Then, in an instant, the three vehicles accelerated, in hot pursuit of the horse, they were no more than a hundred yards away from it, chasing the galloping beast in the night, its mane blowing in the wind, its legs moving rapidly in a desperate gallop, its hooves pounding the asphalt furiously. They kept it in the beams of their headlights so as not to lose it, they had it in their line of sight, following this raging figure in its tortuous course, turning left when it turned left, breaking off to the right when it did, the three vehicles speeding side by side on the immense, deserted tarmac, trying to keep it from turning around and escaping, to close in on it, all the vehicles working together to trap it, Jean-Christophe de G. was calling the shots from the minibus, giving orders to his driver and at the same time the chauffeur of the limousine via Marie’s phone — he’d called Marie in the limousine, Marie’s cell phone had rung in her purse and she’d heard Jean-Christophe de G.’s voice in the dark, his careful tone, calm, authoritative, asking her to relay his instructions to the chauffeur, and Marie was scrupulous in her task, her phone held to her ear, she listened dutifully to his instructions and immediately repeated them in English to the chauffeur — so that the three vehicles advanced in close formation, eliminating all possible escape routes, Jean-Christophe de G. coordinating the pursuit from the front seat of the minibus, controlling the distance between each vehicle, making minor adjustments to their alignment, ordering the other cars to keep their headlights directly on the fleeing horse, so that it would feel followed by a mobile and blinding stripe of light, horrifying and dazzling like a line of fire. They were on the verge of trapping it when it did a brusque volte-face, spinning around like a top on the tarmac, its body twisting in a swirl of muscle and a spray of rainwater, and, without pause, it galloped directly at the vehicles, fixed in the beams of their headlights, its eyes wild, savage, mad, its mane flapping in the wind, flinging mud and sweat in every direction. It was galloping at the vehicles, picking up speed on the Narita tarmac as though preparing to take on the obstacle in front of it, this shifting phalanx of vehicles charging it, as though ready to leave the ground, to take flight into the sky, a winged Pegasus vanishing into the darkness to join the thunder and lightning. As soon as he saw it turn around, its abrupt change of direction, Jean-Christophe de G. saw the danger and shouted an immediate order, urging the other vehicles to honk, all together, to lay on their horns while charging the horse. They all charged it together, honking, hoping to scare it and force it to retreat, while it continued to charge them, as if hoping to break their formation. Momentum favored the vehicles, charging in an unbearable blare of horns, three piercing horns sounding simultaneously as they advanced side by side in the night, and the horse, stopping suddenly, trying to plant its hooves down firmly, skidding on the wet tarmac, stumbling in front of the vehicles and getting right back up, panicked, fled frantically toward one side, galloped straight ahead before reaching the farthest extremes of the airport, where it found itself blocked by Narita’s double-layered security fence. It galloped alongside this fence for a few yards, still caught in the headlights of its pursuers, then it slowed, began to trot, indecisive, it stopped beside the high security fence, behind which stretched a parking lot where rows of JAL buses were parked in the half-light. Lightning slashed the sky intermittently, casting a fleeting white light over the tops of the orange and white buses parked in rows behind the fence. The vehicles formed a semicircle around the horse at a distance of about twenty-five yards, surrounding it completely, their headlights fixed on its immobile body. Doors opened, people stepped out onto the tarmac. They continued their pursuit on foot unperturbed by the beating rain, moving toward the horse while remaining in close formation, one of the helpers bent down and grabbed what he could find to throw, rocks, pebbles, dirt, air, to hem the horse in, keep it at arm’s length, or perhaps ward off his own fear, until Jean-Christophe de G. ordered him to stand back. He ordered everyone to stand back, to remain still and quiet. Not a move, not a sound. The horse stood stock-still, backed against the fence, unable now to flee or hide, and it watched them, immobile, panting, out of breath, its sides expanding and contracting with every breath.
Then Jean-Christophe de G. approached it, alone, empty-handed. The horse remained still, watched him approach. Jean-Christophe de G. was walking toward it in the rain in an elegant dark coat, his hands empty, with no lead or rope or strap, nothing to attach to the horse or with which to tie it down. Calme, he said, calme, Zahir, it’s okay, he repeated in a whisper. He was only a few feet away, he could feel the horse’s pulsing energy, the wild energy of a frightened animal. The horse continued to watch him approach, immobile, making rasping and harsh sounds in its throat. Its coat was wet, lathered in rain and grimy sweat, with which miniscule mud particles had mixed, dirt, pebbles, and bits of asphalt. It must have fell a number of times on the tarmac, because it was injured, its knee was split open, gashed with a dark wound. Jean-Christophe de G. was almost within arm’s reach. He continued to move forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the horse and offering it his hands, white, empty, open, as to show it he had no weapon, no rope even, nothing, his hands empty, his eyes steady and his hands empty — the hands and the eyes — not to mention his voice, his human voice, enveloping, sensual, seductive, modulating and inflecting his tone, the better to coax the horse. Calme, he said, it’s okay, Zahir, calme, he repeated. He was just within reach, but he didn’t touch the horse, he let it observe his hands first, his two big white hands held steady under the horse’s eyes, giving the horse all the time it needed to look them over, smell them, take in their scent, and the horse looked at his hands, sniffed them, its wet nostrils sticking to his fingers, docile and sniffing cautiously, perhaps it had recognized the scent, perhaps it was familiar with Jean-Christophe de G.’s smell. It didn’t even flinch when Jean-Christophe de G. placed his hand on it, touched it, petted it, slowly, delicately, as though caressing a woman, as though he was running his hand down a woman’s body. The horse welcomed this, it seemed to enjoy being touched by those hands both firm and delicate, only this warm and reassuring touch could calm it after the fear and terror it had just experienced. Jean-Christophe de G. placed his head by the horse’s jowl and spoke into its ear, appeasing it with his gentle voice, his spellbinding tone, he patted its head, scratched around its eyes. Voilà, he said, voilà, très bien, Zahir, très bien. He spoke to the horse in French, he always spoke French to his horses, French, the language of love — and often betrayal, too, love’s darker side. For Jean-Christophe de G.’s love was hardly sincere, or at least not without an ulterior motive, the concern in his voice and the gentleness of his hands were all calculated, he was already plotting his next move, preparing the trick he’d play on the horse while he continued to pet it softly, it was the only way, he couldn’t have acted with such aplomb, such swiftness and grace, he couldn’t have demonstrated such panache had he not mentally broken down each step and calculated every move before acting, like a magic trick, or sleight of hand, a matador’s veronica: in one movement, he took off the scarf he wore around his neck, lifted it in the air — the black silk flapping in the night with red moiré reflections — and, quickly throwing the scarf over the horse’s head, he tied it around Zahir’s eyes, blindfolding him. He tied the scarf tightly so that no light could penetrate, as in a game of blind man’s bluff, and knotted its two ends to the halter’s crownpiece to hold it in place. The horse took a step back toward the fence, its eyes covered, and stopped, blinded, conquered. At once, from the circle of the silent spectators, the trailer driver rushed out to help with the long hemp rope rolled up like a lasso, knelt by the horse, tied the rope around one of its legs, knotted it, then pulled it to force the horse to keep its knee bent. Bound thus by the rope, struggling to stand and seeing nothing, Zahir offered no resistance. Only then did Jean-Christophe de G. pick up the lead off the wet ground, and he proceeded calmly toward the three vehicles, walking Zahir with the leash, like a giant black dog of disproportionate size (obedient, limping on three legs, blindfolded).