The intelligent horse – part I

The intelligent horse is the story of an intelligent horse. The intelligent horse is: gone. So is the story, you might say, but the title is rather deceiving, it should read, “the story of the intelligent horse and other balderdash”, but I felt that balderdash shouldn’t be used in a title. And, anyway, the horse is not gone as in dead, it’s only lost. As generally happens, he was only noticed after he got lost, though this is largely down to his owner, Mr. Hesp. He kept the horse away from everyone until someone found him dead, lying in his patio next to a chessboard with his skull crushed. The perpetrator was supposedly a horse judging from the horseshoe pattern distinguishable on his forehead. Hesp was a reclusive millionaire; no one knew him well, though now that he’s gone I guess there will be a few distant relatives slithering out of the shadows.

Police found stacks of home videos and this is how the world got to know Six Ways to Sunday. This was the name of Mr. Hesp’s horse, a 5-year-old flea-bitten grey colored stallion. It turned out, after watching hours and hours of footage that the horse was formerly known as Seven Ways to Sunday as it was born on a Monday, and this was the best they could come up with. He was almost six-months-old when he proved it logically that his name doesn’t make any sense. This logical demonstration was what made Hesp realize how clever his horse really was as up to that point he had only said dull things like the grass is bitter and the stable smells. The stallion was thenceforth known as Six Ways to Sunday, even though they later realized that his argument was flawed as he had used a false premise but this was a common beginners’ mistake. As more and more footage was leaked, our city, Rotham:, got to know this peculiar beast, as he was growing up, trotting around merrily as a foal or taking long walks with Hesp on his back. (Editor’s note: Rotham: is always spelled with a colon.) On these rides, they conversed about all kinds of topics varying from history through biology to the special theory of relativity which is odd because, according to the police, Hesp didn’t know much about this theory.

And this idyllic couple was gone, apparently, the horse killed his owner albeit the motive is yet unexplained. Obviously, as this news hit the fan every flea-bitten grey horse in a 100-mile radius found itself with a mike under its muzzle as the whole media community jumped at the opportunity. None of the horses could speak, but some of them sought to chomp the mikes off. The silence of the horses. A few newshounds even pushed their luck with differently colored horses in case this murderous stallion dyed his hair, however, this was in vain as well. The horse vanished, but the capital was flushed with people horsing around.

I was reluctant to enlist in the hunt; still, my editor assigned me an area to comb despite my objections.

‘So you are not willing to check it?’

‘No. I’d rather cover something else.’ I defied him.

‘What? There’s nothing else!’      

‘Nothing else?!’ I cried.

He shrugged, ‘Nothing worthwhile.’

‘That’s all I need. I can make it worth.. a while.’ I lied. I couldn’t make a moon landing exciting news.

‘Alright,’ he condescended with a loud snort as he was exploring his pockets. ‘Ah, there it is,’ he plucked out a note. ‘I gathered some rumors that we might receive a few prestigious awards in the near future and I need interviews with the nominees to show off, you know, how Rotham: is making headlines for the right reasons. Here’s the list.’ He said handing over the piece of paper.

‘Me? Doing interviews?’

‘Azeu! Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!’

He raced away, so I yielded, grabbed my headphones and left. I was never comfortable with interviews, I’m not capable of asking pertinent questions and I can’t remain detached, can’t stay inhuman. It’s a miracle that I’m still in this business, though incompetent management explains it for the most part.

There were three names on the list with addresses and phone numbers, Bernard Sicmore, scientist, Nicholas Debruit, composer, and Gordon Sedown, gardener.

I chose to start with the composer as I loved music; not exactly movie scores but meaningful music in general. From then on I would proceed to the scientist, who lived relatively close to the musician and finish with the gardener. He lived a rather long way from the first two, but at least it was close to my home. This way I could get home quickly and call it a day, though I’d hardly call this a day.

It was one of the few sunny days of the year. Those who had convertibles dusted it off desperately seeking to recall how to look cool. Tired people were sunbathing in front of supermarkets as I was basking in the honor of meeting future Academy and Nobel award winners. Scratch that, the sunbathing people actually enjoyed themselves.

I sought to run a search on the composer on the internet but couldn’t find anything, perhaps the editor misspelled his name. Felt awkward going there without any knowledge of him but I had no alternative.

I rang on his door; the doorbell played Offenbach’s Infernal Gallop, bit over the top, I thought. An old man opened the door. Calling him old might be an understatement. This poor fellow looked ancient. I half expected this house to be crammed with musical sheets and instruments, but there was nothing music-related here just worthless boring stuff that attaches itself to you throughout your life and you can’t get rid of it until it drowns you. Or, at least, clogs your house. We started talking but he didn’t seem keen on bringing his work up, so I had to; I guess that was only natural. ‘What is the title of the picture you scored?’

