The Horses of the Night Read Online Free PDF Page A

professional, two men of talent sharing the late afternoon. There was an unsettling undercurrent, however, which was unexpressed, something that troubled Peterson deeply.
    He looked away from me, leaning against the counter, running his finger over a bead of water. “You don’t sound bitter.”
    â€œI am,” I said, but in a way that denied the words.
    â€œI don’t blame you.”
    Peterson leaned like a man about to deliver bad news, or a confession. “You forgot about DeVere.”
    â€œI thought that this time …”
    â€œThere would be justice,” said Peterson, completing my thought. Peterson paused, and gave his twist of lemon a poke with a forefinger. “I should refuse the prize,” he said abruptly.
    I let him continue, suddenly hopeful.
    â€œIt won’t be actually awarded for a few weeks,” he said. “I have plenty of time to turn it down, and the prize will be yours.”
    â€œWhy would you do that?” I asked.
    Peterson did not respond at once. He motioned with his head, and we stepped to a table well out of the way. The bar was filling up with architects and accountants. The lounge was a study in the sort of lighting Rembrandt would have adored, and each of the scattered couples looked both weary and aglow.
    But Peterson did not look youthful just now. Something kept him from speaking. At last, he said, “Anyone could understand why he hates you.”
    I chuckled. “Isn’t that a little strong? People don’t hate each other anymore. They feel competitive. They feel a rivalry. Hatred is out of style.”
    â€œHe’s invented his own reputation—and everyone believes him. Designs sportscars for Nissan. Airports for Zurich, Singapore. Practically dictates to the city of San Francisco what architects they should hire and what color the mayor’s suits should be. He’s thinking of letting R.J. Reynolds put his name on a brand of cigarettes. He and Renman have lunch with the president. And he takes the trouble to see you as a threat.”
    â€œYes, it’s a little hard to understand,” I said, with a dry laugh.
    â€œNot really. You have taste. You have a name. And people like you.”
    I gave a half-embarrassed chuckle.
    â€œBut it’s true. You’re naturally, by birth, what DeVere would love to be. His background isn’t all that glamorous. Didn’t he change his name—?”
    â€œVernon. Tyron Vernon.” I felt a little protective of DeVere for a moment. Everything about him was artificial, and therefore something like a work of art. Ty DeVere was a name with spin, I had to admit. And didn’t most Americans remake themselves in one way or another, changing names, dwellings, spouses, working hard to shed the past? “His background was agricultural.”
    Peterson considered this. “His costumes for Carmen were not bad. And I suppose his line of dress shirts does something for a man with a certain build. The sort of man who looks good in anything.”
    Peterson seemed to consider his own words, and then continued, “Anna Wick does most of the work. She has a handshake that makes your bones ache for a hour.”
    â€œShe’s a remarkable woman.”
    â€œShe’s what you might call self-made, too, isn’t she?”
    â€œBorn Annabelle Wickford in Medford, Oregon,” I said. “The rumor is she never sleeps.”
    Peterson absorbed this, then went on, “I think that he has done more harm to you than you can possibly believe,” he said.
    His words made me gaze into my own drink, an untouched brandy and soda. When I looked up, he was waiting, as though he needed my permission to speak further.
    â€œHow would you describe your career?” he asked.
    â€œI’ve had some interesting projects. I’ve designed a few roof gardens, and I’ve drawn up plans for a few schools. Usually donating my time, of course.”
    â€œBut