Swimming with Horses

by Oakland Ross

  “My, oh, my,” he said. “Aren’t you the ravishing creature.” He took in her clothes — riding breeches, tennis shoes, white blouse with necktie, light-blue cardigan. He glanced again at me. “Are you both jockeys of some kind?”

  “We were at a horse show,” Hilary said. “We’ve got two horses in front of your house right now.”

  “Is that some sort of a threat?”

  “Not at all. You find me threatening?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Of course not. But horses …?” He shrugged. “Never understood the appeal myself. Damned things take up too much space. All that grass. Financially unsound.”

  “You’re one to talk,” said Hilary. “I mean, when it comes to empty space.”

  I half thought she was going to say something about the cannons we’d seen. I was half hoping she would. But Quinton Vasco changed the subject.

  “Don’t tell me. South Africa — am I right? Your accent?”

  “Yebo.”

  He seemed to flinch at the sound of the African word. “No relation to Daniel, I presume?”

  “You mean the minister Daniel Anson?”

  He tilted his head, more curious now. “Yes. I —”

  “He’s my father,” said Hilary. “What a coincidence, hey. You know him, then?”

  “Oh, by reputation.”

  “But you have been to South Africa, I think?”

  “No, no. Always wanted to. They say it’s marvellous. All those wild beasts.” He laughed. “Of course, with my luck, I’d wind up in a large pot of boiling water, being cooked by cannibals.” He laughed again.

  Hilary shook her head. “I doubt that very much. No cannibals in my country. Anyway, I’m sure we’ve met. In Mooi River? At my father’s place? I’m positive I’ve seen you there.”

  “Not possible.”

  “And yet you know my father?”

  “By reputation, as I said.” He glowered, not quite so charming now. “Or perhaps we’ve crossed paths somewhere else. Damned if I can remember.” He arched his back, as if trying to make himself taller. “I say, would you care for a drink?” He raised a hand, beckoning one of the servers.

  “No, thanks. We should probably check on the horses.”

  “Oh? What a pity. Will I see you again?”

  “If you like. I’m staying at Colonel Barker’s. Ask him.”

  “I believe I will.”

  “Steady on,” said Colonel Barker, a little groggy from drink. “What’s all this?”

  Quinton Vasco simply smiled and took Colonel Barker by the arm. “Come, Martin,” he said. “We have much to discuss.” He nodded toward Hilary, a sort of goodbye, and then stole a glance at me — a leer, really — before leading the colonel out onto the terrace, which overlooked a large swimming pool, bordered by several stately elms.

  “I’ll bet I know what they’re talking about,” said Hilary. “He wants to buy Martin’s place. Colonel Barker’s, I mean. I’ve suspected it for a while. Come on. I can’t bear it in here. Let’s see about the horses.”

  I followed her out of the house. As soon as we were outdoors, I turned to her.

  “You know the guy? You actually know Quinton Vasco?”

  “Not know,” she said, marching ahead. “Know of. ”

  “But still. You’ve met him?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “In South Africa?”

  “Yes. Despite what he seems to recall.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She stopped and looked at me, frowning a little, impatient. “Good question. Actually, I wasn’t sure it was the same person, not even with a name like that. Quinton Vasco …? There can’t be too many of those. So no surprise, really. It’s him.” She let out a long breath, shaking her head. “Look, let’s forget about this, okay? Forget we ever spoke of it.”

  “Forget, why?”

  “Because I say so. Besides, we’ve got horses to attend to, hey.” She headed for the horse trailer, shaking her head and running her hands through her hair. “This is so unjust.”

  “What is?” I thought she meant something about Quinton Vasco.

  “This,” she said. “This party. Shame. Why should we be going to a party?”

  “Because we won?”

  “Ball dust. Club Soda and Della won. We were just along for the ride, you and I. And here they are, the real champions of the day, suffocating inside this bloody horse trailer, while the humans smoke and drink. I don’t call that fair. Come on.”

