdued—not surprising given what the table talk likely was about. However, life went on. By the time Nic started to deal out the tasks for the day, everything apparently was back to business as usual.
Will ended up riding to the racetrack in the passenger seat of Louis’s Suzuki Jimny, looking forward to driving the fun little car by himself later.
“By the way, Francis called us back last night,” Louis said conversationally. “He’ll have someone from his firm’s French branch help us deal with the insurance. We’re indeed quite lucky under the circumstances that he’s the owner involved in this—he’ll defer compensation until after the insurance pays. Some of our other owners likely wouldn’t be so forbearing with us, and then we’d be in even deeper shit.”
The mention of Francis’s name and the fact that his own call had gone unanswered stung more than it should have; irritated at himself, Will focused on Louis’s actual words.
“Financially, you mean? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind, though Nic would.” Louis took his eyes off the road long enough to give Will a wink. “He’s very French at that—money, whether you have it or not, is a private matter to him and not something you shout about from the rooftops.”
“But yesterday, he said….”
“Yes, he did. I told you, he’s more forthcoming with you than—” he broke off, waving his hand. “Doesn’t matter now. Fact is, we had some minor incidents lately. Sick horses, breakage of equipment, even a theft or two—individually, not much to speak of, but together, enough to make our insurance premiums go up. Anyhow, what I’m meaning to say is, La Thillaye gets by, but just so. What we earn, we spend, with nothing to spare.” They stopped at a red light, and Louis turned to look at Will. “It’s going to get better soon, I hope. All we need is one good season with Minuit and we’ll be finally off the hook.” With a proud smile, he added, “We bought him as a foal and trained him from the beginning. I’ll win the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe with him, mark my words.”
“But if he failed?” Will couldn’t resist asking.
The light turned green. Louis resumed driving with a shrug. “We’d sell him, buy another foal, and start over. As I said, we get by.” Pulling into Le Touques’s parking lot, he flashed Will a grin. “But our life would be so much easier if Minuit won the Prix and fetched a good price eventually. I could cut back on the races and help Nic more with the management stuff, and perhaps we’d have more time for each other then. The last five years were hard, and we’d rather enjoy the good things in life while we still can, old farts that we are.”
Returning the grin, Will knocked his knuckles to his forehead—“For not jinxing it”—which made Louis chuckle.
Their talk had given Will something to think about. However, the fact that Francis had called them still kept nagging at the back of his mind. There was no way he could’ve missed Will’s message, then. Perhaps Will had slept through his answering call? As they walked toward the barn area, Will took out his phone to check.
No missed calls, no messages, not even a text. Damn him.
Loud voices drew him back to the present. Swallowing his irritation, Will put his phone away. Right outside the white picket fence gate, Louis and a guy in a black security uniform were engaged in what appeared to be an argument, complete with lively gestures and wild-eyed stares.
“What’s going on?” Will asked, though he kept his distance just in case.
Louis whirled around. “This dumbass—” He jerked his thumb at the security guard. “He says you can’t come with me. You’re banned from the barn area. By order of Monsieur David Joviel.”
Steely-eyed, the security guard pointed at a sign that said seulement les lads et les entraineurs and spat another torrent of angry-sounding words.
Will had to grin. “Mr. Joviel said he’d inquire about the Flag. Seems to me he figured me out. Guess I stepped on his toes big-time, didn’t I?”
Louis’s eyebrows shot up, then he started to chuckle. “Guess you did,” he said. “All right, you can watch from the rails. That place is open to the public. This way, past the paddock.”
He said something to the guard. The uniformed man shrugged and pointed toward the other gate. Will gave the guard a casual two-finger salute. “Got it, buddy.” He put his hands in his pockets as he walked away, whistling and for all the world without a single care on his mind. He was here to watch a morning gallop, and he’d enjoy the hell out of it, not sulk like a teenager about a lover who spurned him.
