Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

Barber, looking at him, thought, It’s too bad such ugly men get to ride such beautiful animals.

“O.K., Bertie boy,” he said. “Lead me to the window.”

Barber bet ten thousand francs on the nose. The odds were a comfortable seven to one. Smith bet twenty-five thousand francs. They walked side by side to the stands and climbed up together as the horses came out on the track. The crowd was small and there were only a few other spectators that high up.

“Well, Lloyd?” Smith said. “Did you look at the maps?”

“I looked at the maps,” Barber said.

“What did you think?”

“They’re very nice maps.”

Smith looked at him sharply. Then he decided to chuckle. “You want to make me fish, eh?” he said. “You know what I mean. Did you decide?”

“I …” Barber began, staring down at the cantering horses. He took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you after the race,” he said.

“Lloyd!” The voice came from below, to the right, and Barber turned in that direction. Toiling up the steps was Jimmy Richardson. He had always been rather round and baby-plump, and Parisian food had done nothing to slim him down, and he was panting, his coat flapping open, disclosing a checkered vest, as he hurried toward Barber.

“How are you?” he said breathlessly as he reached their level. He clapped Barber on the back. “I saw you up here and I thought maybe you had something for this race. I can’t figure this one and they’ve been murdering me all day. I’m lousy on the jumps.”

“Hello, Jimmy,” Barber said. “Mr. Richardson. Mr. Smith.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Richardson said. “How do you spell it?” He laughed loudly at his joke. “Say, really, Lloyd, do you know anything? Maureen’ll murder me if I go home and tell her I went into the hole for the afternoon.”

Barber looked across at Smith, who was watching Richardson benignly. “Well,” he said, “Bertie boy, here, thinks he heard something.”

“Bertie boy,” Richardson said, “please …”

Smith smiled thinly. “Number Five looks very good,” he said. “But you’d better hurry. They’re going to start in a minute.”

“Number Five,” Richardson said. “Roger. I’ll be right back.” He went galloping down the steps, his coat flying behind him.

“He’s a trusting soul, isn’t he?” Smith said.

“He was an only child,” Barber said, “and he never got over it.”

Smith smiled politely. “Where do you know him from?”

“He was in my squadron.”

“In your squadron.” Smith nodded, looking after Richardson’s hurrying, diminishing figure on the way to the seller’s window. “Pilot?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good?”

Barber shrugged. “Better ones got killed and worse ones won every medal in the collection.”

“What is he doing in Paris?”

“He works for a drug company,” Barber said.

The bell rang and the horses raced toward the first jump.

“Your friend was too late, I’m afraid,” Smith said, putting his binoculars to his eyes.

“Yep,” Barber said, watching the bunched horses.

No. 5 fell on the fourth jump. She went over with two other horses, and suddenly she was down and rolling. The pack passed around her. The fourth jump was far off down the track, and it was hard to see what, exactly, was happening until, a moment later, the mare struggled to her feet and cantered after the pack, her reins broken and trailing. Then Barber saw that the jockey was lying there motionless, crumpled up clumsily on his face, with his head turned in under his shoulder.

“We’ve lost our money,” Smith said calmly. He took his binoculars from his eyes and pulled out his tickets and tore them and dropped them.

“May I have those, please?” Barber reached over for the binoculars. Smith lifted the strap over his head, and Barber trained the glasses on the distant jump where the jockey was lying. Two men were running out to him and turning him over.

Barber adjusted the binoculars, and the figures of the two men working on the motionless figure in the maroon-starred shirt came out of the blur into focus. Even in the glasses, there was something terribly urgent and despairing in the movements of the distant men. They picked the jockey up between them and started running clumsily off with him.

“Damn it!” It was Richardson, who had climbed up beside them again. “The window closed just as I—”

“Do not complain, Mr. Richardson,” Smith said. “We fell at the fourth jump.”

Richardson grinned. “That’s the first bit of luck I had all day.”

Down below, in front of the stands, the riderless mare was swerving and trotting off down the track to avoid a groom who was trying to grab the torn reins.

Barber kept the glasses on the two men who were carrying the jockey. Suddenly, they put him down on the grass, and one of the men bent down and put his ear against the white silk racing shirt. After a while, he stood up. Then the two men started to carry the jockey again, only now they walked slowly, as though there was no sense in hurrying.

Barber gave the glasses back to Smith. “I’m going home,” he said. “I’ve had enough of the sport for one day.”

Smith glanced at him sharply. He put the glasses to his eyes and stared at the men carrying the jockey. Then he put the glasses into their case and hung the case by its strap over his shoulder. “They kill at least one a year,” he said in a low voice. “It is to be expected in a sport like this. I’ll take you home.”

“Say,” Richardson said. “Is that fellow dead?”

“He was getting too old,” Smith said. “He kept at it too long.”

“Holy man!” Richardson said, staring down the track. “And I was sore because I came too late to bet on him. That was some tip.” He made a babyish grimace. “A tip on a dead jock.”

Barber started down toward the exit.

“I’ll come with you,” Richardson said. “This isn’t my lucky day.”

The three men went down under the stands without speaking. People were standing in little groups, and there was a queer rising, hissing sound of whispering all over the place, now that the news was spreading.

When they reached the car, Barber got into the back, allowing Richardson to sit next to Smith, on the front seat. He wanted to be at least that much alone for the time being.

Smith drove slowly and in silence. Even Richardson spoke only once. “What a way to get it,” he said as they drove between the bare, high trees. “In a lousy, three-hundred-thousand-franc claiming race.”

Barber sat in the corner, his eyes half closed, not looking out. He kept remembering the second time the two men had picked up the jockey. Smith’s selection for the afternoon, Barber thought. He closed his eyes altogether and saw the maps spread out on the bed in his room. The Mediterranean. The wide reaches of open water. He remembered the smell of burning. The worst smell. The smell of your dreams during the war. The smell of hot metal, smoldering rubber. Smith’s tip.

“Here we are,” Smith was saying.

Barber opened his eyes. They were stopped at the corner of the dead-end street down which was the entrance to his hotel. He got out.

“Wait a minute, Bertie boy,” Barber said. “I have something I want to give you.”

Smith looked at him inquiringly. “Can’t it wait, Lloyd?” he asked.

“No. I’ll just be a minute.” Barber went into his hotel and up to his room. The maps were folded in a pile on the bureau, except for one, which was lying open beside the others. The approaches to Malta. He folded it quickly and put all the maps into the manila envelope and went back to the car. Smith was standing beside the car, smoking, nervously holding on to his hat, because a wind had come up and dead leaves were skittering along the pavement.