by Mary Stewart
‘My father? Oh, yes, he must have known. But what would you? He was a man who cared all for his family, and nothing for the law. What would you have him do? Franzl was his nephew, his sister’s son, and one must look after one’s own. The penalty for stealing such a horse would be very heavy; a trained stallion is beyond price, and besides, it is State property . . .’ He lifted his wide shoulders. ‘Tell you the truth, I did not know until now that Franzl had been in the Spanische Reitschule . . . We had heard nothing for many years, you understand: I thought he had learned his dressage with the cavalry at Wiener Neustadt. He used to speak of his service there. I tell you, in a circus we have many people, of many kinds; they come, and they go. If they tell you of themselves, then you listen . . . But you do not ask. No, you do not ask. We are artists, we of the circus, and we have our own affairs which take all our time, our lives, our – what shall I say? – our whole strength. I think you have a saying, “Live and let live”. In the circus, we let live.’ He mopped his brow with a vast red handkerchief. ‘Do you understand me?’
We assured him that we did, which appeared to relieve him enormously. He became practical then, and brisk, with one eye on his watch, and the other on Timothy and myself, and I knew quite well that he was thinking of his circus’s schedule (not the performances, but the frontier passage in the morning) and trying to weigh up what our attitude was going to be.
‘There is only one thing to do,’ he said, ‘there is only one thing that is both right and convenient, and that is to return the horse where he belongs.’ He rolled a brown knowing eye at me. ‘I am a business man, gnädige Frau, but I am also honest, when occasion permits. When honesty and business go together, then I am grateful to the good God. To me, to the circus, the horse is useless. It therefore seems’ – he checked himself – ‘it seems to me right, in whatever case, to confess the whole to the Directors, and return the horse. Especially as there cannot well be any trouble for the circus now. Do you not agree?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Don’t stick your neck out,’ said the parrot.
Herr Wagner gave a surreptitious glance at his watch.
‘But you also see my difficulty? Tomorrow we cross the border, and we do not return to Austria until the winter, when we come back to our permanent home near Innsbruck. So, as you say, with the best will in the world, I do not know how this thing shall be done.’
I had a look at my watch, too; it was twenty minutes to five. Having found out all we needed to know about Herr Wagner’s reactions, I decided to cut this short. I said: ‘If you would trust Timothy and myself with the horse, and leave him in our care, we would be delighted to do all that was required.’
Herr Wagner’s look of astonished delight did him great credit. So did his protestations, which even managed to sound genuine. But we persuaded him, and he allowed himself to be persuaded. If we really meant it . . . if we could really find the time . . . there was no one with whom he would rather leave the animal . . . he was sure that the Herr Direktor of the National Stud would be so overwhelmed that he would render us every possible assistance . . .
And finally, amid a torrent of mutual goodwill, it was all arranged. Even the parrot contributed, though not with noticeable helpfulness. The only person who had said nothing was Annalisa.
‘There is only one thing,’ said Herr Wagner. ‘This is after all a valuable horse, and he was stolen, and his value has been much diminished. Though I myself and the circus cannot well be blamed, there will be questions, and there may be a certain unpleasantness . . . There may even be proceedings. If this should happen—’
‘Don’t worry about that now,’ I said. ‘Neither Timothy nor I will get into trouble, and I don’t see that you can, either. In any case, if they want to see you, you’ll be coming back before winter. Be sure we’ll make it very clear that neither of you knew a thing about it till we told you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Timothy.
Annalisa, her face bright with paint, but still with that strained look about the eyes, had been sitting down, listening in silence to the conversation. Now her eyes lifted, and she said, very quietly:
‘I did know about it.’
Her father swung round. ‘You knew? You knew about this?’
She nodded. ‘Two days ago I knew.’
‘Two days? Then you mean – it was not from Franzl—’
‘No, no, indeed not. It was only when Vanessa operated, on Sunday night. She wanted the instrument case for the operation, and afterwards, when I washed the instruments and put them away, I found . . . these.’
