The Fencing Master (17 page)

H
E
went up Calle Mayor toward the Puerta del Sol, on his way to the Café Progreso. Even without the concierge's report, it was clear that something serious was going on. Excited groups of people were standing in circles commenting on the events of the day, and, from a safe distance, about twenty or so curious onlookers were watching the squadron of soldiers standing guard on the corner of Calle Postas. The soldiers, bayonets fixed and their helmets pulled down over their shaven heads, were under the command of a fierce-looking officer with a beard, who kept pacing up and down, his hand resting on the hilt of his saber. The soldiers were very young and obviously felt very important, basking in the expectation that their presence aroused.

A well-dressed gentleman walked past Don Jaime and went over to the lieutenant. "What's going on?" he asked.

The soldier swung around with lofty arrogance. "I am carrying out the orders of my superiors. Now move along."

Looking solemn in their blue uniforms, a few soldiers were confiscating newspapers from the lads who had been selling them, crying their wares among the people gathered there: martial law had been declared; any news relating to the uprising was censored. A few tradespeople, who had learned from the experience of recent unrest in the streets, were shutting up their shops and joining the groups of interested bystanders. The patent-leather hats of the Civil Guard could be seen glinting in Calle Carretas. It was said that González Bravo had telegraphed his resignation to the queen and that the rebellious troops and Prim were advancing on Madrid.

In the Café Progreso, everyone was there. Don Jaime was immediately brought up-to-date. Prim had arrived in Cádiz on the night of the 18th, and on the morning of the 19th, to the cry of "Long live national sovereignty," the Mediterranean fleet had come out in favor of the revolution. Admiral Topete, whom everyone had considered loyal to the queen, was among the rebels. One after the other, the garrisons in the south and east had joined the uprising.

"The unknown factor now," exclaimed Carreño, "is what the queen will do. If she doesn't surrender, there'll be civil war, because this isn't just another coup, gentlemen. I have it on good authority. Prim now has a powerful army that's growing larger by the minute. And Serrano is involved too. There's some speculation that a regency has been offered to Don Baldomero Espartero."

"Isabel II will never give in," said Don Lucas.

"We'll see about that," said Cárceles, visibly delighted with the course of events. "It would be better if she did at least try to resist."

The others looked at him, surprised.

"Resist?" said Carreño. "That would lead the country into civil war."

"A bloodbath," said Marcelino Romero, glad to be able to contribute something.

"Exactly," said the journalist, beaming. "Don't you understand? It seems perfectly obvious to me. If Isabel goes for half measures, shows herself ready to negotiate or abdicates in favor of her son, we'll be back to square one. There are a lot of monarchists among the rebels, and they'll end up giving us Puigmoltejo, or Montpensier, or Don Baldomero, or some other Tom, Dick, or Harry. I'm not having it. That isn't why we've struggled all these years?"

"Where exactly did you do your struggling?" asked Don Lucas scornfully.

Cárceles looked at him with republican disdain. "In the shadows, sir. In the shadows."

"I see."

Cárceles decided to ignore Don Lucas. "As I was saying," he went on, addressing the others, "what Spain needs is a proper, bloody civil war with plenty of martyrs, with barricades in the streets, and with the sovereign people attacking the royal palace. We need committees of public safety, and to have those monarchical figureheads and their lackeys"—at this point he gave Don Lucas a dark look—"dragged through the streets."

That seemed excessive to Carreño. "Now, Don Agapito, don't go too far. In the lodges..."

But there was no stopping Cárceles. "The lodges are very halfhearted, Don Antonio."

"Halfhearted? The lodges halfhearted?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I said. The revolution may have been unleashed by malcontents among the generals, but we must try to ensure that it ends up in the hands of its rightful owners: the people." His face lit up. "The republic, gentlemen! The
res publica,
no less will do. And the guillotine."

Don Lucas let out a roar and leaped to his feet. His monocle was fogged with indignation. "At last you have removed your mask!" he exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger, tremulous with righteous wrath. "At last you have revealed your Machiavellian face, Don Agapito! Civil war! Blood! The guillotine! That is your true language!"

