When they had finished, and little do I know how they decided what constituted “finished,” since their aim seemed to be not just murder but brutality itself, they stood by the horse’s corpse. Several of them lit cigarettes. One man pulled his jacket tighter about him, zipped it up, and shivered. The sound of his zipper’s ascent cut through the air. I could tell now that there were five men. All of them had blood streaked on their jackets, their faces, their hands. The leader’s hands were almost completely obscured by blood. He held them in front of his face and stared, transfixed. Only now, for the first time since our arrival at the track, did I hear the men’s voices, soft and low.
What were they talking about, gathered round the carcass of the horse they’d slain? They said nothing of the horse, that’s certain. They spoke about the weather, how it was getting a little cool out. They spoke about their wives, their ex-wives, about their children. They spoke about hockey and baseball, about their morning journey to work. It seemed that many of them commuted downtown: some drove, putting up with the rushhour gridlock, while others took the train, on which at least you could read the morning paper, get some work done, have a snooze. Long silences fell between them. I couldn’t tell if they were friends, if they had a history together, but it seemed they had little to say to one another, either because they couldn’t understand each other or because everything important between them had already been said. A couple of them seemed eager to leave. They waited for the smokers to finish smoking, which took a little while, since two of the smokers lit fresh cigarettes as soon as they’d finished their first ones, oblivious or indifferent to the others who wished to go. At last the men descended together to the parking lot, got into separate cars, and drove away.
When I was sure they’d gone, I scratched the dog’s ears and led him out from our hiding place. Moonlight glinted silver off the horse’s bloody flanks. This was not what I’d been seeking, what I’d expected to find when I’d left my parents’ house at just after 2:43 AM. Why hadn’t I stayed at home, where I was safe, where I could console myself with masturbation and sleep?
We stood by the horse’s side. I could see now why it had suffered in silence: layers of electrical tape had been wound round its mouth. Othello shrank back, whimpering. I felt nauseous. My worries, my ambitions, my existential quandaries, once so heavy, now seemed unbearably trivial. Who cared, for fuck’s sake, that I might never publish a novel? Why accomplish anything in time — publish a novel, plant a garden, have a child, have an orgasm, consequently have another child — if time had room also for such acts as Othello and I had witnessed tonight, if a human life were the canvas on which were drawn not just acts of exaltation, loving, making, but also, and with equal grandeur, with hands covered in so much blood that the skin were obscured, acts of desecration, violation, primordial loathing? Why live at all?
We lay down and didn’t sleep. We were without desire, without hope. And yet I thought: though my life’s strivings might lack meaning, though what I accomplish might be smeared by the horror of other people and what other people want and do, I would not leave the murdered horse alone unseen forgotten on the empty morning field, I would stand by it, or lie by it, as the case was, and feel sadness — which I could still feel; I’m grateful — and honour a creature who knew in death nothing merciful. And if that impulse was selfish, if I did it because I wanted the same to be done for me in the hour of my death, so be it. Othello dragged his tongue across the horse’s head, on which the blood had now congealed. Brown flakes scattered with each lick. It was, to my mind, in his quiet refusal to let disgust debase the violated life, a gesture of compassion.
When we had lain there awhile longer and the sun had peeked above the nearby rooftops, a long shadow fell over us. I’ve never been a man to ignore a shadow when one falls over me, so I looked up. A tall man stood at my side, his face hard to make out. That’s my dog, he said. I felt the warmth of Othello’s breath on my cheek. Othello, the man said. My canine companion lifted his head. (It was at this point, perhaps I need not mention, that I discovered his name.) I pointed to the horse and said: It wasn’t me. Did anybody accuse you? said the man. We both were silent. I asked him: What should we do? He shrugged. Do what you like. And he turned and walked away. What an animal, I thought. Othello sniffed the ground, chased his tail. Our eyes met.
I watched his question mark wag as he padded after his owner. I felt the earth under my hands, under my head. The horse and its murderers had trampled the grass for wide swaths of the field: what I saw before me was a great, unbroken flatness. Longing is endless. I could hardly remember my name. What could I do? I curled up in a ball, I shut my eyes. I listened to the wind pass through the arms of barren trees.
I woke to find myself in what appeared to be a jail cell. Iron bars, concrete walls. Sprawled on the floor, I wondered why I was in jail, if a jail this was, and for how long I’d been here, and for how long I would remain. Beyond the iron bars was darkness. My room contained a toilet, a cot, and a great deal of dirt. Also a small window, set into one of the walls where it met the ceiling. I stumbled to my feet. The window was high above me. I jumped, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay on the other side of it. I jumped again and again. But all I saw was the window. All my jumping did was confirm that the window was there, which I’d known already, and that light came through it. It could’ve been daylight or a bulb. I couldn’t tell.
I became aware of a faint sound I hadn’t noticed before. I held my breath, strained to hear. It was the sound of the sea. The soft throb and collapse of waves on shore. I sat on the concrete floor and listened and thought of Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach,” though what coursed through and chilled me weren’t any of its lines about the sea, the sea’s “eternal note of sadness,” say, which “Sophocles long ago heard,” but its climactic plea: “Love, let us be true to one another!” This, I thought, this is prison’s true privation: to be denied, indefinitely, even the chance of love — and by love to say the revelation of something worth our fidelity. Such cruelty, to bring a man within earshot of the sea and leave him alone, with no face to which he might direct the feeling those tides call up in him!
