The Dead Horse

They believed their hearts were embroidered with the same veins as the leaves in the pages of their natural science textbook, each leaf identical and yet unique. The three of them ran and played together in the afternoons at the far end of the garden; they always wore their hair down, curls bouncing behind them. They ran as far as the wire fence bordering the dirt road. From time to time they heard the train passing with its fiery breath, provoking nostalgia for a joyful trip on the top bunk of a sleeping car cabin with its rattling glass windows and piles of suitcases.

In the shadow of abandoned swings left to sway in the wind, every afternoon at five o’clock they saw a barefoot boy ride by on horseback. Ever since the first day they saw that boy on the dark horse, the girls had been united by a magical presence, swirling in a circle all around the garden. The three of them had never gotten along as friends: one of the two sisters was always by herself when they went walking, her face a stormy sky, while the other linked arms tightly with the friend. And now the three of them went everywhere together from morning to night. Miss Harrington no longer had any power over them. It was useless for her to swallow up the garden with her enormous steps, calling them with a voice too girlish for her size. Poor Miss Harrington cried lonely tears in her room at night. She had arrived at that house one evening during the Christmas holiday. The children had hidden behind the door, laughing riotously as they watched her come in. The long stride of her reluctant legs gave her the appearance of a strict and hardhearted governess. At that moment Miss Harrington felt smaller than her charges: she knew nothing about geography and couldn’t remember any historical events. Powerless to overcome the length of her stride, she climbed the staircase in endless agony to the suite where the lady of the house resided.

She’d been living with them for four years, tending to whichever outcast had lost the fight, and now there were no longer any fights to keep her from feeling lonely. The boys had gone off to school that year, and the girls were too inseparable to obey any order. This tangled triptych that had survived on scratches and hair pulling was now a surprise to everyone in the house. They were so calm, like they were posing for an invisible photographer; they were becoming aware of growing up, which made one of them sad and pleased the other two. And so at times they were quiet and still, as if they were sitting to have their hair done up for a party.

At five o’clock the boy on horseback, who was the gatekeeper’s son, would ride by on the dirt road, and their desire to see him sent them running to the wire fence. They gave him coins and stamps as gifts, but the boy said atrocious things to them.