From the bench beside her she lifted the instrument case, opened it, and pulled out the bottom drawer, where one usually keeps papers – prescription forms, folders about new drugs, and so on. She lifted some of these out, and there underneath was a bundle of newspaper clippings. Naturally I couldn’t read them, but I could see the repetition of the name ‘Neapolitano Petra’ and the photographs, in different poses, of the great stallion; and Timothy told me afterwards that they all related to the stallion’s disappearance. These, now, Annalisa spread before us on the table, with the gesture of one who does in literal fact throw her cards on the table, and herself on the mercy of her audience.
‘And there is this,’ she said.
She dropped the last piece of paper on top of the rest. This was a photograph, yellow and frayed at the edges, of a white horse standing by a stable door, and beside him a man in the uniform of the Spanish Riding School.
As Herr Wagner reached for it, she laid her final trophy on the table, the brown tube labelled ‘Koloston’, which had fleetingly caught my eye while I was operating.
I picked it up. ‘What’s this? I saw it there, and I just thought it must be the German trade name for some sort of ointment. Don’t tell me . . . It’s hair dye?’
She nodded dumbly, then turned to her father. ‘Papa—’
He took no notice. He was shaking his head over the cuttings, looking at once shocked and deeply touched.
‘Franzl,’ he said. ‘So it is true . . . All this time. Poor Franzl.’
I said gently to Annalisa: ‘Why are you worrying so? You could have done nothing. In any case, we’ll say you didn’t know till we told you. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have done much before today.’
‘I know. But it is not this’ – with a gesture to the clippings – ‘that troubles me.’ She turned her eyes back to her father, and I saw they had filled with tears. ‘You see, when poor Uncle Franzl was dying, he must have tried to tell me. Now, when I read these papers, I know what he said. He was trying to tell me about the horse. He said its name . . . over and over he said its name, and he spoke of “the Lipizzaner”, but of course I thought he meant Maestoso Leda. I thought he was worrying in case Leda was hurt in the fire. We could only hear a few snatches of what he said; he spoke of Vienna, and “the Lipizzaner”, and even of his harness . . . and now I know he was telling us to take Neapolitano Petra back to Vienna, even his saddle and bridle, which came with him. “Neapolitano Petra’s Sattel”, he said, and we thought he spoke of a “Neapolitan saddle”, and this puzzled us, because there is no such thing here. But this is what he must have meant. It is the one I use for Maestoso Leda.’ A tear ran glassily over the blackened lashes. ‘We did not understand, and he was trying to confess, to make . . . to make . . .’ She faltered over the word.
‘Reparation,’ I said.
Her father patted her hand. ‘Do not trouble yourself, my Liesl, we shall make it now.’ He added some soft phrases in German which made her nod, and dry her eyes, then, with another glance at his watch, he became again his brisk self. ‘I shall have to go. If you would prefer to stay, and talk again later . . .?’
I shook my head. ‘There’s no need, if you’re satisfied. We’ll take the horse straight away, if we may, and deal with the next stage of the problem as it comes. The only thing that bothers me is what we’re going to do if they don’t want him back at the Stud now?’
> Timothy said promptly: ‘I’ll have him.’
‘And if you don’t get your job, what then? Ship him back to England? What would your mother say?’
He grinned, and made a little grimace which showed all too clearly how far in the last couple of days he had come from those apron strings.
Herr Wagner was on his feet. ‘They will take him. You need have no fear of that. Their stallions live for thirty years, and when they die they are remembered. His name will still be on his stall, and fresh straw waiting. And now I must go. It is time. But there is a little matter of recompense; there will be all the trouble to which you will be put, the trouble and expense that we cannot expect you to bear for yourselves. This is ours. There will be the matter of a horsebox on the train from here to Köflach, for Piber, and other things. You will let me know.’
I started to say something, but he waved it aside with sudden, unanswerable simplicity.
‘You must allow me to make this reparation at least. My cousin Franzl would rest more easily if he knew.’
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I’ll let you know the cost.’
