The Fencing Master (8 page)

When they reached the gallery, the maestro drew back one of the curtains so that the light streamed in, multiplied by the large mirrors. The sun's rays fell directly on the young woman, framing her in a golden halo. She looked about her, clearly pleased with the atmosphere in the room: A violet gemstone glittered on her muslin dress. It occurred to the fencing master that Adela de Otero always wore something that matched her eyes, which she certainly knew how to show off to the best advantage.

"It's fascinating," she said, with genuine admiration. Don Jaime in turn looked at the mirrors, the old swords, the wooden floor, and shrugged. "It's just a fencing gallery," he protested, secretly flattered.

She shook her head and regarded her own image in the mirrors. "No, it's more than that. In this light and with the old weapons on the walls, with the curtains and everything..." Her eyes lingered too long on those of the fencing master, who, rather embarrassed, looked away. "It must be a pleasure to work here, Don Jaime. It's all so..."

"Prehistoric?"

She pursed her lips, missing the joke.

"No, it's not that," she said in her slightly husky voice, fumbling for the right word. "It's so ... decadent." She repeated the word as if it gave her a special pleasure. "Yes, decadent in the most beautiful sense of the word, like a flower fading in a vase or a fine antique engraving. When I first met you, I imagined that your house would be something like this."

Don Jaime shuffled his feet uneasily. The nearness of the young woman, her utter self-assurance that bordered almost on impudence, the vitality she seemed to exude, produced in him a strange confusion. He decided not to allow himself to fall under her spell and tried to get back to the reason that had brought them there. To this end, he expressed the hope that she had appropriate clothing with her. She reassured him by showing him her small traveling bag.

"Where I change?"

Don Jaime sensed a provocative note in her voice, but, annoyed with himself, he dismissed the idea. Perhaps he was beginning to get too drawn into the game, he thought, mentally preparing himself to reject with the utmost rigor the first sign of any old man's folly. He gravely showed the young woman the door of a small room set aside for such things, and suddenly developed an intense interest in testing out the firmness of one of the floorboards. When she walked past him toward the changing room, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and he thought he caught a faint smile. She pulled the door to but left it open about two inches. Don Jaime swallowed hard, trying to keep his mind a blank. The small crack drew his gaze like a magnet. He kept his eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes, struggling against that murky magnetism. He heard the rustle of petticoats, and, for a second, an image crossed his mind of dark skin in the warm shadows. He immediately banished the vision, feeling utterly despicable.

"For the love of God—" The thought burst out in the form of a plea, although he wasn't quite sure to whom the plea was addressed. "She is, after all, a lady."

Then he walked over to one of the windows, raised his face to the light, and tried to fill his mind with sun.

S
EÑORA DE
O
TERO
had changed her muslin dress for a simple, light riding skirt in brown, short enough not to get in the way of her feet, and long enough for only a few inches of white-stockinged ankle to remain uncovered. She had put on flat fencing shoes that gave her movements a grace normally found only in ballerinas. To complete the outfit she wore a plain, round-necked, white linen blouse that buttoned at the back. It was close-fitting enough to emphasize her bust, which Don Jaime fancied was tantalizingly soft. When she walked, her low shoes gave her gait a lithe animal beauty, combining the masculine quality that Don Jaime had noticed in her before with a lightness of movement that was at once firm and supple. In those flat shoes, thought the fencing master, the young woman moved like a cat.

She leveled her violet eyes at him, trying to gauge the effect of her appearance. Don Jaime did his best to remain inscrutable. "Which foil do you prefer?" he asked, half-closing his eyes, dazzled by the light that seemed to fold her in a voluptuous embrace. "French, Spanish, or Italian?"

"French. I like to have my fingers free."

With a slight bow, he congratulated her on her choice. He too preferred the French foil, with no crossbar, with the grip unimpeded as far as the guard. He went over to one of the racks of weapons on the wall and studied them thoughtfully. Estimating the young woman's height and the length of her arms, he chose the appropriate foil, an excellent weapon with a blade made of Toledo steel, as flexible as a reed. Señora de Otero took the weapon and studied it attentively; she closed her right hand about the grip, appreciatively weighed the foil in her hand, and then, turning to the wall, she tried the blade against it, pressing it so that it curved until the point was about twenty inches from the guard. Satisfied with the quality of the steel, she turned to Don Jaime. With the frank admiration of someone who knows how to appreciate the quality of such a weapon, she stroked the well-tempered metal with her fingers.