The journalist looked at him in genuine bemusement. "I've never used any other language, as far as I know."

Don Lucas made as if to get up, but seemed to think better of it. That afternoon Don Jaime was paying and the coffees were on their way.

"You're worse than Robespierre, Señor Cárceles!" he muttered, overcome. "Worse than that infidel Danton!"

"Now don't go mixing the sheep with the goats, my friend."

"I'm not your friend! It's people like you who have plunged Spain into ignominy!"

"You
are
a bad loser, Don Lucas."

"We haven't lost yet. The queen has named General Concha as president; now there's a real man. For the moment, he has entrusted Pavía with command of the army that will confront the rebels. And I imagine you have no doubts about the proven valor of the Marqués de Novaliches. You may have counted your chickens too early, Don Agapito."

"We'll see about that."

"We certainly will."

"We're seeing it right now."

"We'll see!"

Bored by the eternal polemics, Don Jaime left earlier than usual. He picked up his hat and cane, said goodbye until tomorrow, and went out into the street, resolved to take a short walk before returning home. On the way, he noticed, with some annoyance, the febrile atmosphere in the streets. The whole business touched him only very tangentially. He was beginning to grow sick of the debate between Cárceles and Don Lucas, as he was of the country in which he was fated to live.

He thought irritably that they could all go hang themselves with their wretched republics and their wretched monarchies, with their patriotic speeches and their stupid café brawls. He would have given anything to have them stop spoiling his life with their disturbances, disputes, and upsets, the reasons for which left him utterly cold. All he wanted was for them to leave him in peace. As far as the fencing master was concerned, they could all go to the devil.

There was a rumble of distant thunder, and the wind gusted along the streets. Don Jaime bent his head and held on to his hat, quickening his step. A few minutes later it began raining hard.

On the corner of Calle Postas, the rain was drenching the soldiers' blue uniforms and running in large drops down their faces. They were still mounting guard like shy country bumpkins, the points of their bayonets brushing their noses, keeping close to the wall, trying to shelter from the rain. From a doorway, the lieutenant was silently contemplating the puddles, a smoking pipe in the corner of his mouth.

I
T
rained in torrents all that weekend. From the solitude of his studio, bent over the pages of a book by the light of an oil lamp, Don Jaime listened to the endless peals of thunder and the lightning crackling across a dark sky rent by flashes that made the nearby buildings stand out in silhouette. The rain beat hard on the roof, and a couple of times he had to get up and place bowls beneath leaks that dripped from the ceiling with irritating monotony.

He leafed abstractedly through the book he had in his hands and stopped at one particular quotation that, years before, he had underlined in pencil.

His feelings reached an intensity hitherto unknown to him. He relived the experiences of an infinitely varied life; he died and was reborn, he loved ardently and passionately and found himself separated once more and forever from his beloved. At last, toward dawn, when the first light began to dissolve the shadows, a sense of peace began to grow in his soul, and the images became clearer, more permanent...

He smiled with infinite sadness, his finger still on those lines that seemed to have been written not for Heinrich von Ofterdingen but for himself. In recent years he had seen himself depicted on that page with singular mastery; it was all there, probably the most accurate summation of his life that anyone would ever be able to formulate. Nevertheless, in the last few weeks, there was something missing. The growing peace, the clear, permanent images that he had thought definitive, were becoming clouded again, from a strange influence that was pitilessly destroying, piece by piece, that calm lucidity in which he had believed he would be able to spend the rest of his days. A new factor had been introduced into his life, a mysterious, unsettling force that made him ask questions whose answers he struggled to avoid. He could not tell where it was all leading him.

He slammed the book shut on the table. He became horribly aware of his utter isolation. Those violet-colored eyes had used him for some unknown end, which, whenever he tried to guess at it, filled him with a dark fear. And what was worse: those eyes had robbed his old and weary spirit of its peace.

