The Four Temperaments Read online

  When it was her turn, she gave the horse the signal to start. He responded immediately and they took the first two jumps easily. There was a smattering of applause from the audience and Penelope felt her face and indeed her whole body warm with pride. The horse trotted briskly around the ring, preparing for the next jump when it happened. Penelope never knew just what made him twist his head around and shy away from the jump. She tightened her grasp on the reins and tried to yank him back into position but he was strong, stronger than she was. Even as she tugged and pulled, he was moving back, back and away.

  Penelope was angry now, angry at the horse for disobeying her, angry at herself for being too weak. She was angry enough to want to hurt him, and she tried to, pulling on the bit with all her strength and using the crop, hard, against his hindquarters. But the horse would not submit: he reared back suddenly, eliciting gasps of dismay from the audience, and then he took off, galloping around the ring. The horses on the other side whinnied in distress as Touchstone moved faster and faster, oblivious to Penelope's commands. The gate at the far end of the ring was open; Penelope hoped that someone would be quick enough to bolt it shut, but the horse was galloping at full speed toward the opening.

  Once out of the ring, he crossed the open, grassy field outside and headed straight toward the small patch of woods. Penelope was furious. She would not let this animal take her through the tight net of trees, not at this pace. Instead, she would let go of the reins and slide off and away from him. But before this could happen, his hoof caught something on the ground and she was pitched forward into the air, braid flying out behind her like a comet. She managed to curl her body into an almost fetal position and tuck her head down before she hit the ground. The packed earth seemed to fly up and smack her hard in the face and she remained where she was, momentarily stunned.

  “Penelope! Penelope!” It was Kelly's voice now, Kelly who came rushing out after them. “Are you all right?” She knelt in front of Penelope, moving the dark braid away from her cheek, where it lay coiled.

  “I think so,” Penelope said, struggling to sit up. In the distance, she saw her mother and several other people approaching. A strange, strangled noise diverted her attention and she turned to see the horse, Touchstone, lying on the ground a few feet away.

  “He went down,” Penelope said, not quite able to believe it.

  “He went down,” repeated Kelly.

  Everyone converged on Penelope then: her mother, the judges, the paramedic who was always present at these events. Penelope was examined and, when it seemed she was all right, helped to her feet. Her left cheek was abraded and bloody and her ribs ached, but apart from that, she was without injury.

  Touchstone was less fortunate. Penelope hobbled over to where the horse was still lying on the ground, thrashing his head and making the pained sound she had heard earlier. White foam coated his lips.

  A woman Penelope had not met but knew by sight knelt before him: the veterinarian who was another staple figure at the competitions.

  “How is he?” she asked. The woman didn't turn around immediately, but searched hurriedly through her large nylon bag for something. Kelly and Caroline came over to join them.

  “He'll be all right, won't he?” Penelope tried again.

  The woman turned to face her. “No,” she said. “He won't.”

  “Why not? What's wrong with him?”

  “That leg,” the vet gestured. Penelope saw how it was bent and twisted into some absurd angle. “And there's been some internal injury from the fall. He's bleeding inside. I'm going to have to put him down.” She called out to the stable hands. “Rob, Johnny. Could you boys start digging a hole?”

  “You're going to shoot him?” Penelope asked in a voice that she didn't quite recognize as belonging to her. “And then bury him?” The veterinarian stared at her before turning back to the horse.

  “They use injections now,” said Kelly. “You shouldn't watch.”

  “But I want to,” Penelope said.

  “Really, Penelope,” said Caroline, putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. “This is all very traumatic and I don't think—”

  “He's my horse!” said Penelope, her voice growing louder and wilder. “I'm going to watch and you won't stop me!” She shook off her mother's hand. Touchstone's eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily. The foam that painted his lips was tinged pink with blood.

  “I want to be here,” she told the woman.

  “All right,” said the vet tersely. “Don't make it worse, though. He's in a lot of pain.” Kelly and Caroline exchanged looks. Caroline moved forward as if to restrain Penelope, but Kelly stopped her.

