The Fencing Master (16 page)

The marquis made a gesture asking him to be patient. "Calm down, Don Jaime, all in good time. I promise I will tell you everything ... later. When I have solved a little matter that is still pending."

Don Jaime fell into an uneasy silence. Did this have anything to do with the mysterious conversation he had witnessed weeks before? Was there some amorous rivalry? Whatever it was, Adela de Otero was no business of his. Not any longer, he said to himself. He was just about to open his mouth to change the topic when Luis de Ayala placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked unusually serious.

"Maestro, I'm going to ask you a favor."

Don Jaime drew himself up, the very image of honesty and integrity. "At your service, Excellency."

The marquis hesitated for a moment, then seemed to overcome any scruples he might have had. He lowered his voice. "I need to give something to you for safekeeping. Until now I have kept it with me, but for reasons that I will soon explain, I feel it necessary to find a temporary hiding place for it. Can I count on you?"

"Of course."

"It's a file containing papers that are of vital importance to me. You may not believe it, but there are very few people whom I could trust with this matter. You need merely keep them in some suitable place in your house until I ask for them back. They're in an envelope sealed with my personal seal. Naturally, I have your word of honor that you will not look at the contents, and that you will maintain an absolute silence on the subject."

Don Jaime frowned. All this was very strange, but the marquis had mentioned the words "honor" and "trust." There was no more to be said.

"You have my word."

The marquis smiled and seemed to relax. "You have my eternal gratitude, Don Jaime."

Don Jaime said nothing, wondering if the matter had anything to do with Adela de Otero. The question burned on his lips, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The marquis trusted in his honor as a gentleman, and that was all that was needed. There would be time enough, Ayala had promised him, for explanations.

The marquis took a beautiful Russian leather cigar case from his pocket and drew out a long Havana cigar. He offered one to Don Jaime, who declined courteously.

"It's your loss," said the marquis. "They're from Vuelta Abajo in Cuba, a taste I inherited from my late uncle Joaquín. Nothing like the cheap rubbish you can buy in the tobacco shops here."

With that the matter seemed closed. Don Jaime, however, had one question to ask: "Why me, Excellency?"

Luis de Ayala paused in lighting his cigar and looked at Don Jaime over the flame of his match. "For one simple reason, Don Jaime. You are the only honest man I know."

Applying the flame to his cigar, the marquis inhaled the smoke with sensuous pleasure.

The glissade or coulé is one of the surest attacks in fencing, obliging one to cover oneself

Madrid was sleeping out the siesta, lulled by the last heat of summer. The political life of the capital continued, though becalmed in the quiet of a sultry September, beneath leaden clouds through which filtered only a suffocating summer torpor. The progovernment press hinted that the exiled generals in the Canaries were still quiet, but denied that the conspirational tentacles had reached the navy, which, contrary to ill-intentioned, subversive rumors, remained, as always, loyal to Her August Majesty. As regards public order, it had been several weeks since there had been any kind of disturbance in Madrid, after the exemplary punishment meted out by the authorities to the leaders of the last popular uprising, who now had more than enough time to ponder their folly in the somewhat uninviting shade of Ceuta Prison.

Antonio Carreño brought fresh rumors to the gathering at the Café Progreso. "Listen carefully, gentlemen. I have it on good authority that things are on the move." He was greeted by a chorus of jeering skepticism. Carreñ placed his hand on his heart, offended. "Surely you don't doubt my word..."

Lucas Rioseco said that no one doubted his word, only the veracity of his sources; he had been announcing the Second Coming for almost a year now.

Adopting his usual tone of cautious confidence, Carreño beckoned them all toward him over the marble tabletop. "This time, gentlemen, it's serious. López de Ayala has gone to the Canaries to interview the exiled generals. And Don Juan Prim has disappeared from his house in London. Whereabouts unknown. You know what that means."

Agapito Cárceles was the only one to give any credit to the matter. "It means there's going to be a real rumpus."

Don Jaime crossed his legs. These endless prophecies had come to bore him unspeakably.

In a furtive tone, Carreño continued to impart information about the current conspiracy. "They say that Prim has been seen in Lisbon, disguised as a footman, and that the Mediterranean fleet is only waiting for his arrival to give the cry."