  She strode toward the trailer and drew back the bolts that secured the ramp. I hurried over to help her lower it. Pretty soon, we had both horses out on the pavement, both blanketed, with their legs wrapped in bandages to prevent injury. I followed Hilary’s lead and guided Della down the street to a grassy hollow near a brook, a small green park where the horses could graze and drink.

  Hilary stroked Club Soda’s neck. “God, I love horses. Sometimes I think I’ve never loved anything else.”

  I knew what she meant. I felt the same way; sometimes I did. I loved the rich, earthy scent of them, their strength and size, their air of concern, their mostly gentle ways. When you speak to a horse, you really think they are listening. Maybe they can’t understand the words, but they are trying to. You can tell. You can see it in their ears, the way they perk toward you. Despite their heft and substance, horses won’t hurt you, or not on purpose, or not unless it’s your fault.

  It turned out that we were the spectacle of the day in Letham — Hilary and I, Club Soda and Della. Passing cars slowed to a crawl so their passengers could peer out at this unfamiliar sight, a pair of horses in bright red blankets, casually grazing by the roadside in a posh neighbourhood of the city.

  After a while we began to sing, both of us together. By this time, we had memorized the words to “Yini Madoda” or at least the sounds of the words. Neither of us knew what they meant. We sang the song through three times and then did our best to sing “Ndamcenga.” Mostly, we just hummed that one. When we were done singing, Hilary suggested she read to me some more. By this time, we were about halfway through another Paton. Too Late the Phalarope, it was called. She had the book in her handbag in the car, so I held on to both horses, while Hilary retrieved the novel. She settled herself at a picnic table, smoked a succession of cigarettes, and read aloud the tale of an Afrikaner policeman named Pieter van Vlaanderen and his tragic downfall. Soon I was aware of nothing but the snuffling breath of horses and the grey skies that lowered over Natal in South Africa, pierced by gaps of blue. The spell ended only when Colonel Barker appeared, swaying along the street, his eye patch awry. There was no question now about whether he was drunk or not. He was potted.

  “Must be off,” he said and promptly stumbled and almost fell, barely recovering his balance. “Chop, chop.” His eyes were red, his face puffy, his nose inflamed. “Can’t wait all day, you know. In you get, you lot.”

  I didn’t know what to say or do except to go along. Hilary first returned the Paton to the car, and then she and I got the horses loaded and squared away. Now she straightened her shoulders before walking around to the driver’s side of the Cadillac.

  “Martin …” she said.

  Right away, I detected a double-edged quality to her voice, a tone I hadn’t heard before, not from her; a quality at once teasing and beseeching and yet hard as rock.

  “I’ll drive,” Colonel Barker said. He reached for the door handle, tried to ease Hilary out of the way, but again his balance faltered. Again, he almost fell right down.

  “Martin …” She steadied him with one hand. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “Nonsense. Not forgetting anything. Said get in. Get in, damn it. Do as I say.”

  “I said, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Some movement caught my eye, off to the right, and I looked up to see Quinton Vasco standing alone at the edge of his driveway, hands in his front pockets. He said not a word, simply remained where he was, observing Hilary
and Colonel Barker both — but mostly Hilary. I was pretty sure of that. He seemed content just to watch, as if there were something he wished to learn, and here it was.

  Hilary leaned toward Colonel Barker, and he stood quite still. She brought her lips close to his ear and whispered to him. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

  “No, no,” Colonel Barker said. “Must do as I say.”

  Still she whispered.

  “Well …” he said. His shoulders slumped. He nodded. “Yes. Yes.”

  She raised her hands to rest them on his shoulders and kept her lips pressed close to him, still whispering into his ear.

  “Oh, all right.”

  She kissed him just below his ear, not a quick smack on the cheek, not the kind of kiss you’d give your mother. This was something wholly different, a lingering, purposeful contact that was suggestive of something else, something beyond my ready imagining. It was painful to watch, and yet it was magical, too, this power she seemed to have over others, over men, anyway — men and horses. It sometimes seemed they would do whatever she wished, whatever she said, whatever she didn’t need to say.