  “Let her,” she said softly.

  The veterinarian filled the hypodermic needle, all the while soothing the horse with her words, her gestures. Penelope watched, transfixed, as the needle was raised, positioned and then plunged into the horse's flesh. His body shuddered gently and his nostrils dilated. The two stable hands were busy digging, and their shovels sent clods of earth flying up and around Penelope's legs.

  “Is that it?” she asked.

  “That's just the sedative,” the vet explained. “I'm going to give him the barbiturate now.” She prepared another injection and administered it quickly. Touchstone shook his mane once, as if trying to dislodge a fly. Then his great head slumped forward. Penelope was flooded with a feeling so intense she could barely contain it. Finally, she had seen it, that mysterious, shrouded passage from life to death, the one she had been cheated of when her father was taking his final breaths.

  There was no new horse to replace Touchstone, and the riding lessons were abandoned. Caroline worried less about this than she might have a few years earlier because finally Penelope seemed to have found some friends. In her freshman year of high school, she joined the Drama Society and the French Club. By junior year, the good looks she had as a child metamorphosed into an astonishing and uncommon beauty. Boys called day and night; girls were respectful and awed. Although her grades were no more than mediocre, she surprised everyone with her high-ranking test scores. She was placed on the waiting list at Barnard College in New York City and at the last minute she was admitted to the freshman class. Caroline was somewhat apprehensive about letting her go, but ultimately gave in. Driving her daughter down from Greenwich and into the heart of the city, Caroline knew there was something in Penelope that resisted all probing or parental concern; she would have to find her own way.

  And it seemed that she did, although there were detours along the way. She switched majors, made and dropped friends, couldn't really settle down and focus on anything. Though she tried to apply herself to her studies, the hours spent in Butler Library's dark stacks or reading rooms left her apathetic and uninspired.

  She was as lonely at Barnard as she had been everywhere else. Sitting outside the Avery Library at Columbia one spring afternoon during her senior year, she thought of the listless day she had spent, and the one that faced her tomorrow. Her stomach gently growled; she was hungry and reached into her bag for an apple, which she began to eat slowly and carefully, with a clear and focused appreciation for its sweet-tart taste, its crisp texture in her mouth as she bit, chewed and swallowed. It was only after several minutes that she even saw him, the tall, dark-haired young man who was staring—no, gawking—openly at her. As she continued to eat the apple, he moved closer but didn't say anything. Finally, Penelope broke the silence between them. “I have another one,” she said and looked down into the bag to find an apple. He took it from her hand. His eyes never left her face as he began to eat.

  OSCAR

  Oscar could not forget the conversation with his daughter-in-law earlier this evening. The way her voice had moved from impatience to anger to something like hysteria, and back to calm again. The hurtful things she had said. After Penelope had hung up, he really couldn't bear to face Ruth, because he had no idea what they were going to do. Then, the phone rang again, startling him from his momentary torpor. Mayb
e it was Gabriel. Or Penelope. But instead it was Molly, and since Ruth had picked up the phone as well, he gently set down the receiver and began to get ready for the theater. The company would be performing The Nutcracker again tonight.

  Oscar readied himself for the performance as he had readied himself hundreds, even thousands, of times before. As the winter sky quickly darkened, he stepped into a hot shower and washed himself with brisk, automatic movements. Out of habit, he still filled his palm with a generous squirt of shampoo, though he no longer had the luxuriant hair he once did. There was a large pale blue towel waiting to dry him—Ruth made sure it was an oversized one—and when he had used it, he put on fresh powder blue boxer shorts and a sleeveless white undershirt. He shaved carefully, using a shaving brush and cake of shaving soap that resided in a small, cedar wood bowl with a lid—a gift from Ruth.

