When a race began, Nachman was thrilled by the sight of the horses lunging out of the gate, then flowing along the rail at the far turn, and then the sight of them coming around the turn in his direction, a flurry of churning legs, hooves pounding the track, jockeys bent low to the horses’ necks, whispering to them like lovers.
Since Nachman believed he could know which horse was likely to win, it took a little bit from the thrill. If you told Nachman, “You could enjoy the full thrill if you didn’t let yourself read the Racing Form and tip sheets. Then you wouldn’t know anything,” Nachman would agree. He would even confess that he felt hypocritical, pretending that he didn’t know more than the next guy. But Nachman was fascinated by the Form and tip sheets. The information, the innocent scholarship, the whole idea of such literature was fascinating to Nachman. It intrigued him that you could publish a tremendous amount of statistical information about the horses and yet not reveal the name of the horse that would almost always win the race.
People believed too many indeterminable factors enter into a horse race. Nachman was aware of this belief, and he also knew that skeptical philosophers, including the genius Hume, said the same thing as people who bet on horse races. Regardless of statistics, the future is a mystery. You can’t even be sure the sun will rise tomorrow. Nachman wished it were true. He was confident that it was mainly untrue.
A jockey could ride badly, or a horse could get sick, or a race could even be fixed, but it was mainly untrue that the winner couldn’t be predicted much of the time, if not always. Nachman wasn’t a man who turned his back on truth, but he only played the horses, betting intuitively, making his choices by the look of a horse, the reputation of the jockey, the prevailing odds, and other considerations, what Nachman called “deep imponderables.” What a horse eats, for example, can affect performance, and who knows if a horse feels depressed? In short, Nachman had respect for the unknown. But he’d been born with a mind, and it had a great potential to know the truth. The truth was that many races were over before they started.
In today’s last race, a horse named Frenchy was listed at twenty to one. Such pessimistic odds were embarrassing. Why had Frenchy been entered at all?
As usual, Nachman looked at the Racing Form and tip sheets, and then looked at the magnificent horses, particularly Frenchy. His color was mahogany with a strong reddish tint. He was big, with a deep chest and long legs. There was exceptional snap and vibrancy in the muscles of his flanks and shoulders. If you laid your ear against him, thought Nachman, you’d hear a humming. What a pity that such a grand horse was a loser. Even as he thought this, Nachman’s system pressed into mind with strange information. Frenchy would win. Nachman hadn’t wanted to know, but willy-nilly, his system said Frenchy would win, though it was statistically impossible. Nachman knew about the horse. Frenchy was clocked at record-breaking speed during workouts, but after a few early wins he’d come in fourth and fifth, out of the money. He’d lost heart for winning. This happens to a horse, Nachman believed, just as it happens to a person. There were gifted mathematicians who never achieved what was expected of them. High expectations, not mathematical problems, led to mental impotence. Frenchy was like them. He knew he was expected to win, so he couldn’t win. Frenchy was worse than a loser.
But maybe something had changed. Maybe it was the new jockey, a Mexican named Carlos Aroyo whom the owners had brought up to the States to ride Frenchy. Aroyo was reputed to understand problem horses. Knew how to talk to them. Won a lot of races. A great jockey. You could bet on him, if not the horse, but not at twenty to one. Nachman’s system couldn’t handle psychological mysteries. Problems, yes. Mysteries, not likely.
Nachman must have made a mistake in the calculations, or there were subtle factors, implicit in his system, that he’d failed to notice. An honest mistake. But maybe there was something else at work. Nachman wanted Frenchy to win because the horse was beautiful. Frenchy’s beauty and Nachman’s yearning had entered the calculations, and come up with a sentimental assertion. Dishonest but not deplorable. Merely human.
Some of the greatest mathematicians had thought, because their proofs were beautiful, they revealed the secrets of God. Nachman was moved by their visionary enthusiasm, but he wasn’t mystical. Frenchy’s numbers were simply wrong. His beauty was irrelevant. Nachman’s yearning was irrelevant. His system had exceeded itself. He wanted to figure out why, but he couldn’t do it now. The race was minutes away.
Nachman joined the line to the betting window, a twenty-dollar bill in his hand, prepared to bet on a horse named Night Flower, not Frenchy of course. In front of Nachman stood Horace and a little girl, about nine years old. She had the same skin tone as Horace, the same eyes and mouth. Obviously Horace’s daughter. She noticed Nachman smiling at her and said, “My mom is in the hospital. That’s why I’m not in school.”
Horace turned and said, “How are you doing, Nachman?”
“All right. I’m sorry about your wife, Horace.”
“Everything is fine. Don’t listen to her.”
The girl said, “He won’t let me go to school because he’s scared to be alone.”
Horace said, “Be quiet, Camille. And tie your shoelaces.” Then he looked Nachman in the eye and said, “If I stay home I’ll go crazy.”
“You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business.”
“We went to the hospital this morning.”
The line moved. Horace turned away to the betting window and said, “Fifty bucks on Ladies’ Man to win.”
Impulsively, Nachman said, “No. Fifty bucks on Frenchy.”
Horace pulled his money back, as if he’d burned his hand.
The betting agent said, “Which is it?”
Horace said, “Give me a second, please,” and then to Nachman, “Frenchy is twenty to one. You know something I don’t?”
Nachman said, “Frenchy.”
Nachman’s voice was strong with authority, as if he knew what he was talking about. In fact, he’d never been less certain of himself, but he wanted to give something to Horace. Frenchy was all he had.
Horace turned back and slid the money across the counter. Nachman placed his own bet, then joined Horace and his daughter. They walked down the steps and worked their way through the crowd to the rail. Horace didn’t look at Nachman.
“You don’t win, I’ll give you fifty dollars,” said Nachman, regretful and anxious. It became worse when Horace said, “I made the bet. I lose, I lose. Any other day but today, Nachman. Any other day.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t have done it.”
“You did the right thing,” said Nachman, bluffing, unable to shut up. “When Frenchy wins, you’ll make a thousand dollars.”
“I don’t need a thousand dollars.”
“What do you need?”
Horace didn’t answer, which made things still worse. Apparently, the race now meant a great deal to him. The race was on. Nachman had to force himself to look.
The pack bunched up coming out of the gate and stayed tight until Night Flower took the lead. Nachman couldn’t see Frenchy, but he heard the announcer say Frenchy was running fifth. Nachman stared strictly at the horses. He thought he could feel Horace glance at him. Then the announcer said Frenchy was coming up through the pack, running fourth, running third. Camille began screaming, “Frenchy, Frenchy,” as the horses came into the stretch. Horace placed his fists on the rail and hammered it slowly, methodically. Nachman looked at him, hoping for a connection, anticipating Horace’s disappointment and maybe anger. Frenchy couldn’t win. At least he looked better than usual, thought Nachman. Horace’s face showed nothing, but Nachman saw terrible intensity in his fists. In the stretch, Frenchy pulled ahead fast and won by three lengths.