The Fencing Master

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  The pianist shook his head; he didn't agree. "A world in which we expected nothing from anyone would be an inferno, Don Jaime. Do you know what the worst thing is?"

  "The worst thing, I find, is always a very personal matter. What is the worst thing for you?"

  "For me, it's the absence of hope. To feel that one has fallen into a trap and ... I mean, there are terrible moments when it seems that there is simply no way out."

  "There are traps with no way out."

  "Don't say that."

  "I would remind you, though, that no trap is successful without the unconscious complicity of the victim. Nobody forces the mouse to look for the cheese in the mousetrap."

  "But the search for love, for happiness ... Why, I myself..."

  Don Jaime turned rather brusquely toward his friend. Without quite knowing why, he felt irritated by his friend's melancholy expression, so like that of a hunted fawn. He felt tempted to be cruel. "Then kidnap her, Don Marcelino," he said.

  The other man's Adam's apple rose and fell rapidly, as he swallowed hard. "Who?"

  There was alarm and panic in the question, as well as a plea that the fencing master chose to ignore.

  "You know perfectly well who I mean. If you really love the good woman, then don't just languish beneath her balcony for the rest of your life. Go in there and throw yourself at her feet, seduce her, trample her virtue, drag her out by force. Shoot the husband, or yourself! Either do something heroic or simply make a complete and utter fool of yourself, but for God's sake, do something. After all, you're only forty!"

  This unexpected, brutal eloquence had erased from Romero's face the slightest sign of life. The blood had drained from his cheeks, and for a moment he looked as if he was going to turn tail and run.

  "I am not a violent man," he stammered at last, as if that justified everything.

  Don Jaime gave him a hard look. For the first time, the pianist's shyness did not inspire compassion in him, only disdain. How different everything would have been had Don Jaime met Adela de Otero when he was Romero's age.

  "I'm not talking about the violence that Cárceles preaches at our meetings," he said. "I mean the violence that is born of personal courage"—he indicated his own chest—"here."

  Romero had moved from concern to distrust; he toyed nervously with his cravat while avoiding his friend's eyes.

  "I'm against all kinds of violence, personal or collective."

  "Well, I'm not. There are very subtle shades of violence, I can assure you. A civilization that renounces the possibility of resorting to violence in thought or deed destroys itself. It becomes a flock of sheep that will get their throats cut by the first person to come along. The same thing happens with men."

  "And what about the Catholic Church? The Church is against violence, and during the two thousand years of its existence it has never once had to resort to it."

  "Don't make me laugh, Don Marcelino. Christianity was sustained by Constantine's legions and by the swords of the Crusaders, and the Catholic Church by the Inquisition's bonfires, by the galleys at Lepanto and by the Habsburgs' infantrymen. Who do you think will support your cause?"

  The pianist lowered his eyes. "I'm disappointed in you, Don Jaime," he said after a moment, digging the tip of his walking stick into the sandy ground. "I never suspected that you shared Agapito Cárceles's views."

  "I don't share anyone's views. Quite apart from anything else, I couldn't care less about the principle of equality that our friend defends with such brio. But now that you mention the subject, I can tell you that I would rather be governed by a Caesar or a Bonaparte, whom I could always try to assassinate if I didn't care for him, than have my tastes, customs, and the company I keep decided by the vote of the shopkeeper on the corner. The tragedy of our century, Don Marcelino, is its lack of genius, comparable only to its lack of courage and its lack of good taste. Doubtless this is due to the irresistible rise of shopkeepers all over Europe."

  "According to Cárceles, those shopkeepers' days are numbered," said Romero with a touch of rancor; the husband of his beloved was a well-known grocer.

  "All the worse for us, because we know only too well what he offers as an alternative. Do you know what the problem is? We find ourselves in the last of the three generations history chooses to repeat every now and then. The first generation needs a god, and so they invent one. The second erects temples to that god and tries to imitate him. And the third uses the marble from those temples to build brothels in which to worship their own greed, lust, and dishonesty. And that is why gods and heroes are always, inevitably, succeeded by mediocrities, cowards, and imbeciles. Good afternoon, Don Marcelino."

