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All the Lights

Page 7

by Clemens Meyer


  ‘When you have to win you always lose.’

  ‘But you, you won so often. You always used to tell me. Eight hundred, nine hundred, two thousand, six thousand. You always used to say the chance is there. You always used to say you understand horses better than …’

  ‘Than people? Did I say that?’ Schäfer looked at his full glass and the empty bottle; he was drinking more slowly now. ‘Most of it’s luck, Rolf, that’s the whole secret. And a little bit of instinct. I used to know people who’d never bet and then they won a triple, twelve hundred to one, and not even with a combination.’

  ‘You’re telling me you were just lucky all those years?’

  ‘No,’ Schäfer laughed. ‘Look around you.’

  ‘What if I try it, if I try on my own, at least tell me what to do. I have to try it at least.’

  ‘Buy yourself a paper. Sportwelt, that’s got everything you’ll need to know. Stats, form curve, does the horse know the jockey, and if you like a name, Sea Lilly or Yes I Will Win, then go for it. If you want to make big money, Rolf, then only go for triples. Pick three horses as a combination, then it doesn’t matter what order they come home in. That’ll cost you sixty if you play for ten. Always bet on the full odds. Make sure you have at least one long-shot on your list, otherwise you won’t get good odds. Not all long-shots are losers. But don’t take the ones with the highest odds, look at the outsiders whose form’s on the up. And don’t give up if you make a loss, keep telling yourself, I’ll make the big money in the next race. As long as it wasn’t the last race of the day.’ He laughed again and took a sip from his glass. ‘And only bet on the races with good odds. You want to go next Saturday, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rolf, ‘I have to.’

  ‘How much do you want to risk?’

  ‘Three hundred and thirty. That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘That’s the same as I get, Rolf. Every month.’ They looked at each other and nodded. Schäfer told him a couple of other things to watch out for when the horses were on show in the paddock, that horses that used to be good, ‘you can tell from the stats, Rolf,’ could suddenly turn around after a long dry stretch, ‘and then they have damn good odds,’ told him about the sensations he’d experienced, ‘the great outsiders were suddenly great winners,’ named a few jockeys and trainers for him to remember, said he should listen every now and then to the commentator’s tips because he had insider knowledge, ‘but if you have an instinct, if you’re sure of yourself, don’t let yourself be swayed.’ But Rolf knew he had no real chance if Horses Schäfer didn’t come along with him. And Schäfer downed his drink in one.

  ‘Beginners, Rolf, beginners are often the luckiest, and that’s all that counts.’ Then they said goodbye, and as Rolf walked down the stairs he knew there was no going back now, but he had nothing to lose, only the month’s money. They wouldn’t starve if he lost. He still had a couple of emergency notes tucked away between his videotapes. And if he won … It didn’t have to be the whole three thousand at once; he could make a down-payment with the vet for twelve hundred, fourteen hundred. And as he walked home through the dark streets he imagined the horses galloping past him to the finishing post.

  ‘The field’s just coming in to the far turn. In the lead still Planet Pony, close behind him Poppy Flower, just being challenged by Dream Believer … Lonely Affair gaining ground. Now Miss Moneypenny’s picking up on the inside … all the others in a close pack. Only Elvis’s Love Song at the tail end of the field.’ Voices and colours, people and horses. Look how many people bring their dogs to the racetrack.

  Rolf walked through the night. He didn’t know what time it was, he didn’t know exactly where he was or how long he’d have to walk to get home. He was drunk, and he reeled slightly, stopped now and then and held himself up against a wall. You can tell the winner from the start. What a load of rubbish, he thought. He staggered on. ‘This is the dream gallop phase,’ he called into the dark, deserted street. The street seemed unfamiliar, as if it were in a different town. Although everything was going crazy in his head, he knew he was in his own town, but while he reeled towards the edge of town, to the east, he was somewhere else – voices, colours, people, horses.

  ‘And they’re heading for the final turn. Planet Pony two lengths in the lead ahead of Belonia, Poppy Flower’s third, Ahab gaining ground on the outside. Planet Pony in front of Belonia and Poppy Flower.’

  The commentator’s voice gets louder and louder. There’s a ring. Piet barks. Schäfer is standing outside. He’s wearing a brown jacket, sunglasses and a checked cap pulled low on his forehead. In one pocket of his jacket is a rolled-up newspaper. ‘I thought you might be gone by now.’

