They passed by an old statue, overturned in the grass at the end of the makeshift parking lot, which was little more than a field. “Look here,” Max said. He put his big hands on his thighs and grunted with the effort to bend and read the inscription on the statue. It was of a bearded man perched on a crumbling stone platform, with eyes of hard stone, rigid and consciously blind, who held in his lap sheaths of wheat. A collie dog with tongue breathlessly exposed sat leaning against his legs. The entire statue was discolored, crumpling, and children had defaced it with chalk. “‘Out of our land’ it says there; very nice.” Max straightened with a luxurious sigh. “Very nice—it reminds me of a graveyard piece; his eyes are angels’ eyes.” Karen stared up at Max. She had had the same thought. “Now, my dear Karen,” the man said, smiling, “if you say that you do not want my man to examine you—and he is a fine doctor, a very learned man, you must not think that his giving himself up to me—to my atrocious health—means he is inferior—nothing could be more misleading—If you do not want him to examine you I can only conclude that you are indeed pregnant and that you will have to tell Shar about it, or I will have to tell him, one or the other; maybe both. Both of us at once. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? It would make it less difficult for you. I know you are—you are worried about—Shar is sometimes—But still you must do something about it. You agree with me?”
“I have nothing to say,” Karen said.
“But you fool me so! Not a one of them fools me like you do,” Max said, touching her chin. He held her face for a moment. “A very beautiful girl, it’s no wonder you are as you are! I suspect you have been pampered all your life and I agree with that—that is absolutely correct—you are made to be pampered and that is why we pamper you like we do—That is why I enjoy your persona, your little mask! Very discreet and learned. You think, I will make them think how stupid I am, how little I know! But you do not know how other women are—how . . . completely, happily stupid they are, how the wind whistles through their minds! Maybe Shar does not know, or Jerry or my doctor, but I know; I know. I know everything.”
Where the stadium ended and there were no refreshment stands or parked automobiles people were sitting peacefully in the grass. Many of them had picnic lunches and were drinking beer. A strange device had been set up: a stand made of pipes on which people were sitting, crowded happily, waving to people on the ground. There were perhaps fifteen people, including small children and even babies, on each of the five levels. Those on top had field glasses and straw hats to shade their eyes from the sun, and looked about proudly. Some of the men grinned down at Karen as she passed. They waved beer bottles.
“Do you see those lightning rods?” Max said. He pointed to the rods gleaming frantically on the old section of the stadium. “They are supposed to have been hit by lightning many times. Something to see, wouldn’t it? Have you ever seen lightning strike?”
“Yes,” said Karen. “It just goes into the ground.”
If Max was disappointed by this, he gave no sign. He seemed to take on the excitement of the crowd, and his walk became more spritely, almost youthful, as they approached the gate. “This will be a fine race, fine practice for Shar,” he said. “A good day for him. He’s beautiful to watch, isn’t he? I am the only owner who follows his men around, the only one who loves to watch them! I suppose they say I am queer—touched in the head.”
Karen smiled grimly. Max’s reputation, among his own men and among people who knew him, was not tempered by whimsy. His origin unknown, his motives inscrutable, he had worked his way into auto racing by force alone. Karen had not asked about him, but she had heard vague remarks: he was supposed to make his fortune in gambling. Wherever he traveled he was accompanied by two men: one of them Jerry, who drove, and the other Max’s own doctor, a blank-faced, silent, morose man of about forty who looked after Max’s imaginary illnesses. Max’s love was for Shar, however, and since Karen meant so much to Shar she deserved his love too; he had explained this to her carefully. “You will open my heart,” Max had said once. “You must not be afraid of me. I am prepared to love you—I want to love you. But you must not keep yourself from me.”
Their seats were near the wall, in the shade. Jerry and the doctor awaited them. Max complained merrily of the heat to the doctor, Jerry asked if there was anything he wanted done, any messages run down to the garage; they arranged themselves in a row. “My grandmother’s silver necklace,” Max said, pointing to Karen. “Never did it look so good on anyone before! She is a beautiful girl.” The doctor, sitting on the other side of Max, leaned over to stare without interest at Karen. He had thinning hair, a bald spot at the crown of his head. His eyes were sunken, flesh hung in loose folds on his face. On his lap, nearly embraced by his long arms, was the black bag in which he kept medical oddities for Max and liquor for himself. He said nothing. On Karen’s right Jerry sat, his legs crossed, his smartly polished shoes gleaming. He nodded sagely at Max’s remark and looked sideways at Karen. Karen did not meet his gaze. “Maybe she will grow more beautiful still,” Karen heard Max say to the doctor. “She has nothing to tell me. We will have to wait and see. She keeps secrets, she keeps to herself.”
