Object Lessons: The Paris Review Presents the Art of the Short Story

by Lorin Stein

  “Are you sleeping?” said Pierre.

  “No,” said Xannie.

  “Have you seen any thieves?” said Pierre.

  “No,” said Xannie.

  Then Pierre said, “Come outside.” Xannie went with him, and Pierre gave him an American cigarette, a Camel, and they both smoked, feeling the wet, Malaysian sky, and seeing the clouds floating along, made visible by the sickly light of the city.

  Pierre told Xannie about the places he’d been. He said Parisian women and Dutch women, too, would do anything for money, that New York was filled with madmen, that there was a desert in Yugoslavia. America had more food than anyone thought imaginable. There were Malaysians and Burmese who had made money gambling and in restaurants in America, and some had become doctors and university professors. There was a Malaysian pediatrician in Chicago.… Xannie smoked a cigarette and thought about piles of food: he saw a cone, high as a volcano, that was made of rice. He smoked the cigarette down to the butt, burning his fingers.

  Pierre had a horse he’d bought in the Philippines. It was a good horse with fine breeding and had originally come from Lexington, Kentucky. Pierre was concerned about the horse, afraid that it would be stolen, and he spent nights looking into its stall, saying that there were dishonest people around, and that you had to be on guard against them. Pierre had once gotten drunk in town and fallen asleep in an alley, and when he had woken up, he saw that someone had stolen his shoes. They had been white shoes. When Pierre stood and stared into the stall, Xannie was with him, wanting to hear about the Parisian and Dutch women and the food in America, but he only stared into the dark stall, hearing the restless movement of the horse. When Pierre felt reassured he said, “Let’s go for a cigarette.”

  The horse was worked regularly. One night after the horse had been pushed a little harder than usual by the trainer, Pierre came into the room where Xannie slept and woke him by shaking his leg, and then told Xannie to go into town in a taxi and to bring a veterinarian. It was after one o’clock in the morning and Xannie was to tell the vet that he had a sick dog. Pierre gave Xannie a pack of Camels, and Xannie rode in the taxi, with the windows rolled up in a thunderstorm, smoking a cigarette. He brought the veterinarian back, a Frenchman who looked carefully into the taxi and who waited for it to air out before he got into it. When they got back to the track, Xannie left alone in front of the barn to watch while the veterinarian went back to take a look.

  In the morning the horse was gone, but the next night, about one, it was brought back. The veterinarian had taken the animal to his clinic, where he had an X-ray machine and a table for the horse, and soon the doctor was back again to talk to Pierre and to show him the strange black and white photographs of a bone in one of the horse’s feet. There was a long, definite crack in it, and the veterinarian told Pierre that one, good hard run, and the bone would break. The veterinarian said the foot would “explode.” It was best to sell the animal right away, he said, and then he left.

  For a few days Xannie heard nothing, but in the middle of the night Pierre came into his room and asked if he was sleeping and if Xannie had seen any thieves. Xannie noticed that Pierre didn’t say “thieves” with the same horror as ususal: there was a softness in his tone that verged on the affectionate. Xannie said he hadn’t seen any thieves, and then he and Pierre went outside to smoke. Pierre had been drinking, and he weaved from side to side as he said, “You know that goddamned vet blabbed? Everyone knows about the horse. How the hell can I sell him now?”

  Pierre hadn’t offered a cigarette and Xannie looked at the lights of the city. When Pierre spoke, he gestured with the hand that held the cigarette, and the orange tip of it streaked through the night, making lines that looked like neon tubing, and Xannie watched the bright, curved shapes and listened to Pierre’s deep breathing.

  “Is the horse insured?” said Xannie.

  “Yes,” said Pierre.

  They both looked at the lights of the city and the grey and yellow clouds above it.

  “Is it insured for theft?” said Xannie.

  “Yes,” said Pierre.

  “It would take a stupid thief to steal a lame horse,” said Xannie.

  “Not everyone knows,” said Pierre, “and is it my business to worry about the brains of thieves? They’ve been known to make a mistake or two. Look.”

