Polo. Part 27

Angel proceeded to put on an incredible display of histrionics, peac.o.c.k-blue eyes flashing, nostrils flaring above his furiously pouting mouth, as he shouted and swore at Alejandro.

'What's he saying?' Perdita asked Alejandro's twelve year old, who blushed. 'He say he no want to play with Eeenglish - er - sc.u.m.'

'Charming,' snapped Perdita.

'Chow,' Angel swore at her as he galloped past to defend his goal and, however much Luke set up shots for her, Angel rode her off. Then, after a whispered word with one of the cousins, Angel and he galloped up on either side of her and neatly lifted her off the little black mare. Angel swore at her as he galloped past to defend his goal and, however much Luke set up shots for her, Angel rode her off. Then, after a whispered word with one of the cousins, Angel and he galloped up on either side of her and neatly lifted her off the little black mare.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' howled Perdita, sitting on the painfully hard ground, and bashing it with her stick, 'f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

'No understand Eeenglish,' mocked Angel. 'Go back home,' and launched into a stream of expletives in Spanish. Perdita replied in equally basic English.

Next minute Luke had cantered up with Perdita's black pony. 'I'm not going to translate for either of you,' he said softly. Then, turning furiously on Angel, 'For Chrissake, pack it in.'

Five minutes later Luke blocked a brilliant goal from the youngest cousin and cleared. Christ, he really can smite the ball almost the length of the pitch, marvelled Perdita. Angel, racing towards the enemy goal, tried to intercept with an air shot. Missing, he swung his pony round in pursuit, and when it didn't turn quickly enough, clouted it very hard round the head with his stick. In a flash Perdita closed on him and bashed him across the knuckles with her stick.

'You triple b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I'll report you to the RSPCA.'

Turning, realizing it was Perdita, Angel gave a howl of rage and set off in pursuit. So blackly venomous was his expression that Perdita fled towards the next pitch, scattering the polo b.a.l.l.s which lay like a hatch of goose eggs near the goal posts. Angel, on a faster pony and using his whip, had nearly caught her up when Luke thundered up and rode him off. Such was the force of the b.u.mp that Angel's horse crashed to the ground, temporarily winded.

Leaping to his feet, Angel charged Luke, about to drag him off his horse.

'I wouldn't,' said Luke raising his stick. 'Stop behaving like a two year old. She's a woman.'

'She's a beetch, and English beetch, like Margaret Thatcher,' growled Angel. 'I keel her when I catch her.'

'You've been winding her up all day,' shouted Luke. 'D'you want to put her off completely?'

'Yes,' hissed Angel, looking at his bleeding knuckles. 'Then she'll go home for good.'

For a second they glared at each other. Then Angel vaulted back on to his pony, which had just tottered groggily to its feet, and galloped back to the stables.

Back in her room, Perdita fell on her bed, too despairing and exhausted even to cry. She'd been a disaster and let Ricky down. They'd pack her back to England.

There was a knock on the door. It was Luke again. 'Baby, it's OK.' He took her in his arms.

'Ouch,' grumbled Perdita. 'You've got hands like sandpaper.'

'To rub off all your rough edges,' said Luke.

'I made such an idiot of myself. Those were children. The standard is ludicrous. I'll never cope.'

'Hush, hush,' said Luke. 'Argentines learn polo like a language. Those boys have been playing with a short mallet since they were two. By the time they're ten or eleven they're on a six handicap. Look, you're jet lagged. You couldn't understand what they were saying. There's hours till dinner. Let's go into General Piran and I'll buy you a drink.'

It was so hot that Perdita would have liked to have worn shorts or a dress, but her mosquito bites had come up in huge red b.u.mps and were oozing and itching like mad, so she settled for her pale pink jeans and a dark blue shirt. A huge yellow sun was gilding the puddles and turning the poplars the colour of lemon sherbets. A cloud like a fluffy white crocodile basked at the bottom of the vast open fan of fading turquoise sky. Luke drove slowly to avoid the potholes, just two thumbs on the steering wheel.