H
E
woke up with the first light of dawn. Lately, he slept badly; his sleep was disturbed, restless. He washed thoroughly and then placed the case containing his razors on a table, next to the mirror and the bowl of hot water. As usual, he carefully lathered up and shaved. He trimmed his mustache with his old silver scissors and then ran a tortoiseshell comb through his still-damp white hair. Satisfied with his appearance, he dressed carefully, tying a black silk tie about his neck. From his three summer suits he chose an everyday one, in light-brown alpaca, whose long, old-fashioned jacket gave him the distinguished bearing of an aging dandy from the turn of the century. It is true that the seat of his trousers was somewhat worn with use, but the tails of his jacket concealed it most satisfactorily. He chose the best preserved of his clean handkerchiefs and sprinkled a few drops of cologne on it before putting it in his pocket. As he left, he donned a top hat and placed the case bearing his foils under his arm.

It was a gray day, and showers still looked likely. It had been raining all night, and a large puddle in the middle of the street reflected the eaves of the houses beneath a heavy, leaden sky. He courteously greeted the concierge, who was returning home with her basket full of groceries, and he crossed the road to have his usual breakfast—hot chocolate and fritters—in a modest little café on the corner. He went and sat down in the back where he always sat, beneath the glass globe covering a defunct gas burner. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and there were few customers. Valentin, the owner, came over with a cup of hot chocolate and a paper cone full of fritters.

"No newspapers today, I'm afraid, Don Jaime. What with one thing and another, they haven't come out yet, and I suspect they won't."

Don Jaime shrugged. The absence of a daily newspaper didn't bother him in the least. "Any news?" he asked, more out of politeness than any real interest. The owner of the café wiped his hands on his greasy apron. "It seems the Marqués de Novaliches is in Andalusia with the army, and that he's about to confront the rebels any day now. They say too that Córdoba, which rebelled when the others did, unrebelled the following day, as soon as they caught a glimpse of the government troops. Things are not at all clear, Don Jaime. Heaven knows where it will all end."

Having eaten his breakfast, Don Jaime went out into the street and headed for the house of the Marqués de los Alumbres. He had no idea whether or not Luis de Ayala would want to fence today, given the atmosphere in Madrid, but Don Jaime was, as always, prepared to carry out his part of the agreement. At worst, it would mean a visit made in vain. Since it was getting late and he didn't want to be delayed by any unforeseen incident in the streets, he got into an unoccupied carriage that was waiting by one of the arches in the Plaza Mayor.

"Palacio de Villaflores."

The coachman cracked his whip, and the two bored nags set off rather unenthusiastically. The soldiers were still on the corner of Calle Postas, but the lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. Opposite the post office, a group of curious onlookers were being rather halfheartedly moved on by some municipal policemen. These people worked for the town hall, with the Damocles sword of. dismissal constantly hanging over their heads; they had no idea who would be governing the country tomorrow, and they did not quite know what to do.

The mounted Civil Guard he had seen in Calle Carretas were no longer at their posts. He met them farther down, with their tricorn hats and their cloaks, patrolling back and forth between the Parliament building and the Fountain of Neptune. With their black mustaches stiff with wax and their sabers in their scabbards, they watched the passersby with the grim certainty that came from knowing that whoever won, they would still be the instruments of public order. Whether the government was Progressive or Moderate, the Civil Guard were never dismissed.

Don Jaime sat back in the carriage, looking abstractedly about him, but as they approached the Palacio de Villaflores, he started and looked out the window with alarm. There was an unusual amount of activity outside the home of the Marqués de los Alumbres. More than a hundred people were milling around in the street, kept back from the entrance by several guards. They were from all social classes, mostly people from the neighborhood, along with various others who had nothing better to do. Some of the more daring busybodies had scaled the railings and were peering into the garden. Making the most of all this fuss, a couple of peddlers were meandering in and out among the parked carriages, crying their wares.

With a dark presentiment, Don Jaime paid the coachman and hurried to the gate, pushing his way through the crowd. The people were jostling one another to get a better look, in ghoulish expectation.