by Eric Dupont
The horse bore The Warsaw Giant’s 220 pounds without complaint. The contender was strapped to the saddle with the harness and the horse’s saddle straps checked one last time. Then everyone held their breath. This was an especially dangerous event: once the strongman reached the top of the pole, he could lose his grip at any moment and come crashing down to the ground with his mount. It was up to the Giant and the others to use their heads and be a good judge of just how strong they were. The Giant got halfway up the pole, but was forced to turn back before reaching the top. His forearms had begun to shake, a clear sign that he was close to letting go. A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. With a tear in his eye, the Giant waited until he was released from his harness before uttering what must have been a Polish profanity. Podgórski crossed himself and looked offended. The Giant spat angrily before striding off. He was known to be a proud man; it was better to stay out of his way whenever the red mist descended.
Podgórski looked Beth in the eye as he was hooked up to the horse. He had secretly decided she was prettier than her sister. But Beth had no idea the Pole was eyeing her so greedily. The sad fate of the Warsaw orphan meant that, due to his squint, girls could never tell when he was looking at them. Determined to engrave himself in Beth’s memory forever, Podgórski grasped the first iron rod with a firm right hand. His muscles went hard and his eyes immediately returned to their normal axis. The crowd aahed in admiration. A few laughs rang out. As he climbed the rungs, Beth couldn’t help but admit he was actually quite a dashing young man.
“Such a shame that he’s cross-eyed the rest of the time,” she whispered to her sister, who had also fallen under the spell of Podgórski’s unwavering gaze as he strained to lift the calm and sleepy horse off the ground.
Invigorated by the thought of Beth Ironstone, Podgórski reached the top of the pole without even realizing it. He climbed back down slowly and the crowd sighed in admiration once the horse’s hoofs touched the ground. Beth quivered with joy.
Next, Idaho Bill took his turn. He huffed and he puffed, and managed to haul his load almost to the top of the pole, higher than The Warsaw Giant at any rate, but not right to the top like Alexander Podgórski. He had to turn back four rungs from the top. The Great Brouyette, meanwhile, went into the horse lift with nothing to lose. He had barely gotten over his shameful fall at the start of the car pull, and this time only a win would allow him to save face. The good man also managed to lift the horse higher than The Warsaw Giant, but not quite to the top of the pole. He still had three markers left to climb when he made the decision to come back down, to the crowd’s applause.
And so Louis Lamontagne was firmly attached to a horse that would now be subjected to its fifth ascent in a half hour. But an animal has only so much patience. When the mare felt the Canadian’s weight on her backbone, she felt what one, without exaggeration, could only call exasperation. Louis, trailing in the standings, had to win the event if he was to beat The Warsaw Giant. Perhaps he paid too much heed to the distance between the rungs on the pole and not enough to the starts of the animal that was growing restless between his thighs. In any event, he was barely halfway up the pole when the horse awoke from its torpor, whinnied, arched its back, thrashed its legs, thrust its head around, and kicked out, exerting, in short, a tension that was simply too much to bear on Louis’s aching arms. The distraught animal forced him back down the pole. The crowd groaned with disappointment: the favorite had just lost a make-or-break event. Some tried to convince the master of ceremonies to give Louis Lamontagne a second chance, but all of his rivals were up in arms at the idea, apart from Podgórski that is, who had no hope of winning the contest anyway. The crowd’s pleas failed to move the master of ceremonies. The contest rules were clear. To win the horse lift, a strongman needed to rely not only on his muscles, but on his ability to calm his mount, which Lamontagne had manifestly failed to do. Three points went to Alexander Podgórski, two to The Great Brouyette, and one to Idaho Bill. The two great rivals, Louis Lamontagne and The Warsaw Giant, were tied. But there’s nothing more disappointing than an even number at the top of the standings. There can only be one winner. The master of ceremonies was ready for this eventuality and announced that, per official contest rules, the men would arm-wrestle for the title. The match would take place immediately, on the outdoor stage where a brass band had just massacred a Viennese waltz or two.
