The Fencing Master (11 page)

"Your sovereign, Don Lucas."

"Call her what you will."

"I'll call her everything under the sun: capricious, fickle, superstitious, uncultivated, and other things that I won't mention."

"I will not put up with any more of your impertinence."

The other members of the group were again obliged to call for calm. Neither Don Lucas nor Cárceles would ever have harmed a fly, but all this was part of the liturgy repeated every afternoon.

"We must bear in mind," said Don Lucas, twirling his mustache and trying to ignore Cárceles's jeering look, "the unhappy marriage of our sovereign queen to Don Francisco de Asís, made with a complete disregard for any mutual physical attraction. Conjugal differences, which are public knowledge, encouraged the activities of court cliques and unscrupulous politicians, of favorites and parasites. They, and not the poor queen, are the people responsible for the sad situation in which we find ourselves now."

Cárceles had kept silent long enough. "Try telling that to the patriots in prison in Africa, to those deported to the Canaries or the Philippines, to all the emigrants flocking into other parts of Europe!" Filled with revolutionary rage, he crumpled up his copy of
La nueva Iberia.
"The present government of Her Most Christian Highness makes the previous lot look good by comparison, which is quite an achievement. Can you not see what is happening? Even politicians and matadors who have not a drop of democratic blood in their veins have been sent into exile merely because they were under suspicion, or had given less than wholehearted support to the loathsome policies of González Bravo. Just take a good look, Don Lucas, take a good look: from Prim to Olózaga, not to mention Cristino Martos and the others. As you see even the Liberal Union as we've just read, changed their tune as soon as old O'Donnell was pushing up the daisies. Isabel's only support now is among the divided and ruined forces of the Moderates who are in chaos because power is slipping from their grasp and they don't know which way to turn Your monarchy is taking in water Don Lucas fore and aft "

"The fact is, Prim is ready to strike," whispered Carreño confidentially, with a lack of originality that was greeted with derisive laughter by the others.

Cárceles changed the direction of his implacable artillery. "As our friend Don Lucas pointed out a little while ago, Prim is a soldier. A more or less glorious soldier, but a soldier nonetheless. I don't trust him an inch."

"The Conde de Reus is a Liberal," protested Carreño.

Cárceles brought his fist down hard on the marble tabletop, nearly spilling the coffee in the cups. "A Liberal? Forgive me if I laugh, Don Antonio. Prim a Liberal! Any real democrat, any proven patriot like yours truly, should on principle distrust any plans a soldier might have, and Prim is no exception. Have you forgotten his authoritarian past, his political ambitions? In the end, although circumstances currently oblige him to do his plotting amid the British fog, every general needs a king in his hand if he is to keep the upper hand. Let's see, gentlemen, how many military uprisings have we had so far this century? And how many of them have been called in order to proclaim a republic? You see? Nobody is graciously going to hand over to the people what only the people can demand and take for themselves. There's something about Prim, gentlemen, that I don't trust. I'm convinced that he'll arrive with a king up his sleeve. The great Virgil already said as much:
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.
"

A lot of noise was coming from Calle Montera. A group of passersby had formed a crowd outside the window and were pointing toward the Puerta del Sol.

"What's happening?" asked Cárceles eagerly, forgetting about Prim. Carreño had gone over to the door. Indifferent to all these political upsets, the cat was dozing in its corner.

"There seems to be a party going on," said Carreño. "Let's go and see!"

They all went out into the street. People were gathering in the Puerta del Sol. There were carriages, and policemen were advising passersby to take another route. Several women came hurrying up the street looking flushed and harassed, glancing fearfully over their shoulders. Don Jaime went over to a policeman. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.

The policeman shrugged; it was clear that events had gone beyond his powers of analysis. "I'm not quite sure, sir," he said, embarrassed, touching his cap when he saw the distinguished appearance of the person addressing him. "It seems they've arrested about half a dozen generals. They say they're taking them to the military prison at San Francisco."