The old man answered in a slow and drawling yet coherent way. ‘Title? I can’t remember, there were quite a few.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, you might have misunderstood me. I meant the movie you scored this year. Or did you make more than one this year?’

‘This year? I haven’t made any this year.’

‘Last year then?’

‘Last year? No, no, my son, not even in this century.’ He spoke like this was the most evident fact in the world.

‘So it’s a 20th-century movie then?

‘Wrong again,’ he smirked.

‘Come again? When was this film produced then?’

‘1895!’

‘In 1895?’

‘1895!’

This was flanking the impossible but I still continued inquiring. ‘How old were you at the time?’

‘Fifteen.’

‘That would make you . . . .’

‘One hundred and thirty-four next month.’

‘Wow! That is incredible!’ He probably heard this regularly and was unfazed, so I had to press the matter. ‘All these movies were shot in, erm, 1895 but they were released recently?’

‘Recently? No, they were released back then.’

‘Could you please specify a little bit . . . , for our readers?’

‘Well, my dad served in the Lumière household and I used to loiter around…’

‘Hold on! Are you talking about the Lumière brothers, the early filmmakers?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And they asked you, a fifteen-year-old lad, to compose the music for their pictures?’

‘No, not in so many words. You see, I happened to be there when they held a private premiere for a few of their movies. This was the first time that anyone saw them. There were, I don’t know exactly, maybe six or eight films in total, all of them fairly short, around a minute, I suppose. In the heat of the moment, I thought that it would create a stronger impact with music, so I sneaked to the piano and tried to capture the mood of each short picture. Judging by the frenetic claps at the end I managed to do just that.’

‘Weren’t they cheering for the movies?’ My curiosity got the better of me.

‘They were clapping for both.’ He said annoyedly.

‘I see. Be that as it may, as far as I know, Oscars are only presented for the previous year’s pictures.’

‘That is correct.’ the old guy nodded approvingly.

I assumed I wouldn’t have to ask this question but, seemingly, he didn’t realize the conspicuous discrepancy so I had to. ‘But then why are you under the impression that you might pick up one this year?’

‘I’ve written to the Academy explaining them my particular circumstances.’

‘Such as?’

‘Of course, I am thinking about the fact that I, let’s face it, I came up with the film music genre.’

‘Pardon?’ I blurted out. I realize I should contain myself and be an objective chronicler but I’m a lousy reporter. Luckily, he was thrilled to explain.

‘The way I see it, I was the first to score a movie, hence I should be considered the father of film scores and that, I presume, justifies an Academy Award.’

‘I’m sure others would have thought of that as well.’

‘That is true, they could have. But I actually did. It was me, and not anybody else, who thought of it. Years after scoring these pictures I came up with an individual way of drawing. I was drawing in a black and white pattern realizing all kinds of shapes like this.’ And he pointed at a checkered drawing on the wall.

‘My companions called it, mockingly, tablecloth style. I was utterly absorbed by it until one day I saw on the wall of a flat of blocks two zebras hugging each other, and they were depicted in the exact same style. It turned out that a fellow called Vasarely had come up with that first. So I ceased doing it, no hard feelings, I accepted that I can’t be better than him and, after all, he was the first. I don’t mind that, but I do demand to be recognized where it’s due. Looooong overdue.’

‘I understand. What about opera? The operetta? Music and visual images went hand in hand since a caveman played the drums while his mate painted the wall.’

‘This wasn’t an opera or an operetta, and certainly wasn’t a cave. This was something authentic and I came up with it.’

‘I know that others were experimenting with moving pictures as well, Mr. Debruit. There was this German bloke who had music composed specifically for his movies. And his premier preceded the Lumière brothers’ show by one month.’

‘Ahh, I’m glad you brought this up. You are thinking of Skladanowsky no doubt.’ I nodded, so he proceeded. ‘It’s true that his show preceded the enlightened brothers’ first public show. He had it in November in Berlin; they had it in December the same year in Paris. But I played in their private showing, which was in March, and I was foolish enough to brag about it in the neighborhood. There was a Prussian kid there, Linz or something, and I told him as well. Then a month later his family moved back to Prussia. They might have moved to Berlin too, as far as I know, I can’t say that for sure. But I am aware that his father was a photographer, and thus, I think it is more than likely that they had met Skladanowsky and told him about my idea.’

‘Did you perform at the public presentation as well?’

‘No, I did not. They found someone who could actually play the piano.’

‘What do you mean? You couldn’t play?’

‘No, I could not per se. But I liked it terribly.’

 ‘Oh, I see,’ I replied, yet I found this increasingly hilarious. He had all his answers prepped, though, truth be told, he had time to think about them. I sensed that he was convinced he deserved the award, and I wasn’t about to shatter an old man’s dreams. So I just carried on chatting with him.

