Seahorses Are Real

by Zillah Bethell

  ‘This is the ‘piaffe’, sometimes known as the trot of deep inflection. Great impulsion but no forward movement.’

  …making him startle and prance out of line. He awaits the reprimand from the black leather boots, but it doesn’t come; only the soft voice telling him that this is the sort of thing he must expect. Later on there will be garlands, bouquets, rosettes, never mind ice-cream cones! He feels the gentle pat on his neck. All is forgiven. As far as the audience is concerned it was just a part of the dance. He moves back fluidly into line, side by side with his playmate Favory Adonis, as they canter the length of the arena. The ground is soft beneath their hooves, soft as the meadows round the castle at Piber where free of rein and man’s command they leapt over catkins and lilacs in bloom, scattered powder snow like stardust, crunched through rock crystal frost. Before they were chosen for the Hofreitschule… Now they race under streamers in a floodlit arena, their riders still as stone… they pirouette by the curtained exit…

  ‘Lighter than a Nureyev… airier than a P... Pavlova…’

  flank to flank, shoulder to shoulder, just as they were in the meadows at Piber…

  180

  270

  360 degrees…

  The crowd gapes; children point and cry out. They must surely be clockwork horses on an old tin musical box…

  The music stops. The lid snaps shut. The lights go off and they’re gone in a puff of smoke.

  The Pas de Deux comes next, a ballet for two, one horse an exact mirror image of the other. Every trace of the honky-tonk piano has gone and the music has changed to a faltering piccolo, an eerie bassoon. Two riders come out in blue and gold Renaissance dress, their horses pale and delicate as finely wrought silver. They weave in and out of the darkness, spinning their spells of moving light, their riders still, stern and unsmiling, the horses’ eyes like glass. This is a dance in dreamland where the soul takes flight, where images are half real, half imagined. It is difficult to see where one horse ends and the other begins for they move in synchronicity, reflecting, merging, dissolving into one hoofbeat, pastern, bright-crested neck. This is a dance of buried treasure, of winter and long-forgotten things. This is a song from the shining pools where eyes turn into a liquid fire, where velvet mouths are silver dipped and this is a dance in the secret ravines where hoofbeats resound. Echo. Resound. The faltering piccolo takes up where the crazy bassoon left off, playing the same refrain in a different key. Even the audience is deceived. Is it one horse or two? Is it one rider and his shadow? One horse and his spirit drifting in and out of darkness, spinning spells in moving light?

  Now it’s his turn. Siglavy Parhelion. The crowd has waited for him. The arena has waited for him. The world has stopped and waited for him. Siglavy Parhelion: the flying horse.

  ‘Performing the Airs above the Ground is the horse they call Pegasus and his master of almost twenty-five years – First Chief Rider Colonel J Lebronski. Two times Olympic Gold Medallist, Grand Prix Champion and chosen in 1992 to perform on the South Lawn at the White House, this is his last grand tour before his retirement in June. It gives me great pleasure then, ladies and gentlemen, to be able to introduce to you tonight, the great horse himself, the unique, one and only Siglavy Parhelion – better known as Pegasus, the Flying Horse!’

  He recognises the sound of the applause, even the compère’s words; and he knows the music off by heart. Gloria all’ Egitto. He places each hoof down carefully in the dampened sawdust ring and bows his strong and graceful neck in response to the roar of the crowd. It’s the last time they’ll cry out for him, those bright pale faces that shine in the darkness like the flowers on the steep-faced granite tors. The music throbs deep in his veins as he moves in time to the Grand March from Aïda. He always comes out to the Grand March from Aïda. Gloria all’ Egitto. Gloria all’ Egitto. Warrior! Conqueror! King!

  ‘The Airs above the Ground were originally used in wartime. The spectacular leaps and manoeuvres of the ‘levade’, ‘courbette’ and ‘capriole’ were designed to protect and defend riders in the battlefield. Now preserved simply as a form of equestrian art.’