Don Jaime told his colleagues what he had heard, and the news was greeted with exclamations of consternation. The triumphant voice of the irrepressible Cárceles rang out in the middle of Calle Montera: "Gentlemen, it's just as I said! Now they're showing their hand. These are the death throes of blind repression!"

S
HE
was standing before him, beautiful and enigmatic, with a foil in her hand, watching his every move.

"It's very simple. Now watch carefully."

Don Jaime raised his foil and crossed it gently with hers, so lightly that the touch was like a metallic caress. "The two-hundred-escudo thrust begins with what we call countertime: a false attack that presents your opponent with an opening in quarte, in order to provoke him into attacking in that position. That's it. Respond in quarte. Perfect. I parry with a counterparry of tierce, do you see? I disengage and attack, still keeping that opening in order to lure you into opposing me with a counterparry of tierce and then attacking immediately in quarte again. Fine. As you can see, so far, no secret."

Señora de Otero stopped, thoughtful, her eyes fixed on his foil. "Isn't it dangerous to offer the same opening to your opponent twice?"

Don Jaime shook his head. "Not at all, madam. Provided you have mastered the counterpatty of tierce, which you have. My thrust does inevitably involve some risk, but only if the person using it is not skilled and expert in our art. I would never think of teaching it to an apprentice fencer, who would get himself killed the first time he tried to use it. Do you understand now my initial reserve when you did me the honor of requesting my services?"

The young woman gave him a charming smile. "I'm sorry, maestro. There was no way you could know..."

"Indeed I couldn't. And I still can't quite understand how you—" He broke off, looking at her, absorbed. "Anyway, that's enough talking. Shall we go on?"

"Please do."

"Right." He avoided her eyes as he spoke. "As soon as your opponent attacks for the second time, at the precise moment when your blades touch, you must bend with this counterparry, like this, attacking immediately in quarte outside the arm. Do you see? Your opponent will normally resort to a parade de pointe volante, bending his elbow and raising his foil to an almost vertical position to fend off the attack. That's it."

Don Jaime stopped again, with the point of his foil resting on Señora de Otero's right shoulder. He felt his heart beat faster when he made contact with her skin, he seemed to be able to feel her through the steel, as if the foil were merely a continuation of his hand. "
Sentiment du fer,
" he murmured to himself as an imperceptible shudder ran through him. The young woman looked sideways at the foil, and the scar on her mouth deepened into a subtle smile. Embarrassed, the fencing master raised the steel an inch. She seemed to know what he was feeling.

"Now comes the decisive moment," Don Jaime went on, forcing himself to recover the concentration that, for a few moments, had vanished completely. "Rather than make a full thrust, when your opponent has begun the movement, you hesitate for a second, as if you were making a false attack with the intention of performing a different thrust. I'll do it slowly so that you can see: like this. You make it impossible for your opponent to complete the parry; instead he is interrupted halfway, for he prepares to parry the other thrust that he thinks is about to follow."

There was a jubilant gleam in Señora de Otero's eyes. She had understood. "And that's where your opponent makes his mistake!" she said gleefully, relishing the discovery.

He made a gesture of benevolent complicity. "Exactly. That is where the mistake arises that gives victory to us. Watch. After that briefest of hesitations, we continue the movement, at the same time shortening the distance between us, like this, to avoid his stepping back, and leaving him very little room to maneuver. At that point, you give your wrist a quarter of a turn, that's it, so that the point of your foil lifts about two inches. You see how simple it is? Done properly, you can easily hit your opponent at the base of the neck, by the right clavicle. Or, if you want to settle the matter, in the middle of the throat."

The tip of his foil brushed the young woman's throat, and she looked at him with her mouth half-open, her eyes flashing with excitement. Don Jaime studied her. Her nostrils were flared, and she was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling beneath her blouse. She was radiant; she was like a child who has just unwrapped a marvelous gift.

"That's excellent, maestro. Incredibly simple," she said in a whisper, giving him a look of warm gratitude. "Incredibly simple!" she repeated thoughtfully, looking in fascination at the foil in her hand. She seemed entranced by the new fatal dimension that the steel blade had just acquired.