He fished in some inner pocket and produced a card. ‘Here is my address, the most permanent address I have; our winter quarters near Innsbruck. And perhaps you will leave yours with us? Now, there is also the matter of your own professional services towards the horse—’
But this I would not allow, and he made no attempt to override me, but merely thanked me again, and then, with more protestations of goodwill and gratitude, relieved and beaming, he took his leave.
We went with Annalisa down to the stable tent. Elemer was busy with the white stallion, while the ugly pied horse she used for the rodeo was saddled and waiting, with Rudi at its head.
Annalisa plunged into rapid explanations in German, while the other horses, ready for the ring, were already streaming past with tossing manes and tails, and the music sounded loudly from the big top. Old Piebald flung his head up and whickered at the sight of me, and we went into the stall, where presently Annalisa followed us.
‘I have told them – not everything, but that you are to take the horse. Elemer will help you – Oh!’ Her hand went to her mouth.
‘What is it?’
‘The saddle! I was forgetting the saddle . . . You must take that, too.’ She swung back to the men. ‘Elemer, Rudi—’
‘Look,’ I said quickly, ‘if it’s on your horse, why not leave it? I’m sure it doesn’t matter. We can take another if you insist, but I doubt if they’ll bother about a thing like that.’
But she persisted, obviously intent on purging the Circus Wagner of theft as completely as possible. She directed another flood of German at Elemer, and Timothy crossed the stable to help him lift the jewelled saddle off the white stallion. ‘In any case,’ said Annalisa to me, ‘you may need a saddle, and I wish you to take his own. But you see how we have decorated it for the circus . . . all those jewels . . . If I had had time to take them off—’
I laughed. ‘I see what you mean. It’s not exactly what they’re used to at the Spanish Riding School! But don’t worry about it, I’ll take them off before we send it back. If you want the jewels back, you’ll have to tell me how to send them. Would the Innsbruck address be all right, the one your father gave me?’
She shook her head. ‘No, they’re nothing, they are glass, stage pieces only. Please keep them, and do as you wish with them. Some of them are quite pretty, and I should like you to have —’ But there Rudi interrupted with something in German, and she said quickly: ‘There is the music. I must go. Goodbye, goodbye and thank you. God be with you both.’
She leaned forward suddenly, light as a dandelion puff, and kissed Timothy on the mouth. Then, with a hand from Rudi, she was up in the saddle, and the pied horse, with a jingle of curb chains and a thudding of hairy hoofs, was gone through the curtains at the back of the big top.
Timothy, laden with the saddle, stood staring after her. Elemer said something to Rudi, who, smiling, went off down the stable. The dwarf came across.
‘I have sent him to get a bridle. How will you take the horse?’
‘We’re staying up at the castle,’ I said. ‘Tim’s going to lead him up there, and I’ve made arrangements for him to be stabled. I can take the saddle up myself in the car.’
‘I’m afraid you will have a lot of work to make it plain again.’
‘Think nothing of it, I’ll do it tonight. Look, are you sure she won’t want the trimmings back? Some of them are awfully pretty . . . Look at this one. You know, that would look lovely on a dress – stage jewellery, of course, but it’s really very pretty, with the gold filigree and tremblers, and anyway, it wouldn’t matter if it didn’t look real: who’d wear a sapphire that size, apart from Grand Duchesses?’ I fingered the jewel; it was a big brooch, loosely stitched to the pommel, and flashed in the light as I touched it.
‘Why don’t you wear it, then? It will suit you. It’s loose anyway.’ And before I could protest, the dwarf had produced a knife from somewhere, and had cut the ‘jewel’ from the pommel, and handed it to me with a little bow that was unspeakably grotesque, and yet not comic at all.
‘Wear it and remember us all, gnädige Frau. It is a pretty thing, but your eyes make it look dim. I wish it could be real. Here is your bridle. Let Rudi put the saddle in the car for you. Auf Wiedersehen, mein Herr,’ this to Timothy, and then, taking my hand and kissing it: ‘Küss die Hand, gnädige Frau.’
