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How do you get someone to fork over two whole million, if it’s maybe a little bit your fault?
This is perhaps not the first thought you should have on watching your trainee take her third race in a row — also her first ever graded win, and by extension yours. When she storms the dressing room, you expect to see her blown with triumph, enough ha-ha-has in her wake to power a whole lineage of shoujo villainesses. She’d certainly have the right to be like that. Instead, she just smiles at you contentedly, which is surprising enough, but then before you know it she’s got her arms around you, and she’s saying, “I did it, Trainer.”
Which is rather the problem, but this is not the time to contemplate such blasphemy. “Congratulations,” you say. “That was some great running out there.”
“The Classics will be mine by lordly decree.”
“Um, sure.” Sure hope so.
She finally draws back, and you can see some of the joy baffled away. “It might be the flush of my glorious conquest,” she says, “but do I merely imagine the lily on thy brow, with anguish moist and fever-dew?”
“Oh, um. I mean —” Think fast, think fast. “You know how daunting JRA bureaucracy is,” you say, mustering what you hope is a jolly sort of smile. “You’ve won, so we can register you now, but I’ll be up to my nostrils in paperwork.”
To your credit, it’s not really a lie. All you’re omitting is the little matter of the late fee. (A truth that’s told with bad intent/Beats all the lies you can invent.)
“Ah!” she says, indulgently, credulously. “Well, I share your dread of such quotidian commonplaces — which is why I delegate them to vassals such as yourself. I encourage you to follow my example, my friend.”
“Perhaps once I’m exalted enough for a minion or two of my own.”
She smiles — but that’s what she’s always liked about you, your willingness to play along. She’s now back to her usual programming: you know, Overlord this, Centurial that. You’re off the hook. Off this hook.
But the two million yen… What are you going to do about the two million yen…?
You and she made the sankin-kotai procession home to Edo by the 16:05 from Osaka, indulged in a Saturnalian feast of roadside yakisoba, and then went your own ways. Now you’re all alone, sumptuously recumbent on your two-person sofa, wondering how you’re going to make this pitch to her parents…
It might be useful to begin from the beginning.
Suppose that it’s early February, Classics registrations have closed, and your trainee — the first you’ve ever had, by the way — is still maidenless. Suppose that despite everything, she still wants to aim for the Satsuki Sho. You smile hesitantly. Nice spirit and big words from the recently injured and currently maidenless. You suggest (with utmost delicacy and tact) that she lower her expectations. No, her expectations will not be lowered. You point out that there’s still the autumn races to shoot for — Akiten, Japan Cup, Arima Kinen. She will not have it. Classic Road or bust.
Now suppose you offered her the following suggestion: break your maiden, qualify for the G3 Mainichi Hai, win the G3 Mainichi Hai, and you can register her for the Classics. Yes, yes, even though it’s late — late registration can be done, it’s up there with the Internet as one of the great modern innovations. That’s your path to the Classics, Opera O. You’ll have to prove your doubters wrong, Opera O. (It’s not like you’ll actually manage it, will you, Opera O? I won’t have to think about the late fee, will I, Opera O?)
“That’s how it happened, sir,” you’ll say to her father. Presumably. Or maybe that’s less presumable and more presumptuous — after all it could well be her mother, the Uma, who’s in charge. Let’s split the difference and imagine a richly androgynous amalgam of man and wife on the other end.
“Two million yen,” the Voice will say. “And you made a decision of such great moment without consulting us.”
“It wasn’t a decision exactly,” you protest. “I just gave a crying child a lollipop —”
“Well, she’ll just have to cry some more, won’t she?” says the Voice coldly, and hangs up.
You laugh. You’re being infected. Surely it won’t be as dramatic as all that. Let’s not blow things out of proportion. Let’s put a measure to things. What, after all, is two million yen?
Two million yen is:
- four years of tuition at Kyoto University (you’d know)
- anywhere from one to three years of rent in Fuchu (ditto)
- a year of minimum wage (no comment)
Well, all right. Two million yen is quite a lot, you must admit. A tidy sum. Nothing to scoff at. Nothing to bet on a mere possibility. In other words, you’re back where you started. You sigh and catch sight of your phone curled up cosily on the armrest. You wake it up; blearily it comes to life. It informs you that in a bit less than three hours it will be tomorrow.
You want to sleep on this, but now that feels guiltily close to procrastination. The best time to have had this conversation was probably after her maiden win; the second-best was after the Yukiyanagi Sho; at this advanced juncture you really shouldn’t tarry.
