by Eva Ibbotson
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.’
CHAPTER FORTY
PAULINE’S SCRAPBOOK
After she had stormed out of Annika’s farewell supper, Pauline shut herself up in the bookshop.
Her grandfather was away at a book sale; Zed had dismantled his camp bed and taken his things next door to pack.
‘I am alone,’ said Pauline to herself in a hollow voice. ‘I shall always be alone. My friend is going back to her man-eating mother because she’s a snob and doesn’t like me enough to stay in Vienna. Very well. I shall manage. I have my books. I have my dreams.’
All this sounded so tragic that she cheered up a little and took out her scrapbook. Since Annika had been brought back from Grossenfluss, Pauline had had no time to paste in her cuttings. Now she got down the bottle of glue, and set to work.
The story about the boy with whooping cough who had waded right through the sewers beneath the city to find his terrapin did not take long to paste in. Nor did the one about the woman who had thrown herself over her twin daughters during a sudden sandstorm and shielded them with her body, even though she was completely covered in boils at the time.
But the third cutting was longer. It was an article about a man who was 102 years old and had had twelve operations and was on his deathbed when he heard the mewing of a trapped kitten on a ledge outside his house. All his relatives were standing round the bed and he asked them one by one in a failing voice to rescue the little animal. But none of them would, so he rose from his deathbed and climbed out on to the ledge in his nightshirt and brought the kitten safely down – and then he died.
Pauline read through the story once again; then she turned it over and picked up the bottle of glue and the brush.
But the brush stayed in mid-air, because she was looking at a smudgy picture of a dapper man in evening clothes and a top hat.
Underneath the picture were the words: ‘Eminent Viennese lawyer faces prison. Pumpelmann-Schlissinger accused of fraud and illegal practices.’
Pauline read the piece once, then read it again.
There are things you can forget and things you can’t – and even if she hadn’t known quite a lot about Herr Pumpelmann-Schlissinger she would not have forgotten his name.
He was the lawyer who had witnessed the document that Amelia Plotz, the midwife at Pettlelsdorf, had signed.
The document in which she had sworn that on the sixth of June 1897 she had attended Frau Edeltraut von Tannenberg and delivered a baby girl.
Pauline had seen the document in the professors’ sitting room, with Amelia Plotz’s sprawling signature countersigned by the neat, spiky signature of the dapper laywer, and all of it stamped with red sealing wax bearing the double-headed eagle of the House of Austria.
Fraud and illegal practices. What exactly did that mean? As far as Pauline could see, it meant that Pumpelmann-Schlissinger was a cheat. Which meant . . . But as Pauline saw what it might mean she felt fear rise inside her. Her stomach churned, her heart began to thump and she closed her eyes because the room had begun to spin.
It meant that she, Pauline, would have to leave the shop – and set out alone because her friends were not there to help her.
It meant getting on a tram by herself, and after the tram reached the Southern Railway Station it meant buying a ticket to Pettelsdorf, and when she reached Pettelsdorf it meant asking to see Amelia Plotz the midwife. Pauline knew about midwives – after all, her mother was a nurse. Midwives often had to bring babies into the world without the help of a doctor or anyone else, and in the middle of the night. They had huge strong arms to pull out babies, and they boiled kettles of water and tore up sheets . . .
‘I can’t,’ said Pauline aloud. ‘I absolutely can’t.’
She put the cutting away and went to bed. But the following morning she was up at dawn, writing a note to her grandfather.
‘I have robbed the till,’ she wrote, ‘because I had to have money for something important. I will pay you back from my wages when you pay me some.’
Then she locked the shop, put the key under the mat and walked across the square and through the chestnut trees to catch the tram.
There is a name for what it was that troubled Pauline. It is called agoraphobia, which means fear of open spaces and strangers. People who suffer from it are perfectly all right indoors or if they go out with friends they know and trust. But when they’re alone in unfamiliar places they suffer from panic and dread. They tell themselves not to be silly, but it doesn’t help any more than it helps people who are terrified of snakes or spiders to tell themselves that they are being silly. A phobia is a silliness you can’t control and it is a very frightening thing to have.
So Pauline’s stomach went on lurching and her heart went on hammering as she sat on the tram, and again as she walked through the vaulted railway station and bought a ticket for the lakeside halt that served Pettelsdorf.
Inside the compartment she felt better; compartments are closed and cosy, like rooms, but as the train chugged up into the mountains the thought of what she had set herself to do was terrifying. She imagined Amelia Plotz with her huge arms and her face covered in sweat and the water boiling away behind her and tried to think what she would do to a girl who came from nowhere and asked her impertinent questions.
The train went no faster than it had done when Ellie and Sigrid had taken it to the mountains all those years ago. Pauline had been with them often since then, on Annika’s Found Days, but never alone. Still, she set off on the familiar walk to the village and everything was there: the cows with flowers hanging out of their mouths, the goat bells up in the high pasture, the pine-scented breeze.
In the village she stopped at the post office and asked if she could be directed to the house of the midwife.
‘I’ve got a message from someone in Vienna who wants to thank her for delivering her baby,’ she said.
The postmistress was helpful. ‘It’s the little house at the end of the street on the right. There’s a carving of a donkey on the gate, and a peach tree in the garden.’
The house was nice; there was a little boy playing on the grass who reminded her of the Bodek boys. The midwife was preparing lunch for her family, but she invited Pauline into her kitchen and poured her a glass of milk.
But it seemed quite quickly that something was wrong. She did not remember a baby she had delivered twelve years ago because she had only been working in Pettelsdorf for four years.
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br /> ‘And the nurse who worked here before me has gone to Canada,’ said the midwife.
Pauline tried to fight down her disappointment. The trail had gone completely cold.
‘That would be Amelia Plotz then?’ she said. ‘It’s Amelia Plotz I’m looking for.’
The midwife put down her spoon. ‘Amelia Plotz? Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, well . . . she’s here – she lives about half an hour’s walk away up the hill. But I don’t know—’
‘Will she see me?’ asked Pauline.
‘Yes and no . . . I can’t really explain.’
She gave her instructions, and a doughnut, and Pauline set off up the hill. The empty road leading to nowhere gave Pauline another panic attack: she felt as though she had been cut off forever from the safety of her home. But she sat down on a kerbstone and took some deep breaths and then she could go on again.
Amelia Plotz’s house was rather a sad little one. It stood on the edge of a river which had cut its way deep into the hill. The windows were dirty and the cat that slunk past her as she knocked on the door was thin and wild.
But that was nothing to what she found when the door opened and an old woman with a tufty grey moustache and rheumy eyes asked her what she wanted.
‘I wondered if I could see Amelia Plotz? Are you—?’
The old woman cackled. ‘No, I’m not Amelia, the Lord be thanked,’ she said. ‘What do you want with her?’
‘I have a message from someone in Vienna.’
The woman with the moustache gave her a sharp look. ‘Well, you can talk to her if you like. She doesn’t get many visitors.’
Pauline followed her up a narrow flight of stairs. There was a smell of cat, and of other things that Pauline was careful not to give words to.
‘A visitor for you, Amelia,’ shouted the old woman.
She could have saved her breath. Amelia was propped against soiled cushions on a vast armchair which only just accommodated her bulk. Her white hair was loose; her eyes stared into space. She took absolutely no notice of Pauline or of the woman who had spoken to her.