Where the Jackals Howl Read Free Page A

kettle’s boiling again. Let’s take a short break and have some more coffee. You won’t deny, I’m sure, that you’ve never drunk coffee like this.”
    â€œWithout milk or sugar for me. I told you before.”
6
    T HE SMELL of coffee drove away all other smells: a strong, sharp, pleasant smell, almost piercing. Galila watched Matityahu Damkov closely, observing his manners, the docile muscles beneath his string shirt, his sterile ugliness. When he spoke again, she clutched the cup tightly between her fingers and a momentary peace descended on her.
    â€œIf you like, I can tell you something in the meantime. About horses. About the farm that we used to have in Bulgaria, maybe fifty-seven kilometers from the port of Varna, a stud farm. It belonged to me and my cousin Leon. There were two branches that we specialized in: work horses and stud horses, in other words, castration and covering. Which would you like to hear about first?”
    Galila relaxed, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs, ready to hear a story. In her childhood she had always loved the moments before the start of a bedtime story.
    â€œI remember,” she said, “how when we were children we used to come and watch you shoeing the horses. It was beautiful and strange and so . . . were you.”
    â€œPreparing for successful mating,” said Matityahu, passing her a plate of crackers, “is a job for professionals. It takes expertise and intuition as well. First, the stallion must be kept in confinement for a long time. To drive him mad. It improves his seed. He’s kept apart from the mares for several months, from the stallions too. In his frustration he may even attack another male. Not every stallion is suitable for stud, perhaps one in a hundred. One stud horse to a hundred work horses. You need a lot of experience and keen observation to pick out the right horse. A stupid, unruly horse is the best. But it isn’t all that easy to find the most stupid horse.”
    â€œWhy must he be stupid?” asked Galila, swallowing spittle.
    â€œIt’s a question of madness. It isn’t always the biggest, most handsome stallion that produces the best foals. In fact a mediocre horse can be full of energy and have the right kind of nervous temperament. After the candidate had been kept in confinement for a few months, we used to put wine in his trough, half a bottle. That was my cousin Leon’s idea. To get the horse a bit drunk. Then we’d fix it so he could take a look at the mares through the bars and get a whiff of their smell. Then he starts going mad. Butting like a bull. Rolling on his back and kicking his legs in the air. Scratching himself, rubbing himself, trying desperately to ejaculate. He screams and starts biting in all directions. When the stallion starts to bite, then we know that the time has come. We open the gate. The mare is waiting for him. And just for a moment, the stallion hesitates. Trembling and panting. Like a coiled spring.”
    Galila winced, staring entranced at Matityahu Damkov’s lips.
    â€œYes,” she said.
    â€œAnd then it happens. As if the law of gravity had suddenly been revoked. The stallion doesn’t run, he flies through the air. Like a cannon ball. Like a spring suddenly released. The mare bows and lowers her head and he thrusts into her, blow after blow. His eyes are full of blood. There’s not enough air for him to breathe and he gasps and chokes as if he’s dying. His mouth hangs open and he pours saliva and foam on her head. Suddenly he starts to roar and howl. Like a dog. Like a wolf. Writhing and screaming. In that moment there is no telling pleasure from pain. And mating is very much like castration.”
    â€œEnough, Matityahu, for God’s sake, enough.”
    â€œNow let’s relax. Or perhaps you’d like to hear how a horse is castrated?”
    â€œPlease, enough, no more,” Galila