Jerry lit a cigarette and said to Max, “It’s Shar you ought to of talked to. It’s his goddam fault. The way he acts you’d think a baby come out of a haystack one morning; he never did have any sense.”
“He isn’t very discreet,” Max said sadly.
“He’ll catch something one of these days,” Jerry said. “You can have the doctor shoot him full of something—good for all ailments.”
Behind them the stadium reared up gigantically, swarming with people. The frank, excited murmur of the crowd put Karen in mind, as it always did, of the danger that was impending; the delight of the crowd depressed her, oppressed her, she felt the bitter certainty that this would be Shar’s last race. She had seen many races, and each had promised to be the last.
She tried to put the noise out of her mind and sat gazing at the slow melting of the sky above the curve of the stadium. Sunlight slanted down across the weathered roof of the stadium, sheering off the lightning rods and the dull rotting shingles onto the track and the dry green infield. There were billboards and posters on the stadium walls, shredded by wind and rain. The wall to Jerry’s right was covered with scrawls and obscene drawings, some of them in lipstick. Karen stared at them guiltily, as if they were something she had done. She closed her eyes. She was exhausted: Max’s presence exhausted her, threatened her, the impending trial of speed exhausted her—paralyzed her mind. She felt the brutality of the contest.
Down at the garage Shar would be in the car, and one of the men, perhaps, leaning in the doorway of the garage enclosure; the barbed-wire door, eight feet high, would be ajar. Someone’s cotton gloves, smeared with oil, would be stuck through the fence. Oil would lie on the ground in shallow pools. Shar’s face, partially concealed by the helmet and the green glasses, would have taken on the aspect of a mask, and except for his repeated grimaces, his lips grinning and relaxing, he would seem no more alive than the slender car. One of the men would be patting the hood of the car, showing his devotion. The gleam of the hood would look cold in the hot sun. The other men, the mechanics, would watch Shar curiously, though not with concern, since they could not believe he was like them; they could not sympathize with the man who stared out at them through the green glasses. Perhaps they believed, as Karen did, that Shar had yet to learn fear, that he required someone to teach him. A gust of wind would pick up dust and blow it hotly against the faces of the men—they would blink against the pain, a tribute to their mortality.
A voice over the loud-speaker announced the race with great pleasure and zest. Karen opened her eyes reluctantly. “Let’s feel your hand,” Jerry said. He took hold of her and said, grinning, to Max, “She’s afraid of this one.” Jerry was a short, slim, neat man of about thirty-eight, though he looked younger. “Her hand is like ice.”
“Let go of her,” Max
said without looking around.
The sound of the crowd, its delighted roar, brought Karen back to reality. She forced herself to stare down at the track. She awaited the familiar roaring. The voice over the loud-speaker identified the drivers and their cars lovingly. “Here it goes,” Jerry said, craning his neck.
For a moment the roar of the autos filled the air; then it seemed to be yanked away. The car designed by Max’s company was silver, and gleamed in the sunlight with a fine, sleek cleanliness. It sped above the dark earth with such precision and power that Karen felt, as always, the suggestion of something unnatural—almost mystical—in what she saw. “Beautiful, beautiful,” Max murmured, clasping his big hands together. “A fine start.”
The crowd cheered. Shar drove in a whirl of dust, through the dust, around now to the turn, and the dust wove through and behind him, for a moment obscuring the soiled white of the outer retaining wall, as though the wall itself had turned to swirling dust. Because of his record Shar was placed last at the start, and ahead of him the uneven string of cars seemed to jerk and glint in the light, veering from left to right. Seeing Shar approach them, the crowd yelled its encouragement, as if they supposed Shar was behind because of his clumsiness and was now making a move to catch up.