  He pointed to the horizon, at a light there, which was in the direction of the jail at Ipoh. Behind them there was the large, wooden barn, the sense of the animals in it, uneasy in the stalls filled with sawdust.

  “It can be arranged,” said Xannie.

  “I want to know nothing about it,” said Pierre.

  They stood side by side. After a while Xannie said, “Six hundred dollars. Tens and twenties.”

  “Three hundred,” said Pierre. “I am not a rich man.”

  “All right,” said Xannie. “Three hundred and fifty and a set of papers for a horse with different breeding. Bad breeding, a different color, but the same age and sex.”

  Pierre sighed and said, “All right. Would you like a cigarette? A Camel?”

  Xannie took one and lighted it, pulling the smoke into his mouth and standing there, watching the lights of the city, the large, lumpy clouds, and thinking, while he heard the horses moving in the stalls behind him, of the Parisian and Dutch women and of the piles of rice in America as big as mountains.

  The next day the horse and Xannie were gone.

  *

  In 1950, Harlow was in the navy, and he spent some time in Malaysia, at Ipoh. Ipoh is a crowded city, and during the monsoon it rained so hard it made you feel as though you were standing in a shower with your clothes on. The sky turned purple during the monsoon, dark as an ugly bruise. Anyway, one day Harlow was walking down a street that was lined with closed-up shops and warehouses. The shops were shut up with metal doors that rolled down from above the windows, and the warehouses had large padlocks, some of which were as large as a book. At the back and front of each building’s roof there were rolls of barbed wire. The warehouses were used on a short-term basis, and could be rented for as little as twenty-four hours at a time. Harlow walked down the street and stopped in front of one that held bicycles. The city was filled with pedestrians, cars, motorcycles, and bicycles, but Harlow had never seen a horse in it. There wasn’t enough room in the city for horses. He stopped in front of the bicycle warehouse because he had almost stepped in a pile of horse manure.

  The door of the warehouse wasn’t locked, and when Harlow pushed it open he saw by the dusky light in the street that bicycles were stacked on the floor and hung from the walls and rafters. When the light from the street hit the wheels of the bicycles they looked delicate, almost fragile, like the spokes of an umbrella without the cloth. After a while, Harlow heard someone say, “Close the door.”

  Harlow pushed the door shut, and the hinges made a slow, insect-like screech. He didn’t close the door completely. When he turned around, an electric light came on, and the bicycles were clearly visible, hanging in the air overhead. At the back of the room, which was narrow and not very long, there was an Asian man, dressed in a pair of dark pants and a white shirt, who was holding the halter of a horse. The horse, even in the dim, yellowish light, was clearly a thoroughbred.

  Harlow came a little closer, stepping over the bicycles and looking around the warehouse, but he saw no one else. There was only the uncomfortable, confined horse, the Asian man, the grey walls of the place, the shiny spokes of the bicycles and the piles of black rubber tires and inner tubes, many of which had been patched so many times as to look exotic, like the coils of some enormous pink and black snake. Harlow and the Asian man didn’t stand close together, but they each took a long, frank look into the other’s face, and while they stood there, it became clear that what had begun as an intrusion or perhaps even a burglary had ended, for a while anyway, as a limited partnership.

  Harlow introduced himself. The man said his name was Xan Thu. Harlow ran his hand over the horse�
�s cheek, along the muscled, arched neck, and down its chest.

  “Where did you get the horse?” said Harlow.

  Xannie blinked at him.

  “Is it stolen?” said Harlow.

  “No,” said Xannie, “it’s not hot. But, in all honesty, I’d have to say that it’s a little warm.”

  “Hmmm,” said Harlow, “how warm?”

  Xannie blinked again.

  “Let’s put it this way,” said Harlow, “do you think anyone at the track here would recognize it?”

  “Anything is possible,” said Xannie.

  Harlow looked over the horse a little more. When he faced Xannie again he found on a crate next to Xannie’s elbow a piece of newsprint. It hadn’t been there before, and when Harlow picked it up he saw it was a past performance sheet, two months old, that had come from a track in Manila. It had been neatly folded, but it was still water marked and yellowed. In the center, circled with a lead pencil, there was a chart for a three year old horse that in fifteen starts had showed in three, placed in three, and won nine. Harlow recognized the breeding.

