The Fencing Master

Translated from the Spanish
by Margaret Jull Costa

A Harvest Book
Harcourt, Inc.
Orlando Austin New York San Diego Toronto London

For Carlota. And for the Knight of the Yellow Doublet.

© Arturo Pérez-Reverte, 1988
English translation copyright © Margaret Jull Costa, 1998

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This is a translation of
El maestro de esgrima.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Pérez-Reverte, Arturo.
[Maestro de esgrima. English]
The fencing master / by Arturo Pérez-Reverte;
Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Jull Costa.—
I. ed.
p. cm
ISBN 0-15-100181-2
ISBN 0-15-602983-9 (pbk.)
I. Costa, Margaret Jull. II. Title.
PQ6666.E765M3413 1999
863.'64—dc21 98-35536

Text set in Janson
Designed by Trina Stahl
Printed in the United States of America
First Harvest edition 2000
G I K H F

I am the most courteous man in the world. I pride myself on never having once been rude, in this land full of the most unutterable scoundrels, who will come and sit down next to you and tell you their woes and even declaim their poetry to you.

—H
EINRICH
H
EINE,
Reisebilder

I. The Fencing Bout • 5

II. Compound Attack with Two Feints • 31

III. Uncertain 'Time' on a False Attack • 57

IV. The Short Lunge • 81

V. Glissade • 128

VI. An Attack on the Blade • 156

VII. The Appel • 181

VIII. With Bare Blades • 207

The plump brandy glasses reflected the candles burning in the silver candelabra. Between puffs on the solid cigar—from Vuelta Abajo in Cuba—which he was engaged in lighting, the minister studied the other man surreptitiously. He was in no doubt that the man was a scoundrel, yet he had seen him arrive at Lhardy's in a superb carriage drawn by two magnificent English mares, and the man wore a valuable diamond set in gold on one of the slender, manicured fingers now slipping the band off a cigar. That, plus the man's elegant self-assurance and the detailed report that had been drawn up about him, automatically placed him in the category of distinguished scoundrels. For the minister, who was far from considering himself a radical on questions of ethics, not all scoundrels were equal; their degree of social acceptability stood in direct relation to each individual's fortune and distinction—especially if, in exchange for that minor moral violation on the minister's part, large material benefits were to be obtained.

"I need proof," said the minister, but these were empty words, for it was clear he was already convinced: he, after all, was paying for supper. The man merely smiled in the manner of one hearing exactly what he expects to hear. Still smiling, he tugged at his immaculate white shirt cuffs, revealing a striking pair of diamond cuff links, then slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket.

"Of course you do," he murmured in a tone of gentle irony.

The sealed but unstamped envelope lay on the linen cloth at the edge of the table, within reach of the minister's hands. He did not touch it, though, as if he were afraid of some contagion; he merely looked at the man.

"I'm listening," he said.

The man shrugged and gestured vaguely in the direction of the envelope; it was as if its contents had ceased to interest him the moment it left his hands. "Oh, I don't know," he said, as if it were a matter of no importance. "Names, addresses ... a rather interesting report, interesting at least to you. Something to keep your agents busy for quite a while."

"Are all those involved named?"

"Let's just say that all those who should be there are there. I have to manage my capital prudently." With those last words the smile reappeared. This time it was blatantly insolent, and the minister felt irritated.

"Sir, I have the impression that you are taking this whole matter rather lightly. Your situation..." He left the phrase hanging in the air like a threat.

The man seemed surprised, then made a face. "Surely," he said, after thinking for a moment, "you don't expect me to come and collect my thirty pieces of silver, like Judas, furtive and sorrowing. After all, you leave me no option."

The minister placed one hand on the envelope. "You could refuse to collaborate," he said, clenching his cigar between his teeth. "That would be positively heroic."

"I could," said the gentleman, finishing his brandy, then getting to his feet and picking up his walking stick and his top hat from a nearby chair. "Heroes, however, have a habit of ending up either dead or bankrupt, and, as you know better than anyone, I have too much to lose. At my age and in my profession, prudence is more than just a virtue, it's an instinct. So I have decided to absolve myself."

There was no handshake, no word of farewell, just a few footsteps on the stairs and the noise below of a carriage setting off in the rain. When the minister was alone, he broke the seal on the envelope, put on his glasses, and moved closer to the light. A couple of times he paused to take a sip of brandy while he considered the contents, and, when he had finished reading, he remained seated for a while, amid the smoke curling up from his cigar. He gave a melancholy glance at the brazier heating the small private room, then got up slowly and went over to the window.

He had several hours' work ahead of him, and he swore under his breath at the thought. Madrid, on that December night in 1866, with Her Catholic Majesty, Queen Isabel II, still on the Spanish throne, was being drenched by a cold rain driving in from the icy peaks of the Guadarrama Mountains.

A fencing bout between men of honor, under the direction of a teacher inspired by the same feelings, is a diversion proper to good taste and fine breeding.

Much later, when Jaime Astarloa wanted to piece together the scattered fragments of the tragedy and tried to remember how it all began, the first image that came to his mind was of the marquis and of the gallery in the palace overlooking the Retire Gardens, with the first heat of summer streaming in through the windows, accompanied by such brilliant sunlight that they had to squint against the dazzle on the polished guards of their foils.

The marquis was not in form; he was wheezing like a broken bellows, and beneath his plastron his shirt was drenched with sweat. He was doubtless paying for the excesses of the previous night, but, as was his custom, Don Jaime refrained from making any uncalled-for remarks. His client's private life was none of his business. He merely parried in tierce a feeble thrust that would have made even an apprentice blush, then lunged. The flexible Italian steel bent as the button struck his opponent's chest hard.

"Touché, Excellency."