  ‘This is my dog, Piet.’

  ‘Hello, Piet.’

  ‘And you want to risk everything for him?’ Schäfer asks, as they’re standing at the cocktail booth drinking mojitos, and Rolf has told him everything.

  ‘Yes,’ says Rolf, ‘I want him to live a long life.’

  ‘For a dog,’ says Schäfer, spreading out his paper. ‘That’ll bring you luck.’ He’s made all kinds of notes on the page with the second race, circled a couple of horses and written little numbers next to them. ‘There’s not much to win in the first race,’ he says, ‘but we’ll raise our capital a little. It’s a sure thing.’ And he seems quite sure as he fills out the red-printed betting slip. ‘We’ll go for an exacta, number three to win and number five in second place. A bit risky but it’ll come good, ninety percent. Gimme a hundred.’

  ‘A hundred?’

  ‘It’ll only win us sixty or seventy in profit, max, if we bet a hundred. And we’ll put that into the bets that are worth it.’

  ‘One hundred.’ Rolf gives him two notes. They walk past the paddock, surrounded by people leaning on the railing and watching the horses being led around by their reins by girls and young women. Schäfer stops. ‘There, those are our boys.’ They have numbers on their saddle cloths and Rolf sees their boys, two large brown horses with long legs, no riders yet. He’s never looked at horses so closely before.

  ‘Can’t go wrong. Look how calmly and powerfully they’re stepping. Number three’s a winner. See his beautiful neck and shoulders? And number five’ll come in second. I can feel it, Rolf, the others aren’t much good, and our boys have two damn fine jockeys on board. Sure thing, Rolf.’ They walk past all the people, a line of tables under canopies; they stand in the tight crowd there and fill out their betting slips. Rolf looks over to the grandstand on the other side of the track. He can make out the people, see the flash of binoculars. Schäfer is standing in line for one of the betting counters and waves the slip at him. And he’s right, it is a sure thing.

  ‘Number three, Winning Streak ahead of number five, Milliana and number seven, No Words, by a length and a head.’ They win seventy euros, just like Horses Schäfer said.

  And then it all goes so quickly, they drink another mojito, and the seventy euros are gone again, second race, a trifecta, Lady Diana screws it all up. ‘Now we’re back to zero,’ says Schäfer, ‘including the cocktails. Zero’s my lucky number, you know. And we’re on pretty good form. It’s the form that counts, Rolf, like with the horses.’

  ‘It’s the form that counts,’ Rolf called out into the deserted street, then sat down on a doorstep. He rifled through his pockets, found a cigarette and lit it. He hadn’t smoked for years, just like Schäfer, who’d had two packs with him and smoked one after another. Rolf was just about to fall asleep, but then he leapt up suddenly, the night no longer still.

  ‘Copper Rose coming up behind the leading trio, Copper Rose one head behind, challenging now, half a head, behind her Lonely Affair with Ahab picking up. And Shadow Queen coming into the picture now. At the rear still Elvis’s Love Song. They’re coming into the last turn.’

  ‘Be right back,’ says Schäfer. He puts his cocktail down and walks over to an old man standing right by the hedge on the edge of the track, who’s waved to him a couple of times now. R
olf finishes his mojito, then takes Schäfer’s. He drinks and closes his eyes. He hears and sees the starting gate leaping open again and the horses galloping off. ‘No human eye can make out the movement when they gallop.’ But it seems to him as if he can see the nine horses’ front legs thrusting into the air almost in sync. And then they ran, disappeared from his view, galloped around the track, the fifth race, a hundred and twenty euros down, sixty euros in the pot, a trifecta, a triple combination, and he hears the commentator’s voice again: ‘Dancing Mo two lengths in the lead,’ hears Schäfer’s voice next to him again: ‘Don’t worry, he’ll fall back, they’ll get him,’ and Horses Schäfer is right, he’s only third on the final straight, ‘Dancing Mo a short head in front of Tulipe, Tulipe neck-and-neck now, no changes at the front, Quadriga and Saxon Storm a length and a half ahead of Dancing Mo and Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe … looks like the photo will have to decide. Quadriga first before Saxon Storm, then Dancing Mo or Tulipe. This’ll be interesting, the decision’s just coming up, don’t throw away your betting slips, ladies and gentlemen.’ And he hears the voice of Horses Schäfer next to him again: ‘We’ll get it, we’ve got it, Tulipe in third place, we’re really gonna rake it in, your dog’s gonna live for years and years.’

