I knew the voice well. I turned and a thin, tanned woman offered me her hand. “It’s good to see you,” I said, and I meant it. I introduced Nona to Margaret, my ex-wife.
“Stratton can do anything he wants to do,” said Nona.
“Can’t we all?” asked Margaret. She gave Nona a moment in which to say something barbed, but Nona held my hand and gave Margaret a pixyish smile.
I considered Margaret’s words, and then said, “Margaret refined iron to an airy thinness years ago. She has a special brand of pessimism.”
“Men like a hard woman,” said Margaret, and gave a toss of her head, a mannerism I recognized as meaning, in this case: Who cares what men like?
“Men have always been especially fond of you, Margaret,” I said. I could not help noticing how dissimilar the two women were.
“I think everything should be done to help kids. I’m interested in issues,” said Margaret, her eyelids half closed. “Sick kids, dead whales. It’s just—look at these people. Oil people. Politicians. A few of the politicians even have a future. My husband—you see him over there with the sunburn.” She spoke with a careful lifelessness. “But Stratton—let’s face it. These people are here so their wives can stock up on perfume and lingerie.”
“I used to find Margaret’s brand of boredom attractive,” I said, turning to Nona, but then giving Margaret a smile I knew she would recognize as: It was nice seeing you—now go away.
Margaret acknowledged the smile with a sigh. “Stratton—I was sorry about Rick. Poor Rick. And he was always so charming. I suspected he was disturbed, of course,” she added, leaning close to Nona but not lowering her voice.
Once again I was out of practice, not prepared for Margaret’s breathtaking lack of feeling.
“Stratton’s been good to me,” said Nona. “And he misses his brother very much.”
“Anyway,” Margaret said after a pause, “I look forward to your speech, Nona.”
“Strater’s doing the talking,” said Nona.
“Stratton’s going to convince all these people to give away their money? This will be interesting. Good luck,” said Margaret in the way that means: You don’t stand a chance. She withdrew a cigarette from her handbag, and she held it in a way that seemed to indicate that she expected someone to light it for her.
Someone did, a man in a DeVere tux, snapping a DeVere platinum lighter.
“She likes you,” said Nona, when we were briefly alone together.
“She doesn’t ‘like.’ She enjoys herself, though. And we’re even friends, in a distant, steel-lined sort of way.”
At the edge of the crowd Margaret joined her husband. She said something to him, something about Nona and myself, I sensed from the way she nearly glanced over at us. The red-faced man laughed aloud.
Valfort shook my hand, his grip strong. “I am a little surprised,” he said.
“You had no faith in me.”
“I was a fool to worry.”
“I’m afraid I don’t like my speech, though.” I had it in my pocket, blue index cards fastened with a paperclip.
“Ah,” said Valfort, that single sound indicating an entire chapter of feeling, anxiety, regret, hope. I could sense how badly Valfort needed me, just then, how badly he wanted the meeting to go well.
I was embarrassed. I should not have been so frank. I had worked hard on my remarks, but I thought that Margaret might be right. I did not have a chance.
“Stratton has what it takes,” said Nona. “Don’t worry about him.”
All about to end.
The Salle du Haut Conseil was crowded. There were worry beads and silk burnooses, there were dark-suited figures, there were security guards every few paces against the windows. Beyond was the distant view of Notre Dame, her flying buttresses keeping her in place under the dissolving clouds.
Valfort gave opening remarks in French, and then there was polite applause as he said my name. I slipped the blue notecards from my pocket.
Useless. How could I possibly succeed? And Nona needed me. Children needed me. I felt my faith in myself, which had been weakening, crumble completely.
I stood behind the rich mahogany of the lectern. I could see curiosity—a questioning study from this distinguished crowd that was not altogether friendly. They had heard about the death of my brother to the point that they were all probably weary of hearing his name. The reputation of my family was great enough that I would have received polite attention in any event. Now, however, the attention was mixed with respect and a kind of vague pity. I was one of those common figures in public life, the survivor of a series of famous tragedies.