There is one hope, slender but real. Surely it’s plausible that her extravagant manner stems from an extravagant upbringing: surely her insouciant disregard for common sense is a necessary emanation of an aristocratic outlook.
Maybe she’s loaded.
It is with this hope that you take a deep breath and call the number listed on her ID card as Home Number.
There’s one ring. Then two. Three, four, five.
Six.
Maybe you can legitimately put this off for tomorrow, you think hopefully, right as the phone’s breath catches and the line comes alive and snaps, “Hello, who is this?” It is the gnarled voice of a very annoyed woman. “Is this the bank? Listen, we’ve told you we’re not so rich we can take out another loan, okay?”
“Ma’am, I —”
“I’m working, for heaven’s sake. You lot, can’t you pick a better time to call?”
Working on a Sunday evening? “S-sorry,” you say weakly. “Um, well. You see…” Some situations in life even Tracen’s entrance exam did not prepare you for. “You see. Uh. I’m calling from Tracen Academy. I’m, uh, Opera O’s trainer. Is this her mo—?”
“Oh, Mr Trainer?” All out of nowhere the gnarled voice has filled with childlike wonder; the tough old bark turns to an enthusiastic bow-wow into tail wag. “Is it really Mr Trainer?”
“Um, yes? I was calling about, er, her win today and —”
She gasps. “Oh my god. Oh my god. It’s Mr Trainer. I’m so very sorry about that earlier—”
“—no it’s fine, really—”
“—no it’s not,” she says summarily. “My very deepest apologies.” There’s a silence, and oh, she’s waiting for you to formally accept it isn’t she. You say it’s all right and she breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m very grateful. Nasty shift at the grocery tonight, the customers have been unbelievable.”
Your heart sinks.
“Actually,” she adds, “we were talking about you just a little while ago.”
“Is that so.”
“We were a little worried about her, what with the injury and all, and —” She lowers her voice. “She hadn’t won anything, and you know what big dreams she has. But look at her now! Three wins in a row, and she’s saying she’ll be a Triple Crown winner! You know, she said the sweetest thing just last call.”
There’s a pause, which you realise awkwardly late is her waiting for you to say something. TM Opera O clearly did not inherit her talent for unabashed monologue from her mother. “Did she?”
“Oh yes. You’d love to hear it. See, she was saying all that about winning the Triple Crown, and I said, that’s fine, dear, but are you sure you’re not setting your sights too high? That girl! You won’t believe what she said to me.”
Another pause, but you’re wise now. “What did she say to you?” you say, nailing the QTE.
“She said… hmm. I forget the exact wording now, but it was something very nice,” she says. “Very complimentary, Mr Trainer. She trusts you so much!”
“Is that s— I mean, I’m sure it’s my honour.”
“Nonsense! We’re very grateful, and…” There’s some indistinct shouting, and then she’s back again, saying, “Terribly sorry again, but I really have to get back now. It was kind of you to call. Good—”
“Excuse me,” you say desperately. Forget the anaesthetic. “I actually called about something important. About Opera O.”
“Ah,” she says, and pauses. You wonder if it’s to take some thought, but then you hear her hiss “I said two minutes” at someone. “Is she all right?” she asks.
“Yes, she’s all right. This is about her future, and it’s—”
“Take down this number,” she says briskly, and rattles off a string of numbers. “It’s her father’s.”
“O-okay.”
“Actually, maybe wait five minutes before calling. He doesn’t answer unknown numbers, I’ll have to call him first.”
“Okay.”
“Dear, you should have told me from the start,” she says. “Dallying’s no good! I have to get going now, see?”
“I’m terribly —”
“Oh! I remember now,” she says. “What she said. Oh, you old cow,” she mutters.
“Beg pardon?”
“Not you. She said, ‘Mother, your lack of faith is an affront to me and my trainer both.’ Well, not exactly, she used some bigger words — but she did say affront. Affront!” she chortles. “What a girl. Anyway, good night!” On that note the call goes dead.
Literature was your strong point all through school and college. Your teachers singled out your exam answers for embarrassing praise; you wrote an essay closely reading the characters of Kawabata’s Thousand Cranes “through psychoanalytical and sociological lenses”, and won a university prize for it. The psychoanalytical and sociological lenses were not in evidence, however, in your reading of your own trainee.