  Don Jaime stood leaning on his walking stick as the wretched pianist departed, his head sunk between his shoulders, doubtless on his way to resume his desperate patrol beneath that balcony in Calle Hortaleza. Don Jaime remained for a while watching the passersby, although still absorbed in thoughts about his own situation. Some of the things he had said to Romero could easily be applied to himself, and knowing that made him feel far from happy. Deciding to go home, he walked in leisurely fashion up Calle Atocha and stopped at his usual pharmacy to replenish his supply of alcohol and liniment. The lame assistant who served him was his usual friendly self, inquiring after his health.

  "I can't complain," said Don Jaime. "These remedies, as you know, are for my students."

  "Are you not going away for the summer? The queen is already in Lequeitio. The whole court will be there, unless Don Juan Prim steps in. Now there's a man for you!" The assistant slapped his lame leg proudly. "You should have seen him at the Battle of Castillejos, riding along as calmly as if he were out for a Sunday trot on an August afternoon, and all the while the Moors were closing in on us like devils. I had the honor to be by his side then, and to be wounded for my country. When I got hit in the leg by a stone, Don Juan turned and looked at me, and he said in that Catalan accent of his, 'Why, that's nothing, boy.' I gave three loud cheers as they carried me off on a stretcher. He probably still remembers me!"

  Don Jaime went out into the street with the package under his arm, past the Palacio de Santa Cruz and under the arches to the Plaza Mayor, where he remained for a few moments in the crowd of people listening to the martial music of a military band beneath the equestrian statue of Felipe III. He walked out onto Calle Mayor, intending to have supper at Pereira's before going home, when he stopped short as if someone had struck him a blow. On the other side of the street, leaning out of a carriage window, was Adela de Otero. She didn't notice him there, occupied as she was in a discreet dialogue with a middleaged gentleman wearing a tailcoat and top hat, holding a walking stick, and resting nonchalantly on the frame of the carriage window.

  Don Jaime did not move, watching the scene. The gentleman, with his back to him, was turned toward the young woman and talking in a low, restrained voice. She was unusually serious, now and then shaking her head. She murmured a couple of grave remarks, and her companion nodded. Don Jaime was about to continue on his way, but curiosity got the better of him, and he stayed where he was, trying to silence his scruples about indulging in such an unequivocal, unworthy act of espionage. He listened hard to capture some fragment of the conversation, but in vain. The speakers were too far away.

  The gentleman still had his back to him, but Don Jaime was sure that he did not know him. Señora de Otero suddenly made a negative gesture with the fan she held and then began to say something, while looking vaguely down the street. She suddenly noticed Don Jaime, who began to raise his hand to his hat by way of greeting. His gesture was interrupted halfway, though, when he saw the extraordinary look of alarm in the young woman's eyes. She hurriedly withdrew her head and hid inside the carriage, while the gentleman, clearly worried, half-turned to Don Jaime. She must have shouted an order, because the coachman, who had been lounging in his seat, suddenly jumped and whipped the horses into a trot. The stranger drew back and walked rapidly away in the opposite direction, swingi
ng his stick. Don Jaime saw his face for a moment only, but caught a glimpse of long sideburns and a thin, neat mustache. The man was elegant, of medium height and distinguished appearance and seemed to be in a great hurry. His walking stick was ivory.

  Don Jaime gave a great deal of thought to the strange scene that he had witnessed. He went over and over it in his mind while he ate his frugal supper, and even back in the solitude of his rooms he continued trying to throw light on the mystery. He felt a need to know who that man was.

  However, something else intrigued him still more. He had seen in the young woman's face, when she became aware of him, something he had never seen before. Not surprise or irritation, which would have been understandable, her finding herself observed with such frank impertinence. What he had seen was something much darker and more troubling, so much so that it took him a while to be sure that his intuition was not deceiving him, for what he had seen in Adela de Otero's eyes, for a fraction of a second, was fear.