  In the bedroom, Oscar put on black silk socks that had decorations called clocks above the ankle. No one would see these, of course, but Oscar liked to know that they were there. Then came the black trousers with the shiny black stripe down the outside of each leg and a long-sleeved white shirt. Buttons were buttoned and zippers zipped. He fastened a pair of black suspenders onto the waistband of the pants and snapped the suspenders over his shoulders. Since the shirt had no buttons at the wrist, Oscar put on a pair of simple gold cuff links, the ones his father used to own. He tied a black bow tie at the collar, not bothering with the mirror, though he would use the mirror later to make sure it was straight. He slipped on the black tuxedo jacket whose shining black lapels matched the seam that ran up the pants. Over this, he wore his black overcoat, a gray scarf of soft wool and a tweed hat. Although Oscar was frequently rumpled in his everyday incarnation, he was always meticulously groomed when he performed.

  He felt around inside his pockets for his gloves because he didn't like his hands to be chilled before a performance—it took too long for them to warm up. Also in his pocket were two fresh handkerchiefs—one for the ordinary purpose of blowing his nose, the other to place under his chin while he played. He quickly unsnapped the three brass hinges on his violin case, and performed the routine check of his instrument that he had performed hundreds of times before. Strings in proper position and not frayed, bridge perfectly perpendicular, chin rest securely in place. Satisfied that everything was in order, he checked the bow as well, making sure that it was still properly loosened. He snapped the case shut, walked into the other room and kissed Ruth good-bye. He nodded at his sister-in-law, Molly, who had somehow appeared and was now seated in the living room with Ruth. Then he headed down in the elevator and out into the street.

  The walk to the theater was a short one, and Oscar didn't notice a thing along the way. Displays of sweaters on sale at the Gap, card shops with half-priced Christmas wrap and cards, supermarkets with dozens of bottles of soda and cases of beer lined up in the windows, newsstands, bookstores, watch and shoe repair shops, all went unheeded.

  At the theater, he went downstairs to the locker room and left his belongings in the same dark green metal locker he had used for years: number 632. Carrying his violin and bow, he walked down the short hall, made a left turn and proceeded down a longer hall, until he reached the door that led to the orchestra pit. Several of his colleagues were already there, looking at their scores and warming up. Oscar heard the sound but didn't listen to it. He nodded to the cellist he had played with for two decades, to the French horn and several of the woodwinds. He took his seat and glanced at the music. The violin was picked up and placed under his chin, just so. The handkerchief came out of his pocket and was placed between his skin and his instrument. Then the conductor moved to the podium, the baton light and graceful as a wand in his agile fingers. The curtain went up and the performance was about to begin.

  In all the years Oscar had been doing this, he had never felt so deadened to these rituals as he did tonight, so completely unmoved by the humble but sacred preparations in service of his music. Even when he had been furious, depressed or exhausted, the simple movements that led him from the domestic world of family to this place had always calmed and centered him, always readied him for the task.

  Tonight, he found he was capable of playing the music and even of hearing it, but it did not resonate inside him; he was a somnambulist. The performance took on an abstract quality: there was sound, which he knew to be music, then more sound, which was applause, then silence, before it started all over again. Then there was the intermission, which had a different set of sounds, and more light. After the intermission, the sequence began again, and soon the performance was over, and he moved back, through the series of movements that had brought him here, only in reverse, like a videotape rewinding. Back down one hall and then the other, violin (whose residual rosin he wiped clean with a soft cloth) in the case instead of out, handkerchief—no longer fresh but damp with his exertion—back in the pocket, coat on again, walk uptown not down. On the way home, he slowed a bit when he came to Seventy-first Street, which was where Ginny lived. Oscar wondered whether she was there, or on her way home, and whether his son was with her. What would happen if he were to wait there, and confront them?

