by Feliz Faber
It was Pithiviers’s turn to snort. “As if this hadn’t always worked,” he said, earning him a smile from Meerow. He smiled back and turned to Will to explain.
“Having Louis as our stable jockey is a big plus for La Thillaye. Our apprentice looks promising, but she’s too inexperienced for the important races. But if we want good horses to train, we need to win good races. And so it’s Louis for us, at least until we’ll be out of the red.”
“Admit it already. I’m still the best,” Meerow said. Pithiviers snorted again, but Will could see the affection shining from his eyes.
This wasn’t only work for them. It was their life, and they loved it. Will looked thoughtfully between them, watching their silent exchange. Right then it hit him full force, the memory of his foolish telephone call and what a threat it must have meant to these two men with whom he found himself more intrigued by the minute. He had to drop his eyes, his face heating.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Yeats?”
The concern in Pithiviers’s voice made Will lift his head and meet two sets of puzzled eyes. “Nothing. It’s just…. I just realized…. I— I’m sorry.” They exchanged another glance and then looked back at Will, both of them serious and calm. Will held their gazes although he could still feel the flush in his cheeks. Damned fair complexion.
It was Meerow who reached across the table eventually for a short squeeze to Will’s hand. “It’s in the past. You’re welcome.” He sat back, lifting the wine bottle. “More wine, Mr. Yeats?”
“Thanks,” Will said quickly, holding out his glass, and their talk returned to more mundane themes as they finished their meal.
“I can give you a tour of the property tomorrow, if you want,” Pithiviers offered at some point. Will nodded delightedly, and Meerow grinned at him.
“We could put him on a horse for it, Nic. Would you like that, Mr. Yeats?”
“Oh no! I can’t ride at all!”
Meerow’s grin widened. “You don’t say. Riding isn’t that hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re a jockey,” Will shot back, only a moment later realizing he’d been had. He took another sip from his glass to hide his discomfort.
Pithiviers’s eyebrows did a little dance as he cast Meerow a pointed look. Meerow winked at him in response, and Pithiviers shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said, and to Will’s relief, the matter was laid to rest.
Six
AFTER dinner, they took their wine glasses next door into a well-spaced den. Two huge gray leather sofas placed in a right angle opened toward a home entertainment center at the far wall, with a fireplace to the left and a row of french windows to the right. The room held little else except for some potted plants and two big white spheres in a corner, which turned out to be floor lamps.
After securing the men’s assent, Will brought out his notes and a small digital voice recorder. He braced himself for what looked to become an awkward conversation, with Meerow and Pithiviers on one of the couches and Will catty-corner from them on the other. However, it was Meerow who went into the game first, placing his glass right next to the latest issue of the Flag, which lay on the coffee table between them.
“First of all, Mr. Yeats, I’ve got to tell you that inviting you was mainly Nic’s idea. I must admit I’m not entirely comfortable with having you here.” He shot Pithiviers a sharp glance, getting a slight frown in return. Oh interesting, Will thought. It’s not all sunshine and roses with those two, after all.
Meerow turned back to Will. “I’m aware we agreed to answer your questions. But before we begin, I’d like to learn a bit more about your motivation.”
My motivation? A cover story and a free trip to France. Will was pretty sure such flippancy wouldn’t go over too well, so he rephrased, pointing at the magazine. “I assume you’ve seen my name in the sports section? That’s what I write about, mostly. When my editor in chief wanted a story about a gay jockey, he came to me, and my research led me to you. Certainly Mr. LeBon told you that already.”
“Well, he did, yes.” Meerow smiled a crooked half smile. “Francis was mostly like, ‘It’s all about how it is for a jockey to be gay. You can trust me, it’s harmless. That reporter, he’s a decent guy. You’ll get along once you get to know him. Just spill your guts and leave the rest to me.’ Now that I see you in person, I realize he could’ve been a bit… biased about you. You’re just his type.”
For a moment, Will sat in stunned silence. Then he blurted, “God, are you his twin or what?” Meerow’s lips twitched, Pithiviers threw his head back and laughed, and just like that, the ice was broken.