One wooden table. Two chairs. Two arms. One referee.
The only people who remained in the wooden stands had no choice but to be there. The rest of the crowd stood before a stage draped in red, white, and blue and waited to see how the arm-wrestling match would unfold. At the other end of the fairground were stalls and paddocks, where prizes had just been handed out to the cattle and poultry. A turkey answering to the name of Jeanette and an ox called Moby Dick had taken home top honors. A special mention was awarded to the owner of the proud peacock. And to Old Man Whitman’s great distress, poor Adolf had come third in his category.
“He’s a fine-looking animal, is your Adolf, but he’s no match for the competition.”
The judges had shown no mercy to Whitman when he burst into tears. No match, his Adolf? Adolf, whom Whitman had bottle-fed since birth, cuddled, pampered, and loved? They needed their eyes tested. There was just no way! Are you sure? I don’t think he’s any smaller than the others, far from it. And what about his color? Did you see his rich, deep brown? And those big eyes of his? The intelligence behind those eyes. You could almost call it determination. Yessiree! Determination in spades! I demand to see the fair president!
Old Man Whitman had lost it. He was fuming with rage, panting for breath, clutching his left arm, desperately looking around the paddock—anywhere—for someone to stand up for him, lend him moral support, tell him it was all a dream, nothing but a bad joke. Alone in the paddock, waiting for his owner to come get him, Adolf brooded. He was a sensitive soul, feeling Whitman’s every emotion as his own, as though the two were one on a metaphysical level. Whitman wrapped his arms around Adolf’s neck, whispering words of consolation into his ear between heartrending sobs. Embarrassed onlookers began to drift away. And the animal, just like Whitman, began to feel that the dice were loaded, that he was part of a sorry production whose sole aim was to hold him up to ridicule, to humiliate and insult him. And to what end? Why such injustice? Adolf began to stamp his feet. He could no longer bear to see Whitman sobbing. He grew restless, and instead of returning quietly to his bullpen, he broke into a run, all forelegs, letting out a bellow, a D-sharp announcing the end of the world.
Up on stage at the other end of the fairgrounds, Louis Lamontagne, sitting across from The Warsaw Giant, was thanking the heavens that he wouldn’t have to face his trusty companion Podgórski. His squint would no doubt have put him off, perhaps even have left him rolling around with laughter. Of all the feats of strength he had accomplished, this arm-wrestle would live longest in his memory. Getting the better of The Warsaw Giant would be no mean task, but he was counting on the energy the crowd was sending him to unsettle his rival and give him the upper hand. He would stare at him with his teal-colored eyes, show him pupils like those of the stained-glass Madonnas and martyrs the sun shone through in Catholic churches. Would he fall under his spell? The Giant awaited the signal from the master of ceremonies, eager to be done with this trifling Canadian who, not content with stealing his fellow countryman away from him, was now resorting to cockamamie stories to get the crowd behind him. Who said this greenhorn was handsome? And what of the moustache that made him look like he was trying too hard to be Clark Gable? Wasn’t that enough to give everyone a good laugh? And what gave this young upstart the right to be winking at the ladies in the crowd? Ladies? I’ll give you ladies. When I’ve smashed your wrist against this table, when the boards have shattered under the phalanges of your fingers, when I’ve ground your metacarpus to a pulp, you’ll see why they call me The Warsaw Giant. If the crowd had been able to read the two men’s thoughts, it w
ould likely have booed the Giant for all it was worth.
“I love you, Horse!”
It was a woman’s voice. Beth stared hard at the grass, ashamed to death of her sister. The Giant frowned while the emcee’s frail little hand clutched the men’s wrists.
“Ready and go!”