  He moves swiftly into the courbette, rearing up on his hind legs and propelling himself forward, his forelegs never touching the ground. It is a savage attack on invisible air and the audience stands in delight. No opponent on this earth would stand a chance! These are the killing moves, the killing dance, dance of glory and spoils, blood and brutality, scarred legs and wounded knees. The drum roll clamours in his heart and breast. Gloria all’ Egitto. His ancestors drew the chariots of gods and heroes; their bodies decorate the Parthenon frieze…

  ‘Such is the nobility of the Lipizzaner horse, that he would lay down his life for his master… take the spear or bullet in place of him; which is the reasoning behind the manoeuvre known as the levade.’

  …now he plays for the applause of the crowd. Dancing the dance of death to the music of Aïda. Dancing the dance of death in a floodlit arena for the bright pale faces that shine in the darkness. His master asks for the levade and Siglavy Parhelion rises up to an angle of forty-five degrees, taking the spear and invisible bullet for the man who crouches high behind his neck, clinging on for dear life to the silk-fine mane, boots wrapped tight around cream and silver hide; though there is nothing to fear here but rosettes, sweet wrappers, maybe one or two ice-cream cones!

  ‘And now for the capriole – originally used to decapitate foot soldiers – it is the most difficult feat a horse can perform. Very few stallions in the world are able to perform it. We are lucky that Siglavy Parhelion is possibly the greatest exponent ever.’

  He pauses for breath, awaiting command, his muscles quivering under the spotlight, his mighty heart almost fit to burst. He must give it his all, for it will be the last time. The last time they watch him fight, watch him dance; watch him fly. There is a shift in the saddle, a softly spoken word, a deep inhalation and a pressure on the bit. It is time... he has to jump. The trumpets blow, he drinks the air, his muscles bunch and he springs to the height of a man, lashing out his back legs at some invisible foe. He hangs suspended, outstretched, mid air…

  Gloria all’ Egitto... Gloria all’ Egitto

  Closer than any horse has ever been to the gods. Closer than Icarus ever got to the sun. He could kick over the moon if he wished. The crowd is in tumult at his feet. Not for nothing is he known as Pegasus: Horse of Kings. For a moment longer he soars, uninterrupted, then drops like a stone into darkness...

  The crowd is in uproar. What on earth is going on? No light. No sound. Is he hurt? He jumped so high. They strain to read their brochures by the light of the curtained exit – the finale is the School Quadrille – a choreographed dance routine of some kind. So what is the commotion in the darkened arena? Has Colonel Lebronski fallen off and cracked his elbow? Has Parhelion’s mighty heart given out at last? But no, what a relief – there he is right as rain and skittish as a two year old, leading the last dance, the School Quadrille to the tune of Smetana’s Bartered Bride. The riders are dressed in red and gold-plumed fancy dress and only now do they break into smiles. This is a dance of life and love, of laughter and surprises, of linked arms, swirling petticoats, promises and rings. This is a dance under chandeliers in the rust-coloured sand of the Hofreitschule where the Empress Maria Therese drank china tea and Beethoven conducted symphonies. Timpani, trombone, bassoon, strings! They foxtrot, polka, waltz and minuet with Marenka and Jenik, the grizzly bear and Miss Esmerelda Salamanca in Smetana’s rural idyll. Delightful! Rumbustuous! Dancing the dance of life and love, laughter and surprises, of cut-glass tinkling streams and soft singing breezes, of birth and death.

  Siglavy Parhelion heads the final salute, Deus and Adonis quicksilver at his heels, the rest of them behind like a wave of white horses. The rosettes, garlands, bouquets are for him. Of course they are really for him. He feels the soft hand resting warm on his neck and though his bones are aching, his heart almost bursts with pride. He has flown, fought, danced once ag
ain for the bright pale faces that shine in the darkness like the flowers on the steep granite tors of his birthplace.... The soothing voice is soft in his ear, as the garlands fall, softer than the singing breezes. He understands. It will be the last time. He stands motionless facing the crowd, a silver horse carved out of the stars, immortal in their hearts and minds. He stands and faces his final curtain, bows his strong and graceful neck for one last time. By next year the alpine flowers, heather and broom will have covered his remains. His spirit will have rejoined the Karst Bora winds.