  ‘Got a couple of damn good tips for the last race but one,’ Schäfer whispers next to him, ‘the old guy over there’s an ex-jockey, used to win me a lot of money. Trust me, Rolf, we’re gonna clean up now. And if the worst comes to the worst we’ve always got the last race, but we don’t even need it, the guy’s worth his weight in gold, and I’ve got two horses in the last race that no one’s reckoning with. We’re on damn good form, Rolf. Pretty close, you know, pretty close …’ He lights up another. Rolf takes one too, reaching for the pack so hastily that a couple of cigarettes fall on the ground, and puts the pack in his pocket. ‘Fill it out,’ he says, ‘fill it out,’ and he gives Schäfer the money. Schäfer leans over the betting slip, Rolf drinks his mojito, then he walks to the men’s room. He walks past all the people, hears them talking and laughing, sees them filling out their slips at the canopied tables that look like mangers, takes a quick look at the horses in the paddock and the grandstand on the other side of the track, walks past the long lines at the betting counters and feels like he’s going to piss his pants any minute now, before he reaches the toilets. A man is standing by the sink, looking in the mirror. ‘Copper Rose,’ he whispers over and over, ‘Copper Rose,’ and his body sways to and fro.

  ‘Oh no,’ whispered Rolf, crossing the road, walking along the middle of the street, but the street was deserted, ‘no Copper Rose for you, my friend.’ He reeled back onto the sidewalk, and now he knew where he was. Ahead of him he saw the main street with all the kebab shops and bars. It had to be after twelve, and he looked at all the lights, people were hungry and thirsty at night too. He walked towards the lights, saw the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. He walked faster, almost running, he coughed, he felt like he was going to vomit, and his cough reverberated around the street almost like a slight echo. Then he was standing in front of the store window, looking at the picture of the galloping horse. A couple of men came out of the door, waving little slips of paper; not money, he could tell.

  ‘Poppy Flower, Belonia and Lonely Affair coming up behind Planet Pony. Ahab and Shadow Queen closing in on the outside … Poppy Flower and Belonia … Poppy Flower on the inside, on the outside Belonia with Ahab and Shadow Queen … and Elvis’s Love Song racing full-out by the rail … Elvis’s Love Song making good ground now … there’s no stopping Elvis’s Love Song … Elvis’s Love Song, followed by Poppy Flower and Shadow Queen … Shadow Queen’s taking out Poppy Flower, Ahab pushing ahead of Poppy Flower, Shadow Queen leading Ahab and Poppy Flower now … Elvis’s Love Song still in the lead … Elvis’s Love Song takes the race, ahead of Shadow Queen and Ahab, Elvis’s Love Song wins the City Utilities Prize, who’d have thought it, Elvis’s Love Song followed by Shadow Queen and Ahab.’

  They scream and hug each other, Rolf landing on the ground for a moment, but he jumps up again and throws his arms around Horses Schäfer and laughs and shouts. But Horses Schäfer is suddenly all calm and says: ‘We’ve got it, Rolf, you’ve got it, let’s wait for the payoffs, but I reckon we’ll rake it in, Elvis and Shadow Queen and Captain Ahab made it, I told you they would. And Elvis was well back, but I told you, you can’t tell the winner at the start.’

  Rolf turned around, the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a good way behind him now. He dug into his pockets, so confused he didn’t know where he’d put the money. For a good while as he staggered through the streets – he must have had a drink somewhere after the race – he’d thought he’d dreamt it all, ‘this is the dream gallop phase,’ had lost everything when he risked everything. But now he felt the big bundle of notes in the lining of his jacket. Four and a half thousand; Piet would live for years and years.

  ‘How much d’you want, Schäfer?’

  ‘It’s yours, Rolf, for your dog. Gimme two hundred for the last race.’

  And Rolf pictured Horses Schäfer winning a couple of thousand in the last race. And then he thought of Piet and walked on towards the edge of town, to the east where he lived, and he didn’t see the three men walking behind him.

