“Don is really upset,” I say, looking after him. I think Tom should not have said that about Don’s first tournament. Tom picks up the sodas and offers me one. It fizzes over when I open it. His fizzes over, too, and he licks the foam off his fingers. I did not know that was acceptable, but I lick the foam off my fingers.
“Yes, but Don is… Don,” Tom says. “He does this; you’ve seen it.” I am not sure which this he means, Don telling other people what they did wrong or Don getting angry.
“I think he is trying to be my friend and help me,” I say. “Even though he likes Marjory and I like Marjory and he probably wants her to like him, but she thinks he is a real heel.”
Tom chokes on his soda and then coughs. Then he says, “You like Marjory? Like as in like, or as in special like?
“I like her a lot,” I say. “I wish—” But I cannot say that wish out loud.
“Marjory had a bad experience with a man something like Don,” Tom says. “She will think of that other man every time she sees Don act the same way.”
“Was he a fencer?” I ask.
“No. Someone she knew at work. But sometimes Don acts the way he did. Marjory doesn’t like that. Of course she would like you better.”
“Marjory said that Don said something not nice about me.”
“Does that make you angry?” Tom asks.
“No… sometimes people say things because they do not understand. That’s what my parents said. I think Don does not understand.” I take a sip of my soda. It is not as cold as I like, but it is better than nothing.
Tom takes a long swallow of his soda. In the ring, another match has started; we edge away from it. “What we should do now,” he said, staving off that problem, “is register your win with the scribe and be sure you’re ready for your next bout.”
At the thought of the next bout, I realize I am tired and can feel the bruises where my opponent hit me. I would like to go home now and think about everything that has happened, but there are more bouts to fight and I know Tom wants me to stay and finish.
Chapter Seven
I AM FACING MY SECOND OPPONENT. IT FEELS VERY DIFFERENT the second time because it is not all a surprise. This man was wearing the hat like a pizza with feathers. Now he is wearing a mask that’s transparent in front rather than wire mesh. This kind costs a lot more. Tom told me he is very good but very fair. He will count my touches, Tom said. I can see the man’s expression clearly; he looks almost sleepy, his eyelids drooping over blue eyes.
The referee drops his handkerchief; my opponent leaps forward in a blur and I feel his touch on my shoulder. I raise my hand. His sleepy expression does not mean he is slow. I want to ask Tom what to do. I do not look around; the bout is still on and the man could make another touch.
This time I move sideways and the man also circles; his blade leaps out, so fast it seems to disappear and then reappear touching my chest. I do not know how he moves so fast; I feel stiff and clumsy. I will lose with another touch. I rush into attack, though it feels strange. I feel my blade against his—I have parried successfully this time. Again, again— and finally, when I lunge, I feel in my hand that I have touched something. Instantly he draws back and raises his hand. “Yes,” he says. I look at his face. He is smiling. He does not mind that I made a touch.
We circle the other way, blades flashing. I begin to see that his pattern, while rapid, is understandable, but he gets a third touch on me before I can use these data.
“Thanks,” he says, at the end. “You gave me a fight.”
“Good job, Lou,” Tom says when I come out of the ring. “He’ll probably win the tournament; he usually does.”
“I got one touch,” I say.
“Yes, and a good one. And you almost got him several more times.”
“Is it over?” I ask.
“Not quite,” Tom says. “You’ve lost only one bout; now you go into the pool of other one-rounders, and you’ll have at least one more match. Are you doing all right?”
“Yes,” I say. I am breathless and tired of the noise and movement, but I am not as ready to go home as I was earlier. I wonder if Don was watching; I do not see him anywhere.
“Want some lunch?” Tom asks.
I shake my head. I want to find a quiet place to sit down.
Tom leads me through the crowd. Several people I do not know grab my hand or slap my shoulder and say, “Good fighting.” I wish they would not touch me, but I know they are being friendly.
Lucia and a woman I do not know are sitting under a tree. Lucia pats the ground. I know that means “sit here,” and I sit down.
“Gunther won, but Lou got a touch on him,” Tom says.
The odaer woman claps her hands. “That’s very good,” she says. “Almost nobody gets a touch on Gunther their first bout.”
“It was not actually my first bout, but my first bout with Gunther,” I say.
“That’s what I meant,” she says. She is taller than Lucia and heavier; she is wearing a fancy costume with a long skirt. She has a little frame in her hands, and her fingers work back and forth. She is weaving a narrow strip of material, a geometric pattern of brown and white. The pattern is simple, but I have never seen anyone weave before and I watch carefully until I am sure how she does it, how she makes the brown pattern change direction.
“Tom told me about Don,” Lucia says, glancing at me. I feel cold suddenly. I do not want to remember how angry he was. “Are you all right?” she asks.
“I am all right,” I say.
“Don, the boy wonder?” the other woman asks Lucia.
Lucia makes a face. “Yes. He can be a real jerk sometimes.”
“What was it this time?” the other woman asks.
Lucia glances at me. “Oh—just the usual kind of thing. Big mouthitis.”
I am glad she does not explain. I do not think he is as bad as Tom must have said. It makes me unhappy to think of Tom not being fair to someone.
