The Horses of the Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

horse, or a winning lottery ticket.
    And yet I found my eyes lingering on the horoscope column of the newspaper occasionally, and I was never entirely pleased to have the path ahead of me occupied by a black cat. A sunny day cheered me, and the glimpse of a full moon made me feel in touch with something profound. I had sometimes made a wish before blowing out my birthday candles, even when the cake was on a balcony in Venice, or in a lounge in Monte Carlo. Perhaps I believed, in a way I would have been ashamed to admit to myself, that the future could be outguessed.
    Now, once again, my future withered.
    This anger was bad. There was only one way to exorcise it.

5
    Nona had once told me that I was hoping to get caught in a riptide, hoping that I would have to fight for my life in the waves.
    â€œYou might be afraid of it, but you have to admit the truth,” she had said. “It’s what you want.”
    Suicidal: she had used the word, and asked me to stop.
    I took a quick cab ride to my home, and I punched the button on my answering machine, hoping to hear word from Nona. All I heard was the hearty voice of the contractor wondering when he could come by and resume work on my house.
    When indeed, I thought.
    I felt disloyal to Nona. I had not actually promised her that I would never go for another night swim, but I had not gone out into the surf for weeks. I stuffed the ample robe and the goose-down vest into my carry-all and grabbed my car keys.
    I drove the last remaining car I owned, the Mercedes, down Ocean Avenue through the dark. The car had been armored during the days when my cousin was kidnapped in Europe. My father had taken the precaution to soothe my mother’s nerves. Now the car shifted gears with the solemn forward thrust of a rolling fortress. The interior was pleasant, the ride quiet, and I did have the dubious satisfaction of knowing that the ammunition of most firearms could penetrate neither the doors nor the windshield.
    I found my way to the Great Highway and parked the car at Ocean Beach, at my favorite spot.
    This was not a desire for death. Far from it. I could taste the ocean in the air. The wetsuit fit snuggly and felt delightfully peculiar as I zipped it up, and I made my way down the sandy steps in the darkness. The rubber textile moved with my body in a way that made me feel protected, insulated from all harm, but this was an illusion. Only my torso was protected, and in very cold water this would not be enough.
    The scene was well lit by the glow reflected from the clouds, by the reflection of that light from the pale sand, and by the fragment of moon that kept slewing in and out of overcast. I tossed down my carry-all and the keys and sprinted toward the pale line of breakers.
    I dived and surfaced, spitting water. This was what I loved, this struggle, this cold.
    Sandy salt water filled my mouth. I had a flash of understanding: The horizon was a void, the sea was emptiness. And I was strong enough to survive it.
    Anger was gone. I worked against the surge of water, my legs aching and the chill seeping through the rubberized fabric of my wetsuit top.
    The beach was a scrawl of white suds, a dirty line of brown, a vague sprinkle of headlights. A bank of fog lofted over me, spilled over the view of the beach. The beach was gone, and I could see only the tossing water around me. The Pacific tasted of cities dissolved, aluminum and concrete and chrome stewed and then nearly frozen.
    When I breathed I sucked in the cold fog. The muscles of my legs were growing slowly into stone. I was heavy, and sluggish. I dived deep, into the churning bottom. DeVere and Blake, and Peterson with his needful eyes, were far away now.
    This was all that mattered. Brine burned my eyes, and I could sense the writhe of sand under my feet, the unsolid earth churning. How long had it been? Five seconds, then, as my feet plunged into the bottom sand into something nearly solid, ten.
    Fifteen seconds. I felt