The horse, after a brief and frightening kick, took two or three firm steps back, brutally pounding its hooves down, tossing its head back, and twisting its body in a rage, carrying the two Japanese men with it, forcing them to jump off the ramp to follow its wild movements. Everyone instinctively got out of the horse’s way, fled toward the hangar, except the two Japanese men who put all their weight against the horse’s body, lodged themselves under its shoulders, trying to stop it from moving, to slow it down, but they were borne along by its power, swept away by its energy, and having no choice but to follow its every move, they tried to redirect its path toward the travel stall as they ran beside it. The travel stall awaited the horse atop the flat trailer, its doors open, which two technicians were prepared to close immediately behind it, but the horse reared up at the foot of the ramp, leaped back and turned around, then raged past Marie and Jean-Christophe de G. The two Japanese men had lost control, their last hope was not to let go of the lead, the thoroughbred was breaking free, bucking, twisting and shaking its hindquarters, its hooves clacking loudly. It bolted off in the rain, weaving through the different cars parked in front of the hangar, caught suddenly in the headlights of a car parked in the lot before charging the hangar, forcing the onlookers to scramble out of the way and rush inside the building.
Bright fluorescent lights ran in rows along the hangar’s ceiling, and the rain continued to fall in sheets in the night, aslant, almost horizontal in the wind. The two Japanese men had regained control of the horse, they had turned it around and were firmly guiding it by the loop of the halter. Back to where they had begun, at the horse trailer, they went around the cars while keeping as much space as possible between the horse and vehicles as they moved through the lot in the direction of the travel stall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning slashed the sky from time to time above invisible runways. The horse had been brought to a walk, far from the lights of the warehouses, through the rain and half-light of the lot, both Japanese men on the same side of the horse, escorting it in the night in their soaked blazers. The thoroughbred followed them, seemingly docile, abrupt and unexpected convulsions shot down its spine intermittently. They had almost reached the loading trailer when, catching sight of the stall, the thoroughbred’s body tensed up, the horse bucked and pivoted in one movement, its ears folded, it began to neigh, its mouth open as if ready to bite, baring its teeth in the night, it jumped back and took off, dragging the two flailing Japanese with it in its wake.
The thoroughbred had escaped, had vanished into the night, but not before being brought to a sudden halt, tangled in its lead, onto which one of the Japanese men held tightly, seemingly incapable of letting go, as though he’d wrapped the lead around his arm, or tied it around his wrist, as though he couldn’t untie it or even consider letting go, as though the thought of letting go and allowing the horse for which he was responsible to get away was inconceivable, and so, holding on with all his strength, already knocked off his feet, he turned backward on his knees, then was back on his feet and pulling again, attempting to tie the rope around his waist, momentarily holding his ground before falling flat on his face on the asphalt, and holding on even then, dragged along through puddles of water and sprays of blood, the frightening image of a water skier who’s lost all control, no longer able to find his feet, tossed around, lifted off the ground, then crashing back down, dragged in this way for thirty or so feet before finally letting go of the horse. Zahir galloped off into the night, already disappearing in the distance. He had instinctively fled toward the darkest areas of the airport, racing through the depths of the lot and across the barely lit access road to make a dash for the tarmac. Most witnesses of the scene were well aware of the danger, and while some ran onto the lot to help the two injured Japanese men — one had already stood up and was walking through the car headlights with a pronounced limp, heading back to the hangar, while the other was motionless, had lost consciousness, flat on his back on the asphalt in a black, shiny pool of water, his face smeared with blood — others made phone calls, warning the airport authorities, scrambling and jumping in vehicles to chase after the horse, doors slammed and tires screeched as vehicles shot off at top speed, the driver of the trailer got into the minibus — the trailer was too heavy and slow for the task — with rope and other materials, a thick hemp rope rolled up tightly that he held like a lasso, three vehicles had already sped off in the night in pursuit of the horse and were flying through the hangar’s vast lot, headlights piercing through the beating rain, zigzagging through puddles and barely avoiding collisions, Lufthansa’s station manager at the wheel of his small technical vehicle, Marie alone in the back of the limousine driven by the white-gloved chauffeur, and the others, all the others — including Jean-Christophe de G. who had taken matters into his own hands and was giving orders — hired help or bodyguards, the trailer’s driver, the custom officials, everyone who hadn’t stayed behind to help the injured man had piled into the small Subaru minibus, packed in tight on its three rows of seats among Marie’s bags and suitcases.