“See? You had a bad influence on that boy, as I always said.” Still chuckling, Pithiviers elbowed Meerow.
The jockey nudged back. “Eh, tais-toi! What does this say about your influence on me, then?” They shared a look, silent understanding passing between them. Pithiviers leaned back into his corner with a mysterious little smile, and Meerow turned to Will.
“Okay, Mr. Yeats, back to the spilling of guts thing. We’d really like you to give us an idea of your project first.”
We don’t trust you, whatever Francis said, Will translated for himself, but he couldn’t really hold that against them. After all, he didn’t actually have much of a leg to stand on with them. “That’s only fair,” he said with a shrug. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“You could tell me how you got to us—to me—in the first place,” Meerow said. “I know already you found me through a report about the 1988 Derby, but I was only in the States for less than a year. And from what Francis told me, I think we are in understanding that this particular race won’t be the subject matter of your article. So what, exactly, do you need from us, Mr. Yeats?”
“Well….” This was familiar terrain for Will. He’d interviewed a number of sports professionals already. Even those who were already out generally needed a bit of convincing that their own experiences could help others in similar situations. He brought forward the same arguments so often that he didn’t even have to think about how to put his heartfelt conviction into words.
To his astonishment, he didn’t meet with the usual thoughtful nods of approval this time. Pithiviers had his arms crossed in front of his chest, an air of skeptical amusement around him as he listened, but Meerow grew visibly uneasy the longer Will spoke, fidgeting on his seat, an ever-deepening frown on his face.
“People shouldn’t need to be afraid to be true to who they are. The more positive role models there are, the easier it will be for us to become a presence that can’t be overlooked, a voice that can’t be ignored. We need to be visible everywhere,” Will said, trying to convey all the genuine passion he felt for the topic with his words. “In the world of professional sports, homosexuals were pretty much nonexistent until recently, and in the horse-racing business, we still are. This is—”
“Bullshit.” Meerow’s sharp voice cut through Will’s speech. “Starry-eyed, idealistic crap. Can’t you come up with something better?” His beautiful face twisted into a sneer as he leaned in. “You know why ‘we’ are invisible around horseracing? ’Cause it doesn’t matter any, that’s why. People care if they get their money’s worth out of my ride, be it in bets or prize money. It’s the horses that matter. Out there on the track no one gives a fuck who I sleep with as long as I don’t do it right there. Nobody gives a fuck about a jockey’s private life either, as long as it doesn’t get in the way of his riding, so spare me the sermon, will you? What do you want from me, Mr. Yeats?”
It took all Will had for him not to flinch in the face of Meerow’s sarcasm, particularly as it came seemingly out of the blue. Good thing Francis had asked him more or less the same question, if not with quite as much fervor.
“I want your story, Mr. Meerow,” Will said, keeping his voice carefully steady. “Yours and Mr. Pithiviers’s.” He tapped the Flag issue on the table. “As far as I’m concerned, you two have a story to tell that I’m dying to hear, and so are my readers. That’s
why I’m here.” He waited, holding his breath, watching as Meerow’s features softened, as the little almost-smile made a reappearance. When he darted a glance at Pithiviers, the older man gave the slightest nod. Well roar’d, Lion. Will bit back a sigh of relief.
“What made you think so?” Meerow asked, now genuinely interested.
“This, actually.” Will pushed the photographs Sampson had faxed him across the table. “Now, I’m well aware that you don’t wish to discuss the race proper, but what about this picture?” He tapped the one with the dead horse with his finger. “It tells a story of its own. I thought we could take it as a plug, and we could go back from there, explore how the attitude depicted in the related article affected you personally, and your relationship, and then proceed to how you met, your backstories….” He trailed off since neither of his hosts seemed to be listening anymore.
Pithiviers took one look at the picture with the dead horse and turned ashen. When Meerow reached for the copy, Pithiviers slid it toward him with obvious reluctance.
The effect that picture had on Meerow was remarkable. He stared, sucked in a breath, and then his face turned to stone as he crumpled the fax copy in his hands. Will reached out to rescue it, but let his hand hanging in midair when Meerow glared at him.
