Free Passion Play by Jerzy Kosinski

You helped write the amendments to the Horse Protection Act. You’ve lived half your life abroad, played polo all over the world. You personally know some of the best polo players.” He stopped, anxious for Fabian’s reaction.
    “Whose idea was I?” Fabian asked guardedly.
    “Patrick Stanhope himself asked me to track you down and sound you out about it. He’s very grateful for all the attention you gave their little Vanessa, teaching her to ride and jump so well; she’s never had a fall. Of course, not everyone was on your side.” Stockey paused. “Some polo association people—well, privately,they say that no team will have you. That you’re the ball hawk who plays solitary, that you seldom miss a goal—and never another player.”
    “I know what they say,” Fabian said.
    “There’s a story.” Stockey coughed nervously, then went on. “They say you learned those trick shots as a kid, during the War in Europe, when you were forced to work on a horse in some peasant bullring, that you belong in a circus, not on a polo field. They don’t even want you as an umpire or a referee.”
    “I know.”
    “And I suppose you also know that some people say that what happened—well, that Eugene’s accident was no accident—that the two of you were fighting a kind of duel.”
    As Fabian maintained his silence, Stockey folded his hands into a steeple, wagging them pensively. “Mind you, though, a duel—even when there’s a death—well, the law doesn’t call it murder.” His voice was trailing off slyly. “You know what I mean.”
    Fabian gave no sign.
    Stockey released his clasp, throwing his hands wide with a deep gusty sigh of confirmation. “The groom who was there that morning said you both played fast and rough, but that Eugene rode straight into the ball that smashed his face. What’s more, you rode with a hand badly hurt the day before!”
    “I cut off my finger,” Fabian corrected him.
    Stockey twitched anxiously. His teeth crept into view as he forced another smile. “Mind you, Patrick Stanhope knows his brother’s death was a plain accident. Is there any serious player who was never injured at polo?”
    “I was never injured at polo,” said Fabian.
    “Good for you!” Stockey exclaimed. “Although most experts are supposed to have gone through many accidents.”
    “If you have many accidents, you’re not an expert,” Fabian said.
    “That’s a pretty extreme view,” Stockey said cautiously. “You sound like your books, Fabian. People like to think they’re pros even when they fail.” His voice dropped. “Your books spoil the sport for them.”
    “Accidents spoil the sport, not books about accidents,” Fabian said.
    Stockey gave him a long reflective look. “But come to think of it, your books make you a spokesman for polo safety—and even a better prospect for our TV show. What d’you say, Fabian?”
    “I’ll have to think about it,” Fabian said.
    Stockey clapped him on the shoulder. “We can help to set you up in Florida—say, in the Palm Beach Polo and Country Club—and think what fun you’re going to have then! The best players from all over the world, great crowd, all the celebrities you can handle!” He handed Fabian an engraved card. “Call me sometime soon and say yes, will you?” He walked away, toward the bar.
    At the center of the room, a group of women in rippling flowered dresses spooned mounds of ice cream into long-stemmed silver bowls from a raspberry-and-vanilla polo player on a chocolate-mocha pony: a mock Stanhope Tournament polo trophy. The rain that had gone in the afternoon had come back for its revenge, trickling along the glass walls of the club room, one flash of lightning pursuing another.
    Unwilling to be recognized again after the conversation with Stockey, Fabian sat down at an empty table in the room’s dimmest corner. Two waiters rearranged chairs and changed the cloth.
    A woman approached his table, the sheath of her gown yielding to