I despaired. But soon reason took hold in me. Be sensible, I told myself. What you hear couldn’t possibly be the sea. Not long ago, you were in the neighbourhood where you grew up, in the field behind your old high school, near no coast. Perhaps your jailers have furnished these sounds to lull you to sleep. This is far more likely than that you’ve been transported, at great expense and for no reason, to a prison by the sea.
A raspy voice whispered my name. Outside my cell, on a stool in the dark hallway, sat a short, fat man, his hair all white. There were many things I wanted to ask him — I assumed he was one of my jailors — but he spoke first. Did you sleep well? he asked. I can’t remember, I said. How long have I been here? Not too long. When can I leave? That’s a good question, he said.
We stared at each other through the bars. A grisly thing you did, he said, a disgusting, grisly thing. What have I done? I think you know. No, really, what have I done? You tortured and killed a horse. Oh, no — it wasn’t me. Then who, he asked. I described what I’d seen. Lies, he said. What need could I possibly have to kill a horse? If it wasn’t you, why did we find you in the field beside it? I was sitting vigil for it, along with a dog I met. We saw no dog. The dog was taken. By whom? By the man he rightly belonged to. Lies, he said.
He stood. Don’t go, I said. Are you prepared to tell me the truth now? I’ve told you the truth already, I was only a witness, I’m innocent. Then what were you even doing outside at such an hour? I was wandering around, I was upset. About what? I had realized for the first time, I mean viscerally, that I might never publish a novel. He frowned. I’ve never published a novel — should I also kill a horse? You’re missing the point. Am I, he said. And he began to stalk off into the darkness. Wait! What about my phone call? Don’t I get a phone call?
He stopped, turned back. He regarded me with curiosi
ty, as though I were a breed of prisoner he hadn’t encountered before. He disappeared from sight and returned with a cordless phone, which he handed to me through the bars. Make it quick, he said, you’re tying up our only phone line. You’re running a jail with only one phone line? No need for more than that — you’re the only prisoner. And I went cold at the thought of a fathomless emptiness around me. Make your call, he said. He sat on his stool and watched me, with no pretence of disinterest or distraction. Whomever I called, he would hear every word.
I called my parents. The line rang and rang; no one picked up. Maybe it was the middle of the day and they were at work. The answering machine clicked on; I ended the call. What message could I leave? That I’d been arrested, put in jail I knew not where, for a horrific crime I couldn’t comprehend? No: better they think that I’d returned to my apartment in the city, with my roommate who feared silence. It wasn’t unusual for days or a week to go by when my parents wouldn’t hear from me, when I’d hardly put on clothes or even leave my solitary bed. Times of desperation, though not without their own pleasure.
The guard frowned. Wouldn’t you like to tell anyone you’re here? I flopped onto the cot. I’m an adult, I said childishly, I’m responsible for myself. You could be here a long time. I’d never kill a horse, I said. You’re making a mistake, a big mistake. I don’t believe in violence, except maybe towards myself, and then only psychological violence, and I think horses are majestic, gracious creatures, or really that’s not true, I have no particularly strong feelings towards them, but certainly no hostility, either. That’s what they all say, he said. Really, others have said that? Could be. It disturbs me to think that when you look at my face you see the face of someone who could beat a horse to death. He was silent a long time. Finally he shook his head. I see nothing special about your face, he said. And he stood and left.
After an interval of boredom and fear, sounds of struggle erupted near my cell. Metal rattled. A young female voice cried out: Who do you think you are, motherfucker?! Followed by: What gives you the right, you cocksucking pig’s tit?! Such formulations jarred me, maybe in part because I’m incapable of street eloquence myself. I stood at the bars of my cell and peered into the darkness. The sounds of struggle persisted. A jangling of keys, a heavy door swung open, shut. Movement beyond one of my cell’s walls. The sound of breath drawn deeply in.
I was glad to have company, especially since my company seemed to be a girl, but she started with the profanity again — You cowardly cocksuckers! Fucking pieces of shit! — and this didn’t sit well with me. I wanted, if nothing else, a little quiet. I knocked on the wall. Who’s there? my neighbour cried. I’m not sure, I responded. What are you doing here? They think I killed a horse. Why would they think that? I don’t know, I guess because I was sleeping near its body. And you? What do they think you did? They say I killed my little brother. He was sick. He was in the hospital for weeks. He couldn’t speak. I stayed with him. I was with him when he died. When he died I said out loud: I’m going to tell everybody, just you wait and see, I’m gonna tell everybody what a brutal shitshow this is, I’m gonna publish what I’ve seen. She paused. I don’t know exactly what I meant, she said. I was really angry.