I slipped the paperclip into my pocket. I surveyed the words on the cards. I stacked the notecards into a neat pile and looked up again at the blur of faces. This collection of earnest platitudes about the importance of children would sound lifeless. A row of translators leaned forward at a side table, ready to translate whatever I was about to say.
Nona’s eyes encouraged me from the front row. Valfort sat beside her, his hands folded, his eyes expectant.
I glanced down, ready to speak. And there, on the lectern, diagonally across the first card of notes, was a glowing blue feather.
Someone did this.
Someone playing a trick.
The room was hushed, one person fiddling with the receiver in his ear, a security guard crossing his arms at the back of the room.
There was a movement, a subtle quickening of the air. A figure entered the room from a side door. It was a woman in a flowing gown, a garment of vibrant white.
68
Not possible, I knew. Not real.
People were waiting for me to speak, and the silence was heavy, now, the self-consciousness of an audience that begins to know that things have gone awry.
She has come for you. You were right—it’s all over.
Talk. Go ahead. Pretend nothing’s wrong. It is, after all, what you were trained to do, something you can manage after years of habit. You should be good at it by now.
Go ahead. Begin.
The woman in white spread her arms as though to indicate: All of these people belong to me.
Why couldn’t she have waited just a few minutes? I was sweating. I held the lectern to keep from slumping.
She took her place among them, another presence in the crowd. And then I knew.
Each of the faces around me was glowing, a source of light. I gazed about myself at the assembled people. And I saw that all of these men and women had bargained their souls. None of them were whole. All of them were missing that vital part, and in exchange for this loss had arrived where they were.
Perhaps I was mad. Perhaps not.
Did it matter?
I slipped my notes into my jacket pocket. Nona’s eyes were wide. Valfort put his hands over his face.
I took a deep breath.
I prayed. Make them understand. Make them help the children.
I began to speak.
Our essence, I said, has already been given to the powers of life and death, the powers we cannot control, or understand. It does not matter what we are, what immortal part we manage to cadge from the confusion of life, because in the end—what are we?
The void is complete, but backlit by our temporary passions. What can be kept is not alive. Morning is coming, the days to come, when we are stone and water, but new people, our children, gather in rooms like this. What matters is how we turn to our children, and what we offer them.
Nothing else is human. Nothing else lifts the sky over our heads—the empty, meaningless sky—or makes the earth a home.
I spoke without being fully aware of the words I used. It was as though I were swimming back to a land I had thought long lost, barely conscious of what I was doing.
When I was finished there was a long silence.
I could not bear to look up. Nice try, Stratton, I told myself. You stood here for half an hour, an hour—who knows how long? And you have only the barest idea what you’v
e been saying. Face it: You’ve been speaking gibberish, ruining everything.
You have let Nona down.
One person began to clap. It sounded like strained politeness. Then another person joined in, and then there was a rush of applause.
The audience was on its feet, and the sound was deafening.
Nona was smiling through tears, and I was stunned. Valfort was nodding, saying something to Nona, and she was nodding back, keeping her eyes on me.
The applause continued. The source of light on the lectern dazzled me as I gazed at it. I closed my fingers around the plume. I could know nothing. I had joined with powers I would never understand. Did I really want to do this? Couldn’t I, even now, turn back?
Nona’s eyes were on mine, and she was smiling, saying something to me.
Its light flowed through the fingers of my closed hand. I slipped the quill into my jacket pocket.
I could feel it there, over the beating of my heart.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Tom Rogers,
Curator of Collections at Filoli,
for his generous help.
Special thanks, always, to Sherina.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Michael Cadnum
Cover design by Kat JK Lee; photograph courtesy of the author
ISBN: 978-1-5040-2363-4
Distributed in 2015 by Open Road Distribution
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
The Horses of the Night Page 33