‘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.
‘Copper Rose coming up behind the leading trio, Copper Rose one head behind, challenging now, half a head, behind her Lonely Affair with Ahab picking up. And Shadow Queen coming into the picture now. At the rear still Elvis’s Love Song. They’re coming into the last turn.’
‘Be right back,’ says Schäfer. He puts his cocktail down and walks over to an old man standing right by the hedge on the edge of the track, who’s waved to him a couple of times now. Rolf finishes his mojito, then takes Schäfer’s. He drinks and closes his eyes. He hears and sees the starting gate leaping open again and the horses galloping off. ‘No human eye can make out the movement when they gallop.’ But it seems to him as if he can see the nine horses’ front legs thrusting into the air almost in sync. And then they ran, disappeared from his view, galloped around the track, the fifth race, a hundred and twenty euros down, sixty euros in the pot, a trifecta, a triple combination, and he hears the commentator’s voice again: ‘Dancing Mo two lengths in the lead,’ hears Schäfer’s voice next to him again: ‘Don’t worry, he’ll fall back, they’ll get him,’ and Horses Schäfer is right, he’s only third on the final straight, ‘Dancing Mo a short head in front of Tulipe, Tulipe neck-and-neck now, no changes at the front, Quadriga and Saxon Storm a length and a half ahead of Dancing Mo and Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe … looks like the photo will have to decide. Quadriga first before Saxon Storm, then Dancing Mo or Tulipe. This’ll be interesting, the decision’s just coming up, don’t throw away your betting slips, ladies and gentlemen.’ And he hears the voice of Horses Schäfer next to him again: ‘We’ll get it, we’ve got it, Tulipe in third place, we’re really gonna rake it in, your dog’s gonna live for years and years.’
‘Got a couple of damn good tips for the last race but one,’ Schäfer whispers next to him, ‘the old guy over there’s an ex-jockey, used to win me a lot of money. Trust me, Rolf, we’re gonna clean up now. And if the worst comes to the worst we’ve always got the last race, but we don’t even need it, the guy’s worth his weight in gold, and I’ve got two horses in the last race that no one’s reckoning with. We’re on damn good form, Rolf. Pretty close, you know, pretty close …’ He lights up another. Rolf takes one too, reaching for the pack so hastily that a couple of cigarettes fall on the ground, and puts the pack in his pocket. ‘Fill it out,’ he says, ‘fill it out,’ and he gives Schäfer the money. Schäfer leans over the betting slip, Rolf drinks his mojito, then he walks to the men’s room. He walks past all the people, hears them talking and laughing, sees them filling out their slips at the canopied tables that look like mangers, takes a quick look at the horses in the paddock and the grandstand on the other side of the track, walks past the long lines at the betting counters and feels like he’s going to piss his pants any minute now, before he reaches the toilets. A man is standing by the sink, looking in the mirror. ‘Copper Rose,’ he whispers over and over, ‘Copper Rose,’ and his body sways to and fro.
‘Oh no,’ whispered Rolf, crossing the road, walking along the middle of the street, but the street was deserted, ‘no Copper Rose for you, my friend.’ He reeled back onto the sidewalk, and now he knew where he was. Ahead of him he saw the main street with all the kebab shops and bars. It had to be after twelve, and he looked at all the lights, people were hungry and thirsty at night too. He walked towards the lights, saw the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. He walked faster, almost running, he coughed, he felt like he was going to vomit, and his cough reverberated around the street almost like a slight echo. Then he was standing in front of the store window, looking at the picture of the galloping horse. A couple of men came out of the door, waving little slips of paper; not money, he could tell.
‘Poppy Flower, Belonia and Lonely Affair coming up behind Planet Pony. Ahab and Shadow Queen closing in on the outside … Poppy Flower and Belonia … Poppy Flower on the inside, on the outside Belonia with Ahab and Shadow Queen … and Elvis’s Love Song racing full-out by the rail … Elvis’s Love Song making good ground now … there’s no stopping Elvis’s Love Song … Elvis’s Love Song, followed by Poppy Flower and Shadow Queen … Shadow Queen’s taking out Poppy Flower, Ahab pushing ahead of Poppy Flower, Shadow Queen leading Ahab and Poppy Flower now … Elvis’s Love Song still in the lead … Elvis’s Love Song takes the race, ahead of Shadow Queen and Ahab, Elvis’s Love Song wins the City Utilities Prize, who’d have thought it, Elvis’s Love Song followed by Shadow Queen and Ahab.’
They scream and hug each other, Rolf landing on the ground for a moment, but he jumps up again and throws his arms around Horses Schäfer and laughs and shouts. But Horses Schäfer is suddenly all calm and says: ‘We’ve got it, Rolf, you’ve got it, let’s wait for the payoffs, but I reckon we’ll rake it in, Elvis and Shadow Queen and Captain Ahab made it, I told you they would. And Elvis was well back, but I told you, you can’t tell the winner at the start.’
Rolf turned around, the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a good way behind him now. He dug into his pockets, so confused he didn’t know where he’d put the money. For a good while as he staggered through the streets — he must have had a drink somewhere after the race — he’d thought he’d dreamt it all, ‘this is the dream gallop phase,’ had lost everything when he risked everything. But now he felt the big bundle of notes in the lining of his jacket. Four and a half thousand; Piet would live for years and years.
‘How much d’you want, Schäfer?’
‘It’s yours, Rolf, for your dog. Gimme two hundred for the last race.’
And Rolf pictured Horses Schäfer winning a couple of thousand in the last race. And then he thought of Piet and walked on towards the edge of town, to the east where he lived, and he didn’t see the three men walking behind him.
I’M STILL HERE!
There were three numbers that meant a whole lot in his life. Not everything — there were other things apart from boxing: his wife, their child — even though it wasn’t born yet, not even in his wife’s belly — a few good friends. But boxing was how he earned part of his living. The rest he earned between fights, sometimes as a removal man, sometimes on building sites, sometimes as a bouncer. Some of the clubs in Rotterdam wouldn’t let black men work on the door, but he had a good reputation as a boxer.
His wife worked too, twelve hours every day in a pet food factory down by the harbour, but when they had their child, like they’d been dreaming of for years now — they were waiting until they had a bit more money — she’d have to stop working there. He wanted to do less boxing then, less travelling; he didn’t want his child to see his freshly mashed-up face after the fights. A couple of people had offered him a chance to come in on a small boxing club, if he put a bit of money into it. He had a pretty good reputation as a boxer, despite the three numbers.
18 — 32 — 3. Eighteen victories, thirty-two defeats, three draws. He was what they called a ‘journeyman’ — they brought him in so that he’d lose. It wasn’t as if he lost on purpose; he did his best, at least most of the time, but they put him up against boxers who were simply better than him, faster, more talented and perhaps on the brink of a promising career in the ring. But right now they had to get more experience and perhaps later on they’d fight for a title just like he’d dreamed of too, years back. He’d boxed in a good few countries: Germany, England, Italy, France, Austria, Spain, Belgium. He’d won his last fight at home in Rotterdam, almost two years ago now. His eighteenth victory. He’d knocked out a red-headed Irishman with skin as white as snow. He still knew the man’s three numbers off by heart: 2–5 — 0. Not an up-and-coming talent and pretty slow, and he’d got him in the fourth of six rounds. He was glad he’d been able to fight that Irishman; he’d wanted to win again at last, with his wife sat in the small hall, only half-full, at home in Rotterdam.