Tom comes back and tells me that I have another match at 1:45. “It’s another first-timer,” he says. “He lost his first bout early this morning. You should eat something.” He hands me a bun with meat in it. It smells all right. I am hungry. When I take a bite, it tastes good, and I eat it all.
An old man stops to talk to Tom. Tom stands up; I do not know if I should stand up, too. Something about the man catches my eye. He twitches. He talks very fast, too. I do not know what he is talking about—people I do not know, places I have not been.
In my third match, my opponent is wearing all black with red trimming. He also has one of the transparent plastic masks. He has dark hair and eyes and very pale skin; he has long sideburns trimmed to points. He does not move well, though. He is slow and not very strong. He does not carry through his attacks; he jerks his blade back and forth without coming close. I make a touch that he does not call and then a harder touch that he does. His face shows his feelings; he is both alarmed and angry. Even though I am tired, I know I can win if I want to.
It is not right to make people angry, but I would like to win. I move around him; he turns slowly, stiffly. I make another touch. His lower lip sticks out; his forehead stands up in ridges. It is not right to make people feel stupid. I slow down, but he does not make use of this. His pattern is very simple, as if he knew only two parries and attacks. When I move closer, he moves back. But standing still and exchanging blows is boring. I want him to do something. When he does not, I disengage from one of his weak parries and strike past it. His face contracts in anger, and he says a string of bad words. I know I am supposed to shake his hand and say thank you, but he has already walked off. The referee shrugs.
“Good for you,” Tom says. “I saw you slow down and give him a chance for an honorable hit… too bad the idiot didn’t know what to do with it. Now you know why I don’t like my students getting into tournaments too early. He wasn’t nearly ready.”
He was not nearly ready. Nearly ready would be almost ready. He was not ready at all.
> When I go to report my win, I find that I am now in a pool of those who have a 2:1 record. Only eight are undefeated. I am feeling very tired now, but I do not want to disappoint Tom, so I do not withdraw. My next match comes almost at once, with a tall dark woman. She wears a plain costume in dark blue and a conventional wire-front mask. She is not at all like the last man; she attacks instantly and after a few exchanges she gets the first touch. I get the second, she the third, and I the fourth. Her pattern is not easy to see. I hear voices from the margins; people are saying it is a good fight. I am feeling light again, and I am happy. Then I feel her blade on my chest and the bout is over. I do not mind. I am tired and sweaty; I can smell myself.
“Good fight!” she says, and clasps my arm.
“Thank you,” I say.
Tom is pleased with me; I can tell by his grin. Lucia is there, too; I did not see her come and watch. They are arm in arm; I feel even happier. “Let’s see where this puts you in the rankings,” he says.
“Rankings?”
“All the fencers will be ranked by their results,” he says. “Novices get a separate rank. I expect you did fairly well. There are still some to go, but I think all the first-timers have finished by now.”
I did not know this. When we look at the big chart, my name is number nineteen, but down in the lower right-hand corner, where seven first-time fencers are listed, my name is at the top. “Thought so,” Tom says. “Claudia—” One of the women writing names on the board turns around. “Are all the first-timers finished?”
Yes—is this Lou Arrendale?“ She glances at me.
“Yes,” I say. “I am Lou Arrendale.”
“You did really well for a first-timer,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Here’s your medal,” she says, reaching under the table and pulling out a little leather sack with something in it. “Or you can wait and get it at the award ceremony.” I did not know I would get a medal; I thought only the person who won all the fights got a medal.
“We have to get back,” Tom says.
“Well, then—here it is.” She hands it to me. It feels like real leather. “Good luck next time.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I do not know if I am supposed to open the sack, but Tom says, “Let’s see…” and I take out the medal. It is a round piece of metal with a sword design molded into it and a little hole near the edge. I put it back in the bag.
On the way home, I replay each match in my mind. I can remember all of it and can even slow down the way Gunther moved, so that next time—I am surprised to know that there will be a next time, that I want to do this again—I can do better against him.
I begin to understand why Tom thought this would be good for me if I have to fight Mr. Crenshaw. I went where no one knew me and competed as a normal person would. I did not need to win the tournament to know that I had accomplished something.
When I get home, I take off the sweaty clothes Lucia loaned me. She said not to wash them, because they are special; she said to hang them up and bring them over to their house on Wednesday, when I come to fencing class. I do not like the way they smell; I would like to take them back tonight or tomorrow, but she said Wednesday. I hang them over the back of the couch in the living room while I shower.
The hot water feels very good; I can see little blue marks showing from some of the touches against me. I take a long shower, until I feel completely clean, and then put on the softest sweatshirt and sweatpants I have. I feel very sleepy, but I need to see what the others e-mailed me about their talk.
I have e-mails from Cameron and Bailey both. Cameron says they talked but didn’t decide anything. Bailey says who came—everyone but me and Linda—and that they asked a counselor at the Center what the rules were on human experimentation. He says Cameron made it sound like we had heard about this treatment and we wanted to try it. The counselor is supposed to find out more about the laws involved. I go to bed early.