The first few seconds were unbearable for the Ironstone sisters, the Giant almost managing to pin Louis’s hand to the table. But Louis, having lost his composure for an instant, recovered himself at the last moment to pull his wrist up and away from the table. The Giant’s strength was colossal. Straining for all he was worth, Louis felt his toes spreading apart like the five arms of a starfish. Red in the face, muscles bursting at the seams, the two strongmen put on a spectacular show for Gouverneur, one that would surely last no more than a few seconds. Prayers went up. People shouted the Canadian’s name. The Giant foamed at the mouth. Some onlookers began to take bets, while others quite simply lost their heads in the suffocating heat. They wanted one thing and one thing only: for a winner to be declared so that they could go jump into the water to cool off. They shouted, they yelled, they kicked up such a racket that both men struggled to keep their concentration. The Warsaw Giant rolled a rather worrying black eye. An eye that had never been so big, so black. It was the eye of an animal. Just as Louis thought he had mustered enough strength to overpower his opponent, a frightful howl came up from the public enclosure.
“Adoooooolf!”
The cry was repeated, swelling until it became a clamor through which appeals to God himself could clearly be heard. Alarmed at a din that no longer bore any resemblance to shouts of encouragement, Louis and The Warsaw Giant stole a glance at the crowd. And what a sight they saw: Old Man Whitman running along behind his bull calf as it galloped full tilt toward the terrified spectators.
There was no doubt about it: the animal was charging straight toward the stage, apparently excited by the red, white, and blue banners adorning it. The crowd split in two like the Red Sea before Moses’s staff, leaving the Ironstone sisters alone at the foot of the stage, petrified, staring at the furious bull as it charged at them, head down. The calf stopped twenty yards from Floria—now reduced to no more than a squeal—hypnotized by her red skirt. The shouting and screaming stopped suddenly. The crowd could actually be heard breathing in time with the calf. Then, without warning, it rushed forward! Alexander Podgórski, courage his only guide, dashed out from backstage where he had been watching the arm-wrestling contest and swept in like an acrobat before Floria and Beth. His years with the circus had not been in vain. Squinting like crazy, he stood there, his huge arms wide, waiting for the bull to advance. He didn’t have to wait long. It charged! It struck! Its little horns gored the Pole! The animal was furious! The crowd ran for its life, leaping over fences, escaping the frightful carnage as best it could. Podgórski was unsteady on his feet, but still standing. He didn’t see the second charge coming. And now Adolf’s violent blow knocked the poor boy to the ground. It was the painful snapping sound of Podgórski’s bones being trampled by Adolf that brought Louis Lamontagne out of his torpor. The despairing shouts were growing louder.
“Help him! Do something!”
Lamontagne was only too happy to oblige. He planted himself directly in the path of the animal, which looked up at him. God was again called upon, more insistently than ever. And perhaps the devil, too, because the bull had less luck with the Canadian. Wild with rage, Adolf ran full tilt at Louis. The strongman stepped aside at the last second, and the calf went crashing into the oak planks. The animal disappeared beneath the stage, seemed to whirl around once or twice, and let out a bellow that was amplified by the wooden structure that held it prisoner. Then Louis quickly made up his mind and slipped beneath the stage himself.
“Don’t go, Horse! It’s still alive!” Floria cried.
And that’s exactly what Louis was hoping for. He stuck his head out and shouted something at the master of ceremonies, who had hidden underneath a tarpaulin at the first glimpse of the animal steaming toward them. He handed Louis a thick cable that had been used to attach one of the strongmen to an Oldsmobile. The Canadian dived back in under the stage. A thunderous but short-lived battle ensued, of which nothing at all could be seen. The calf bellowed, stamped its feet, struck out. Louis could be heard swearing in French. Then nothing. After what seemed an eternity to Floria and Beth, Louis slowly emerged into the daylight, dragging the bull behind him, its feet bound tightly and its eyes round with surprise. In no time at all, twenty armed men surrounded the animal, each vying to be the first to plant a bullet between its eyes. Age won out.