The ungainly little figure shambled out with its comic red costume flapping round the tiny legs.
As far as I could see, from an examination of Piebald’s leg, there was nothing to stop Timothy leading the horse the couple of miles uphill to the castle. As I told him cheerfully, the exercise would do them both nothing but good. ‘I’ll go straight up there myself now, and I’ll expect you when I see you. Are you going to stay to see the high school act again?’
‘I don’t think so. I – I feel this is a good moment to leave on, somehow,’ said Timothy, very creditably. For a first kiss it had been a pretty good one, and public, at that.
‘For both of us,’ I said. ‘Then auf Wiedersehen yourself, Tim, and take care of our horse.’
I had left the car, unlocked, just outside the field gate. By the time I reached it Rudi had already left the saddle on the back seat, and gone back to his job. I could hear the bursts of applause for the clowns’ entrée Soon the trumpets would sound, and the white stallion would be making for the ring – tonight with only half his jewels.
I got into the car, and was reaching for my handbag to get out my key, when I realised that I had left the bag in Annalisa’s wagon. Annoyed with myself for the delay – for I was anxious to find out if Lewis had arrived yet – I got out of the car and ran back to the wagon.
The bag was just where I had left it, on the seat under the bird cage. The parrot, which was sulkily eating a tomato, cocked its head to one side, and made some remark in German which sounded extremely rude.
I said: ‘Get stuffed, mate,’ picked up the bag, and ran down the wagon steps.
I collided with Sandor Balog. Whether he had just been passing, or whether he had been intending to go up into the wagon, I didn’t know, but we were both moving fast, and I almost fell. His hands shot out and steadied me. They were remarkably strong, and, startled as he was, he must have gripped me harder than he had meant to; I remember that I cried out, not only with the start he had given me, but with the pain of his grip.
He muttered something, and let me go.
In my turn I had started some sort of breathless apology when his voice broke curtly across mine. ‘Where have you been?’
I stared at him in some surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
He jerked his head towards the wagon door. ‘She’s not in there. She’s in the ring, or will be in a moment. What were you doing?’ His eye had even flicked down to the handbag which I held.
I said, coldly: ‘What do you think I was doing? Stealing something?’
‘Yes, I was. Him.’ It was my turn to jerk my head towards the wagon door.
He gave me a queer look from those narrow black eyes, then took a swift step past me, peering up into the lighted doorway. He was dressed ready for his act in the striking black costume that I had seen poised so spectacularly in the lights and shadows of the big top, and he had wrapped a long cloak round himself, in which he looked rather splendid and satanic – and as if he would be the first to think so.
He turned back, looking a little at a loss. I got the impression that he had started something he hadn’t meant to – that some other urgent preoccupation had jerked him into speaking as he had done, and that now he was out of his reckoning.
‘Do you mean that damned bird?’
‘Who else?’
‘Get stuffed, mate,’ said the parrot, and threw a piece of tomato accurately at the door-jamb. It ran soggily down the wood.
The Hungarian opened his mouth, thought better of what he was going to say, and shut it again. He moved out of the parrot’s range, trying to keep it casual. For my part, I was trying not to laugh. If the circus hadn’t been crossing the border next morning I would have sent the parrot a crate of tomatoes with my compliments.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sandor Balog at length. The apology sat even more badly on him than the aggressive inquiries had done. ‘I did not for a moment realise who it was. You . . . are differently dressed. We get many strangers who come round, and . . .’ He shrugged his wide shoulders, not finishing the sentence. ‘Is the boy here?’
‘Yes, he’s down in the stable.’ I left it at that. I could see no reason why I should offer any further explanation to Sandor Balog. I wondered why, if he had not at first recognised me, he had seen fit to address me in English; but this was another question which I did not particularly wish to explore.
Behind him the music of Der Rosenkavalier swayed and swung in the shadows. Fleetingly, I wondered if old Piebald was doing his pas seul down in the crowded stable. I rather thought not. It was something kept for solitude.