‘Why have you delayed until now to get in touch with the academy?’

‘I wrote to them earlier as well; I started back in 1959 and did so every year since.’

‘Have you ever received a reply?’

‘A reply? No, not yet.’

‘So why do you think you’ll get it this year?’

‘I feel the same every year.’

‘Are you expecting an honorary Oscar? You know, for lifetime achievement?’

‘Lifetime achievement? No, by no means.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Honorary means that since you are not willing to die and they are running out of excuses not to give you a proper award, they’ll just shut you up with a lifetime achievement award.’ I replied though I was quickly running out of niceties to say. ‘Would you settle for a Golden Globe?

‘Golden Globe? No, no, I need an Oscar.’ He shook his head, then sipped a bit of water and glanced at me. I felt sorry for him as I was certain that he wouldn’t receive a reply, not to mention an award. To soothe him I looked for “the world’s oldest man” on my phone and shared my findings with him. 

‘I just learned that the oldest living person in the world is one hundred and sixteen-years-old. What’s more, the lengthiest ever confirmed human lifespan was one hundred and twenty-two years. You could easily surpass both of them and hold two Guinness world records. Wouldn’t you be interested in that?’

‘Guinness world record? No, I don’t care about that. I have already been advised to do it but I’m afraid fame would jeopardize my chances of picking up an Oscar.’

‘Are you positive? I expect the limelight to only boost your odds.’

‘No, no, I know the academy; they would find some excuse to leave me with only these meaningless records. I mean I haven’t done anything to achieve it. Except that I haven’t died.’

‘Have it your way, Mr. Debruit. I am going to write your story and I’m confident that it will get published, as soon as this horse hysteria dies down. I can only hope that it’ll help you in your quest.’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind. May I ask a small favor?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Could you please leave out my age?’

‘That would be hard to do. I mean, we are talking about you coming up with the concept of movie scores 119 years ago, I’m afraid that would give it away.’

‘Oh, I see, yes, yes, you’re right. Then, I think, it would be for the best to skip the whole thing.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, you could print it once I picked up my award.’

‘All right then, I’m sorry I wasted your time.’

‘That’s OK, don’t worry about it.’

‘And I’m sorry I wasted my time too.’ I muttered. ‘Have a nice day.’ I said out loud and left.

Truth be told I was a bit bothered. Annoyed more exactly that I squandered my time, but I couldn’t genuinely be resentful at this poor old guy. I was cursing my editor. Talking to the old man was actually fun.

It was just a short walk to the scientist’s residence, but long enough to bump into someone I knew. I hate when this happens, so many other people to see and I manage to meet someone I know. More or less. It was one of my colleagues; he seemed to be in a hurry. He was an annoying fellow, shallow as a puddle on ice.

‘Any luck?’ he inquired as he slowed down next to me but didn’t stop.

‘Huh?’ that’s all I could squeeze out, which is understandable considering I was mentally beating his face to a pulp.

‘Oh, I can see that you haven’t found the horse either, but I’ve got a strong hunch that I’m on the right trail now. Got to go!’ he screeched back as he was already a few steps away. Good riddance. I continued on my way and soon found myself knocking on the door of the scientist, Mr. Bernard Sicmore.

A young man opened the door, but ever so slightly.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, and I think I can help you as well.’ I replied which spurred him to open the door further.

‘Are you from the Human Guinea Pig Foundation?’

 ‘I heard it called even worse before, but the preferred name is The Rotham: Times. I’m a reporter, and I’m here to interview you about your invention.’

‘Oh, I don’t have time for that, man,’ he sighed as he was shutting the door on me.

‘I can help you test it!’ I shrieked desperately.

‘You can?’ he opened the door a little more. Again.

‘Sure, sure, we’ll talk and experiment if you will.’

‘Alright, come on in.’ And he opened the door for me.

 ‘Are you Mr. Bernard Sicmore, by any chance?’ I asked him, but I had a suspicion he might be an assistant of some sort.

 ‘No, no, just call me Bernie, no Mr please.’

‘Alright mate, that’s cool with me. I’m Azeu.’

He didn’t reply, just led me into a room which looked like a low-tech lab to me. All sorts of tools and gadgets were scattered everywhere and in the middle, on a shabby table, lay a flat black box with some cables sticking out on both sides. That seemed to be his invention, so I fired away, ‘Is this your invention?’

‘You don’t recognize my invention?? Oh man, is tired of this.’ he said. I didn’t understand exactly what he meant.

‘Sadly there was no time for a brief, but I consider it would be best if I learned from you anyway.’

‘Is sick of this.’ He frowned as he was fidgeting with an object on the table. The meaning of his words eluded me again, so I waited for a follow-up. Usually, if I keep quiet long enough, people start talking. After a while. Which he did. Eventually.

‘Have you noticed how nobody cares anymore?’