He handed her a padded plastron and solicitously helped her to put it on, fastening the hooks at the back. As he did so, he accidentally brushed the fine fabric of her blouse with the tips of his fingers, and smelled the sweet scent of rose water. He completed his task rather hurriedly, disturbed by the proximity of that beautiful bent neck, of the smooth skin offering itself up to him in all its warm nakedness beneath her hair gathered by a mother-of-pearl comb. As he fastened the final hook, he noticed with dismay that his hands were shaking. To hide this, he immediately occupied himself in unbuttoning his own jacket and made some banal comment : about the usefulness of the plastron in fencing bouts. Señora de Otero, who was drawing on her leather gloves, looked at him rather oddly, bemused by this sudden, uncalled-for loquacity.

"Don't you ever use one, maestro?"

Don Jaime smoothed his mustache and smiled benignly. "Sometimes," he replied. Then, removing his jacket and scarf, he went over to the rack and chose a French foil with a square grip, slightly inclined in quarte. With the foil under his arm, he went and stood opposite the young woman, who was waiting for him on the piste, very erect and with the point of her weapon resting on the floor by her feet, which were at right angles, the heel of her right foot facing the ankle of her left, impeccably positioned to place herself on guard. Don Jaime studied her for a few moments, regretting that he could not fault her position. He nodded approvingly, put on his gloves, and indicated the masks lined up on a shelf. She shook her head disdainfully.

"I think you should cover your face, Señora de Otero. As you know, in fencing..."

"Perhaps later."

"That would be running a needless risk," insisted Don Jaime, taken aback by his new client's coolness. She doubtless knew that a careless stroke, delivered too high, could mark her face irrevocably.

She seemed to guess his thoughts: she smiled, or perhaps it was the little scar that smiled. "I commend myself to your skill, maestro, not to be disfigured."

"I'm honored by your confidence in me, madam, but I would feel happier if..."

There were flecks of gold in the young woman's eyes now, and they glinted strangely. "We'll fight our first bout with our faces uncovered," she said, as if introducing the extra risk made it all the more attractive to her. "Just this once, I promise."

He could not get over his surprise; the young woman was devilishly stubborn and extremely proud. "Madam, I accept no responsibility. I would hate it if—"

"Please."

Don Jaime sighed. He had lost that first skirmish. It was time to pass on to the foils. "We'll say no more."

They saluted, preparing themselves for the bout. Señora de Otero covered herself with absolute correctness; she held the foil with just the right degree of firmness, her thumb on the grip, her ring finger and little finger close together, keeping the guard at chest height and the point of the foil slightly higher than the wrist. She stood in the orthodox Italian fashion, offering the fencing master only her right profile, the foil, arm, shoulder, thigh, and foot all in one line, her knees slightly bent, her left arm raised with the wrist apparently limp. Don Jaime admired the graceful picture that the young woman presented, ready for attack like a cat about to pounce. Her eyes were narrowed, almost feverishly bright; her jaw was set. Her lips, beautiful despite the scar, were now just a thin line. Her whole body seemed to be tensed, like a spring about to be released. Don Jaime, taking all this in with one professional glance, realized with some disquiet that for Señora de Otero this was much more than a capricious, eccentric pastime. Merely placing a weapon in the hands of this beautiful young woman turned her into an aggressive opponent. Accustomed to understanding the human condition precisely through aggression, Don Jaime sensed that this mysterious woman was the guardian of some fascinating secret. That is why, when he held out his foil and stood on guard before her, he did so with the same calculated care that he would have taken when facing an opponent with an unprotected foil. He sensed that danger was lurking somewhere and that this game was far from being an innocent diversion. His professional instinct never deceived him.

