Such behavior can’t be rewarded. I’ve seen him copy from his neighbor at the betting stand. Shameless. I mean, there are a lot of factors to influence someone’s bet: general odds, for example, reflecting the majority opinion about favorites. They flicker across the screens fifteen minutes before the race starts and many of the betting folks follow them slavishly.
I don’t care much for the majority opinion. It drives me nuts when too many people think the same thing. When there’s talk of a “we,” I feel provoked. I prefer sitting in my own boat, am willing to sink in it if necessary, just to avoid tasting the same words in my mouth that a million others have spoken.
“When everybody is in agreement, we start doubting.” I saw this silly tagline on a banner hanging outside the headquarters of Der Spiegel during a harbor cruise in Hamburg. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. That’s why I often say things, even if I’m not completely convinced of them myself, as long as they surprise the person I’m talking to.
The well-adjusted, the opportunists, the softies and Dalai Lama imitators: They look to the odds when placing their bets. On the other side are those forever loyal to the emperor, those who could never work up the enthusiasm for the utopian core at the heart of democracy. Who think it is enough if a few keep the shop running and make sure that the price of bread doesn’t increase. Those are the types of betters who sit in the lounge with their sports magazines, who placed their bets first thing in the morning. They’ve aligned themselves with the various experts, offset them against each other, done the math and created clever combination bets. Simpler minds often make their decisions based on the looks of the jockey or the eye color of the horse. Academics and the nobility often are influenced in their selection by the horse’s owner having a doctorate degree or a nobility title. Conspiracy theorists claim to see a connection between the nail polish shade on the lady in the betting office and the colors on the winning jockey’s jersey. At every race, they say, one of the betting office employees wears the winning colors.
As absurd as these criteria are, simply copying the neighbors ticket is by far the most objectionable. It’s cynical and dishonorable. But what does that mean to the modern super daddy?
Anyway, Seagörl is behind. A hundred and fifty meters to the finish line. Time is running out. Above the old red brick building the German flag flutters in the wind and asks itself why. Why let yourself be pulled up every day if no one looks up to you?
Something is happening. Seagörl is at the front of the pursuing group. Peels away, storms to the front, mud splattering. A hundred meters to the finish line. A hundred meters.
Downstairs, the stable girls are screaming, picnic blankets are flying. This would be the most opportune moment for pickpocketing. A girl with Down syndrome excitedly hugs her caretaker. Come on, Seagörl! For a few seconds the animal becomes my private property, all standards of ownership have faded. If at this moment Satan were to suggest a Faustian pact—my soul, a lifelong government bureaucracy job, for Seagörl’s victory—I would not hesitate. Avarice has taken hold of me. I want to win. Whatever it costs.
The last meters to the finish line. Seagörl is even with the leading horse. The jockey whips the crop against her back. Again and again. And then, it seems to work. Seagörl takes a leap, extends her forehooves, the first across the finish line. For a moment calmness takes over. I feel a great lightness, like sometimes happens during guided meditation. The thoughts pass like clouds in the sky. In the distance you can hear the waves rolling, back and forth, back and forth. Even before checking the results my gaze falls on super daddy. Previously, his arm was raised in victory. Now it hangs limp by his side. What a divine picture. A foreshadow of doomsday. Triumph, trumpets, tricolor!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I see the second place being displayed: Wild Approach. I shudder and stumble off the grandstand in a daze. Down on the track guys in red vests are smoothing out the ground. Soon, nothing will commemorate this momentous final spurt. At the betting booth I cash in. I bet two euros and get forty-two. The rush of victory only lasts a short time. Too short. Then I realize what I missed out on.
What if… How much would I have won, how many people would I have called up ecstatically if, instead of the two euros, I had bet two hundred? Or at least twenty? There is no one to blame for my stinginess but super daddy and his impertinent post-heroism. If I hadn’t seen my twenty euro bill defenselessly tucked into his sweaty goody-goody hand at the crepe stand, I would have shown more courage.
It’s starting to drizzle. The horses in the stables are getting agitated. The old wooden displays from the nineteenth century rattle in the wind. I wonder if the British investor who now owns this race track sometimes places a bet, too, to pay for the repair of the old brick buildings? Maybe he is the well-dressed man there in the back. The one with the delicate, rosy features. He didn’t get up from his bench during the race. With his back turned to the screen he’s waiting for a better future to tap him on the shoulder. There is something provincial about nobody betting the big money here, all these small minds, thinking they’ll walk away with serious cash after having bet fifty cents.
Later that night I bet on the victory of Loulou’s Jackpot, putting my trust in the jockey with the white hat. For second place, I hope for number ten: Nemesis. Nemésis is how the commentator announces it. If your name is constantly mispronounced and you can’t defend yourself—that would have to adrenalize you, to spur you on to show them all. I hope.
Nemesis remains in the back of the middle and a pimply fop in an old top hat turns to me shortly after the finish: “Kindly give me a light.”
All around me, people are already thinking about the next race, but my thoughts remain with my missed chance. This one race, this one horse. Seagörl. My girl. That’s what could have been.
The speakers blast the Spanish national anthem. The longest race of the night just finished. 3,200 meters for horses aged four and older. The favorite, a premier long distance horse from the stable of a Saudi prince, didn’t win. Justice, at least for once. Those who don’t let their women drive at home shouldn’t let horses run abroad. Such a double standard in terms of horsepower is unacceptable. The chatter about bribes from the sheik and corrupt veterinarians doesn’t last long given the disappointing fifth place of Elvis. The aerodynamic blinkers don’t seem to have done their job.
Shortly before the last race, one of the horses breaks free and runs across the track. A gaggle of stable girls fans out to catch it. Their efforts of calling its name and swinging the lunge line remain futile. In the meantime, I place a bet (last attempt, all in!) on an underdog that gets disqualified before the race even starts. Tristesse royale.
I say goodbye to my loyal ticket stand lady and shudder at the thought that she knows the extent of my defeat. “Thank you very much,” she said amicably every time I handed her a ticket. And probably she thought: “So stupid.” Then I visit super daddy for a last time. Bills are settled at the end. After each feast comes the cleanup.
There he sits, the happy camper. Of course he’s not sitting on the bench, but on the backrest, his feet on the seat, the toddler on this bouncing knees. “Feet off the seat,” I want to say, but then I remember that the guy is at least fifteen years my senior. For garden gnomes like super daddy, worse punishment is in order. For example, disregard. At some point this will hurt him more than any rude word I might now address to him. At some point he will writhe in despair over the memory of me silently walking past him at the end of this long evening at the races.