  Hilary stood back as the colonel shuffled around the car, fumbled with the front door on the passenger side, and then wedged himself into the seat there. I hurried over and swung the door shut behind him, then climbed into the back. Hilary slipped into the driver’s seat and pulled her door till the latch clicked. She shifted her gaze to the right.

  “Look,” she said and nodded toward Quinton Vasco, who hadn’t moved, still with his hands in his pockets, still watching us from the roadway in front of his house. “How long has he been there?”

  “A few minutes,” I said.

  I raised my hand and waved, but he didn’t wave back.

  “Mysterious chap,” said Hilary. “I’ll give him that.” She turned the key in the ignition, checked the rear-view mirror, shifted the transmission into drive, and carefully pulled out onto the shiny black street, with the trailer tottering gently behind us. I turned in my seat to look out the side window. Quinton Vasco was still there, still framed by the large oak trees in front of his house. Now he eased one of his hands from his trouser pockets, and waved at me. But this time I didn’t respond. Instead, I turned around in my seat and fixed my gaze on the road ahead, the stone mansions off to the side, the lofty shade trees. Pretty soon Colonel Barker was making muffled snoring noises. He was sound asleep.

  We were out on the open road by then, and Hilary glanced at my image in the rear-view mirror. “Congratulations, champ.”

  “Same to you.” I smiled. “Champ.”

  And for two hours, until we got to Kelso, that was all that anyone said.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Hilary

  South Africa, Winter 1962

  HILARY TIGHTENED THE CINCHES on South Wind’s girth. Along with the two horses, she and Muletsi were both squeezed into a narrow gap between a pair of small cinder-block dwellings. “Do you trust him?” she said. She meant Mr. Ndlovu.

  “I do,” said Muletsi.

  “But you don’t trust anyone.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Except me.”

  He nodded. “That’s right. And my mother.”

  “But Mr. Ndlovu, too?”

  “Shhh.” He gave her a look.

  She closed her eyes. What an idiot she was. He was right, of course. Nothing was private in this place, where everybody listened and everybody heard, a result of sheer physical proximity as much as anything else. No matter where you happened to be or how careful you were, it was practically a given that someone would overhear what you were saying — someone you didn’t intend. So you never said more than was necessary. Muletsi had already explained this to her, but she kept slipping up. As for Mr. Ndlovu, they’d met with him the previous night.

  The three of them had huddled together in a shebeen — really a pair of battered and repurposed old cargo containers. There, they’d sipped corn brew and debated in whispers the merits and demerits of her plan. Vile stuff, the corn brew, but never mind. She had spoken first. Clearly, Muletsi could not stay here. Eventually, word would get around, and the police would show up. It was inevitable.

  More quickly than she’d expected, the two men took her side. They hadn’t required much convincing. With no better plan in sight, they all agreed that a run for Basutoland made as much sense as there was sense to be made. Muletsi was not an accomplished rider, but he could sit a horse. As a boy he’d bestrode donkeys and ponies often enough. That part was not the problem. The problem was avoiding discovery, and the key to avoiding discovery was to set off as soon as possible. Five days the journey would take them — five days, more or less. Much would depend upon the weather, but with luck the skies would clear. It was Sunday now. They’d reach Qacha’s Nek by the end of the week. Qacha’s Nek. It was a mountain village in Basutoland near the border with South Africa. There was no migration post, or none that she knew of, but there was a nearby crossing. She’d worked out that much.

  Mr. Ndlovu cleared his throat.

  Muletsi turned to the man, frowned. “Yes …?”

  Mr. Ndlovu shrugged. “It is only an idea,” he said. “It might come to nothing.” He lowered his voice, leaned closer to them both, spoke in a whisper. He proceeded to outline a proposal that was wholly unexpected, a thing that Hilary had never contemplated before.

  When the older man was done, Muletsi leaned back and swore under his breath, an oath that was barely audible. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  The two words dangled in the smoky air, like the perfect counter-argument to any objection.