  The applause went on long after the horses had gone. Marly sat, her hand in David’s, and stared at the empty arena. They had disappeared like star-touched ghosts and nothing remained but scuffed-up sawdust, one or two still-steaming droppings. Everyone was on their feet; rustling about with bags and coats, hats and scarves; and the compère was rabbiting on about stalls and badges, video gala performances, tours to Austria and The Sound of Music…

  ‘Not bad that, huh?’ David squeezed her hand.

  ‘Nope!’

  ‘You know we’ve got to go.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The train goes at ten past.’

  ‘I know.’

  Had they raced over mountains with the Von Trapp children, away from the bombs and the Nazis? Seventy stallions, ten instructors, fifteen grooms, a bookkeeper, farrier, saddler, pictures, furniture, archives of the Spanish Riding School; and General George Patton singing ‘Doh a deer a female deer, Ray a drop of golden sun, Me a name I call myself, Fah a long long way to run’, on the way?

  ‘It’s ten to, now. Have you got your scarf?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Bag?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Purse?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Coat?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘You know we’ve really got to go…’

  ‘I know.’

  She didn’t want to leave this magical place where silver horses had danced over sawdust, danced their way in to her sick little soul.

  ‘Can we stay a little longer?’

  ‘We’ll miss the train.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘We really have to go...’

  In the end he took her hand, and led her past the upturned seats – they really were the last to go. Already some men with badges were walking down the aisles, picking up litter and old brochures people had left.

  ‘No respect,’ Marly muttered to herself.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter...’

  She turned her head for one last look then entered the drab yet brightly lit corridor. It stank of old socks and stale popcorn and posters of ‘The Lipizzaner Horses: Equestrian Treat of the Century’ were hanging quite askew on the walls.

  ‘Hurry up,’ David muttered at the crowd in front. He kept glancing at his watch.

  ‘It’s alright,’ Marly smiled reassuringly. ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘No we have not. Stone the crows! Get a move on folks, get a move on!’

  ‘I might be an élève,’ Marly giggled, squeezing his fingers, distracting him a little. ‘I might be off to the Spanish Riding School. Can you see me doing the capriole?’

  ‘Too right I can. You’d probably decapitate me head off for me!’

  ‘I reckon I could. I can ride. I’m good at music...’

  ‘A little too old I think, my love,’ David smiled, glancing at his watch again. ‘A little too old.’

  A little too old. Quite possibly. A little too old and a little too fucked.

  David frowned at the crowd, which was bulging now around the stalls, slowing down even more. A tall dark-haired girl was blocking the path in front, standing around with a group of friends. She was holding up a t-shirt of Colonel J Lebronski and laughing her head off. She wasn’t too old, Marly thought, a little irritatedly. Even under the harsh, artificial light, she was shining, luminous. Her friends were oohing and aahing at her antics, and she picked up a little badge of Siglavy Parhelion and held it above her pointy left breast.

  Marly looked quickly at David to see if he was looking. He was looking alright.

  Her heart turned to stone; and the magic fled her grubby little soul, not little by little in fits and starts, the way her mother’s soul had fled, but in one agonising, decapitating fell swoop. He was right beside her holding her hand but she was miles away from him in her head. Miles and miles away in her head. Watching him watching the girl. More fun, no doubt, than she could ever be. ‘Sweet sixteen going on seventeen into a world of men. Better beware...’ Had she ever been sixteen? Ophelia in the school play, Stokesy shouting parson’s nose when he should have shouted bravo! She’d jumped from eight to fifty in a flash of a sunbeam and now here she was, a twenty-six-year-old hag, well past her sell-by date and alone. Alone. She would always be alone. Watching him watching her. Typical ha ha ha ha man. The magic had gone; the magic had left her in a puff of smoke, a snap, crackle and pop. She dropped his hand, without a word, and headed long and low like a cat, past the girl who was sixteen going on seventeen and her group of admirers, past the happy men and happy women, bags and rustling coats; headed long and low like a cat into darkness, her face numb, her heart turned to stone.