'I had one h.e.l.l of a ha.s.sle when I first came out. I was used to riding with my reins hanging in festoons. Alejandro and his son all stop horses with five-inch curbs and send them on with spurs about the same length. I kept being carted all the way to Buenos Aires.'

Perdita stared moodily at the horizon.

'You'll be playing in matches soon. You'll enjoy that. You can't go back to England without taking some Argentine silver.'

'Some hope!'

To distract Perdita's attention from a terrified stray dog that was cringing on the right of the road, Luke pointed out three tumbledown houses on the left.

'Known as Death Row. In that house lived a bricklayer who murdered the baker because he thought he'd stolen one of his pigs. Then four brothers turned up in a bus and killed three brothers who lived in that house next door. Then the grocer who lived in the third house shot himself.'

'If you hadn't b.u.mped that sodding Angel there'd have been another murder this afternoon,' said Perdita sulkily.'What a d.i.n.ky little country this is. What a dump,' she added as they entered the village.

Luke pointed out the little white church, with its red corrugated roof, that was always having its windows broken by the football pitch next door.

'At least it provides air-conditioning in summer,' he went on. 'And that's the gas station. The prettiest girl works there. Angel's dating her and spends his time filling up Alejandro's truck. The gasoline bill at the end of the month is going to be something else!' He shook with laughter.

'Does he put draw reins and a five-inch curb on her?' spat Perdita. 'I'm surprised he didn't break that pony's jaw this afternoon.'

Because of the mosquitoes they sat inside the bar.

'Senor Gracias, buenas noches,' buenas noches,' said the owner as he took Luke's order for a vodka and tonic and a Bourbon. said the owner as he took Luke's order for a vodka and tonic and a Bourbon.

'I'll pay for it,' said Perdita, defiantly brandishing a $100 bill. She was in no mood to accept charity from anyone. 'How much is this worth?'

'About fifteen dollars. Put it away.'

'D'you want water?' asked Perdita, reaching for the jug on the bar counter.

Luke grinned and shook his head. 'I'm a tidy person, I like my whisky neat.'

On the wall was a gaudy oil painting of a bull pouring blood with pics sticking out of it like a pincushion. A smirking matador, with a pink satin bottom even tighter and more uppity than Angel's, was lifting his jewelled sword for the kill.

'G.o.d, they're cruel. They never speak to their ponies except to curse them.'

'They're different from us,' said Luke. 'If Americans - and particularly the Brits - have a horse or a dog that behaves badly - they admit the fact, and rather celebrate and make a joke of it, right? Whereas to an Argentine, it's a matter of pride never to have a horse or dog that's anything less than perfect. They can't understand anyone not minding losing and they want to shine individually. My buzz is being on a team. I don't give a s.h.i.t about not scoring goals. If I've set up the play that leads to goals, that's OK by me.'

'You're too f.u.c.king Christ-like,' snapped Perdita. 'You get no prizes for coming second.'

Luke picked up his whisky, his freckled hand was so big you could hardly see the gla.s.s. He didn't tell her it broke his heart every time the Argentines hurt a horse or he saw a terrified stray dog racing by the side of the road. He knew the cruelty she was going to witness over the next three months would be agony for her because, for some reason, she trusted animals far more than humans, but, like a nurse looking after animals in a vivisection clinic, he couldn't prevent her pain, only alleviate it as much as possible.

'There's certainly a degree of roughness with horses,' he admitted. 'The Argies have so many, they can afford to dispense with them. When Red and I were kids we had races jumping on ponies in the fields and galloping them round a tree and back without a bridle. We could never do that with Argentine ponies: they just bolted in terror. The Argentines break them by fear and pain, but they get results. Look at those kids today.'

'Look at Angel clouting that sweet little mare with his stick - the f.u.c.ker.'

She was paler than ever and, Luke noticed, that in that shirt, her eyes were more navy blue than black.

