The horse, after a brief and frightening kick, took two or three firm steps back, brutally pounding its hooves down, tossing its head back, and twisting its body in a rage, carrying the two Japanese men with it, forcing them to jump off the ramp to follow its wild movements. Everyone instinctively got out of the horse’s way, fled toward the hangar, except the two Japanese men who put all their weight against the horse’s body, lodged themselves under its shoulders, trying to stop it from moving, to slow it down, but they were borne along by its power, swept away by its energy, and having no choice but to follow its every move, they tried to redirect its path toward the travel stall as they ran beside it. The travel stall awaited the horse atop the flat trailer, its doors open, which two technicians were prepared to close immediately behind it, but the horse reared up at the foot of the ramp, leaped back and turned around, then raged past Marie and Jean-Christophe de G. The two Japanese men had lost control, their last hope was not to let go of the lead, the thoroughbred was breaking free, bucking, twisting and shaking its hindquarters, its hooves clacking loudly. It bolted off in the rain, weaving through the different cars parked in front of the hangar, caught suddenly in the headlights of a car parked in the lot before charging the hangar, forcing the onlookers to scramble out of the way and rush inside the building.
Bright fluorescent lights ran in rows along the hangar’s ceiling, and the rain continued to fall in sheets in the night, aslant, almost horizontal in the wind. The two Japanese men had regained control of the horse, they had turned it around and were firmly guiding it by the loop of the halter. Back to where they had begun, at the horse trailer, they went around the cars while keeping as much space as possible between the horse and vehicles as they moved through the lot in the direction of the travel stall. Thunder rumbled in the distance, lightning slashed the sky from time to time above invisible runways. The horse had been brought to a walk, far from the lights of the warehouses, through the rain and half-light of the lot, both Japanese men on the same side of the horse, escorting it in the night in their soaked blazers. The thoroughbred followed them, seemingly docile, abrupt and unexpected convulsions shot down its spine intermittently. They had almost reached the loading trailer when, catching sight of the stall, the thoroughbred’s body tensed up, the horse bucked and pivoted in one movement, its ears folded, it began to neigh, its mouth open as if ready to bite, baring its teeth in the night, it jumped back and took off, dragging the two flailing Japanese with it in its wake.
The thoroughbred had escaped, had vanished into the night, but not before being brought to a sudden halt, tangled in its lead, onto which one of the Japanese men held tightly, seemingly incapable of letting go, as though he’d wrapped the lead around his arm, or tied it around his wrist, as though he couldn’t untie it or even consider letting go, as though the thought of letting go and allowing the horse for which he was responsible to get away was inconceivable, and so, holding on with all his strength, already knocked off his feet, he turned backward on his knees, then was back on his feet and pulling again, attempting to tie the rope around his waist, momentarily holding his ground before falling flat on his face on the asphalt, and holding on even then, dragged along through puddles of water and sprays of blood, the frightening image of a water skier who’s lost all control, no longer able to find his feet, tossed around, lifted off the ground, then crashing back down, dragged in this way for thirty or so feet before finally letting go of the horse. Zahir galloped off into the night, already disappearing in the distance. He had instinctively fled toward the darkest areas of the airport, racing through the depths of the lot and across the barely lit access road to make a dash for the tarmac. Most witnesses of the scene were well aware of the danger, and while some ran onto the lot to help the two injured Japanese men — one had already stood up and was walking through the car headlights with a pronounced limp, heading back to the hangar, while the other was motionless, had lost consciousness, flat on his back on the asphalt in a black, shiny pool of water, his face smeared with blood — others made phone calls, warning the airport authorities, scrambling and jumping in vehicles to chase after the horse, doors slammed and tires screeched as vehicles shot off at top speed, the driver of the trailer got into the minibus — the trailer was too heavy and slow for the task — with rope and other materials, a thick hemp rope rolled up tightly that he held like a lasso, three vehicles had already sped off in the night in pursuit of the horse and were flying through the hangar’s vast lot, headlights piercing through the beating rain, zigzagging through puddles and barely avoiding collisions, Lufthansa’s station manager at the wheel of his small technical vehicle, Marie alone in the back of the limousine driven by the white-gloved chauffeur, and the others, all the others — including Jean-Christophe de G. who had taken matters into his own hands and was giving orders — hired help or bodyguards, the trailer’s driver, the custom officials, everyone who hadn’t stayed behind to help the injured man had piled into the small Subaru minibus, packed in tight on its three rows of seats among Marie’s bags and suitcases.
In Arabic Zahir means visible, the name comes from Borges, and even further back, from the myths of the Orient, in which legend has it that Allah created the first thoroughbreds with a fistful of wind. And, in Borges’s eponymous story, Zahir is a being who, once perceived, cannot be forgotten, nor can he rid himself of this terrible virtue. There wasn’t the slightest trace of Zahir in the lot, he’d dissolved into the night, he’d evaporated, melted, black on black, into the shadows. The darkness of the night was impenetrable, as though the thoroughbred had managed to slip into its very substance, and the night had swallowed the horse up and consumed it immediately. Cars flew at top speed toward the horizon, their windshields whipped by the rain, their bodies jolted at each bump of the road. Reaching the end of the immense lot, stopped at a ledge beyond which there was nothing — dark wet grass, an empty space that stretched out of sight — they had to face the truth, Zahir had disappeared. In the distance sirens could be heard resounding in the night, an ambulance had reached the hangar to see to the injured Japanese man, and fire trucks were lining the runways to set up roadblocks, all landings and takeoffs had been interrupted, the airport authorities couldn’t risk allowing planes to land as long as there was a thoroughbred running wild on the airport’s premises. The pursuers were then forced to slow down, to abandon their initial haste for a more patient pursuit in the night. They drove cautiously along a small, dimly lit road and remained silent in their vehicles, surveying their surroundings. They stared intently out the windows, on the lookout for any sign on the horizon, a shift in the shadows, a stirring in the air, the horse’s breath, listening attentively in the darkness of their vehicles, the drivers alert at the wheel, listening for any noise from the runways that would alert them to the horse’s presence, a mere neigh, a snort, a brief sputter of hoofbeats on the asphalt. There was nowhere to hide on the airport’s perfectly flat surfaces, not a single obstacle, no trees or bushes, nothing blocked the horizon. At the end of the road they went around a roadblock and drove onto a runway, still creeping along, silent, probing the night, scrutinizing the darkness with careful eyes, when, suddenly, charging out of nowhere, with the same unexpectedness as when he’d disappeared, Zahir’s black and powerful body materialized in the beam of the headlights, at once galloping and at rest, mad, his eyes gleaming with terror, his coat black and wet, as if suddenly defined against the night into which he had, just moments before, dissolved.