  I’M STILL HERE!

  There were three numbers that meant a whole lot in his life. Not everything – there were other things apart from boxing: his wife, their child – even though it wasn’t born yet, not even in his wife’s belly – a few good friends. But boxing was how he earned part of his living. The rest he earned between fights, sometimes as a removal man, sometimes on building sites, sometimes as a bouncer. Some of the clubs in Rotterdam wouldn’t let black men work on the door, but he had a good reputation as a boxer.

  His wife worked too, twelve hours every day in a pet food factory down by the harbour, but when they had their child, like they’d been dreaming of for years now – they were waiting until they had a bit more money – she’d have to stop working there. He wanted to do less boxing then, less travelling; he didn’t want his child to see his freshly mashed-up face after the fights. A couple of people had offered him a chance to come in on a small boxing club, if he put a bit of money into it. He had a pretty good reputation as a boxer, despite the three numbers.

  18 – 32 – 3. Eighteen victories, thirty-two defeats, three draws. He was what they called a ‘journeyman’ – they brought him in so that he’d lose. It wasn’t as if he lost on purpose; he did his best, at least most of the time, but they put him up against boxers who were simply better than him, faster, more talented and perhaps on the brink of a promising career in the ring. But right now they had to get more experience and perhaps later on they’d fight for a title just like he’d dreamed of too, years back. He’d boxed in a good few countries: Germany, England, Italy, France, Austria, Spain, Belgium. He’d won his last fight at home in Rotterdam, almost two years ago now. His eighteenth victory. He’d knocked out a red-headed Irishman with skin as white as snow. He still knew the man’s three numbers off by heart: 2 – 5 – 0. Not an up-and-coming talent and pretty slow, and he’d got him in the fourth of six rounds. He was glad he’d been able to fight that Irishman; he’d wanted to win again at last, with his wife sat in the small hall, only half-full, at home in Rotterdam.

  Ever since then only the middle number had got bigger and bigger.

  26, 27, 28 … Germany, Italy, France … 29, 30, 31 … Copenhagen, Brussels, Madrid. He’d lost his last fight in Amsterdam, but just like in the fights before that he’d known he was going to lose. His opponent had once been the Dutch champion, one fight away from the European championship, but then he’d been badly knocked out and needed a few easy victories to get his confidence back. ‘If you let him have a bit of a go at you,’ the ex-champion’s people had said to him before the fight, ‘if you show him his punches really hurt … there’ll be a bit extra in it for you. Show him he’s rea
lly good, if you get what I mean …’ And he’d got it.

  Now he was in Germany and everything had been arranged, as usual.

  He pressed the beer glass to his swollen cheekbone, catching sight of his face in the mirror behind the bar. Although it was pretty dark and a whole load of bottles blocked his view, he could see the welts and bruises. Sometimes white boxers envied him his dark skin; their faces were black and blue and green when they’d taken a beating. His top lip arched slightly towards his nose, where his opponent’s lead fist had hit him over and over again. He drained his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘Noch eins?’ asked the woman behind the bar, and he saw her looking at his beaten-up face, and he gave a quiet laugh. A black Dutchman from Rotterdam with a mashed-up face in some bar in a town in the east of Germany. ‘Ja,’ he said, ‘noch eins.’

  He spoke a bit of German from his couple of fights in Germany. He’d had a contact man in Berlin, he used to get him a fight now and then, but he hardly got in touch now. The former Eastern Bloc had taken over the market. Tomato cans from the Czech Republic, Poland and Russia were cheaper than him and pushed the prices down; they were usually brought in two for the price of one. He was on his own. A discontinued model, he thought, an old timer but still in pretty good condition. He laughed, reached into his pocket and felt the notes he’d rolled up, and then he looked in the mirror behind the bar again. A couple more fights, one or two thousand, a couple more welts and bruises, and then he’d take all his savings and put them into the boxing club. He’d be in charge of training, a bit of sparring now and then, getting the lads ready for the fights. He looked in the mirror; his wife, his child, the boxing club; he saw himself standing in the ring, the big focus mitts on his hands, a lad ducking and diving in front of him, and whenever he called out ‘left’ or ‘right’ or ‘left – right – left,’ the boy punched the mitts with a whistle of expelled air.

 

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