'He's OK Angel,' he said, 'Argentine saying - never judge a man until you have walked two moons in his shoes.'

'Well, he needn't take it out on me. I wasn't part of the b.l.o.o.d.y task force.'

Back in his bare, little room, Angel lay on his bed smoking one cigarette from another. He should have been with the girl from the petrol station half an hour ago, but he was too eaten up with jealousy that his dear amigo, amigo, Luke, had taken that white-haired she-devil out for a drink. Luke, had taken that white-haired she-devil out for a drink.

On the wall was a painting of a Mirage wheeling away from a flaming British aircraft carrier, with the sea and sky incarnadined by the blaze. On the chest of drawers was a photograph of his elder brother Pedro in uniform, his pale patrician face the image of Angel's, except for a black moustache. There were also photographs of his weak and charming father, who had read Pravda Pravda and the and the Daily Telegraph Daily Telegraph every morning, and his beautiful f.e.c.kless mother, who'd run off with an Italian and now lived in some every morning, and his beautiful f.e.c.kless mother, who'd run off with an Italian and now lived in somepalazzo in Rome, and of the huge house in which he'd been brought up. in Rome, and of the huge house in which he'd been brought up.

Besides these photographs were Pedro's polo helmet, which now had a map of the Malvinas stamped on the front (which Angel always wore in matches), and a jar of earth he'd dug up from the Islands on the day he'd been sent home as a prisoner of war.

The Solis de Gonzales family, eight-generation Irish intermarried with Spanish, were immensely rich. Angel had had a magical childhood, bucking the system at the smart Buenos Aires boys' school of Champagnat and living during the termtime in a large house in the Avenidad del Libertador. Let loose on the family estancia estancia during the holidays, he and Pedro had played cops and robbers on horses, and later polo with his cousins, who all came from large houses near by. during the holidays, he and Pedro had played cops and robbers on horses, and later polo with his cousins, who all came from large houses near by.

In their teens Angel and Pedro had hung around the polo grounds, waiting for players to fall off, so they could subst.i.tute for them. Angel had never had a lesson; he played as naturally as he walked.

Angel's branch of the Solis de Gonzales, however, were no good at looking after their business affairs. His father, separated from his mother, lived six months of the year in Paris. Every so often the camp manager would telephone from the estancia: estancia: 'We have no more money.' 'We have no more money.'

'Then sell some land,' Angel's father would say, and go back to his latest mistress or the gambling tables or the racecourse at Longchamps. He never took care of the land, nor did he put anything back.

Denied parents for so much of the year, Angel had idolized Pedro. On the polo field they had been dynamite and almost telepathetic in antic.i.p.ating each other's moves. But there had been no question of them taking up polo professionally. Polo was all right as a hobby, but for a living, as Angel's father, who prided himself on his English had pointed out, it was distinctly Non-U'.

He disapproved almost as much when Pedro, who was mad about flying, but unable to afford a plane, had joined the air force in the late seventies to be followed, two years later, by Angel. Disapproval turned to horror when both boys set off in their Mirages for the Falklands. Both were brilliant pilots, having the same reckless flamboyant courage and ability to get the last ounce out of their ancient machines in the air as their ponies on the field.

A fortnight after Pedro's plane plunged flaming into the sea, Angel was shot down behind British lines and escaped with a smashed kneecap and concussion. When he came round, he was interrogated by one particularly phlegmatic, poker-faced Guards Officer, a polo player who spoke fluent Spanish. To someone as proud as Angel, this, and the result of the war, had been the ultimate humiliation. But, even knowing how strong the British now were, he would give up polo tomorrow and climb back into his c.o.c.kpit and resume the attack on Port Stanley. Returning home with the other prisoners of war, he found his father had died of a heart attack.