“But that’s my Adolf. You can’t just—”
Nobody listened to another word from Old Man Whitman. Four shots rang out. Adolf was no more. The words “filthy beast,” “good riddance,” and “may the devil take him” traveled from mouth to mouth. A silent crowd formed a circle around Podgórski’s body. Someone went to look for a priest. Podgórski was rid of his squint once and for all, his belly torn open, his ribs broken. Beth, tears in her eyes, held his hand, and, kneeling down just in time to bless his soul, a Catholic priest mumbled a few words in Latin over the orphan so far, so very far from Warsaw. The body was still twitching. A death rattle rose high into the American sky. Louis approached, repeating in French the prayers the priest had reeled off in English as though to be sure they were understood by God, because French Canadians are the only people in the world who believe that God is a French speaker. And Podgórski went on dying, determined to leave the world behind him.
“We only die twice, Podgórski,” Louis muttered pointlessly, forgetting in his grief that a miracle is no longer considered a miracle if it happens too often. And in vain he intoned “our daily bread, our daily bread, our daily bread, our daily bread” until he was led gently away.
Louis was declared the winner and pocketed the tidy sum of two hundred dollars. Given the circumstances, there were no celebrations. Louis returned alone to his trailer, at once victorious and defeated. The Pole would be buried in the nearby cemetery the following day; the priest who had performed the last rites had agreed to officiate the funeral. The Giant promised to write to the nuns of Warsaw, who would long lament the fate reserved for their beloved strongman. But they wouldn’t receive the letter until months later, after the capitulation of Warsaw, in the midst of the martyrdom of Poland. Perhaps God had wanted to spare Alexander from having to watch his people die, they told themselves. The Giant didn’t go into detail about his compatriot’s death, referring only to an unfortunate farm accident. The recruiters from the US Army, astonished by Louis’s exploits, kept a close eye on him as he organized his friend’s funeral. They waited, patient as Sioux, for the young man to go back to his trailer. They even hung back and let Floria knock on the door and spend the night with the Canadian before introducing themselves.
Louis was lying in his trailer, alone in prayer. There was a knock at the door.
“Horse! Open up! It’s me, Floria.”
“I’m praying.”
“Let me pray with you then. I’m so upset. Such a narrow door for a man with such broad shoulders.”
“But we can’t stay here alone. Who saw you come in?”
“No one. Beth is with the priest. She wants to help with the funeral. She was very fond of him. No more than a wink from him and her heart would’ve been his. I would never have thought my sister capable of such a thing.”
“Floria’s your name, right?”
“Yes, as in Floria Tosca. It’s an opera. Do you like opera?”
“Never heard one. Can you stay with me a while?”
“Of course. That’s why I came. To keep you company. It’s really awful what happened to that poor boy . . . Why, you’re crying, Horse!”
“Who’s going to translate my stories? Just listen to me! My English is terrible. Who’s going to pull the trailer while I sleep? Who’s going to keep me company?”
“But your English is not so bad. Give
it time. Let time take its course. Here, take my hankie.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind. Podgórski was a poor sleeper. Whenever he couldn’t sleep, he’d say, ‘Hey, Lamontagne, tell me one of your cock-and-bull stories from Canada.’ And I’d tell him a story, any story.”
“And he’d fall asleep?”
“No! He’d want to hear the end. Then he’d fall asleep. That’s how it was. He knew lots of my stories by heart. What a tiny nose you have, Floria . . .”
“Why the cheek of you, Louis Lamontagne!”
“I’m serious! I love your nose! It’s such a cute little nose.”
“And my legs are too thin. That’s what Momma always says.”
“Your legs are magnificent. And now you’re crying too.”
“Do you know what would do us good?”
“No, what?”
“A little whisky! If only we had some . . .”
“Well, actually I do. Right over there. The good stuff, from Canada.”
“Why, what a stroke of luck! I was just thinking that a Canadian must never travel without his whisky.”
“Would you like some?”
“Sure, why not? Twist my arm!”
“Here you go.”
Glug, glug, glug.
“Hey! Easy does it. Not so fast!”
“Oh! This whole business has me so upset. Thank you, Horse. Not only are you the handsomest man I’ve ever laid eyes on, you’re a gentleman too. Oh, your hand is so big and strong.”
