French Twist Read online

  Armand’s face also looks sad, then horrified, and then…his face quickly turns to a red and wild rage.

  “Comment as-tu pu?” he screams it over and over. How could you? How could you?

  “J’ai le diable pour fils!” he screams. I have the devil for a son!

  K. Burke and I move to either side of Léon.

  Armand also moves closer to his son. He faces Léon. Tears are rolling down Armand’s cheeks. I am expecting the symbolic slap across the face.

  But there is no slap. Instead Armand moves swiftly. He throws his fist up high. That fist travels to his son’s jaw with enormous force and a great cracking sound. Léon falls to the floor of the stable. He moans.

  Armand looks down at his son and spits, then he screams and runs from the stable.

  Chapter 36

  Belmont.

  Race Day.

  At ten in the morning, Marguerite and Nicolas Savatier, K. Burke, and I watch a young Cuban jockey taking Garçon on a gallop around a training track. Also watching the “audition” of the replacement jockey are assorted trainers, sports writers, Belmont officials, and even four competing jockeys. Garçon appears relaxed and ready.

  “Que pensez-vous, mes amis?” I say to the owners. What do you think of it, my friends?

  “He will have to do,” says Nicolas.

  Marguerite says what we are all thinking. “It is a tragedy. To come this far. To be this close. The Triple Crown within sight…”

  The most senior of the Belmont officials says, “You can still withdraw the horse, Mrs. Savatier. It’s happened before.”

  “No. I could not do that to Garçon. My wonderful horse has waited all his life for this,” says Marguerite.

  Everyone present has a point of view. One of the trainers thinks the Cuban jockey is “almost as good as Armand.” Another thinks the Cuban jockey is “trop rapide avec la cravache.”

  “Okay, Moncrief. I can’t translate that one,” K. Burke says.

  “The jockey is ‘too quick with the riding crop,’” I answer.

  The talk grows faster, more passionate. I hear Marguerite say, “Garçon will race even if I have to ride him myself.”

  Then I watch Nicolas look toward the vibrant blue sky and say, “Aidez-moi, s’il vous plaît, mon cher Dieu.” Please help me, dear God.

  Then a man’s voice comes from behind us. Startling all of us.

  It is sudden and strong.

  “Who is riding my horse?” he shouts.

  The voice belongs to Armand Joscoe.

  “Armand…” says Marguerite. “We have not seen you since yesterday. We had no idea where you were.”

  Armand tells us that since yesterday morning he has been dealing with the Belmont New York police, as well as an assistant New York State attorney general, two representatives of the New York State Racing Commission, two attorneys who represent Belmont Park, and a son who has committed a serious and unforgivable crime.

  Quickly Marguerite interrupts.

  “No,” she says. “Nothing is so serious that it cannot be forgiven.”

  “So true. So true,” says Nicolas. “You are here with us now. We shall all be friends once again. You will see.”

  The Cuban jockey has alighted from Garçon. Armand Joscoe rushes toward “his” horse. Then he shouts for the trainers.

  “Get the drying cloths immediately. He’s wet. Walk him slowly. Cool him down. Feed him half of his usual food. Get him inside. Hurry!”

  The only way to describe the faces of Marguerite and Nicolas is “joyful.”

  I turn to my partner.

  “So, what do you think, K. Burke?”

  “Well, with all the Savatiers’ talk about forgiveness and everyone being friends again, I can only think one thing: those two would never make it in New York City.”

  I laugh and say, “K. Burke, vous êtes un biscuit dur.”

  She smiles, but not with her eyes. “Not as tough a cookie as I seem.”

  Chapter 37

  Belmont.

  The race.

  K. Burke, Nicolas and Marguerite Savatier, Luc Moncrief. Together again at a horse race, for the third time.

  In the owners’ circle. The weather is perfect, even cool for summer. We are all tense, tired, a little shaky from raw nerves and too many glasses of pre-race champagne.

  “You know, K. Burke, two years ago, when American Pharoah won this race, it had been almost forty years since any horse had captured the Triple Crown. The wise guys, the smart money, ‘the horse guys,’ they all say it will be another forty years before it happens again. They have weighed the odds. They know the facts. I worry for Garçon’s chances.”