  Fifteen

  June opened the door for once, her spun-at-the-funfair hair mingling rather attractively with the stained-glass porch. A scent of orange and cinnamon wafted out with her, reminding Marly of Christmas trees and fairy lights and the small pomanders her mother had made of tangerines stuck all over with cloves like bright, round hedgehogs.

  ‘Hello Marleeen?’ June sounded surprised, as if she wasn’t expecting her and Marly mentally checked her dates.

  ‘Hello June. I’m a bit early I think.’

  ‘Not to worry, not to worry. I’ve just taken him in a cup of tea.’

  The ‘may our wishes come true’ receptionist was on holiday apparently in the Peloponnese, and June was doing the work of two.

  ‘It’s exhausting,’ she smiled up at Marly. ‘Worse than looking after the grandkids if that can ever be said. Little monkeys… if they haven’t got their fingers in the fish tank, they’re eating shoe-polish! It’s the way to an early grave, I’m telling you.’ She glared at Marly for a moment as if it was somehow her fault then relaxed into a smile. ‘Never mind, never mind. Go on in, go on in.’

  Marly smiled, a little confused at this outpouring, then collected herself and walked into the room. Terry sat in his black leather chair, staring out of the window, both hands wrapped tight around a steaming mug of tea. He looked strangely pale and vulnerable and thin, his beaky profile outlined in the chilly winter light, and Marly felt a sudden rush of affection for the old man. How long had she been seeing him now? Was it two years? Two and a half? It seemed a long time she’d been coming to this room full of books and dreams, potions and flowers, the picture of the girl in the shape of a cross and the Grecian vase on the window ledge replaced today by a flame-effect, seasonal candelabra. Very vulgar, her mother would have said. Ivy ever pristine between Scylla and Charybdis. Very vulgar. A row of Christmas cards hung on a piece of string from one side of the window to the other.

  She dumped her bag down by the old piano and sat on the chair beside the stool. She felt as if she were going to cry and she tilted her head up and opened her eyes very wide, the way she did to stop herself. Her hands were suddenly shaking in her lap.

  Terry sat quietly, put down his cup of tea. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Pretty bad actually.’

  ‘Yes?’

  A tear squeezed out of the corner of her eye and she brushed it away fiercely with the back of her hand.

  ‘I feel evil, all twisted up inside. Full of poison. Never used to be like this, I just want it to stop. If I think for a second he doesn’t love me I go off in my head, miles away... cold, remote... a stone wall comes down. It’s like I’m justified in thinking what I think, that it�
�s only safe to be alone. That I’ll always be alone. That’s the truth, that’s the reality. I always come back to it.’

  ‘It’s not the truth, it’s not the reality.’

  Marly hardly paused to take in what he said. ‘We went to see the Lipizanner horses the other night in London... David planned it all as a surprise… it was fantastic... the horses were, I mean. But afterwards… I don’t know… I got all jealous… I’m always looking, you see, to see where he’s looking.’ It was with a sense of embarrassed relief she brought this little secret to the surface and she looked away at the book of dreams, wondering if it had anything under Going back to School – she was always going back to school in her dreams – then turned quickly back to Terry to see how he’d taken it.

  He remained unperturbed, the expression on his face suggesting he’d been here many times before and knew his way around the block.

  She went on with a smile, defusing it all through humour. ‘I’m a little owl for turning my head round to see what he’s looking at. Honestly, you should see me...’

  ‘It must be exhausting,’ he smiled back.

  Ironically she felt annoyed at his light response though she took it in the spirit it was meant. ‘It is. And a torment. You just can’t live like that. I mean, I might hear some­thing on the radio about a man going off with someone and I’ll pick a fight with David. He’s probably just sitting there reading his book or whatever – not doing any harm. Or I might read something in the newspaper like ‘forty-two year old goes off with seventeen year old’ and I’ll go home and take it out on David.’