ON MONDAY AND TUESDAY, WE HEAR NOTHING MORE FROM Mr. Crenshaw or the company. Maybe the people who would do the treatment are not ready to try it on humans. Maybe Mr. Crenshaw has to argue them into it. I wish we knew more. I feel the way I felt standing in the ring before that first match. Not-knowing definitely seems faster than knowing.
I look again at the abstract of the journal article on-line, but I still do not understand most of the words. Even when I look them up, I still do not understand what the treatment actually does and how it does it. I am not supposed to understand it. It is not my field.
But it is my brain and my life. I want to understand it. When I first began to fence, I did not understand that, either. I did not know why I had to hold the foil a certain way or why my feet had to be pointed out from each other at an angle. I did not know any of the terms or any of the moves. I did not expect to be good at fencing; I thought my autism would get in the way, and at first it did. Now I have been in a tournament with normal people. I didn’t win, but I did better than other first-timers.
Maybe I can learn more about the brain than I know now. I do not know if there will be time, but I can try.
On Wednesday, I take the costume clothes back to Tom and Lucia’s. They are dry now and do not smell so bad, but I can still smell the sourness of my sweat. Lucia takes the clothes, and I go through the house to the equipment room. Tom is already in the backyard; I pick up my equipment and go out. It is chilly but still, no breeze. He is stretching, and I start stretching, too. I was stiff on Sunday and Monday, but now I am not stiff and only one bruise is still sore.
Marjory comes out into the yard.
“I was telling Marjory how well you did at the tournament,” Lucia says, from behind her. Marjory is grinning at me.
“I didn’t win,” I say. “I made mistakes.”
“You won two matches,” Lucia says, “and the novice medal. You didn’t make that many mistakes.”
I do not know how many mistakes “that many” would be. If she means “too many,” why does she say “that many”?
Here, in this backyard, I’m remembering Don and how angry he was at what Tom said about him rather than the light feeling I had when I won those two matches. Will he come tonight? Will he be angry with me? I think I should mention him, and then I think I shouldn’t.
“Simon was impressed,” Tom says. He is sitting up now, rubbing his blade with sandpaper to smooth out the nicks. I feel my blade and do not find any new nicks. “The referee, I mean; we’ve known each other for years. He really liked the way you handled yourself when that fellow didn’t call hits.”
“You said that was what to do,” I say.
“Yeah, well, not everybody follows my advice,” Tom says. “Tell me now—several days later—was it more fun or more bother?”
I had not thought of the tournament as fun, but I had not thought of it as bother, either.
“Or something else entirely?” Marjory says.
“Something else entirely,” I say. “I did not think it was bother; you told me what to do to prepare, Tom, and I did that. I did not think of it as fun, but a test, a challenge.”
“Did you enjoy it at all?” Tom asked.
“Yes. Parts of it very much.” I do not know how to describe the mixture of feelings. “I enjoy doing new things sometimes,” I say.
Someone is opening the gate. Don. I feel a sudden tension in the yard.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is tight.
I smile at him, but he does not smile back.
“Hi, Don,” Tom says.
Lucia says nothing. Marjory nods to him.
“I’ll just get my stuff,” he says, and goes into the house.
Lucia looks at Tom; he shrugs. Marjory comes up to me.
“Want a bout?” she asks. “I can’t stay late tonight. Work.”
“Sure,” I say. I feel light again.
Now that I have fenced in the tournament, I feel very relaxed fencing here. I do not think about Don; I think only about Marjory’s
blade. Again I have the feeling that touching her blade is almost like touching her—that I can feel, through the steel, her every movement, even her mood. I want this to last; I slow a little, prolonging the contact, not making touches I could make so that we can keep this going. It is a very different feeling from the tournament, but light is the only word I can think of to describe it.
Finally she backs up; she is breathing hard. “That was fun, Lou, but you’ve worn me out. I’ll have to take a breather.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We sit down side by side, both breathing hard. I time my breaths to hers. It feels good to do that.
Suddenly Don comes out of the equipment room, carrying his blades in one hand, his mask in the other. He glares at me and walks around the corner of the house, stiff-legged. Tom follows him out and shrugs, spreading his hands.
“I tried to talk him out of it,” he says to Lucia. “He still thinks I insulted him on purpose at the tournament. And he only placed twentieth, behind Lou. Right now it’s all my fault, and he’s going to study with Gunther.”
“That won’t last long,” Lucia says. She stretches out her legs. “He won’t put up with the discipline.”
“It is because of me?” I ask.
“It is because the world does not arrange itself to suit him,” Tom says. “I give him a couple of weeks before he’s back, pretending nothing has happened.”
“And you’ll let him back?” Lucia says with an edge to her voice.
Tom shrugs again. “If he behaves, sure. People do grow, Lucia.”
“Crookedly, some of them,” she says.
Then Max and Susan and Cindy and the others arrive in a bunch and they all speak to me. I did not see them at the tournament, but they all saw me. I feel embarrassed that I didn’t notice, but Max explains.
“We were trying to stay out of your way, so you could concentrate. You only want one or two people talking to you at a time like that,” he says. That would make sense if other people also had trouble concentrating. I did not know they thought that way; I thought they wanted lots of people around all the time.
The Speed of Dark Page 11