The Fencing Master

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  In a furtive tone, Carreño continued to impart information about the current conspiracy. "They say that Prim has been seen in Lisbon, disguised as a footman, and that the Mediterranean fleet is only waiting for his arrival to give the cry."

  "What cry?" asked the innocent Marcelino Romero.

  "What cry do you think, man? The cry of freedom."

  Don Lucas gave an incredulous little laugh. "It's like something out of a Dumas melodrama, Don Antonio, published in installments."

  Carreño fell silent, wounded by the old man's reluctance to believe him. To avenge his colleague, Cárceles launched into a heated revolutionary harangue directed exclusively at Don Lucas. "The moment has arrived to take your places at the barricades!" he concluded, like a character out of a play by Tamayo y Baus.

  "See you there, then!" proclaimed a needled Don Lucas in an equally theatrical manner. "With you on one side and me on the other, of course."

  "Of course! I never doubted for a moment, Señor Rioseco, that your place would be among the ranks of repression and obscurantism."

  "And most honored to be there."

  "Honor has nothing to do with it. The truth is that the only honorable Spain is a revolutionary Spain. Your meekness grates on the nerves of any patriot worth his salt, Don Lucas."

  "Well, have some chamomile tea, then."

  "Long live the republic!"

  "Oh, who cares!"

  "Long live the federal state!"

  "Fine, man, fine. Fausto! Bring me some toast!"

  "Long live the rule of law!"

  "The only law this country needs is one that allows for people to be shot while escaping."

  Thunder rumbled over the rooftops of Madrid. The heavens opened, and a violent rainstorm ensued. On the other side of the street, you could see people running for shelter. Don Jaime sipped his coffee and looked sadly out at the rain beating against the windowpanes. The cat, which had gone out for a stroll, bounded back in, its fur standing up in damp spikes, a scrawny image of misfortune that fixed the fencing master with suspicious, malevolent eyes.

  "MODERN fencing technique, gentlemen, tends to do away with the delightful freedom of movement that gives our art its special grace. That very much limits possibilities."

  The two Cazorla brothers and Álvaro Salanova were listening attentively, foils and masks beneath their arms. Manuel de Soto was not there; he was spending the summer with his family in the north.

  "All this," Don Jaime continued, "greatly impoverishes fencing. For example, some fencers now neglect to take off their masks and salute their seconds..."

  "But there are no seconds in fencing bouts, maestro," said the younger of the Cazorla brothers timidly.

  "Exactly, sir, exactly. You have put your finger on the problem. People take up fencing now without thinking about its practical applications on the field of honor. After all, they say, it's a sport, isn't it? That is a complete aberration; it is as if, to give a wild example, priests were to start saying mass in Spanish. A Spanish mass would be more up-to-date, more popular, if you like, more in keeping with the times, yes? But to give up the lovely, albeit somewhat hermetic sonority of the Latin language would be to tear that lovely ritual out by its deepest roots, degrading it, vulgarizing it. Beauty, beauty with a capital B, can be found only in the cult of tradition, in the rigorous exercise of those gestures and words that have been repeated and preserved by men down the centuries. Do you understand what I mean?"

  The three young men nodded gravely, more out of respect for their teacher than out of conviction. Don Jaime raised a hand, executing a few fencing movements in the air, as if he were holding a foil.

  "Of course, we mustn't close our eyes to useful innovations," he went on. "But we must always remember that beauty resides in preserving precisely what others allow to fall away. Don't you find a fallen monarch far worthier of your loyalty than one who is still on the throne? That is why our art must maintain its purity, must remain uncontaminated, classical, yes, above all else, classical. Those who restrict themselves to acquiring mere technique deserve our pity. You, my young friends, have the marvelous opportunity to acquire an art. That is something, believe me, that money cannot buy, something that you carry here, in your heart and in your mind."

  He stopped and studied the three faces looking at him with reverent attention. He indicated the older Cazorla brother. "But enough talk. You, Don Fernando, will practice with me the circular parry in seconde, croisé of seconde. I remind you that this maneuver must be done cleanly; never use it with an opponent who is physically much stronger than yourself. Do you remember the theory?"

  The young man nodded proudly. "Yes, maestro." And he recited by heart, like a schoolboy. "If I do a circular parry in seconde and I can't find my opponent's foil, I croisé in seconde, disengage, and lunge in quarte over the arm."