It is Argentine law that when a man dies his estate must be divided equally between his children. Angel's father had inherited 4,000 acres, but had sold off so much that only 800 acres were left for Angel and his three sisters. The sisters, who had all married well, were unconcerned that Angel, with only 200 acres of grazing land in the middle of his rich cousins' estates, had been left to pay his father's debts. His mother, happy with her Italian, was not interested. His grandmother, living in luxury in the Plaza Hotel in Buenos Aires and grumbling because she had to wash her own stockings, claimed she had no money even to pay her own bills.

In despair, Angel had gone to his rich cousins, pleading that unless they helped him out he would be forced to sell the land to an outsider, a property developer who wanted to build houses there. The rich cousins, thinking he was bluffing, ignored him; then, when he sold the land, they were absolutely furious and banished him from their houses.

Angel was now desperately trying to make his way as a professional polo player. His secret ambition was for the Argentine ban to be lifted so he could get to England and avenge Pedro's death by taking out the English and especially one poker-faced Guards Officer.

Alejandro wouldn't help him. He was jealous of new blood, particularly when it was as blue as Angel's, but Luke, who knew how hard it was to get established, had recognized Angel's talent. Before Perdita arrived he and Angel had spent hours talking in the evenings trying to improve each other's English and Spanish. Luke realized that, beneath his corroding bitterness and pyrotechnic bursts of Latin temperament, Angel was by nature merry, with a kind heart and an even greater sense of the ridiculous. The latter had for the moment deserted him. The Brits had taken Pedro, now this blonde witch had stolen Luke. Angel was biding his time.

25.

Perdita refused to admit it, but she was terribly homesick. There was no post nor telephone because of the strike, and she was tormented by fantasies of Ricky being ridden off by starlets in Palm Springs. Used to smothering any animal she met with love, she felt dreadfully deprived when the Argentine ponies flinched away from her. Only Raimundo's lurchers responded when she combed the burrs out of their coats and fed them bits of meat.

Visiting players, Raimundo, the grooms and Alejandro looked at her with ill-concealed l.u.s.t, but her dead-pan hauteur and Senor Gracias' large, looming presence kept them at bay. Angel smouldered at a distance, losing no chance to b.i.t.c.h her up. She was aware that none of the men except Luke took her seriously as a player.

Claudia was enchanting, endlessly kind and sympathetic, but, beneath her pre-occupation with her children, Perdita sensed a deep sadness. Her daughters were also charming with their big dark eyes and exuberantly glossy hair and b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising like pomegranates, and they giggled in amazed delight when Perdita swore and yelled at the grooms and even screamed at their father. Heavy chaperonage, too, seemed to enhance their value, like jewellery locked in gla.s.s cases rather than scrambled in trays on the counter. But to Perdita they appeared curiously pa.s.sive, sitting and waiting for some man to make them unhappy.

Luke was her salvation. The Argentine night came down like a blind, but, when it was too dark to ride, he seldom took a siesta, struggling instead through Martin Martin Fierro, Don Quixote, Fierro, Don Quixote, or or El Cid El Cid with the aid of a Spanish dictionary, or listening to music, mostly Mozart. But he with the aid of a Spanish dictionary, or listening to music, mostly Mozart. But he was always prepared to turn off the tape and listen to her ranting on about how she missed Ricky and how b.l.o.o.d.y the Argentines were being to her and to their horses. An inspired listener, he seldom volunteered information about himself.

'Have you got a girlfriend?' she asked him once. 'Yeah.'

'Are you going to marry her?'

Nope.'

'Why not?'

Not in love with her, I guess. There's only one reason to get married, because you can't not. And I've seen too much unhappiness caused by broken marriages. I want mine to stick.'

A few weeks later Perdita sat under a jacaranda tree which was scattering purply-blue petals all over the parched brown ground. At least the drought had driven off the mosquitoes.