"I suppose that's where its merit lies," remarked Don Jaime. "In fencing, it's simplicity that requires inspiration, the complex moves are just technique."

She smiled happily. "I know a secret thrust that doesn't appear in any of the treatises on fencing," she murmured, as if the thought gave her enormous pleasure. "How many other people know it?"

Don Jaime made a vague gesture. "Ten, twelve. Perhaps a few more. But then what happens is that one person shows it to another person, and after a while it loses its efficacy. As you've seen, it's very easy to parry once you do know it."

"Have you used it to kill anyone?"

He looked at her, startled. It was not the kind of question one expected from a lady. "I hardly think that's relevant, madam. With all due respect." He paused, while his mind went back in time to the distant memory of a poor wretch bleeding to death in a field, with nobody able to do anything to stanch the blood pouring from his throat. "And even if I had, I would not feel particularly proud of the fact."

Señora de Otero made a doubtful face, as if that were debatable. And a worried thought crossed Don Jaime's mind: there was a touch of dark cruelty in those violet-colored eyes.

L
UIS DE
A
YALA
was the first to raise the matter. He had heard certain rumors. "It's unprecedented, Don Jaime. A woman! And you say she's a good fencer?"

"Excellent. No one was more surprised than I."

The marquis leaned toward him, visibly interested. "Is she beautiful?"

Don Jaime made a face that was intended to be neutral. "Extremely."

"You are a devil, maestro!" Luis de Ayala wagged a finger at him and gave a knowing wink. "And where did you find this jewel?"

Don Jaime protested weakly. It was absurd to think that at his age, etc. It was an exclusively professional relationship. I'm sure Your Excellency will understand.

Luis de Ayala understood all too well. "I must meet her, Don Jaime," he said.

Don Jaime gave an ambiguous response. He wasn't at all happy at the prospect of the Marqués de los Alumbres meeting Adela de Otero. "Of course, Excellency, whenever you like. There's no problem at all."

Luis de Ayala took his arm; they walked beneath the leafy willows in the garden. It was hot even in the shade, and the marquis was wearing only light cashmere trousers and an English silk skirt, with gold cuff links bearing a coat of arms.

"Is she married?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"I went there once, but I saw only her and a female servant."

"She lives alone, then!"

"That is the impression I got, but I can't be sure." Don Jaime was beginning to feel troubled by this interrogation, and he was trying desperately to change the subject without appearing to be impolite to his client and protector. "The fact is that Doña Adela doesn't talk very much about herself. As I told Your Excellency before, our relationship is entirely professional, that of teacher and student."

They stopped by one of the stone fountains: a chubby-cheeked angel pouring water from a jar. A few sparrows flew off as they approached. Luis de Ayala watched them disappear among the branches of a nearby tree and then turned to Don Jaime. The two men could not have been more different: the strong, vigorous physicality of the marquis was in marked contrast to the lean distinction of the fencing master. Anyone seeing them would have thought that Don Jaime was the aristocrat.

"It is never too late, though, to revise certain apparently immutable principles," said the marquis with a wicked wink.

Don Jaime started, clearly piqued. "I would rather you did not to continue down that particular road, Excellency." There was an edge to his voice. "I would never have accepted the young woman as a client had I not seen that she had undoubted talent. You can be absolutely sure of that."

Luis de Ayala sighed, and adopted a friendly but teasing tone. "Progress, Don Jaime. The magic word. New times, new customs, they affect us all. Not even you are safe from that."

"With the greatest respect, Don Luis, I believe you are mistaken." It was evident that Don Jaime was greatly perturbed by the turn the conversation had taken. "You may consider this whole story to be the professional caprice of an old fencing master—an aesthetic matter, if you like. But there's a vast difference between saying that and imagining that such a thing opens the gate to progress and to new customs. I'm too old to consider seriously any major changes in my way of thinking. I believe myself safe both from the follies of youth and from giving too much importance to what is, I believe, a purely professional activity."

The marquis smiled approvingly at Don Jaime's measured words. "You're right, maestro. I owe you an apology. Besides, you have never been one to defend progress..."