  “What do you say,” said Harlow, “why don’t we run him at the track here?”

  “There’s the problem of being recognized,” said Xannie.

  “We can fix that,” said Harlow. “Let’s change the color.”

  “Yes,” said Xannie, looking at the horse. “Let’s change the color.”

  “What’s the penalty for stealing a horse here?” said Harlow.

  Xannie said it depended on the owner. Some had been known to take the law into their own hands. Both Harlow and Xannie had seen the tattooed gangsters in the city, some of whom had a stump instead of a finger, the digit given to a hoodlum as a gesture of loyalty. Harlow looked over the horse again, read the performance chart, took another frank look at Xannie’s face.

  “I wouldn’t want to have any trouble,” said Harlow.

  “No,” said Xannie, “isn’t that why dyeing the horse is a good idea?”

  Harlow sighed and said he guessed it was. Then he went out of the warehouse and down the street to the avenue, where he took a taxi to a grocery. The taxi waited while Harlow bought ten packages of black Rit dye, two natural sponges, and a stack of towels. Then he got back into the taxi. When they were close to the warehouse, Harlow told the driver to let him off on the corner, and, as he walked along the street, he looked over his shoulder.

  Xannie and Harlow found a galvanized tub and they filled it with water. They mixed in the dye, a little at a time, and while they stirred it around, they looked into one another’s face, each thinking about the odds on the day they’d race the horse. Then they went to work, neither one of them saying a word about the color, since both of them had already decided on grey.

  Harlow dipped a sponge into the tub and tried it against the horse’s withers, and Xannie used one of the towels to rub the place dry. They stood back and admired the sickly, grey-black color. Then Xannie took the other sponge and they went to work, rubbing the dye into the horse’s coat, drying it, and standing back to judge the change. When they were done the horse was covered with the doubt-inspiring color, which was suggestive of bad breeding and lousy nerves. More than anything else, it was the color of a weathered headstone in a New England cemetery.

  Both Xannie and Harlow looked as though they were wearing skin tight gloves that went up to the middle of the forearm. They held their hands out, away from their clothes and felt the dye as it dried on their skin and left it feeling dusty.

  “That,” Xannie said, pointing one of his stained hands at the horse, “is my ticket out of here. Thank God. I’ve heard there are piles of rice in America and that there is a Malaysian pediatrician in Chicago. Is this true?”

  “I guess so,” said Harlow. “I don’t know much about doctors, though. It could be true. Is there some place to wash?”

  Xannie pointed to the back of the warehouse, and when Harlow walked up to the cold water tap there and turned it on, Xannie said, “And what about Dutch and Parisian women? What will they do for money?” but Harlow had already turned the tap on, and didn’t hear. He washed his hands and arms, seeing the white, cold lather turn grey and then swirl down the stone sink.

  When Harlow came back, he found another piece of paper on the upturned box. This paper was heavier, and the printing was better, and there was a fine scroll around the edges of it. It looked a little like a certificate of stock, and at the top there was a description of a grey, three year old thoroughbred. The breeding was given, too, and it didn’t look very distinguished.

  “Where did you get the papers?” said Harlow.

  Xannie blinked.

  “They came from a long way away,” said Xannie. “It’s safe for us to use them here.”

  They put the empty packages of dye into the sack Harlow had used to bring them from the store. Xannie said he’d burn them in the alley. It was still early in the day, and Harlow said he’d get to the track and look around for a jockey. Then he went back to the corner and found a taxi.

  In the evening, two hours after the last race, Harlow returned with Harry Laue. He was dark, overweight for a jockey, and a little drunk. Harlow opened the door of the warehouse, and Laue stepped in. Xannie was feeding the horse from a bucket. There were some carrots, too, and Xannie held them up, one at a time, and pushed them between the opened lips, and the regular, moving, and faintly curved teeth. Laue stepped up to the animal, went over it, and said to himself, as he touched the muscles, the neck, the legs of the thing, “Well, well, well.…”

  “What do you think?” said Harlow.