“Maybe she’s loaded.” Nice bit of wishful thinking, that. The thing about real wealth is that it’s taken for granted. You’ve seen the Mejiros; occasionally you’ve overheard them. Should we holiday next in France, or should we summer in England again this year? Notice, if you would: no silly crown. Opera’s theatrics could not possibly be derived from reality; they were a substitute for it, of the same sort that fill up romantasy bookshelves — a young girl having a bit of harmless fun.
You know, the sociology of this is kind of disturbing. The two million yen late fee is there to discourage students applying late willy-nilly. But come to think of it, it means nothing to a Mejiro or Satono (who are disproportionately part of the student body anyway). The Oguri rule they call it, but would that yokel have been able to pony up in her time? You remember seeing her now and then at the cafeteria, feeding, devouring, assimilating. You’re happy for her. Good on you, girl. Get back every yen of that school fee.
Neck-deep in your cogitations, you’re startled by your phone ringing in your hand; you realise suddenly that you’ve been pacing in front of the sofa for the last little while. Unknown number, says the phone — well, it’s not unknown to you. Inanely, you feel annoyed at the man; you were given five minutes, can’t you have five minutes to think of something to say? Well, nothing for it. This’ll have to be done extempore.
You pick up. “Hello,” you say listlessly.
“Good evening,” says the father. “Is this Mr Trainer?” His voice is smooth and even, and honestly a bit surprising; you try to put a face to it, before remembering that inference with limited data is apparently not your strong suit.
“It is,” you reply. “Good evening, sir. I hope it’s not a bad time to talk.”
“It’s about her, I was given to understand. So.” He breathes in audibly; a breeze faintly ripples the glass of a lake. “She is all right, isn’t she? No recurrence, no… relapse?”
“Yes, of course.” Not the usual parental overprotectiveness, this. They’ve been following her progress; they know how her schedule has been. And they know the dangers. They cannot fail to. Every now and then some poor racer makes the news for the wrong reasons — seen hobbling with crutches, for instance, or in a wheelchair. “Physically there’s no problem.”
“Mentally, then?”
“As usual,” you say, and thinking of what that means, you cannot help a chuckle. Then you just stand there in mortified silence, sure you’ve blown it, right up till there’s an answering snort on the other end — the condensed amusement of the man who’s raised Opera O for a decade and a half. “Yes,” he says, “the usual is good with her.”
A minute of conversation and you feel like you’re brothers-in-arms in the same relentless war.
“Well,” he says, “if it’s not mental and not physical, what is it?”
“It’s… well, in a word, fiscal.”
“Fiscal?” he says, his voice rising very sharply at the end — fiscal?? “Her fees for the year were paid, weren’t they?”
“It’s not that. It’s… well.” You explain the problem. Most Classic hopefuls apply after they’ve won something in their Junior year, but Opera O won her maiden race after the deadline had already closed. They’ll let her apply anyway, but at a price.
“A price, as in a bad starting gate or some kind of handicap?”
It’a a strained joke; you know he knows. But just in case: “It’s a bit more literal than that, sir.”
He sighs. “I was afraid of that. Well, could you — love, not right now — get off me —” There’s scuffling in the background, and if you strain to hear, one half of a faint conversation. Dad’s busy, okay?… I know, but this is important… Okay....
Then all of a sudden the phone is shouting in your ear: “Do your best, Mr Trainer!” It is the voice of a very young girl. “Make my sister win!”
“Yes, of course,” you say automatically. “Thank you for that, miss.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then it’s her father again. “Happy now? Now back to your room,” he says off to the side, probably. “Sorry about that,” he says to you. “Her mother’s not home, and I’m not as good with them as she is.” It hits you then that she’s probably an Uma too. Yes, it would be difficult to get her off his back, even at her age. You think about that — sole man of the house, and the womenfolk could make a game of tossing him around to each other. You wonder if he finds it emasculating; you know fathers who would. All the same, it’s clearly taught him a trick or two. “Not to worry.”
“Well, all right,” he says briskly. “Let’s have it, then. You mentioned a price. What is it?”
You clutch your phone tightly; you feel like you should go to the kitchen and get yourself a glass of water. But there is a job to be done. You name the price.
“I see,” he says.
“It’s not as bad as all that,” you say to cauterise the wound. “The prize money for placing would cover the expenses.”
“Hm. Well, that’s good. But do you, in your professional opinion, think that’s a hope worth staking so much on?”