  HE woke suddenly, sitting up in bed. His body was drenched in sweat from the terrible nightmare that, even with his eyes now open to the darkness, remained fixed upon his retina. A cardboard doll was floating facedown, as if drowned. Its hair was entangled with the lilies and slimy weeds floating on the surface of stagnant green water. He was bending over the doll with exasperating slowness, and when he picked it up, he saw its face—the glass eyes had been torn from their sockets. The sight of those empty sockets made a shudder of horror run through him.

  He remained like that for hours, unable to get back to sleep until the first light of day filtered through the shutters on the windows.

  LUIS DE AYALA had seemed restless for some days. He found it hard to concentrate on their bouts, as if his thoughts were far from fencing.

  "Touché, Excellency."

  The marquis gave a sad, apologetic shake of his head. "I'm not having much luck, maestro."

  His usual good cheer had been replaced by a strange melancholy. He was often abstracted and rarely joked. At first, Don Jaime put it down to the volatile political situation. Prim had been seen in Vichy and then mysteriously disappeared. The whole court was spending the summer in the north, but the main political and military personalities were still in Madrid, waiting. Winds were blowing that augured nothing but ill for the monarchy.

  One morning, during the last days of August, when the fencing master made his daily visit, Luis de Ayala excused himself: "I'm not in the mood today, Don Jaime. My hand's not steady enough."

  He suggested that they go for a walk in the garden. They strolled beneath the willows, along the gravel path that led past the water singing in the fountain with the stone angel. A gardener was working some way off, among clumps of flowers drooping in the heat of the morning.

  They walked for a while, exchanging trivial remarks. When they came to a wrought-iron shrine, the Marqués de los Alumbres turned to Don Jaime with a casual air that was soon belied by his words: "Maestro, I would be interested to know how you met Adela de Otero."

  Don Jaime was surprised, for this was the first time since the day when Don Jaime introduced them that Luis de Ayala had mentioned her name in his presence. Nevertheless, as coolly and briefly as he could, Don Jaime told him what he knew. The marquis listened in silence, nodding now and then. He seemed worried. Then he asked if Don Jaime knew any of her social contacts, friends or relatives. Don Jaime repeated what he had said during the conversation they had had weeks before: he knew nothing about her, apart from the fact that she lived alone and was an excellent fencer. For a moment, he was tempted to tell the marquis about the mysterious meeting he had witnessed near the Plaza Mayor, but decided to say nothing. He did not want to betray what, given the young woman's attitude, must be a secret.

  The marquis asked if Adela de Otero had mentioned his name before he met her at Don Jaime's house, and if at any time she had shown a particular interest in meeting him. After a slight hesitation, Don Jaime said that she had, and he gave a brief summary of their conversation in the hired carriage on the night when he took her home.

  "She knew that you are an excellent fencer and insisted on meeting you," he said honestly, although he sensed that there must be an unusual reason behind Luis de Ayala's curiosity. But he remained discreet, expecting no clarification on the part of the marquis, who was smiling now with a Mephistophelian air.

  "I see that what I've said amuses you," remarked Don Jaime, annoyed, thinking that he saw in his client's face a mocking allusion to the unpleasant role of procurer that Don Jaime had been obliged to play in the matter.

  The marquis immediately caught Don Jaime's meaning. "Don't misunderstand me, maestro," he said affectionately. "I was thinking about myself. You may not believe it, but this story has acquired quite fascinating depths. In fact," he added, smiling again, as if amused at his own thoughts, "you have just confirmed a couple of ideas that have been going through my head lately. Our young friend is, indeed, an excellent fencer. Let's see now how good she is at hitting her target."

  Don Jaime fidgeted, embarrassed. The unexpected turn the conversation had taken plunged him into confusion. "I'm sorry, Excellency, I don't understand..."

  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.

  V. Glissade

  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.