Perhaps I fell in love. Together this stranger and I spent hours in conversation so truthful, so rich with feeling, it felt like we were reinventing ourselves as we spoke. I want to see you, she said finally. How, I asked. Come to the bars of your cell, press your face to them. I’m pressing my face to the bars too: can you see me? I pressed and pressed, my cheeks and neck began to hurt; still I could see nothing. And then — a glimpse! I could see, just barely, the tip of my companion’s nose. I see you! I cried. I see you! And at almost the very same instant came her cry to me, and a cry it was, with tears in her words: I see you! Oh, there you are!
Darkness fell around us. Motherfucker, said my companion. I stumbled back to my cot, eased myself onto it, closed my eyes. My mind reeled in the silence. Soon I became aware of the sound I’d heard when I’d first woken in my cell. Waves rolled in, swept back. My breath aligned with their rhythm. I rose. I moved to the wall that separated me from my companion, whispered a line of verse that coursed through and chilled me, that line of Arnold’s, whispered with urgency, with a faltering voice: Love, let us be true to one another! I don’t think she heard me. I didn’t speak to be heard. I spoke to define and sanctify what I felt.
The door to my cell creaked open. Hands seized me, pulled me to my feet. You’re so light, said a raspy voice. I could make out the glint of the guard’s white hair. What’s going on, said my companion. Never mind, said the guard. What are you doing to him! she shouted, pounding at the wall that separated us. Go back to sleep, the guard said. He shuffled me out of my cell. Where are you taking him! she screamed. Enough, the guard said. He led me down the hallway. Love, I whispered, let us be true to one another. Please, said the guard, his voice so terribly sad. And by love to say the revelation of something worth our fidelity: let us be true to one another. Please, he whispered, please. Double doors swung open in front of us. He led me into overwhelming brightness.
When my eyes adjusted, I saw we were in a small vestibule that separated the dark hallway from what appeared, on the other side of a door, to be the outside, daylight. The guard wouldn’t look me in the face. He was much older than I’d thought, ancient. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed a crumpled pile of Kleenexes, a stick of chewing gum, and a nickel. He placed these in my hands. You’re free, he said. And the charges? There are no charges. But the horse? We know you didn’t kill the horse. And my time? Is there no compensation for the time I’ve lost? No, he said.
Sister
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-9-09 11:10:19 AM
To:
[email protected]
Hello Tasia,
My name is Marina. I e-mail from Russia. I am your sister. This is thing I learn not long past and I want to write you. My mother and my father are your mother and your father. They are thinking I am being dead. I am not being dead, however. I learn I am your sister by that I use internet. (Please excuse me poor English, I do not make English since school.) Now, if I am not causing great fear to you, I will try to say all. Thank you your patience. This is not next to easy.
I am your sister. The year before our mother and father leave Russia with you I am fifteen years. My mother is making round stomach because you are there. Soon you will be exhaled. One day I am in wood next to house. In wood is river, very good and fast, full with beauty in trees and sun. When I am fifteen years I am going there always to read with the book or merely to be sitting. But this day I go into wood and something happen. I can not to remember what. But when I wake up (I do not remember going sleep) I am in a white room and beside me is man who is making medicine. This man ask my name and I am saying, Marina. They ask me where I am from and I am saying the name of our village. Then I am saying: where is here? And they say me, here is Moscow. But this can not to be something true, I am thinking, Moscow is very much distance from village. And they say me, you were bring to Moscow many month in past. Man and woman find me as if sleeping near road. These man and woman think maybe I am being dead. Therefore these put me in car and bring me at Moscow, where there is good medicine the most near. And only now I am being awake. Therefore, I am very much angry. I am saying loud, where my parents are! Where my parents are! And they are saying me they do not know who are my parents because also they do not know who is me. I am saying our parents name and again the name of our village. They say me they will discover all. The man of medicine who is most talking, he is Yevgeny Gurtz, very kind man, he take his car with me to village. We ask many question. But it is new Russia and every person have great fear of falling. We learn merely this one thing, that my parents leave and go at Canada. Then I am also having this falling, but my falling is not having floors, if you understand. And therefore I have no parents and will go to special
house in Moscow where there is many children with no parents. It is bad place, deep without beauty, but then I am sixteen and I can next to leave and make normal life by alone. Yevgeny Gurtz, who is good man, he help me to go to university. I am studying deep at university and after great time I am leaving to make medicine.
I will say you how I discover that you are being named Tasia, and being alive. From when internet is born I go to English places and make our parents names. I find not anything. Then I make the Google again before I leave to make medicine here in east of Russia. I see your name with a school at Toronto, then the photograph with you inside. You are looking like me. So absolute much like me, and like our parents. It could be accident but I am absolute it is not accident. The Google say you are very deep good with clarinet. (I did not know this word, therefore I seek it on internet, and voila it is thing I love, full with beauty. I am happy.) If you are asking why I do not make telephone for you, it is because I not have great money. If you are asking why write you and not our parents, it is because I am with fear.
A very big story! I hope I do not make you with fear. I am happy if you write e-mail also and tell all things of your life.
Your sister,
Marina
From:
[email protected]
Sent:
January-10-09 4:22:45 PM
To:
[email protected]
Dear Marina,
If this is some sort of sick joke I’m calling the Russian mafia to knock you off.
Faithful and Other Stories Page 2