CAEN was every bit the highlight Nic had promised. In wonder and awe, Will wandered the fortress William the Conqueror had built a thousand years ago, and when the rain picked up, he retreated into the Mémorial de Caen. Never one to care much for history, Will had wanted to visit the World War II memorial museum more out of a vague sense of patriotism. But as he walked the exposition, contemplated the portraits of soldiers—fresh-faced youths who looked as if they should wield baseball bats or footballs rather than machine guns—and read the reports about what had happened to them, dry history turned into faces, names, fates. Will felt connected with them; he could’ve been one of them if he’d been born a handful of decades earlier. More than once he wished for a companion, for someone to share this experience. And if he was honest with himself, he’d prefer having Francis over any other of his friends, given the choice. The closer he got to the horror that had been the Battle of the Normandy, the more he wished for Francis’s self-assured strength to help make the unbearable sadness bearable. After a while, it all got to be too much, and Will left the museum depressed and haunted by an irritating feeling of longing.
Half an hour later, staring out the grimy windows of a small café-bar-tabac at the yachts moored in Caen’s Port de Plaisance, Will stirred his coffee and tried to find something else to keep his thoughts busy than pondering over and over why Francis’s silence bothered him so much.
We’ll talk once you’re back, he’d said. Only a few days from now, after all. But what if it wasn’t work that Francis was so preoccupied with he couldn’t spare a few minutes to talk to Will? What if he’d already found another “pretty thing” to pass his time with? Francis had also said they weren’t exclusive.
Stop being a drama queen, he berated himself. Francis may be a lot of things, but he isn’t sneaky. If he wanted to dump you, he’d tell it to you to your face.
But what if that is what he’s waiting to do once you’re back? The little voice inside of Will’s head sounded like Gary this time. He stirred his coffee with enough force to have some spill over the edge and into the saucer. He was thinking in circles here, and he needed a distraction. Desperately.
Some higher force seemed to take pity on him.
The scent hit him first, a wave of patchouli and roses that drowned even the aroma of his coffee. In its wake, a figure sailed past who could’ve made a stone statue turn its head, and of course Will did too—how could he not, with all the fluttering white fur and colorful silk scarves on a bearded, six-foot bear of a man? Granted, Will was used to
Trevor’s exuberance—and Gary’s, for that matter—but this guy beat everything. He wore purple eye shadow and platform boots with skintight black leather pants, for Pete’s sake. Will caught himself staring as the stranger dealt out triple air kisses left and right, chattering in a light, lilting voice. Only when the man plunged into a deep kiss with the bartender did Will tear his eyes discreetly away. None of the other guests seemed to think anything of the paradise bird, except for one single woman in a corner who put her tourist guide down and pointed a camera at the couple, snapping away.
Arms akimbo, the newcomer whirled around. His voice dropping about two octaves, he grumbled something Will couldn’t understand. Unlike the tourist, apparently, because she was suddenly in quite a hurry to leave the café with her cheeks on fire. Will was next on Paradise Bird’s shit list, but he just grinned and raised his coffee cup in a salute.
“As if you didn’t do it on purpose,” he said. “You’re a hoot, honey.”
This earned him a bemused look and, after a few quick words from the barkeeper, a booming laugh in a deep baritone. Paradise Bird crossed the room in two long strides and grabbed Will’s hand. “Je suis Pauly.”
“Will.”
“T’es chouette, Will. Viens avec moi.” He tugged on Will’s hand, saying something else in French that Will couldn’t understand, but the message was clear.
The bartender’s name was Jules. He spoke English and greeted Will with air-kisses and a hug. Soon, Will found himself exchanging cheek-pecks and hugs with other guys who had been virtual strangers only moments ago. Pauly was the heart of the impromptu party—no surprise there other than Will was pretty sure he felt the big, meticulously manicured paws groping him once or twice. Not that he minded. The flamboyant encounter gave him some mischievous ideas of his own, and he beckoned Jules over, nodding toward a slender, deep black man at the other end of the bar.
“I’ll have what he has, and give him one too.”