  He stood on the corner of Broadway and Seventy-first Street, staring down the avenue as if the force of his concentration would summon Ginny and Gabriel into view. But of course they did not appear. The street was bustling with people coming from Lincoln Center or from movie theaters, on their way to a late supper or a round of drinks with friends. He continued to stand there, his hands, now gloveless, growing cold and stiff, his feet beginning to hurt. This was foolish, he realized. Why would she bring him to that indifferently furnished, untidy place she called home? There was scarcely anything in it: a bed consisting of a box spring and mattress on the floor, a chest of drawers, a television on top of that. A couple of those fold-up canvas director's chairs, and a small table in the corner. Nothing hanging on the walls or at the windows, the soiled shades belonging to the last tenant. All the surfaces, and much of the floor, covered with clothes, some clean, some dirty, and a kitchen littered with take-out cartons and empty soda cans. “I can help you organize this a bit better,” Oscar had said months ago, when he was first getting to know her.

  “What for?” was her reply. “I don't spend much time here.”

  Oscar looked at his watch. Ginny could still be at the theater, changing her clothes and taking off her makeup. Or on her way to a hotel, where Gabriel would fuck her. Oscar regretted his own part in all of this, and felt ashamed that despite everything, he still wanted to fuck her himself. He ached not only with remorse for his culpability, but also with jealousy. He could admit it now: he was jealous of his own son. Really, he was a pathetic old man.

  Back at home, he barely said hello to Ruth and to Molly, who was still there. He went into the bedroom, changed his clothes, which he hung up carefully, put on his pajamas and got into bed. Sleep came easily, which was no surprise to him, since he felt as though he had already been asleep for hours.

  When he woke in the morning, Ruth was not there. A note on the table said that she had gone shopping. Oscar wondered whether this was true, or whether she too had been seized with some impulse to find the offending pair. But even if he and Ruth did find them, what good would it do? Was it really any of their business if Gabriel fucked Ginny and wrecked his marriage? He stood brooding for a moment, and then took out the butter, the orange juice and the milk from the refrigerator. It was only nine o'clock and he didn't have to be at the theater for hours. He glanced out the window and down at the newspaper, which Ruth had left neatly folded by his place at the table, as she always did. Was it mere chance that had caused her to leave it open to the dance review? Oscar picked up the paper and began to read.

  GINNY

  Dancers knew all about pain. It was like an old friend or a member of the family. There were different kinds of pain. Pain in muscles, pain in tendons, pain in joints. Some kinds of pain stabbed, others throbbed. Then there was pain in your feet,
which seemed to encompass everything, a kind of lightning rod for all the other pain. And those first weeks and months dancing on pointe revealed a special kind of pain, maybe because it was so unfamiliar.

  After the jumps Wes told Ginny and several other girls in her class to take off the soft leather ballet slippers they all wore and exchange them for the hard, satin-covered pointe shoes. Since they had been thinking about this, waiting for this, talking about this, for months, they were primed. The satin shoes—theirs were pink; Ginny's, black—came out of the narrow cardboard boxes and were examined, exclaimed over, compared. Some of the other girls had fancy little rabbitskin pouches to line the insides of the shoes. Ginny had a box of Red Cross lamb's wool, purchased at the drugstore by her mother. She wrapped a bit of it carefully around her toes, and slipped on the shoes, which were hard and ugly, at least while she was standing, and not dancing, in them. Tying the ribbons around the ankles improved things somewhat. Then Wes sent the girls back to the barre, where they did their first relevés onto pointe. What a sensation. Ginny felt she was being lifted up to a place she had never been before, her whole body, legs, arms, everything, impossibly balanced on two small earthbound spots. The contact with the floor was so slight that she could fool herself into thinking she didn't need it at all, that she would rise right up into the air itself. “Good work, Ginny,” she heard Wes murmur as he passed her.

  That first day, Wes didn't push too hard. They did relevés, some échappés and then some bourrées, while still holding on to the barre. Ginny heard the other girls complain about the pain, but she didn't feel it at all, at least not then. Even after the lesson, she stayed at the barre by herself, going over the simple movements, unable to believe the way she felt when she was just a few more inches off the ground. It was only later, when she removed the shoes and the lamb's wool, that she saw her tights were plastered to her toes with blood: she had danced them raw.