All the Lights (7 page)

‘Eight thousand seven hundred and thirty,’ Rolf said over and over on the way home, ‘eight thousand seven hundred and thirty.’ Ten horses had run, he had understood that much. Picking three horses correctly out of ten seemed more likely than waiting for five numbers to come up in the lottery. And there must be combinations where you didn’t have to bet on the exact order of the horses. He’d been to the races as a child once with his grandmother, but all he could remember was the jockeys’ bright silks, which seemed to blend together into a long stream of colour as they galloped past him on their horses.

He had no idea about horse races and betting, but an old friend of his had spent a lot of time at the racetrack in the old East German days and up to the mid nineties, and had told him a good deal about it. And he thought he remembered that this old friend, who he hadn’t seen for almost ten years, had won a stack of money. And as he walked home now, past the bars and kebab shops and the snack bar where he’d drunk two beers and a shot last night, he knew this was his last chance. Piet and Rolf and the horses.

‘You haven’t been round for ages, Rolf.’

He hadn’t said ‘Hello’ or ‘How’s it going?’ or ‘What do you want?’ – he’d just opened the door, stared at him a while, and now he said it again in the same low voice: ‘You haven’t been round for ages, Rolf.’

‘No,’ said Rolf. ‘Time flies, Schäfer.’ They stood like that for a while, Rolf outside the apartment, Schäfer in the half-open door, looking at each other in silence, until the light went out on the stairs and Schäfer said, ‘If you want to come in …’

‘Yes, thanks.’ He walked behind him along the corridor, which was completely empty apart from a pair of shoes on a large mat. Schäfer opened a door, and they walked into a room that was just as empty, nothing but a table and two chairs, and a picture hanging on the wall; it looked like a real oil painting, a brown horse and a white horse galloping with their riders through green, hilly countryside.

‘Take a seat.’

‘Thanks.’ They sat down at the table, and Rolf held up the cloth bag he’d brought with him. ‘Brought you a little present.’ He pulled out the bottle of Goldkrone brandy and put it on the table.

‘Only the best, eh Rolf?’ He got up and went out of the room. Rolf listened but he couldn’t hear anything, no banging of cupboard doors, no clinking. Then Schäfer came back with two water glasses. ‘Been a long time since we last drank together.’

‘Sure has,’ said Rolf.

Schäfer screwed off the cap and half-filled the two glasses. ‘Well then, cheers, here’s to seeing you again.’

‘Here’s to getting together again,’ said Rolf; they raised their glasses and drank. Rolf turned his head a couple of times as he drank, but there really was nothing else in the room but the table and the chairs and the picture. There was no ashtray on the table, even though Schäfer had used to smoke like a chimney.

‘How are you?’ Schäfer was still holding his glass in his hand and turning it; he didn’t stop turning it.

‘All right thanks,’ said Rolf, ‘and yourself?’

Schäfer laughed, turned his glass a while longer, then put it down on the table.

‘Great, Rolf, just great.’

Rolf nodded and looked at the table, then picked up the bottle. ‘Did you know Goldkrone’s only twenty-eight percent now? Not thirty-two like in the old days. Because of tax, you know, so it counts as a liqueur. That’s what I heard anyway.’ He filled the glasses halfway again.

‘Hmm,’ said Schäfer, ‘interesting. A lot of things have changed.’ They drank. They’d often sat together and drunk and talked in the old days.

‘Heard about your wife,’ said Schäfer, ‘sorry to hear that.’

‘Thanks. It’s ages ago now. I’ve got a dog now. It’s not the same but I’m not on my own.’

‘Hmm,’ said Schäfer, ‘a dog’s a fine thing.’

‘Shall we have another?’

‘Sure. Why not?’ They drank. Outside it turned slowly dark; Rolf looked up at the window and saw the red of the twilight above the buildings. ‘And you,’ he pointed at the picture, ‘still at it, still good old Horses Schäfer?’

Schäfer didn’t reply, picked up the empty glass again and turned it. He turned it on the tabletop, and they didn’t talk and didn’t look at each other, and the only sound was the empty glass turning on the table. Then he let go of the glass and stood up. ‘It’ll be night soon,’ he said, ‘you came late.’ He went to the door and switched on the light. Then he went over to the wall with the picture. ‘It’s a real Emil Volkers. Worth a bit of money. 1892, that’s the year. Bought it over ten years ago from a dealer. He was always at the track – Hoppegarten, outside Berlin. Lost so much he nearly went bust. I was doing good business back then, bought it off him for a good price. That’s all I’ve got now.’