"What cry?" asked the innocent Marcelino Romero.

"What cry do you think, man? The cry of freedom."

Don Lucas gave an incredulous little laugh. "It's like something out of a Dumas melodrama, Don Antonio, published in installments."

Carreño fell silent, wounded by the old man's reluctance to believe him. To avenge his colleague, Cárceles launched into a heated revolutionary harangue directed exclusively at Don Lucas. "The moment has arrived to take your places at the barricades!" he concluded, like a character out of a play by Tamayo y Baus.

"See you there, then!" proclaimed a needled Don Lucas in an equally theatrical manner. "With you on one side and me on the other, of course."

"Of course! I never doubted for a moment, Señor Rioseco, that your place would be among the ranks of repression and obscurantism."

"And most honored to be there."

"Honor has nothing to do with it. The truth is that the only honorable Spain is a revolutionary Spain. Your meekness grates on the nerves of any patriot worth his salt, Don Lucas."

"Well, have some chamomile tea, then."

"Long live the republic!"

"Oh, who cares!"

"Long live the federal state!"

"Fine, man, fine. Fausto! Bring me some toast!"

"Long live the rule of law!"

"The only law this country needs is one that allows for people to be shot while escaping."

Thunder rumbled over the rooftops of Madrid. The heavens opened, and a violent rainstorm ensued. On the other side of the street, you could see people running for shelter. Don Jaime sipped his coffee and looked sadly out at the rain beating against the windowpanes. The cat, which had gone out for a stroll, bounded back in, its fur standing up in damp spikes, a scrawny image of misfortune that fixed the fencing master with suspicious, malevolent eyes.

"M
ODERN
fencing technique, gentlemen, tends to do away with the delightful freedom of movement that gives our art its special grace. That very much limits possibilities."

The two Cazorla brothers and Álvaro Salanova were listening attentively, foils and masks beneath their arms. Manuel de Soto was not there; he was spending the summer with his family in the north.

"All this," Don Jaime continued, "greatly impoverishes fencing. For example, some fencers now neglect to take off their masks and salute their seconds..."

"But there are no seconds in fencing bouts, maestro," said the younger of the Cazorla brothers timidly.

"Exactly, sir, exactly. You have put your finger on the problem. People take up fencing now without thinking about its practical applications on the field of honor. After all, they say, it's a sport, isn't it? That is a complete aberration; it is as if, to give a wild example, priests were to start saying mass in Spanish. A Spanish mass would be more up-to-date, more popular, if you like, more in keeping with the times, yes? But to give up the lovely, albeit somewhat hermetic sonority of the Latin language would be to tear that lovely ritual out by its deepest roots, degrading it, vulgarizing it. Beauty, beauty with a capital B, can be found only in the cult of tradition, in the rigorous exercise of those gestures and words that have been repeated and preserved by men down the centuries. Do you understand what I mean?"

The three young men nodded gravely, more out of respect for their teacher than out of conviction. Don Jaime raised a hand, executing a few fencing movements in the air, as if he were holding a foil.

"Of course, we mustn't close our eyes to useful innovations," he went on. "But we must always remember that beauty resides in preserving precisely what others allow to fall away. Don't you find a fallen monarch far worthier of your loyalty than one who is still on the throne? That is why our art must maintain its purity, must remain uncontaminated, classical, yes, above all else, classical. Those who restrict themselves to acquiring mere technique deserve our pity. You, my young friends, have the marvelous opportunity to acquire an art. That is something, believe me, that money cannot buy, something that you carry here, in your heart and in your mind."

He stopped and studied the three faces looking at him with reverent attention. He indicated the older Cazorla brother. "But enough talk. You, Don Fernando, will practice with me the circular parry in seconde, croisé of seconde. I remind you that this maneuver must be done cleanly; never use it with an opponent who is physically much stronger than yourself. Do you remember the theory?"

The young man nodded proudly. "Yes, maestro." And he recited by heart, like a schoolboy. "If I do a circular parry in seconde and I can't find my opponent's foil, I croisé in seconde, disengage, and lunge in quarte over the arm."