'Darling Ricky,' she wrote, she wrote, 'David Waterlane's been here today. He brought a letter from Mum. He's going on to New York, and promises to post this for me. He bought four ponies, all of which Alejandro swore played in the final of last year's Open. That makes over fifty ponies he's sold this year that he claims took part. He must have changed ponies an awful lot. How are you getting on? Have you been signed up to star in a film yet? Has Luke's b.l.o.o.d.y sister been in touch with you? Do you miss me a bit? I think I'm getting a bit better at polo. There is a beautiful little iron-grey mare here that Alejandro has frightened out of her wits and says is too wet for polo. I wish you'd bought her, I think she's brilliant. If you send me the money, I think we could get her for $1,000. 'David Waterlane's been here today. He brought a letter from Mum. He's going on to New York, and promises to post this for me. He bought four ponies, all of which Alejandro swore played in the final of last year's Open. That makes over fifty ponies he's sold this year that he claims took part. He must have changed ponies an awful lot. How are you getting on? Have you been signed up to star in a film yet? Has Luke's b.l.o.o.d.y sister been in touch with you? Do you miss me a bit? I think I'm getting a bit better at polo. There is a beautiful little iron-grey mare here that Alejandro has frightened out of her wits and says is too wet for polo. I wish you'd bought her, I think she's brilliant. If you send me the money, I think we could get her for $1,000.

'Christ, the Argentines are cruel. Last week they started breaking the wild three year olds and goodness, Raimundo and the grooms adored it, treating it like some macho game. Did you realize they drive the ponies into a corral, then tie them to a stake in the burning sun for five days with no food them to a stake in the burning sun for five days with no food or water? Alejandro caught me stealing out to water them the or water? Alejandro caught me stealing out to water them the first night. We had a frightful first night. We had a frightful row. row. He said the English were fine ones to bang on about cruelty when they sent little boys off to boarding school when they were eight. I said it had done Eddie a power of good. Anyway after that he put Raimundo on guard with a gun. I wouldn't mind being shot, but I'm sure He said the English were fine ones to bang on about cruelty when they sent little boys off to boarding school when they were eight. I said it had done Eddie a power of good. Anyway after that he put Raimundo on guard with a gun. I wouldn't mind being shot, but I'm sure Raimundo would insist on raping me first. He's such a lech.

'Anyway on the sixth day, it's really horrific. I came back from moving the cows, and found Raimundo and his merry merry men men engaged in breaking proper. Five of them to one desperately weakened pony with sunken eyes and ribs you could play tunes on - la.s.soing it with weighted thongs, and pulling it over and over on the desperately hard ground, until it was c.r.a.pping everywhere in engaged in breaking proper. Five of them to one desperately weakened pony with sunken eyes and ribs you could play tunes on - la.s.soing it with weighted thongs, and pulling it over and over on the desperately hard ground, until it was c.r.a.pping everywhere in terror. terror. G.o.d, I loathe Alejandro for allowing it. G.o.d, I loathe Alejandro for allowing it.

'Finally on the seventh day, I thought that, being Catholic, they'd rest, but still unfed and unwatered, each pony was blindfolded and tacked up, and Raimundo got on each one's back, and whipped it and whipped it out into the pampas, until the pony's spirit was completely broken, and it'll never argue with man again. How can any horse fail to be screwed up, when its first contact with man is fifth degree burns, starvation, and flagellation? No wonder they're terrified.

'I kicked Raimundo in the shins - there was a bit of a row. Alejandro wouldn't let me stick and ball for a week. And it's not just the animals they're cruel to. Claudia was crying the other morning and I caught Luke hugging her. He said he was comforting her. Utterly b.l.o.o.d.y Alejandro has a mistress in BA. He went to see her that day he took you to the airport. According to Luke, Argentine men feel they've failed to demonstrate their virility unless they have a mistress, and that only their wives get married, they remain single. Christ, what an att.i.tude, just like Rupert Campbell-Black's when he was married.

