The Imaginary Horse
We all attended the same school in that small town in the countryside. It was a private and very expensive school, which, for our parents, was not a problem: my friends and I were the children of estate owners. Our parents owned vast properties. And they had a lot of money. We lacked nothing. We always dressed very well, bought whatever was needed for school, and spent a lot of money at the school café.
On Sundays, we would gather to go horseback riding. Horses were abundant on our parents’ estates, purebred and beautiful animals. Each of us had our own mount, and I’m not talking about ponies, those tame little horses; no, I’m talking about real horses, horses that ran fast and jumped obstacles. I’m talking about horsemanship, that noble sport. Our parents insisted that we become excellent riders. We even had a teacher who trained us in the art of riding.
I said each of us had a horse, but that’s not true. There was one who didn’t have a horse. Francisco.
Francisco was not an estate owners’ son. His father had a humble profession; he was a cobbler. In fact, Francisco was only in our school because he had received a scholarship – he was a very intelligent and hard-working boy. But what was he doing in our group?
Good question. I don’t think any of us would know how to answer. Unlike the other boys in the school – most of whom disliked us – he admired us to the point of reverence. Whenever he could, he would hang around. More than that, he offered to do small jobs for us. If one of us wanted a soda, Francisco would fetch it. If one of us failed to turn in the work requested by the teacher, Francisco took care of it. For that reason, and for that reason alone, we tolerated him. For that reason, and for that reason alone, we allowed him to hang out with us. During the week, of course; because on Sundays, things changed. On Sundays, he went back to his place. Sunday was the day for horseback riding, and from the top of our saddles, we looked down, proud, at the world around us.
As I said, Francisco didn’t have a horse. That didn’t stop him from being at the equestrian club early, waiting for us. He watched us while we galloped back and forth. And we liked having him as an audience because he applauded us enthusiastically. More than that, he tried to imitate us: he galloped back and forth as if he were riding an imaginary horse. We were on the track, riding him, next to the track, trotting back and forth and shouting as we shouted: those cries that riders release when engaging in the reining sport.
In general, we found it funny. Not Rodrigo.
Rodrigo was an unpleasant guy. Even we, who were friends with him, had to admit: he was an unmanageable kid, aggressive with classmates and teachers alike. The bad reputation our group had was mainly due to him. But the truth is, we had to accept him: his father was not only the largest estate owner in the region, but he was also the mayor of our city. Rodrigo was his youngest son – and the most spoiled. A spoiled kid, as my father used to say.
Rodrigo didn’t like that story at all. And he told us:
“I don’t want to see this poor Francisco imitating us anymore.”
We tried to convince him that it was just a joke. It was useless: Rodrigo was really furious.
“I’ll handle this my way,” he assured us.
And that’s what he did. One Sunday, while Francisco was riding his imaginary horse, Rodrigo approached him. He got off his horse and commanded:
“Get off your horse.”
Francisco obeyed: he got off his imaginary horse.
“We’re going to make a bet,” said Rodrigo. “If I lose, I’ll give you my horse. If you lose, you give me yours.”
“What kind of bet is that?” asked Francisco, in a trembling voice.
“A race,” said Rodrigo. He pointed to some trees, about two hundred meters away: “To there, and back. Whoever gets there first, wins.”
I remember the blood rushing to my head.
“Look here, Rodrigo,” I began to say. “You can’t…”
Francisco interrupted me:
“I accept the bet,” he said, with a firm voice, although somewhat choked up. “I want to race.”
It was a pathetic thing to see. The two stood side by side, and at the signal, that crazy race began. Rodrigo simply trotted on his magnificent horse. Francisco ran after him – unable to catch up. Rodrigo rode to the trees and came back. Minutes later, Francisco, panting. Rodrigo looked at him arrogantly:
“It looks like I won, doesn’t it?”
Francisco, still panting, remained silent.
“Your horse is mine now,” Rodrigo continued. “And you know what I’m going to do with it? I’m going to release it into the field. It is now free, you can’t ride it anymore, understand?”
Moacyr Scliar. In: Pipocas / Moacyr Scliar, Rubem Fonseca, Ana Miranda. 1st ed. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2003, p. 10-13. Collection Literature in My Home; v. 2 Chronicle and Short Story.