The lead cars were so far away that Karen could not see their numbers. She heard Max and Jerry exchanging information that meant nothing to her; Shar had an enemy somewhere, one of the drivers. One of the men. Now Shar’s approach steadied and it looked as if the distance between him and the lead cars was static. All the cars looked as if they were set motionless on a great revolving disc. “He’s waiting for something,” Jerry said. Races made him excited, like a child; he began them coolly, ended them in a passion. “There. He’s starting in to move.”
Karen felt the excitement of the crowd begin to pulsate within her. The cars were at the far turn and reeled now back toward the stadium. Sunlight flashed off the hoods, then was obscured by a thin floating cloud of dust. “There, there,” Jerry said, reaching across to grip Max. “What did I tell you?” They clasped hands in their excitement. Shar was still behind the other autos, but he had begun to swerve his car out carefully toward the retaining wall so that he could inch up on the others. For all his speed, he moved slowly and painstakingly, as if he were able to draw himself forward only by a dizzying rapport between himself and the next car.
“Look at that,” Jerry said. “Beautiful driving! Did you see that?” Karen did not understand. Out on the track Shar began to overtake the others more deliberately. He moved above the dirt in the little car as though he were willing the movement—Shar with his look of neat, useless, splendid artifice, his shielded eyes, gloved hands, the stiff appearance of his fireproof clothing. The crowd pushed him ahead with their encouragement. Their strained voices were tense with anticipated pleasure.
The silver car moved up alongside the others, passing them with effort. Fragmented clouds of dust blew against it. Karen’s throat was dry. The voice out of the loud-speaker suddenly announced something: there was an accident out in one of the fields, there were spectators involved. He asked for calmness, for people to keep their seats. Everyone, even Karen, wanted to brush aside his words, as if they hovered like insects about them, distracting them from the race. “Accident!” Max said. “A terrible word! The man should be punished, to use such a word at this time!” They heard the wail of an ambulance; one of the ambulances down by the track turned and moved out of sight. Again the voice asked for calm, and then it too returned to the race.
Jerry gripped Karen with his lean, strong fingers. “Son of a bitch!” he said happily. Shar was overtaking the others. Karen stared: she thought at any second she would see him swerve out of the groove and into the pile of tire dust at the turns, and then swerve and spin helplessly to the outer wall, his figure within the careening car a blur—the crowd would scream in delight, Jerry would stand—suddenly—swearing—But nothing happened. He passed three cars; another; he was moving up skillfully on the outside. It was queer to think that Shar performed this game as if he were nothing to her, as if none of them even knew him. He might have been a stranger, reeling around through the blinding dust and the hot smell of oil; and for an instant she felt the fear of losing him, greater than the fear that he might die. What could draw that man to her, what could strengthen the rapport between them, jerk it taut like a length of wire? “Shar, Shar,” Karen murmured aloud, her heart pumping as the stadium shivered with excitement. She felt the people behind her, hot and damp, crying out to the drivers. She felt herself ease in among them, her own body wet like theirs with perspiration. The muscles about her mouth were taut as she tried not to cry out.
The silver car moved up into third place, on the outside. A long trail of dust lifted behind it. Four cars swerved around the turn at once. “There,” Jerry said in alarm, “look at those sons of bitches. What did I tell you? That’s him—that’s the one.” The two lead cars raced side by side; Karen gathered from what was being said that they were from the same company. She could not understand most of what was going on and took no interest in it except at this time. “What did I tell you?” cried Jerry to no one.
Racing down the stretch toward them now, the cars were still together; they sped in a tight, shivering clump, slowly drawing closer to one another. Now Shar, on the outside, raised a hand to signal for something. He wanted the car before him to move over. They sped past, swerving around the curve. The other car—it was bright red—slid out a little, but before Shar had time to ease into the space the other car came back. Beside Karen Jerry sat striking his palm with his fist. “The sons of bitches,” he said. “Small-time hicks with two drivers.” Shar had drawn up close behind the outside car and now he eased his car forward so that it touched the other, gently; everyone saw the man’s helmeted head jerk around as if he were terrified. “My good God,” Max said. In astonishment his hand crept to his chest, as if to soothe his pounding heart. The man in the red car made a motion for Shar to get back. Shar prodded the car again.
Now some of the people in the stands got to their feet. “Get him! Get him!” they shouted; Karen did not know what they meant. The smell of food and perspiration seemed to be pushed forward by their noise. “Look at those sons of bitches,” Jerry said, “think they got it all planned! Aren’t they asking for it? Why won’t that guy let him through? Don’t they know who he is?”