That’s the million-yen question, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been asking yourself all along.
You wonder how much your professional opinion counts for here. What he’s asking is a question for the bookmakers. And the bookmakers wouldn’t be too hopeful, to judge by their odds. (Trainers do look at these things, they can’t help it.) They were quick to make Opera at 11-1 for the Satsuki Sho. Mathematically that’s a fair bet at an 8% chance of winning. Low, given the winning streak, but understandable. January 6, February 6, February 27, March 28, April 18? That’s the kind of schedule that gets a trainer dirty looks, maybe even a disciplinary hearing. That’s what it means, sometimes, to Support Your Trainee™, but it sure doesn’t bode well.
And what about that dynamic duo, the Admire sadsack and the blonde? 3-1, 3-1 to each: do the maths. It’s their race to lose. Not that he needs to ask you, or a bookie, to know all this. The other day at the konbini, you counted up each time you saw a hoarding, poster, figure, or otherwise artistic representation of either of the two: you saw five at the grocery section (eat your carrots, kiddos!), two big cutouts at the footwear section, one at the stationery area (Top Road notebooks: you, too, can be class president one day!), and then you stopped counting when you saw all the sports magazines….
But you’re Opera O’s trainer, right? You have inside information, right? Maybe she has a secret edge that only you know about. Well, sorry to burst that bubble. What you and you alone do know isn’t encouraging. She’s really been pushing it in training. Where you wish she’d have stopped two drills ago, she does two more. You’ve seen her wobble on her feet after. It’s not encouraging. You’d make her stop, but you’re in most things a proponent of legalisation and regulation. Yes, let’s go with that —
“Mr Trainer?”
“Ah, sorry.” Reality returns like a jolt of static from metal. “I’m sorry, I needed a moment there. I think that…” Yes, what do you think? When she ran all those races to return with a smile and a boast, why did it feel like ice in your stomach? I did it, Trainer. You don’t think this is a good idea, physically or fiscally. The Classics will be mine by lordly decree —
“She’s earned the right,” you say. “Her chances are —” Low but nonzero. “—there.”
It sounds like a diplomatic non-answer and you know it. But you believe in those words, you really do. Any more is an overextension; any less is an injustice.
“As to whether you should stake so much on the hope,” you continue. “I am only her trainer. I leave that up to you. I don’t wish to presume.”
“Heaven’s sake, lad,” he says sharply. “You should presume.”
“Beg your pardon?”
The silence stretches away, lone and level. Your back itches, but you daren’t think on that now. What did he mean by that?
“Never mind,” her father says at last. “That wasn’t good of me.”
What did he mean—?
“If you’ll tell me the required procedures,” her father says, “we’ll make the necessary arrangements. There’s no hurry, is there?”
Ah. That was what he meant.
“We have till next week,” you say quietly. “But I’d suggest we get it done as quickly as possible.”
“Well, that’s good,” he says. “That’ll be all, then?”
Embarrassment, awkwardness, shame are overtaking you, but you know from experience that if you stay mum now, they’ll be all the worse later. “What you said earlier. I hope you don’t think me — cold.”
He laughs. “Look, lad,” he says. “Like I said, you’re the professional. Cold or not doesn’t come into it. I asked for an opinion, you gave it. ”
“Why did you need it?” There’s a note of anger in your voice that surprises you.
TM Opera O’s father sighs. “She’s not truthful, sometimes.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s a good girl,” he says, “but she tells tall tales. Sometimes she makes mistakes about the people around her. I just had to know.”
You say nothing, but clutch the receiver. And now I do, he did not say, but its shadow seems to darken over the pause. “We’ll stay in touch,” he says. “Send me the procedures, please, as soon as you can. Good night.”
He leaves you standing with a confusing dull beeping in your ears, an itch in your back, and a sense of wrongdoing. Why that should be the case you don’t know. You said nothing, did nothing, that you cannot justify to yourself. Your lack of faith is an affront to me and my trainer both. After all, you simply didn’t wish to presume, being only her trainer. Promise? Promise.
Satsuki Sho (Grade 1) 18 Apr 1999
Nakayama
1st: No. 12, TM Opera O, 11/1
Comment: Raced fourth from rear, held back till final furlong, quickened to take lead within last 50 yards
Scoring his first Group 1 win, trainer Ichizo Iwamoto said, “He hurt his left back leg after his debut and I couldn’t even think about this race at the time… but he recovered nicely.”