  “I got two thousand in the bank,” said Laue. “I’m getting it out.” Then Laue went back to the horse, his small, calloused hands going over it again, and from the dim place where he bent down, Harlow and Xannie heard his half-sober chuckling. “That two thousand was for leaving town. Can you imagine what it would be like to be trapped here?” He went back to chuckling again, his hands now carefully going over the horse’s legs.

  Two days later the horse was entered in the eighth race at Ipoh. Harlow and Xannie walked around the track, feeling the excitement in the air. They drank scotch and soda in tall glasses. Xannie had a pair of dark glasses, and he took them from his pocket and put them on and looked around, and then took them off, fiddling with them while he drank long swallows. Xannie had three hundred dollars and Harlow had nine hundred. They found two chairs and sat in front of the tote board, their faces blank and bored. When the first prices went up the horse was listed at fifty to one, and when, before the race, the price went to ninety-nine to one, Harlow and Xannie bought two more drinks and went to the windows, where there were long lines of people, Malaysian, Chinese, even English and Americans, not to mention a lot of French, all figuring on forms with a bit of pencil and looking over their shoulders through the smoky air, seemingly expecting that someone or at least some news was coming up behind them.

  Harlow and Xannie waited in separate lines. Harlow stood in his dress whites, looking clean and young among the other bettors. At the side of the windows there were people lying on the ground or leaning against the wooden planks of a fence there. Many of them had only one leg, and they sat with their crutches (the top covered with a rag) leaning behind them, and there was a woman who had a leg so large that it must have weighed as much as the rest of her. There were children there, too, and two of them were blind. They sat together touching each other’s face and smiling. There were men who had no teeth, and one who had a long, white scar that ran from his hairline to the top of his shirt. It looked as though someone had taken a brush axe and had tried to cut him in half with it. He sat with the others at the fence and watched those who collected on a winning ticket.

  Xannie came to the window, and stood opposite the clerk. He took the three hundred dollars from his pocket, and then stood there for a moment. The clerk told him to hurry up. Xannie first put only ten dollars onto the counter, but then he hesitated, wondering if there was any possibility that the hor
se’s leg would hold up for the entire race. It was problematical: the vet was good with horses and was usually right about things like this, but then there was the possibility that the leg might hold up until the horse had crossed the finish line. And what then? Xannie stood at the counter for a moment. Then he split the three hundred dollars in half, betting a hundred and fifty on the horse and putting the rest in his pocket, patting it there as he did so and keeping his eyes on the men and women who leaned against the fence.

  Before the race, as the horses were led to the gate, the grey being put into the first position, Xannie said, “What if the horse wins? How are we going to get the cash out of here?”

  Harlow opened the jacket of his dress whites and inside there was a service .45 automatic in a holster, which was worn high and to one side. Harlow left his jacket unbuttoned, not because he cared so much about the pistol showing, but because he wanted to be able to get to it easily.

  It seemed as though the grey horse came out of the gate a length ahead. And at a distance, as the horses ran from the gate along the long backstretch of the six furlong race, Harlow and Xannie saw the odd, sea-like and gentle movement of the horse as it seemed to stretch out and lift off the track a little, moving faster than even they had hoped. Before the turn it was five lengths ahead and still gaining, its tail out and flying, its mane out like a flag, too, as Laue tried to rein the grey horse back a little, since even at Ipoh there were some standards to worry about.

  In the turn it looked as though the horse was going too fast to make it. More than anything else, there seemed to be a momentary straightness in its path, a tangent that, if followed, would take it to the fence. The people in the stands were already standing and screaming, but, in the moment the horse seemed to step out from the path it should take, the screams changed to a long, deep groan. The horse continued to go straight, though not for long. It dipped a shoulder and then turned a quick, high cartwheel, in which Laue and his tack and the horse’s mane and tail blended together. The circular motion of the animal and the color of it appeared for the briefest instance, like a puff of smoke from an explosion, a light, streaming collection of grey on grey, with a boot, a stirrup, a hand, or a bit of silk, a sharp hoof flashing into the clear air and then disappearing again into the confusion. The horse hit the ground, rolled over, and tried to get up, but didn’t.