  "Perfect," said Don Jaime, selecting a foil from his collection while Fernando Cazorla put on his mask. "Ready? Let's get down to business, then. Of course, we mustn't forget the salute. That's it. You stretch out your arm and raise your fist, like that. Do it as if you were wearing an imaginary hat. You take it off with your left hand, elegantly. Perfect." He turned to the other two lads. "You must remember that the salutes in quarte and tierce are for the seconds and the witnesses. One assumes that such events will normally take place among the wellborn. We can hardly object if two men insist on killing each other over a point of honor, can we? But we can at least demand that they do so in the politest way possible."

  He crossed foils with Cazorla. The young man flexed his wrist while he waited for Don Jaime to present him with the thrust that would initiate the movement. In the mirrors in the gallery, their images multiplied as if the room were full of fencers. The fencing master's voice rang out, calm and patient.

  "That's it, very good. To me. Good. Careful now, circular parry in seconde. No, do it again, please. That's it. Circular parry in seconde. Parry! No, please, remember, you have to parry in seconde and immediately disengage. Once more, if you don't mind. On guard. To me. Parry. That's it. Croisé. Good. Now. Perfect. Quarte over the arm, excellent." There was real satisfaction in Don Jaime's voice, that of an author contemplating his work. "Let's do it again, but be careful. This time I'm going to attack harder. On guard. To me. Good. Parry. Good. That's it. Croisé. No. You were too slow, Don Fernando, that's why I managed to hit you. Let's start again."

  From the street came the noise of some great tumult. They could hear the sound of hoofs charging over the cobbles. Salanova and the younger Cazorla brother leaned out of one of the windows.

  "There's trouble, maestro!"

  Don Jaime interrupted the bout and joined his students at the window. Sabers and patent-leather tricorn hats gleamed in the street. On horseback, the Civil Guard were breaking up a band of demonstrators who were fleeing in all directions. Two shots rang out near the Teatro Real. The young fencers watched the scene, fascinated by the commotion.

  "Look at them running!"

  "They got a real thrashing!"

  "What do you think's happened?"

  "Perhaps it's the revolution!"

  "No," said Salanova, curling his lip in disdain. "There's only half a dozen of them. The Civil Guard will take care of them."

  A passerby was hurriedly seeking shelter in a doorway below. A couple of old ladies in black peered out, like birds of evil omen, prudently observing the scene. The balconies were packed with people; some cheered on the insurgents, others the guards.

  "Long live Prim!" shouted three rather disreputable-looking women, with the impunity given them by their sex and by the fact that they were standing on a fourth-floor balcony. "Why don't you string up Marfori!"

  "Who's Marfori?" asked Paquito Cazorla.

  "A minister," said his brother. "They say that the queen and he..."

  Don Jaime deemed that enough was enough. He closed the shutters, ignoring the murmur of disappointment from his students. "We're here to practice fencing, gentlemen," he said in
a tone that admitted of no argument. "Your parents pay me to teach you something useful, not to spend your time gawping at things that are none of your business. Let's get back to what we were doing." He gave a supremely scornful glance at the closed shutters and stroked the grip of his foil. "We have nothing to do with whatever might be going on out there. We'll leave that to the mob, and to the politicians."

  They took up their positions again, and the metallic clink of foils returned to the gallery. On the walls, the displays of old weapons, rusty and immutable, continued to gather dust. In the fencing master's house, one had only to close the shutters in order for time to stop in its tracks.

  IT was the concierge who brought him up-to-date when he passed her on the stairs. "Good afternoon, Don Jaime. What do you think of the news, then?"

  "What news?"

  The old woman crossed herself. She was a plump, chatty widow who lived with an unmarried daughter. She went to mass twice daily at San Ginés and was convinced that all revolutionaries were heretics.

  "Don't tell me you don't know what's going on. Haven't you heard?"

  Don Jaime raised an eyebrow, indicating polite interest. "Tell me, Doña Rosa."

  The concierge lowered her voice, looking suspiciously around her, as if the walls might have ears. "Don Juan Prim disembarked yesterday in Cádiz, and they say that the navy has rebelled. That's how they repay our poor queen for all her kindness."

  HE 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.

  IT 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.