He stood in front of the picture, his back to Rolf, and didn’t move, just stood there and looked at it, his arms crossed. Rolf poured himself a splash of Goldkrone, leaned back and drank. Then he started turning the empty glass on the tabletop.

‘It’s a nice picture, isn’t it?’ said Schäfer.

‘Beautiful.’ Rolf looked past Schäfer at the green hills and the two horses. The riders were sitting very upright in their saddles, not like the jockey in the picture on the bookmakers’ window, who leaned low over the back of the horse.

‘Yeah, it’s beautiful. But it’s wrong. The picture’s painted wrong. No human eye can make out the movements of the horses’ front and rear legs when they’re galloping.’

Schäfer came back to the table, slowly, and picked up his glass. It was empty; Rolf topped it up. Schäfer stood at the table and pointed the glass at the picture. ‘The dream gallop phase. You ever heard of it?’

‘No,’ said Rolf. Schäfer drank. ‘You see the front legs, the way they’re reaching out far and high. Powerful, aren’t they? Looks really elegant. Their hooves are hardly touching the ground.’ He drank another sip and stepped up closer to the picture. ‘Come here, come on.’ Rolf got up and stood next to him. ‘And now look at their back legs, the way the horse is pushing them backwards, with its ankles bent back. And you know what, that’s what’s wrong. When the front legs reach out so far and high without touching the ground,’ he tapped the picture with his free hand, ‘the back legs are already back to the centre of gravity, and that’s here,’ he tapped the horse’s belly, ‘well under the body. But Volkers couldn’t see that back then. No human eye can make out the movement when they’re galloping. This is the dream gallop phase, Rolf.’

They sat down again and drank. It was dark outside now, and Rolf saw their reflection in the windowpane. There were no curtains. ‘I need your help, Horses Schäfer.’ He picked up the bottle and divided what was left between their glasses.

‘There is no Horses Schäfer any more, Rolf.’ Schäfer looked at him and smiled. ‘I haven’t been to the track for years now. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’

‘I gotta win. There’s no other way. I have to win, Schäfer.’

‘When you have to win you always lose.’

‘But you, you won so often. You always used to tell me. Eight hundred, nine hundred, two thousand, six thousand. You always used to say the chance is there. You always used to say you understand horses better than …’

‘Than people? Did I say that?’ Schäfer looked at his full glass and the empty bottle; he was drinking more slowly now. ‘Most of it’s luck, Rolf, that’s the whole secret. And a little bit of instinct. I used to know people who’d never bet and then they won a triple, twelve hundred to one, and not even with a combination.’

‘You’re telling me you were just lucky all those years?’

‘No,’ Schäfer laughed. ‘Look around you.’

‘What if I try it, if I try on my own, at least tell me what to do. I have to try it at least.’

‘Buy yourself a paper.
Sportwelt
, that’s got everything you’ll need to know. Stats, form curve, does the horse know the jockey, and if you like a name, Sea Lilly or Yes I Will Win, then go for it. If you want to make big money, Rolf, then only go for triples. Pick three horses as a combination, then it doesn’t matter what order they come home in. That’ll cost you sixty if you play for ten. Always bet on the full odds. Make sure you have at least one long-shot on your list, otherwise you won’t get good odds. Not all long-shots are losers. But don’t take the ones with the highest odds, look at the outsiders whose form’s on the up. And don’t give up if you make a loss, keep telling yourself, I’ll make the big money in the next race. As long as it wasn’t the last race of the day.’ He laughed again and took a sip from his glass. ‘And only bet on the races with good odds. You want to go next Saturday, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Rolf, ‘I have to.’

‘How much do you want to risk?’

‘Three hundred and thirty. That’s all I’ve got.’

‘That’s the same as I get, Rolf. Every month.’ They looked at each other and nodded. Schäfer told him a couple of other things to watch out for when the horses were on show in the paddock, that horses that used to be good, ‘you can tell from the stats, Rolf,’ could suddenly turn around after a long dry stretch, ‘and then they have damn good odds,’ told him about the sensations he’d experienced, ‘the great outsiders were suddenly great winners,’ named a few jockeys and trainers for him to remember, said he should listen every now and then to the commentator’s tips because he had insider knowledge, ‘but if you have an instinct, if you’re sure of yourself, don’t let yourself be swayed.’ But Rolf knew he had no real chance if Horses Schäfer didn’t come along with him. And Schäfer downed his drink in one.