Jerry was grinding his hands together, flesh against flesh. In reality he hated Shar, but at races he adored him; like most of the men, Shar included, he seemed to come alive only at this spectacle of danger. “There! There!” Jerry cried with pleasure. “Now he’s coming.” Everyone stood. Max helped Karen up, taking time to smile down at her. A murmur rose to a swell and broke as Shar prodded the red car again—this time the car gave way, easing out to give Shar room. The driver turned and motioned for Shar to pass. The people cheered. They felt the silver car had made its way forward against all obstacles, that it deserved to win. “Good, there he goes,” Jerry said. Shar had begun inching up into the space. The lead car whirled around the turn as if trying desperately to get away from him. Shar was a few yards behind it, and the red car, on the outside, was a few yards behind Shar; the fourth car had dropped behind. They made the turn and raced down the stretch. Karen could see, shielding her eyes, that Shar and the driver in the red car were making signs to each other. “What are they doing?” she said aloud. No one heard her. The red car began to drop back deliberately. It gave way to Shar and the crowd took this with disappointment; someone cried, “A coward! A coward!” The car dropped back again and Karen saw—at first without comprehension—that Shar too had dropped back, as if to tease him; they raced now side by side. At this maneuver a group of men in smart gold and maroon uniforms knowingly broke into applause; they grinned and nodded at one another. This was something to see! This was how it was done!
Max reached across Karen and touched Jerry. “Get down there,” he said. “Have them tell him to stop
. This is enough.” Jerry leaned across Karen and said with a pained look, “What the hell? Do you think I can tell him anything?” “Have them down at the garage write ‘don’t’ on the blackboard—go on. Do it,” Max said, showing his teeth.
Jerry got up and went somewhere. Down on the track Shar was bumping the red car. The red car tried to speed ahead to escape, then tried to fall back to escape; Shar kept even with it. The lead car strained to get away from this trouble, and behind the two struggling cars the others rushed in a flurry of mute order, stung with dust.
Max and Karen looked up to see Jerry return. “I can’t get down there,” he shouted across to Max. “I saw the pit, though. Mitch is out there holding up a sign.” Behind them the crowd roared continuously. Max strained to hear Jerry. “He’s got something written on it for Shar—I can’t do no more.” “Can’t you even get down there?” Max said. “The exit’s blocked with kids,” Jerry said. “Besides, I can’t do no more. Let him have his fun.” Max stared. Veins in his forehead had swollen. Karen, looking at his big face so close to hers, felt sudden revulsion for him. “You could tell him a tire’s going. You could tell him to come in,” Max said. He spoke calmly. “I can’t,” Jerry said, “Goddam it, I told you the exit’s blocked.”
Max sat back. Shar and the driver in the red car were approaching the turn before the other wing of the stadium. Shar eased out to give the car another prod, then he pulled past; he straightened out and began to move away. The crowd showed its disappointment. “Ought to show the bastard! The coward!” a very drunken man behind Karen screamed. Though the spectators seemed to think the fun was past, Jerry said into Karen’s ear, “Watch this. Watch your boy.” Karen stared as if there were something down on the track she ought to be seeing. “Here comes an accident if I ever saw one,” Jerry murmured. “That son of a bitch!” And then it happened, as neatly and as surprisingly as if it were truly an accident—no one could blame Shar for this: at the turn, the silver car, going a little too fast, swerved out and sideswiped the red car, not very seriously. The silver car, shaking for a moment, regained control of itself. The red car seemed all right—everyone screamed, but for what, for whose sake, Karen could not tell—and, as if in answer to the crowd’s secret desire, the car spun suddenly out of control. Out of the invisible ring of pressure it flew, and as Shar and the lead car sped away, the red car traded ends, dust exploded up like a bomb, the volume of the crowd’s delight swelled to bursting. All eyes followed the stricken car as it headed for the retaining wall. For an instant it looked isolated: it seemed to hang against the dirty wall, a little off the ground. Then it jerked back into motion and, bursting into flames, scraped along the wall like a discarded toy, farther and farther along the wall, perhaps for a hundred feet, skidding, with its yellow flames almost obscuring it. What was left of it slammed finally against a concrete jutting and stopped.