‘About what?’

‘About anything. Everything. About each other.’ I figured this to be a rhetorical question so I didn’t respond. ‘Knows why.’ Another cryptic remark, but now it occurred to me that he’s talking about himself in the third person but drops his name, possibly expecting Facebook or Twitter to fill it out for him. So now he meant Bernie knows why. And his next words confirmed that I was on the right track.

‘Nobody cares, because they don’t understand what others are going through. There’s no empathy in this world, man. People sought to get philosophical about it or fight it with positive thinking, enlightening the masses and so on. But words don’t often reach their target, so I resolved that instead of reporting about others’ misery why not experience it? Why not show them, d’you know what I mean?’

‘Yeah, I follow, I follow.’ I nodded, but it was evident that he’d have to elaborate on that.

‘So I came up with this,’ he declared resting his hand on the black device that I noticed earlier on the desk. ‘It was fairly straightforward to do it actually once I came up with the idea. Here in this central part of the machine, I have glutamate, which serves as a neurotransmitter, and these two cables are my take on voltage-dependent calcium channels, thus making this instrument an oversized neuron or, if you like, a nerve cell.’ He spoke as if these were obvious terms. I had no notion of what a gluta-whatsitsname is, nor why are those channels dependent on calcium, but I sensed that the emphasis is on what they do, not what they are, so I inquired about the general purpose.

‘A nerve cell? And what does it do?’

’It does what nerves do, man. And all the hurters will learn, and everyone can believe my immense pain.’

‘Oh, so you are doing this for yourself?’

‘No man, not at all, I couldn’t care less about myself, just as everybody else doesn’t. This is not for me, this is for everybody.’

‘I see,’ I replied, though I don’t think he took it as I meant it. ‘My editor sent me here in the belief that you are a future Nobel laureate. How do you feel about that?’

‘Well, I can’t rule that out, I might be the dark horse in that race, but I don’t really pay attention to that. It would be nice, of course, but I’m busy with my research.’

‘Have you published your research in any scientific publication? I mean, does the scientific community know about you and your work?’

‘Yes, I am continuously mailing all the established magazines, and I’m confident that by now someone probably nominated me for the prize.’

‘As far as I know, it’s a stipulation that all achievements are tested by time, so usually, there is a gap of around 20 years or more between the actual accomplishment and the selection. This means that you’ll have to linger quite a long time for that prize, does it not?’ I asked him, and I ironically noted that my previous subject could have easily passed this step with the 100 odd years he waited.

‘You are right about that, man, but I presume that’s nothing more than a formality.’ he declared, and as if to shatter any misunderstanding he added, ‘Is feeling proud,’ and looked fairly contented with himself. Slowly I started to realize what his invention really was and what it could do.

‘OK, back to your invention then. Are you claiming that through this you could literally feel someone else’s pain?’

‘That is correct. And not merely the pain but any other feelings they are experiencing at that time. You won’t own those emotions; you will only feel them as long as you are hooked up.’

‘Have this been confirmed yet?’

‘I’ve only tested it on myself so far.’

‘You’ve tried it on yourself? So you have transferred your feelings to… yourself?’

‘Absolutely. I pricked my left arm, with the wires attached to both hands and I felt the same pain in my right arm as well.’ Throughout our conversation, I had a suspicion that this might be another ludicrous claim, but now all my doubts dissolved. Still, I had to endure so I kept listening as he continued.

‘This is where you come in. We can try it on you and me, we’ll transfer my emotions to you and then you’ll learn how it feels to be misunderstood and looked down on.’ I didn’t need an instrument to know that, but I was still following him as he drew me to the left side of the device. Or the right, as I couldn’t tell which way was the machine facing.

‘It only runs one way; this is the receiver’s side,’ Bernie said. ‘Now, all we have to do is a slight incision on your arm, and we can fasten this cord there, and we’re ready to go. You’ll feel a pinch now,’ he warned as he jabbed me with a needle. Then he taped the wire to my arm and moved to the other side and repeated the procedure on himself.

‘Are you ready, man?’ he asked, I nodded unconvincingly, but he took it as a yes nevertheless. ‘I’m going to turn this knob now and that will start the machine, at the moment it’s only programmed to run for a fraction of a second, so you’ll only receive a glimpse of my pain. All right, here we go!’

He turned it, and I felt a sudden surge of electricity pass through my body. Then the whole room went dark.

To be continued…

Since I can’t compel you to stay as there are laws against it why don’t you do it on your own? Stick around and read more of my short stories. All of them are amazing. Well, most of them are. OK, honestly, some of them are. Why don’t you decide for yourself? Take a look around –> Here’s a map!

Or, if you’re really adventurous, get off the beaten track and read a random story!

This story is part of the Rotham sur Real: universe. (Yes, with a colon.)