"Perfect," said Don Jaime, selecting a foil from his collection while Fernando Cazorla put on his mask. "Ready? Let's get down to business, then. Of course, we mustn't forget the salute. That's it. You stretch out your arm and raise your fist, like that. Do it as if you were wearing an imaginary hat. You take it off with your left hand, elegantly. Perfect." He turned to the other two lads. "You must remember that the salutes in quarte and tierce are for the seconds and the witnesses. One assumes that such events will normally take place among the wellborn. We can hardly object if two men insist on killing each other over a point of honor, can we? But we can at least demand that they do so in the politest way possible."

He crossed foils with Cazorla. The young man flexed his wrist while he waited for Don Jaime to present him with the thrust that would initiate the movement. In the mirrors in the gallery, their images multiplied as if the room were full of fencers. The fencing master's voice rang out, calm and patient.

"That's it, very good. To me. Good. Careful now, circular parry in seconde. No, do it again, please. That's it. Circular parry in seconde. Parry! No, please, remember, you have to parry in seconde and immediately disengage. Once more, if you don't mind. On guard. To me. Parry. That's it. Croisé. Good. Now. Perfect. Quarte over the arm, excellent." There was real satisfaction in Don Jaime's voice, that of an author contemplating his work. "Let's do it again, but be careful. This time I'm going to attack harder. On guard. To me. Good. Parry. Good. That's it. Croisé. No. You were too slow, Don Fernando, that's why I managed to hit you. Let's start again."

From the street came the noise of some great tumult. They could hear the sound of hoofs charging over the cobbles. Salanova and the younger Cazorla brother leaned out of one of the windows.

"There's trouble, maestro!"

Don Jaime interrupted the bout and joined his students at the window. Sabers and patent-leather tricorn hats gleamed in the street. On horseback, the Civil Guard were breaking up a band of demonstrators who were fleeing in all directions. Two shots rang out near the Teatro Real. The young fencers watched the scene, fascinated by the commotion.

"Look at them running!"

"They got a real thrashing!"

"What do you think's happened?"

"Perhaps it's the revolution!"

"No," said Salanova, curling his lip in disdain. "There's only half a dozen of them. The Civil Guard will take care of them."

A passerby was hurriedly seeking shelter in a doorway below. A couple of old ladies in black peered out, like birds of evil omen, prudently observing the scene. The balconies were packed with people; some cheered on the insurgents, others the guards.

"Long live Prim!" shouted three rather disreputable-looking women, with the impunity given them by their sex and by the fact that they were standing on a fourth-floor balcony. "Why don't you string up Marfori!"

"Who's Marfori?" asked Paquito Cazorla.

"A minister," said his brother. "They say that the queen and he..."

Don Jaime deemed that enough was enough. He closed the shutters, ignoring the murmur of disappointment from his students. "We're here to practice fencing, gentlemen," he said in a tone that admitted of no argument. "Your parents pay me to teach you something useful, not to spend your time gawping at things that are none of your business. Let's get back to what we were doing." He gave a supremely scornful glance at the closed shutters and stroked the grip of his foil. "We have nothing to do with whatever might be going on out there. We'll leave that to the mob, and to the politicians."

They took up their positions again, and the metallic clink of foils returned to the gallery. On the walls, the displays of old weapons, rusty and immutable, continued to gather dust. In the fencing master's house, one had only to close the shutters in order for time to stop in its tracks.

I
T
was the concierge who brought him up-to-date when he passed her on the stairs. "Good afternoon, Don Jaime. What do you think of the news, then?"

"What news?"

The old woman crossed herself. She was a plump, chatty widow who lived with an unmarried daughter. She went to mass twice daily at San Ginés and was convinced that all revolutionaries were heretics.

"Don't tell me you don't know what's going on. Haven't you heard?"

Don Jaime raised an eyebrow, indicating polite interest. "Tell me, Doña Rosa."

The concierge lowered her voice, looking suspiciously around her, as if the walls might have ears. "Don Juan Prim disembarked yesterday in Cádiz, and they say that the navy has rebelled. That's how they repay our poor queen for all her kindness."