  Hilary peered at the two men, first at Mr. Ndlovu, then at Muletsi, then at Mr. Ndlovu again. By all that was right and holy, the older man’s proposal should have shocked her beyond words, and yet somehow it had not. She saw at once what he meant. Why not, indeed? Why the frigging hell not? This was war, after all — war and revolution. The normal rules no longer applied. Besides, there was a justice to it. Surely there was. Then, all at once, her mood switched, and her heart began to quake. What in God’s name was she thinking? Now the idea seemed utterly untenable. The man could not be serious. What he had suggested just now, it was impossible to consider. In her mind, she heard a gunshot ring out, saw a man’s body crumple and fall.

  Again, she turned to Muletsi. He’d lost weight in prison, and he hadn’t had much mass to spare. He was now without his eyeglasses, as well. They’d gone missing behind bars, and there’d been neither time nor money to replace the loss. That made her wonder, too. He wasn’t exactly blind without his glasses — nothing as dire as that — but neither was he someone you’d trust as a marksman.

  Muletsi seemed about to speak, but Mr. Ndlovu broke in. “No need to decide now,” he said. There’d be time to reflect first. Besides, there was no guarantee the plan would be approved.

  Hilary understood his meaning — approved by the ANC. Certain higher-up officials of the ANC would decide, one way or another.

  Muletsi massaged the bridge of his nose, thinking. He let his hand fall away. His eyes blinked open and he peered at Mr. Ndlovu. “How will we know?”

  Mr. Ndlovu smiled. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You will know.” He straightened the sleeves of his jacket and wiped his hands together, as if to say their meeting had reached its end.

  It didn’t seem he was prepared to be any more forthcoming than this. It was left to Hilary to say the last thing that needed saying before they retired for the night.

  “So that means we go, hey? Tomorrow morning? First thing — is it? We just go?”

  Muletsi swallowed the last of his corn brew and set his jar down on what passed for a table — really a wooden spool liberated from some construction site. He turned to look at her, his eyes fixed on her eyes.

  “Yes,” he said.

  By now the shebeen was practically empty. She paid for their drinks with a small portion of her money, the money she’d got from her mo
ther, and they ventured out on foot, out into the darkness. After a few minutes she and Muletsi parted company with Mr. Ndlovu.

  “Good night, Uncle,” said Muletsi.

  It was an imprecise term; she knew that. An expression of respect. The older man tipped his trilby hat and gazed at them both in turn. He then set off on his own, proceeding in a direction apart from theirs. She and Muletsi made their way to a small, woebegone dwelling that belonged to a mate of his. They’d been invited to make their bed on a rug on the floor; it was all there was. A short while later she peered up at the sagging ceiling, listened to the sporadic barking of dogs outside. If she got through this, she’d never be afraid of anything again. That was what she told herself in the moments before she fell asleep.

  When she was next aware of anything at all, she sensed another human being, kneeling above her in the morning darkness. Muletsi.

  “Come, Hilary. It’s time.”

  The sun had not risen, and yet it was morning. She was amazed she’d slept so well, amazed she’d slept at all. There was something to be said for nervous exhaustion, and here was proof. Muletsi said he had already been to see his mother to say his goodbyes.

  “I said your goodbyes, too,” he told her.

  And that was that.

  Within half an hour they were leading their horses along a narrow alley, gutted with pools of water from the previous day’s rain. It was dry now but overcast and cold. This was the harshest winter she had ever known. Muletsi gave her a leg-up, and she settled herself in the saddle, gathered the reins. She watched as he prepared to swing himself up onto Welshman.

  “Wait,” she said. “You —”

  He paused and looked up at her, his dark, oval face poking from the neck of a thick beige turtleneck sweater. He smiled. “Yes, Miss …?” Without waiting for an answer, with his back to Welshman’s head, he gave the left stirrup iron a quarter twist, raised his left foot — clad in a takkie, no more — and slipped it into the iron. He bounced once, twice, on his right foot and then swung himself up and into the saddle. He slid his right foot into the stirrup on the offside, balancing on the balls of both feet. He took up the reins between the third and fourth fingers of each hand.