“Where did you get that?”
Will dropped his hand. “A retired reporter sent it to me. Back in the day, he’d written something about your Derby ride.”
“This article. Read it out,” Meerow hissed.
Hesitating, Will searched Pithiviers’s face. The older man pressed his lips together and nodded, and Will started reading.
By the time he had ended, Meerow was up and pacing. “That’s all bullshit, cooked up by a dirty old bigot!” He pivoted, glaring at Will. “I’ll say this only once, and nothing more about it, you get me? I’ve never bought over any rides with my ass, not ever, not from Nic, not from anyone!” Will pressed deeper into the couch as Meerow closed in on him, eyes shooting daggers, fists clenched. “Don’t you dare to write something like that, or I’ll have Francis sue the pants off your ass, and I don’t give a shit whether you two are fucking—”
“Enough, Louis,” Pithiviers said. His voice was low and calm, but Meerow sobered immediately. He took a step back and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
“Louis, viens ici.” Pithiviers held out his arm. Meerow went, dropping down heavily on the couch. Pithiviers pulled him in closely and murmured something in his ear.
Will watched, taken aback, trying to figure out what had just happened. “That’s not what I intended to write, it never was, Mr. Meerow,” he said, his voice still a bit shaky. “Believe me. I never believed a word of what this article said.”
Pithiviers looked up, his dark eyes reassuring. A moment later, Meerow eased out of Pithiviers’s arm, his face back to even and calm.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely straight with you earlier. The horse-racing industry isn’t, in fact, exactly gay-friendly, and a jockey’s private life does matter, at least sometimes, to some people. More than I think it should, actually. It’s a touchy subject with me, and I guess this article just stirred up some bad memories. Please accept my apologies.”
“No need for that. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Will said. “Would you rather I left for tonight? We could start over tomorrow.”
Meerow sighed. “No, stay please. If you want, that is.”
Will hesitated, looking between his hosts, and Pithiviers huffed an annoyed breath. “Will you two stop fussing already? Since we agreed to do this, I’m sure we all can be adults about it.” He leaned in, extending his hand. “I think we went off on a bad note—let’s try again, okay? For a start, I’m Nic, this is Louis. It’s William, isn’t it?”
Will could only nod as he took the offered hand. “Will’s fine by me,” he said.
Nic nodded back. “Will, then.” He stood and waved at the empty wine glasses. “I’ll be back in a minute. Be good, both of you.”
He left a somewhat loaded silence in his wake. Will cleared his throat. “Um… Mr. Meerow? Is it really okay if we continue?”
The jockey sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Call me Louis already. And yes, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Although I’d really rather not talk about that damn race.”
“Okay. Um, I was wondering….” Will hesitated, trying to think of a more innocuous topic. “Can we start with how long you’ve been together, then? How did you two meet?”
“Not the way that asshole said, anyway,” Louis muttered.
Nic returned just in time to overhear. “Actually, we’d known each other long before, but lost touch for a while. It was pure coincidence we were both in the States at that time.” He sat back down and refilled their glasses. “We first met here, at La Thillaye, back in 1982.”
“Some coincidence, indeed,” Will commented. “So you’re both originally from around here?”
“Nic is,” Louis said. “I only came to live here when I was sixteen. Originally, I’m from Berlin.”
“Berlin?” Will echoed, surprised. “I thought you were French?”
“Naturalized, not born,” Louis clarified. “I lost my parents at six and grew up with my grandmother, who was Georges Desmin’s sister. He was my last living relative, and so he took me in after she died.” He took a drink from his glass. “I’m supposed to consider myself lucky, given that he never forgave my grandmother for marrying a German.” The wry grin made a reappearance. “Although I guess I could’ve had two heads and he’d still have taken me. That’s how badly he wanted a male heir.”
“What a story.” Will was intrigued. “He wanted you as his heir, you say? What about the daughter you mentioned—Michelle, isn’t it?”