Luis de Ayala-Velate y Vallespín, the Marqués de los Alumbres, swore under his breath as he angrily removed the mask protecting his face. He was flushed with the heat and exertion. Large drops of sweat trickled down from his hairline into his eyebrows and mustache.

"Devil take it, Don Jaime," he said, with just a touch of humiliation in his voice. "How do you do it? That's the third time you've hit me in less than a quarter of an hour."

Jaime Astarloa gave a suitably modest shrug. When he took off his mask, there was the hint of a smile beneath his grizzled mustache.

"You're not at your best today, Excellency."

Luis de Ayala laughed jovially and strode off down the gallery, which was adorned with valuable Flemish tapestries and collections of antique swords, foils, and sabers. He had a mane of thick, curly hair, and he radiated exuberance and vitality. Strong and well built, he had a loud, deep voice and was much given to grand gestures, grand passions, and easy camaraderie. At forty, single, good-looking, and—or so people said—possessed of a large fortune, as well as being an inveterate gambler and womanizer, the Marqués de los Alumbres was the very model of the kind of rakish aristocrat in which nineteenth-century Spain abounded. He had never read a book in his life, but he could recite from memory the pedigree of any celebrated horse at the racetracks in London, Paris, or Vienna. As for women, the scandals with which he favored Madrid society from time to time were the talk of the salons, always avid for novelty and gossip. He carried his forty years extremely well, and the mere mention of his name in female company was enough to provoke quarrels and arouse stormy passions.

The truth is that the Marqués de los Alumbres was something of a legend in Her Catholic Majesty's pious court. It was said, amid much fluttering of fans, that during one particular drunken spree he had got involved in a knife fight in a cheap tavern in Cuatro Caminos—which, however, was entirely false—and that on his estate in Málaga, he had taken in the son of a famous bandit, after the bandit was executed—which was absolutely true. There was little gossip about his brief political career, but his love affairs were the talk of the city, for it was rumored that certain eminent husbands had ample reason to demand satisfaction from him; whether they did or not was another matter Four or five had sent him their seconds more because of what people might say than for anything else and that gesture found them greeting the new day with their life's blood draining away into the grass of some meadow on the outskirts of Madrid Certain malicious tongues claimed that among those who might have demanded redress was the royal consort himself Everyone knew though that the last thing one would expect of Don Francisco de Asís was for him to feel jealous of his august wife However whether Isabel II had succumbed to the undoubted personal charms of the Marqués de los Alumbres was a secret known only to the alleged interested parties and to the queen's confessor As for Luis de Ayala he did not have a confessor nor in his own words did he have any damn use for one.

In his shirtsleeves, having removed the protective plastron, the marquis put his foil down on a small table, where a silent servant had placed a silver tray bearing a bottle.

"That's enough for today, Don Jaime. I seem incapable of doing anything right, so I'd better just haul down the flag. How about a sherry?"

That drink of sherry, after their daily hour of fencing, had become a ritual. With his mask and foil under his arm, Don Jaime went over to his host and took the proffered glass in which the wine gleamed like liquid gold.

The marquis breathed in the bouquet. "You have to admit, maestro, that they certainly bottle things well in Andalusia," he said, taking a sip and giving a satisfied click of his tongue. "Look at it against the light: pure gold, Spanish sun. We have no reason to envy the insipid stuff they drink abroad."

Don Jaime nodded, pleased. He liked Luis de Ayala, and he liked the fact that he called him maestro, although the marquis was not exactly one of his pupils. In fact, he was one of the best swordsmen in Madrid, and it was many years since he had needed to take lessions from anyone. His relationship with Jaime Astarloa was of a different kind. The marquis loved fencing with the same passion with which he devoted himself to gambling, women, and horses. To that end he spent an hour a day engaged in the healthy exercise of fencing with a foil, an activity that, given his character and interests, was also extremely useful to him when it came to settling debts of honor. Five years earlier, in order to find an opponent as good as himself, Luis de Ayala had gone to the best fencing master in Madrid, for that was Don Jaime's reputation, although the more fashionable fencers considered his style to be too classical and antiquated. And so, at ten o'clock each morning, excepting Saturdays and Sundays, the fencing master would arrive punctually at the Palacio de Villaflores, the marquis's home. There, in the large fencing gallery, designed and equipped according to the most demanding standards of the art, the marquis brought a fierce determination to their fencing bouts although generally speaking his teacher's ability and talent won out Though a hardened gambler Luis de Ayala was also a good loser and he admired the old fencer's remarkable skill.

The marquis prodded his own chest with a pained look on his face and, sighing, said, "You certainly put me through the mill, maestro. I'm going to need a good rubdown with alcohol after this."

Don Jaime smiled humbly. "As I said, Excellency, you were not at your best today."

"You're right. It's just as well that these foils have buttons on their tips, though; if not, I'd be six feet under by now. I'm afraid I've been a less than worthy opponent."

"That's the price you pay for these late nights."

"Don't I know it. At my age too. I'm no spring chicken, dammit, but what can I do, Don Jaime ... You will never guess what's happened to me."

"I imagine that Your Excellency has fallen in love."

"Exactly," sighed the marquis, pouring himself another sherry. "I have fallen in love like some young dandy. Head over heels."

The fencing master cleared his throat and smoothed his mustache. "If I'm not mistaken," he said, "it is the third time this month."

"So? The important thing is that whenever I do fall in love, I really do fall in love. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly. Even allowing for poetic license, Excellency."

"It's odd, but with the passing years I seem to fall in love more and more frequently. There's nothing I can do about it. My arm is strong but my heart is weak, as the great writers of old might have put it. If I were to tell you..."

At that point, the Marqués de los Alumbres launched into a description, laden with hints and eloquent innuendos, of the wild passion that had left him drained and exhausted as dawn was breaking. She was a lady, of course. And her husband was none the wiser.