Read Online Passion Play by Jerzy Kosinski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jerzy Kosinski
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scooped the ball smoothly off the ground, propelling it in an arc into the air.
Fabian remembered an incident in a game that called up echoes of a memory beyond time. A South American player had violently accelerated his mount; it responded by raising its forelegin a propulsive drive well ahead of its forward weight just as its rear leg hit the ground. By instinct, the pony stretched out in a buoyant spring, its ears sleekly flattened to counter the drag of wind. In a single frozen shaft of movement and force, millennia fell away, and Fabian saw the streaming flight of a horse from its flesh-tearing foes. The speed pounded. Suddenly, turning to strike the ball, the player pulled brutally on the reins, gagging the pony. The animal abruptly lost momentum, its natural rhythm snapping with the retracted foreleg. As the rider spurred his mount to push off, its foreleg crashed on the turf, shattering the bone just below the knee. The pony, foaming in its frenzy, kept at the gallop, its splintered leg buckling, a bare bone protruding at every footfall, until, staggering, the animal pitched and stumbled. Only then did the rider, as frenzied and possessed as his mount, become aware of what had taken place.
The gala to celebrate the tournament, sponsored by the residents of Stanhope Estates, was given at the Polo and Golf Club for members of the competing teams, other polo players and visiting international personalities in sport and society. Fabian arrived without an invitation and wandered uneasily among the formally dressed crowd.
In one of the rooms, he heard his name. A middle-aged man in a blue suit was heading for him, his silver tie pierced by a stickpin in the shape of a polo ball of pearl being struck by a gold mallet. The man’s eyes settled on Fabian with a bird’s rapacity.
“I know who you are,” he announced, closing in with an air of mock conspiracy.
“So do I,” Fabian replied.
“There you are, the famous Fabian,” the man exclaimed, dragging Fabian by his upper arm to a corner. “Michael Stockey,” he introduced himself. “I kept looking for you among the polo mercenaries here,” he said, “but I was told you hadn’t sold to anyone. True?”
“I hadn’t sold because there weren’t any buyers,” said Fabian.
Stockey edged closer. “Come to think of it,” he said in a cheerfulvoice, “you and I met once before. At the polo tournament at Los Lemures, in the Caribbean.”
Fabian apologized for failing to remember their meeting. Stockey was undeterred.
“In any case, your name came up recently,” said Stockey. “At Grail Industries, we feel that polo is the game of the future—the fastest and most dangerous sport in the world. Half a ton of man and horse smashing into seven other horses and players on a thirty-five-mile-an-hour collision course—and all chasing a five-ounce ball! Every second the player risks life and limb for his competitive edge! What a blitz of a game that is!” He began to warm to his vision. “Polo, the supersport: the hazards of steeplechase, the speed of racing, the violence of ice hockey, the tension of football, the precision of baseball, the challenge of golf, the teamwork of roller derby. Polo—the ultimate action sport.” He paused, pleased with himself, then continued. “The game of kings is still the king of games. If boxing, baseball and hockey made it to TV, so will polo. Grail Industries wants to underwrite international tournaments in various polo resorts and put them on nationwide television. When you have ponies famous for their prices and players famous for their looks and their high point ratings, not to mention all those celebrities brushing elbows at the various tournaments, polo will be a real winner. What do you say, Fabian?”
“It’s like no other sport,” Fabian said.
Stockey shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Then that’s where you fit in, Fabian: a host for our series. Who could be better? You wrote books about polo.
Fabian remembered an incident in a game that called up echoes of a memory beyond time. A South American player had violently accelerated his mount; it responded by raising its forelegin a propulsive drive well ahead of its forward weight just as its rear leg hit the ground. By instinct, the pony stretched out in a buoyant spring, its ears sleekly flattened to counter the drag of wind. In a single frozen shaft of movement and force, millennia fell away, and Fabian saw the streaming flight of a horse from its flesh-tearing foes. The speed pounded. Suddenly, turning to strike the ball, the player pulled brutally on the reins, gagging the pony. The animal abruptly lost momentum, its natural rhythm snapping with the retracted foreleg. As the rider spurred his mount to push off, its foreleg crashed on the turf, shattering the bone just below the knee. The pony, foaming in its frenzy, kept at the gallop, its splintered leg buckling, a bare bone protruding at every footfall, until, staggering, the animal pitched and stumbled. Only then did the rider, as frenzied and possessed as his mount, become aware of what had taken place.
The gala to celebrate the tournament, sponsored by the residents of Stanhope Estates, was given at the Polo and Golf Club for members of the competing teams, other polo players and visiting international personalities in sport and society. Fabian arrived without an invitation and wandered uneasily among the formally dressed crowd.
In one of the rooms, he heard his name. A middle-aged man in a blue suit was heading for him, his silver tie pierced by a stickpin in the shape of a polo ball of pearl being struck by a gold mallet. The man’s eyes settled on Fabian with a bird’s rapacity.
“I know who you are,” he announced, closing in with an air of mock conspiracy.
“So do I,” Fabian replied.
“There you are, the famous Fabian,” the man exclaimed, dragging Fabian by his upper arm to a corner. “Michael Stockey,” he introduced himself. “I kept looking for you among the polo mercenaries here,” he said, “but I was told you hadn’t sold to anyone. True?”
“I hadn’t sold because there weren’t any buyers,” said Fabian.
Stockey edged closer. “Come to think of it,” he said in a cheerfulvoice, “you and I met once before. At the polo tournament at Los Lemures, in the Caribbean.”
Fabian apologized for failing to remember their meeting. Stockey was undeterred.
“In any case, your name came up recently,” said Stockey. “At Grail Industries, we feel that polo is the game of the future—the fastest and most dangerous sport in the world. Half a ton of man and horse smashing into seven other horses and players on a thirty-five-mile-an-hour collision course—and all chasing a five-ounce ball! Every second the player risks life and limb for his competitive edge! What a blitz of a game that is!” He began to warm to his vision. “Polo, the supersport: the hazards of steeplechase, the speed of racing, the violence of ice hockey, the tension of football, the precision of baseball, the challenge of golf, the teamwork of roller derby. Polo—the ultimate action sport.” He paused, pleased with himself, then continued. “The game of kings is still the king of games. If boxing, baseball and hockey made it to TV, so will polo. Grail Industries wants to underwrite international tournaments in various polo resorts and put them on nationwide television. When you have ponies famous for their prices and players famous for their looks and their high point ratings, not to mention all those celebrities brushing elbows at the various tournaments, polo will be a real winner. What do you say, Fabian?”
“It’s like no other sport,” Fabian said.
Stockey shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “Then that’s where you fit in, Fabian: a host for our series. Who could be better? You wrote books about polo.
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