Moscow Racetrack by Anatoly Gladilin

Author:Anatoly Gladilin [GLADILIN, ANATOLY]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC022000, FIC014000
ISBN: 9781468304497
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2012-07-10T00:00:00+00:00

EXCERPT FROM THE RULES:

Parimutuel booths are operated in the racetrack. Play outside the totalizator booths is categorically forbidden. Offenders will be held strictly responsible.

* * *

“Mind you, Taras,” they used to say to him at the stud farm, “a jockey’s time, like a young girl’s, is short, and the racing season in Moscow is shorter still.” From this moral admonition, it followed: “Succeed, my son—make money; it isn’t for nothing we’re setting you up in the capital!” Of course it isn’t. You’re going to have to bring presents for the grooms, the trainers, the production manager, the veterinarian, or else they’ll send someone else next year. It’s easy to say, “Succeed in making money,” but how? For the Moscow jockeys, there’re races year ‘round; they rake the money in with shovels. But for us racers, there’s only five months: from May to October. The foreman’s taken all the top goods for himself. Taras has four little mares, four poor things for a guy who isn’t even considered a jockey (there is no other athletic category), and who’s designated on the program as “rider T. Tarasyuk, green silks, red helmet and sleeves.”

Taras Tarasyuk took to his work with spirit at first. Once he came in first, two second places, one third. But then the good fortune of the rider in the green silks and red helmet and sleeves came to an end. They took his little mares off to the next group, to the stronger horses, and Taras was reduced to the usual dusteaters. True, after the first victory they began to respect Taras at the track. They’d give him twenty when they fixed a race, which means he wouldn’t go. Taras took the money eagerly; he reasoned things looked brighter that way. But then the crooks figured out that Taras’ little mares didn’t have any reserve—and they stopped coming up to him.

Like today. The race was decided without Taras. They let Scout and Saishen by, took out Thoughtful and Little Lip, and handed Uncle Seryozha a tenner for insurance, but they didn’t even bring Taras a glass of port.

“Uncle Seryozha, it isn’t fair,” grumbled Taras. “Tell the guys that they ought to throw down at least a five.”

“But what can I do about it?” sighed Uncle Seryozha, jockey first class, and he lasciviously looked askance. “Talk to Snake himself; he’s the boss these days.”

Snake, Master Jockey Zmiev-Snakitch, greeted Taras rudely. Snake reeked of brandy from ten paces away. Evidently, the master jockey had acquired it only this morning.

“Don’t mess with me, pal,” Snake said as he interrupted Taras’s call for fairness and brotherhood, “I’m not the Gosznak factory; I don’t print tenners. I’ll tell you straight, like before the comrade’s court: my Scout is ready for a 2.25. And what’s your Deep got? Will she finish in under two and a half minutes?”

“Deep’s got balls,” Taras mournfully squeaked, but Snake burst out laughing.

“Fuck your mare with the balls, and you’ll be in deep shit.”

Snake had offended Taras and had offended him deeply.

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