They had only to cross swords for him to see that she had had an excellent teacher. He made a couple of feints to test his opponent's reactions; she replied calmly, keeping her distance and remaining on the defensive, conscious that her opponent was a man extraordinarily well versed in combat. Don Jaime could categorize opponents at once merely by observing the positions they assumed and by testing the firmness of their steel, and this young woman certainly knew how to fence. She behaved with a curious combination of aggression and calm; she was perfectly ready to lunge, but she was cool enough not to underestimate a formidable opponent, however often he appeared to offer her opportunities to deliver a decisive thrust. She remained prudently in quarte, resting her defense on the upper third of her foil, quick to take avoiding action when the teacher changed tactics and came too close Like all expert fencers, she did not look at the blades but into her opponent's eyes.

Don Jaime made a half thrust in tierce, intending it to be a false attack before he attacked in quarte—to test the young woman's reaction, because he still did not wish to touch her with his foil. To his surprise, she stood firm, and he saw the tip of the enemy foil flash only a few inches from his belly when, with unexpected speed, she unleashed a low thrust in seconde,
letting out a soft grunt between pursed lips. He retreated, not without some embarrassment, furious with himself for having been so careless. The young woman recovered herself, took two steps back and then advanced one, again in quarte, her lips pressed together and looking into her opponent's eyes through half-closed lids, in a pose of absolute concentration.

"Excellent," murmured Don Jaime loud enough for her to hear, but she showed no satisfaction at his praise. There was a vertical line between her eyebrows, and a bead of sweat ran down from her forehead to her cheek. The skirt did not seem to encumber her movements; she held the foil with her arm slightly bent, aware of Don Jaime's slightest gesture. She was less beautiful like that, he thought; she was still beautiful, but now her beauty lay in the tension with which her body seemed almost to vibrate. There was something mannish about her, but also something dark and wild.

Señora de Otero did not move sideways, she kept the line and maintained the correct measure on which purists were so keen and which Don Jaime himself recommended to his pupils. He advanced three steps, and she responded by retreating three. He made a thrust in tierce, and the young woman opposed him with an impeccable counterparry in quarte, describing a small circle with her foil around the enemy blade, which was turned aside by the maneuver. He silently admired the clean execution of that defense, considered to be the most important of the principal parries; anyone who mastered it knew all there was to know about fencing. He waited for her to lunge immediately in quarte, which she did; he neutralized the attack and delivered a thrust over her arm which would have hit home had he not deliberately stopped about an inch short. The young woman noticed this, stepped back without lowering her foil, and looked at him eyes blazing.

"I'm not paying you so that you can just toy with me as if I were one of your beginners, Don Jaime." Her voice trembled with ill-contained anger. "If you're going to hit me, then do so."

He stammered an apology, amazed at her furious reaction. She merely resumed her frown of concentration, and suddenly lunged forward so violently that he barely had time to interpose his foil in quarte, although the force of the attack obliged him to step back. He attacked in quarte to keep his distance, but she continued her assault, engaging, attacking, and advancing with extraordinary speed, marking each movement with a hoarse cry. Less troubled by the nature of the attack than by the young woman's passionate determination, Don Jaime continued to retreat, staring, as if hypnotized, at the terrible expression contorting his opponent's face. He broke ground, and she followed him, advancing. He broke ground again, but she advanced again, engaging and thrusting in quinte. He again drew back, and this time she engaged in quinte and attacked in seconde. "Enough is enough," thought Don Jaime, determined to put an end to this absurd situation But the young woman still had time to engage in tierce and attack in quarte over the arm before he had completely recovered himself. With considerable difficulty he managed to extricate himself and standing firm waited for her to present her foil horizontally He disarmed her with a short sharp blow on the blade and almost simultaneously raised his foil and held the tip to her throat As her weapon fell to the floor she jumped back staring at the threatening foil as if a serpent were about to bite her.

They exchanged a measured, silent look. To his surprise, the fencing master noticed that the young woman no longer appeared angry. The anger that had contorted her features during the fight gave way to a smile in which there was a flicker of irony. He realized that she was glad to have given him a hard bout, and this irritated him.