‘Beginners, Rolf, beginners are often the luckiest, and that’s all that counts.’ Then they said goodbye, and as Rolf walked down the stairs he knew there was no going back now, but he had nothing to lose, only the month’s money. They wouldn’t starve if he lost. He still had a couple of emergency notes tucked away between his videotapes. And if he won … It didn’t have to be the whole three thousand at once; he could make a down-payment with the vet for twelve hundred, fourteen hundred. And as he walked home through the dark streets he imagined the horses galloping past him to the finishing post.

‘The field’s just coming in to the far turn. In the lead still Planet Pony, close behind him Poppy Flower, just being challenged by Dream Believer … Lonely Affair gaining ground. Now Miss Moneypenny’s picking up on the inside … all the others in a close pack. Only Elvis’s Love Song at the tail end of the field.’ Voices and colours, people and horses. Look how many people bring their dogs to the racetrack.

Rolf walked through the night. He didn’t know what time it was, he didn’t know exactly where he was or how long he’d have to walk to get home. He was drunk, and he reeled slightly, stopped now and then and held himself up against a wall. You can tell the winner from the start. What a load of rubbish, he thought. He staggered on. ‘This is the dream gallop phase,’ he called into the dark, deserted street. The street seemed unfamiliar, as if it were in a different town. Although everything was going crazy in his head, he knew he was in his own town, but while he reeled towards the edge of town, to the east, he was somewhere else – voices, colours, people, horses.

‘And they’re heading for the final turn. Planet Pony two lengths in the lead ahead of Belonia, Poppy Flower’s third, Ahab gaining ground on the outside. Planet Pony in front of Belonia and Poppy Flower.’

The commentator’s voice gets louder and louder. There’s a ring. Piet barks. Schäfer is standing outside. He’s wearing a brown jacket, sunglasses and a checked cap pulled low on his forehead. In one pocket of his jacket is a rolled-up newspaper. ‘I thought you might be gone by now.’

‘This is my dog, Piet.’

‘Hello, Piet.’

‘And you want to risk everything for him?’ Schäfer asks, as they’re standing at the cocktail booth drinking mojitos, and Rolf has told him everything.

‘Yes,’ says Rolf, ‘I want him to live a long life.’

‘For a dog,’ says Schäfer, spreading out his paper. ‘That’ll bring you luck.’ He’s made all kinds of notes on the page with the second race, circled a couple of horses and written little numbers next to them. ‘There’s not much to win in the first race,’ he says, ‘but we’ll raise our capital a little. It’s a sure thing.’ And he seems quite sure as he fills out the red-printed betting slip. ‘We’ll go for an exacta, number three to win and number five in second place. A bit risky but it’ll come good, ninety percent. Gimme a hundred.’

‘A hundred?’

‘It’ll only win us sixty or seventy in profit, max, if we bet a hundred. And we’ll put that into the bets that are worth it.’

‘One hundred.’ Rolf gives him two notes. They walk past the paddock, surrounded by people leaning on the railing and watching the horses being led around by their reins by girls and young women. Schäfer stops. ‘There, those are our boys.’ They have numbers on their saddle cloths and Rolf sees their boys, two large brown horses with long legs, no riders yet. He’s never looked at horses so closely before.

‘Can’t go wrong. Look how calmly and powerfully they’re stepping. Number three’s a winner. See his beautiful neck and shoulders? And number five’ll come in second. I can feel it, Rolf, the others aren’t much good, and our boys have two damn fine jockeys on board. Sure thing, Rolf.’ They walk past all the people, a line of tables under canopies; they stand in the tight crowd there and fill out their betting slips. Rolf looks over to the grandstand on the other side of the track. He can make out the people, see the flash of binoculars. Schäfer is standing in line for one of the betting counters and waves the slip at him. And he’s right, it is a sure thing.

‘Number three, Winning Streak ahead of number five, Milliana and number seven, No Words, by a length and a head.’ They win seventy euros, just like Horses Schäfer said.

And then it all goes so quickly, they drink another mojito, and the seventy euros are gone again, second race, a trifecta, Lady Diana screws it all up. ‘Now we’re back to zero,’ says Schäfer, ‘including the cocktails. Zero’s my lucky number, you know. And we’re on pretty good form. It’s the form that counts, Rolf, like with the horses.’

‘It’s the form that counts,’ Rolf called out into the deserted street, then sat down on a doorstep. He rifled through his pockets, found a cigarette and lit it. He hadn’t smoked for years, just like Schäfer, who’d had two packs with him and smoked one after another. Rolf was just about to fall asleep, but then he leapt up suddenly, the night no longer still.