In Arabic Zahir means visible, the name comes from Borges, and even further back, from the myths of the Orient, in which legend has it that Allah created the first thoroughbreds with a fistful of wind. And, in Borges’s eponymous story, Zahir is a being who, once perceived, cannot be forgotten, nor can he rid himself of this terrible virtue. There wasn’t the slightest trace of Zahir in the lot, he’d dissolved into the night, he’d evaporated, melted, black on black, into the shadows. The darkness of the night was impenetrable, as though the thoroughbred had managed to slip into its very substance, and the night had swallowed the horse up and consumed it immediately. Cars flew at top speed toward the horizon, their windshields whipped by the rain, their bodies jolted at each bump of the road. Reaching the end of the immense lot, stopped at a ledge beyond which there was nothing — dark wet grass, an empty space that stretched out of sight — they had to face the truth, Zahir had disappeared. In the distance sirens could be heard resounding in the night, an ambulance had reached the hangar to see to the injured Japanese man, and fire trucks were lining the runways to set up roadblocks, all landings and takeoffs had been interrupted, the airport authorities couldn’t risk allowing planes to land as long as there was a thoroughbred running wild on the airport’s premises. The pursuers were then forced to slow down, to abandon their initial haste for a more patient pursuit in the night. They drove cautiously along a small, dimly lit road and remained silent in their vehicles, surveying their surroundings. They stared intently out the windows, on the lookout for any sign on the horizon, a shift in the shadows, a stirring in the air, the horse’s breath, listening attentively in the darkness of their vehicles, the drivers alert at the wheel, listening for any noise from the runways that would alert them to the horse’s presence, a mere neigh, a snort, a brief sputter of hoofbeats on the asphalt. There was nowhere to hide on the airport’s perfectly flat surfaces, not a single obstacle, no trees or bushes, nothing blocked the horizon. At the end of the road they went around a roadblock and drove onto a runway, still creeping along, silent, probing the night, scrutinizing the darkness with careful eyes, when, suddenly, charging out of nowhere, with the same unexpectedness as when he’d disappeared, Zahir’s black and powerful body materialized in the beam of the headlights, at once galloping and at rest, mad, his eyes gleaming with terror, his coat black and wet, as if suddenly defined against the night into which he had, just moments before, dissolved.
Then, in an instant, the three vehicles accelerated, in hot pursuit of the horse, they were no more than a hundred yards away from it, chasing the galloping beast in the night, its mane blowing in the wind, its legs moving rapidly in a desperate gallop, its hooves pounding the asphalt furiously. They kept it in the beams of their headlights so as not to lose it, they had it in their line of sight, following this raging figure in its tortuous course, turning left when it turned left, breaking off to the right when it did, the three vehicles speeding side by si
de on the immense, deserted tarmac, trying to keep it from turning around and escaping, to close in on it, all the vehicles working together to trap it, Jean-Christophe de G. was calling the shots from the minibus, giving orders to his driver and at the same time the chauffeur of the limousine via Marie’s phone — he’d called Marie in the limousine, Marie’s cell phone had rung in her purse and she’d heard Jean-Christophe de G.’s voice in the dark, his careful tone, calm, authoritative, asking her to relay his instructions to the chauffeur, and Marie was scrupulous in her task, her phone held to her ear, she listened dutifully to his instructions and immediately repeated them in English to the chauffeur — so that the three vehicles advanced in close formation, eliminating all possible escape routes, Jean-Christophe de G. coordinating the pursuit from the front seat of the minibus, controlling the distance between each vehicle, making minor adjustments to their alignment, ordering the other cars to keep their headlights directly on the fleeing horse, so that it would feel followed by a mobile and blinding stripe of light, horrifying and dazzling like a line of fire. They were on the verge of trapping it when it did a brusque volte-face, spinning around like a top on the tarmac, its body twisting in a swirl of muscle and a spray of rainwater, and, without pause, it galloped directly at the vehicles, fixed in the beams of their headlights, its eyes