“Well, she had no children,” Louis said. The sharp, blue eyes met Will’s for a moment, darted to Nic, then back to Will again. “Michelle was almost forty by the time I came here, so there was little chance she’d ever have any. But my great-uncle was big on traditions. He knew Michelle would only sell La Thillaye after his death, and he wanted to keep it a family property.”
Something about Louis’s words gave Will pause; he couldn’t help feeling as if he’d just missed vital information. But Nic didn’t give him time to dwell on his hunch.
“My story isn’t as spectacular as Louis’s, not by far,” he said, leaning in for another refill, then setting the empty wine bottle on the table. “My folks used to be fishermen, but I wanted to work with horses ever since I was little. Deauville just happened to be the next best place where I could find a job that involved riding. Not as a jockey, obviously.” He grinned at Will’s questioning look and made a gesture at himself. “I don’t know a single racehorse that could win with a fifty-pound penalty. I’d been a groom here for years when Louis came along. We didn’t know each other long, since I went to Kentucky later that year.” He leaned back, casually sipping his wine.
“Long enough for you to get me into the saddle,” Louis said. He gave his partner an affectionate smile and immediately turned back to Will, oblivious to the warning glance that Nic shot him and Will caught simply because he was so tuned in to their constant silent conversation by then that he was waiting for it.
Nic’s dark eyes held Will’s as he took over. “Louis didn’t know the first thing about horses. I taught him the basics. We lost touch once I left La Thillaye.”
“When we met again at Keeneland Racetrack, I didn’t even recognize him at first,” Louis said, his grin now a bit crooked. Something in Nic’s voice seemed to have given him pause. “But we got reacquainted pretty fast. After all, Nic trained my Derby ride.”
Will looked between the two men who suddenly appeared quite tense, although they were both smiling at him. He was definitely missing something here.
Then something hit him, and he said tentatively, “Am I to take it that you were….”
Nic sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Of course, Will. We were lovers back then. Why do you think I
had to leave?”
Will frowned as he did the math. “In 1982 Louis was… what, sixteen? That’s not illegal in France, is it?”
Nic gave a small sigh. “It isn’t illegal. Wasn’t back then either. It didn’t matter. Once Desmin found out, he fired me. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to Louis.”
“One day, Nic was just gone. He only left me a few dry words on a scrap of paper, promising he’d get in touch. He never did,” Louis took over. “I was pretty mad at him. Even six years later I wouldn’t have given him the time of the day if not for my Derby ride.”
“I did write,” Nic explained to Will. “But my letters always came back, delivery refused. After the third or so, I gave up. At that time, I didn’t realize it must’ve been Desmin’s doing.”
“Stupid,” Louis said, nudging Nic’s ribs. Nic nudged back, shaking his head, but he smiled.
Despite a lingering feeling of uneasiness, Will raised his glass to them, relieved at the restored good humor. “And you had to meet again at the Kentucky Derby, of all places. How come you both were there at all?”
“Basically, that was Jéro’s fault,” Louis said. “Wasn’t it, Nic?”
“I guess so.” Turning to Will, Nic explained. “Jéro is short for Jeremy Collins. Have you heard about him? He used to be a successful jockey, both in the States and here in France.”
Will nodded thoughtfully. “I think I’ve come across that name. Didn’t he win the Derby twice in a row? Back in the early seventies, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That was him,” Nic said. “He was married to Louis’s grand-cousin Michelle. That’s how we knew him.”
“Regarding my riding, Jéro was something like my hero, I guess,” Louis cut in. “He became my mentor and teacher after Nic left, and without him, I couldn’t have made it to the top as fast as I did. His word held weight with the trainers and owners, even more than my great-uncle’s. Jéro was a champion, you see? A horse-racing rock star. It was mostly the Kentucky Derby that had made him this. He’d won other races, but to him, the Run for the Roses always remained the race and the only one in the world worth winning. And I had this idea of wanting to… how do you say? Follow in his footsteps? When a trainer from Louisiana offered me rides on his horses in Evangeline Downs, I thought this a good way to gain a foothold in the States. Thought I’d make myself known over there, eventually make it into the Derby. That’s what I was working on when I ran into Nic.”