  Burke makes a skeptical face.

  “That’s what ‘the horse guys’ say. I guess I’m getting more and more like you, Moncrief. I say, ‘Don’t always go with the facts. Sometimes you have to go with your heart.’”

  Nicolas has been listening to our conversation.

  “My heart says that I am enormously grateful that Armand has returned to the job of jockey. You know, I don’t really care if Garçon wins the race.”

  “Don’t be insane, Nicolas. I certainly care,” says Marguerite. “Indeed, feel however you like. I care enough for the both of us.”

  The four of us could easily banter and bicker until night falls, but the trumpet blows. The horses assemble within the starting gate. Of course, our attention is focused on Garçon. He seems under control, calm. I glance at Millie’s Baby Boy. He’s equally calm. Rufus, the only other real contender, is skittish.

  The gun.

  The race.

  The cheers.

  I am no expert at calling races, but from the start we all can see that it’s going to be close. Garçon and Millie’s Baby Boy take the lead together. They are, as the inevitable saying goes, neck-in-neck. So close that the two riders could carry on a conversation.

  As always, Burke is amazingly excited. She shouts. “Hey, Millie, get off Garçon’s ass!”

  The two horses seem almost to run as a team. But then…as they close in on the finish, I am ecstatic to see that Millie’s Baby Boy is falling behind. Not behind a great deal at first. Just a bit. Then a length. Then perhaps three lengths.

  But now…as they approach the finish…What should be a glorious win for Garçon turns into a problem.

  From fifth-in-the-pack, Rufus has become Garçon’s new partner.

  And now…and now…

  My eyes cannot see even a slight difference as they cross the finish line.

  Different people erupt with different shouts. Rufus! Garçon! Rufus! Garçon! An announcement. The crowd quiets.

  The photo sign will be posted and the results will be announced.

  The waiting, of course, feels like a few hundred lifetimes.

  The crowd turns even quieter.

  Video screens play the finish over and over.

  Finally, a voice echoes out of the loudspeakers:

  “The winner, by a head, is Garçon.”

  EPILOGUE

  K. Burke and I are together in Paris.

  Why Paris? Because the Savatiers have decided to forgo the final important race in America, the Breeders’ Cup. Instead, Garçon has been brought home to Paris to compete in the most important of French races, Le Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe.

  Why together?

  Frankly, because I find it impossible now to be in Paris without her. After our previous visits, visits that were touched with both tragedy and tenderness, Katherine Burke has given me new eyes to see Paris, from the glamorous shops on the Champs-Élysées to that perfect little bistro in Montmartre.

  Burke and I are walking slowly through the Bois de Boulogne, the great forest-like park on the outskirts of Paris. It is also in the Bois where Parisians keep their own famous racetrack, Longchamp.

  “Leave it to the French to build a racetrack smack dab in the middle of a beautiful park,” says K. Burke.

  “The park is for fun. The track is for games. Fun and games,” I
say.

  “Whatever you say. Anyway, I’m always happy to be here,” she says.

  “And you will be even happier if tomorrow Garçon wins.”

  “Yes, I will. Especially that it’s my own one hundred euros that I bet on him.”

  We walk without speaking for a few minutes.

  It is October in Paris. Usually a rainy time of the year. But today the air is cool and the sky is bright. The trees are dripping with color—autumn reds and yellows.

  “I hope the weather will be this great tomorrow,” I say.

  We are now walking so close to each other that our shoulders occasionally touch, our hands occasionally brush against each other’s.

  “And if the weather isn’t so great, at least we’re in Paris,” she says.

  “You have grown to like this city, eh, K. Burke?”

  “I’ve grown to love this city,” she says.

  “Maybe we should both move here, live here,” I say.

  “If you’d said that a year ago I would simply say that you’re crazy,” she says. “But now I almost feel the same way.”

  I stop. I talk.

  “That means we have become crazy together.”

  She says, “So now we’re both crazy. I guess that’s good.”

  I take her hand. We continue our walk.

  About the Authors

  James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

  Richard Dilallo is a former advertising creative director. He has had numerous articles published in major magazines. He lives in Manhattan with his wife.

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