wild, savage, mad, its mane flapping in the wind, flinging mud and sweat in every direction. It was galloping at the vehicles, picking up speed on the Narita tarmac as though preparing to take on the obstacle in front of it, this shifting phalanx of vehicles charging it, as though ready to leave the ground, to take flight into the sky, a winged Pegasus vanishing into the darkness to join the thunder and lightning. As soon as he saw it turn around, its abrupt change of direction, Jean-Christophe de G. saw the danger and shouted an immediate order, urging the other vehicles to honk, all together, to lay on their horns while charging the horse. They all charged it together, honking, hoping to scare it and force it to retreat, while it continued to charge them, as if hoping to break their formation. Momentum favored the vehicles, charging in an unbearable blare of horns, three piercing horns sounding simultaneously as they advanced side by side in the night, and the horse, stopping suddenly, trying to plant its hooves down firmly, skidding on the wet tarmac, stumbling in front of the vehicles and getting right back up, panicked, fled frantically toward one side, galloped straight ahead before reaching the farthest extremes of the airport, where it found itself blocked by Narita’s double-layered security fence. It galloped alongside this fence for a few yards, still caught in the headlights of its pursuers, then it slowed, began to trot, indecisive, it stopped beside the high security fence, behind which stretched a parking lot where rows of JAL buses were parked in the half-light. Lightning slashed the sky intermittently, casting a fleeting white light over the tops of the orange and white buses parked in rows behind the fence. The vehicles formed a semicircle around the horse at a distance of about twenty-five yards, surrounding it completely, their headlights fixed on its immobile body. Doors opened, people stepped out onto the tarmac. They continued their pursuit on foot unperturbed by the beating rain, moving toward the horse while remaining in close formation, one of the helpers bent down and grabbed what he could find to throw, rocks, pebbles, dirt, air, to hem the horse in, keep it at arm’s length, or perhaps ward off his own fear, until Jean-Christophe de G. ordered him to stand back. He ordered everyone to stand back, to remain still and quiet. Not a move, not a sound. The horse stood stock-still, backed against the fence, unable now to flee or hide, and it watched them, immobile, panting, out of breath, its sides expanding and contracting with every breath.
Then Jean-Christophe de G. approached it, alone, empty-handed. The horse remained still, watched him approach. Jean-Christophe de G. was walking toward it in the rain in an elegant dark coat, his hands empty, with no lead or rope or strap, nothing to attach to the horse or with which to tie it down. Calme, he said, calme, Zahir, it’s okay, he repeated in a whisper. He was only a few feet away, he could feel the horse’s pulsing energy, the wild energy of a frightened animal. The horse continued to watch him approach, immobile, making rasping and harsh sounds in its throat. Its coat was wet, lathered in rain and grimy sweat, with which miniscule mud particles had mixed, dirt, pebbles, and bits of asphalt. It must have fell a number of times on the tarmac, because it was injured, its knee was split open, gashed with a dark wound. Jean-Christophe de G. was almost within arm’s reach. He continued to move forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the horse and offering it his hands, white, empty, open, as to show it he had no weapon, no rope even, nothing, his hands empty, his eyes steady and his hands empty — the hands and the eyes — not to mention his voice, his human voice, enveloping, sensual, seductive, modulating and inflecting his tone, the better to coax the horse. Calme, he said, it’s okay, Zahir, calme, he repeated. He was just within reach, but he didn’t touch the horse, he let it observe his hands first, his two big white hands held steady under the horse’s eyes, giving the horse all the time it needed to look them over, smell them, take in their scent, and the horse looked at his hands, sniffed them, its wet nostrils sticking to his fingers, docile and sniffing cautiously, perhaps it had recognized the scent, perhaps it was familiar with Jean-Christophe de G.’s smell. It didn’t even flinch when Jean-Christophe de G. placed his hand on it, touched it, petted it, slowly, delicately, as though caressing a woman, as though he was running his hand down a woman’s body. The horse welcomed this, it seemed to enjoy being touched by those hands both firm and