'I hate hate Argentine men, particularly that Angel. All they're interested in is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and thumb-s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. And as there isn't an Inquisition any more, they take it out on the horses. If Luke wasn't here, I'd go crackers. G.o.d, he's nice, and he really works at his polo, every evening, lining up ball after ball, and practising penalties. Argentine men, particularly that Angel. All they're interested in is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g and thumb-s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. And as there isn't an Inquisition any more, they take it out on the horses. If Luke wasn't here, I'd go crackers. G.o.d, he's nice, and he really works at his polo, every evening, lining up ball after ball, and practising penalties.

'He's a brilliant teacher too. Alejandro gets p.i.s.sed off and shouts if you you don't do the right thing straight away. don't do the right thing straight away. Luke tells you what to do all the time, but quietly, and Luke tells you what to do all the time, but quietly, and he never loses his temper, except if he thinks you're not he never loses his temper, except if he thinks you're not trying. trying.

'Please, please write. I hope your elbow's better now. Think of me sometimes. I must go, as David W is leaving in half an hour. All my love, Perdita.' of me sometimes. I must go, as David W is leaving in half an hour. All my love, Perdita.'

Having handed over her letter and waved goodbye, Perdita wandered down to the stables. The sun, which had burnt the stick-and-ball field and the pitches to a dusty liver chestnut, had now set, but it was still impossibly hot. She could hear whoops of laughter. What devilish torture had Raimundo dreamed up now? Running through the orange grove, which already had little green oranges on, past the chickens, she froze with horror. In the middle of the yard the little pony Alejandro regarded as useless stood quivering with terror.

Her iron-grey coat was black with sweat and dust, her thin sides heaving, her eyes rolling. Umberto, Alejandro's laziest groom, was holding tightly on to her, while Raimundo, who was wearing a leather ap.r.o.n to protect his gaucho pants, his little eyes glinting with pleasure and cruelty, was attaching a long lead rope to her headcollar. He then took the rope through her front and back legs and tied it firmly to the back b.u.mper of the Mercedes, which Angel had backed into the yard. Angel was now sitting in the driving seat, a f.a.g hanging out of his sulky mouth, revving up the engine.

'What the h.e.l.l's going on?' exploded Perdita.

Angel looked round. 'Your little darling won't back,' he sneered. 'This lesson should teach 'er,' and he revved the engine even more loudly.

'Right,' yelled Raimundo.

Umberto leapt clear, the grey pony made a bolt for freedom.

'Stop it,' screamed Perdita, making a lunge at Angel. But she was too late. He had rammed his foot down on the accelerator, the Mercedes shot forward, the little grey's neck jerked frantically and she cartwheeled violently in the air crashing to the ground, to be dragged ten feet before Angel braked.

The surrounding grooms roared with laughter and cheered. Picking his way over the diarrhoea, which had splattered all over the ground and avoiding the frantically flailing hooves of the shocked, utterly terrified, pony, Raimundo grasped her headcollar and, aided by Umberto and the other grooms, yanked her to her feet. Four of them hung on to her. She made a frantic leap to shake them off, as they lifted her back and front nearside feet over the rope and positioned her with her back to the revving Mercedes again.

'Three or four goes should make up the mind for her,' said Raimundo evilly, as Perdita picked herself up off the dusty ground.

Angel crouched over the wheel. That should teach that stuck-up b.i.t.c.h to fall in love with ponies. He wished it were Perdita at the end of the rope, he'd like to see her crashing to the ground over and over again. But with her, he'd keep on driving.

Raimundo was taking his time. Angel glanced round and gave a shout of warning. Too late - Perdita, her face ashen, her black eyes blazing, had a pitchfork poised a foot from Raimundo's capacious b.u.t.tocks. Next second she had plunged it into them.

Giving a bellow of pain and rage, Raimundo jumped a foot in the air and let go of the pony, who took off, jerking to a halt as the slack of the rope ran out.

'Leave her alone, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, or I'll kebab you,' screamed Perdita.

All the grooms doubled up with laughter. Swinging round in a fury, Raimundo was about to leap on Perdita when she brandished the fork in his face.