delicate, only this warm and reassuring touch could calm it after the fear and terror it had just experienced. Jean-Christophe de G. placed his head by the horse’s jowl and spoke into its ear, appeasing it with his gentle voice, his spellbinding tone, he patted its head, scratched around its eyes. Voilà, he said, voilà, très bien, Zahir, très bien. He spoke to the horse in French, he always spoke French to his horses, French, the language of love — and often betrayal, too, love’s darker side. For Jean-Christophe de G.’s love was hardly sincere, or at least not without an ulterior motive, the concern in his voice and the gentleness of his hands were all calculated, he was already plotting his next move, preparing the trick he’d play on the horse while he continued to pet it softly, it was the only way, he couldn’t have acted with such aplomb, such swiftness and grace, he couldn’t have demonstrated such panache had he not mentally broken down each step and calculated every move before acting, like a magic trick, or sleight of hand, a matador’s veronica: in one movement, he took off the scarf he wore around his neck, lifted it in the air — the black silk flapping in the night with red moiré reflections — and, quickly throwing the scarf over the horse’s head, he tied it around Zahir’s eyes, blindfolding him. He tied the scarf tightly so that no light could penetrate, as in a game of blind man’s bluff, and knotted its two ends to the halter’s crownpiece to hold it in place. The horse took a step back toward the fence, its eyes covered, and stopped, blinded, conquered. At once, from the circle of the silent spectators, the trailer driver rushed out to help with the long hemp rope rolled up like a lasso, knelt by the horse, tied the rope around one of its legs, knotted it, then pulled it to force the horse to keep its knee bent. Bound thus by the rope, struggling to stand and seeing nothing, Zahir offered no resistance. Only then did Jean-Christophe de G. pick up the lead off the wet ground, and he proceeded calmly toward the three vehicles, walking Zahir with the leash, like a giant black dog of disproportionate size (obedient, limping on three legs, blindfolded).
The hangar at the Narita Airport freight zone was in a great frenzy when Jean-Christophe de G. and Marie pulled up in their limousine a few minutes later. Blue and white sirens spun in the night outside unit F, and dozens of firemen thronged the hangar’s entrance. Police officers in reflector vests had cordoned off the area with red glow-in-the-dark cones. Jean-Christophe de G. and Marie glimpsed an ambulance speeding off with the injured Japanese man. Marie was silent in the limousine, she was looking at Jean-Christophe
de G. seated next to her in the dimness. She’d just seen a new side to his personality. She was struck by the way in which he’d taken charge of the situation, how he’d taken matters into his own hands and given orders to everyone, herself included, this had impressed her greatly (because no one gives orders to Marie — at best, they encourage her, at worst, offer a suggestion).
After getting out of the limousine they found no one to escort them, not a single member of the airport staff there to take them to their plane. The Lufthansa station manager had stayed with the horse and asked via his walkie-talkie for the travel stall to be sent to where they’d caught Zahir and to proceed with the boarding there. After a moment, an airport vehicle with all its lights off, resembling a sort of spectral shuttle, pulled up in front of the hangar to take them to the plane. They loaded the bags in the shuttle, transferring Marie’s suitcases from the trunk of the limousine to the black rubber floor of the minibus. They were moving back and forth between the vehicles in the rain, carrying bags and suitcases, which they piled haphazardly inside. The shuttle started on its way, and they stood still in the half-light amid the sprawling disorder of Marie’s bags piled on the floor. The rain poured outside, and the runways could be discerned in the night through the wet windows, some fading completely into the darkness, others strung with rows of blue and white lights spaced at regular intervals. They passed a small, dimly lit road and continued straight ahead in the night. The shuttle drove on a few more minutes in the dark and then came to a stop, the automatic doors opened violently onto the windy night, and they quickly unloaded their bags. No sooner had the last bag been placed on the ground than the driver, eyes raised in the rearview mirror, slammed the automatic doors of the minibus, and the shuttle left in the night, leaving them alone on the tarmac.
The Truth about Marie Page 6