The Fencing Master

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  He slammed the book shut on the table. He became horribly aware of his utter isolation. Those violet-colored eyes had used him for some unknown end, which, whenever he tried to guess at it, filled him with a dark fear. And what was worse: those eyes had robbed his old and weary spirit of its peace.

  HE woke up with the first light of dawn. Lately, he slept badly; his sleep was disturbed, restless. He washed thoroughly and then placed the case containing his razors on a table, next to the mirror and the bowl of hot water. As usual, he carefully lathered up and shaved. He trimmed his mustache with his old silver scissors and then ran a tortoiseshell comb through his still-damp white hair. Satisfied with his appearance, he dressed carefully, tying a black silk tie about his neck. From his three summer suits he chose an everyday one, in light-brown alpaca, whose long, old-fashioned jacket gave him the distinguished bearing of an aging dandy from the turn of the century. It is true that the seat of his trousers was somewhat worn with use, but the tails of his jacket concealed it most satisfactorily. He chose the best preserved of his clean handkerchiefs and sprinkled a few drops of cologne on it before putting it in his pocket. As he left, he donned a top hat and placed the case bearing his foils under his arm.

  It was a gray day, and showers still looked likely. It had been raining all night, and a large puddle in the middle of the street reflected the eaves of the houses beneath a heavy, leaden sky. He courteously greeted the concierge, who was returning home with her basket full of groceries, and he crossed the road to have his usual breakfast—hot chocolate and fritters—in a modest little café on the corner. He went and sat down in the back where he always sat, beneath the glass globe covering a defunct gas burner. It was nine o'clock in the morning, and there were few customers. Valentin, the owner, came over with a cup of hot chocolate and a paper cone full of fritters.

  "No newspapers today, I'm afraid, Don Jaime. What with one thing and another, they haven't come out yet, and I suspect they won't."

  Don Jaime shrugged. The absence of a daily newspaper didn't bother him in the least. "Any news?" he asked, more out of politeness than any real interest. The owner of the café wiped his hands on his greasy apron. "It seems the Marqués de Novaliches is in Andalusia with the army, and that he's about to confront the rebels any day now. They say too that Córdoba, which rebelled when the others did, unrebelled the following day, as soon as they caught a glimpse of the government troops. Things are not at all clear, Don Jaime. Heaven knows where it will all end."

  Having eaten his breakfast, Don Jaime went out into the street and headed for the house of the Marqués de los Alumbres. He had no idea whether or not Luis de Ayala would want to fence today, given the atmosphere in Madrid, but Don Jaime was, as always, prepared to carry out his part of the agreement. At worst, it would mean a visit made in vain. Since it was getting late and he didn't want to be delayed by any unforeseen incident in the streets, he got into an unoccupied carriage that was waiting by one of the arches in the Plaza Mayor.

  "Palacio de Villaflores."

  The coachman cracked his whip, and the two bored nags set off rather unenthusiastically. The soldiers were still on the corner of Calle Postas, but the lieutenant was nowhere to be seen. Opposite the post office, a group of curious onlookers were being rather halfheartedly moved on by some municipal policemen. These people worked for the town hall, with the Damocles sword of. dismissal constantly hanging over their heads; they had no idea who would be governing the country tomorrow, and they did not quite know what to do.

  The mounted Civil Guard he had seen in Calle Carretas were no longer at their posts. He met them farther down, with their tricorn hats and their cloaks, patrolling back and forth between the Parliament building and the Fountain of Neptune. With their black mustaches stiff with wax and their sabers in their scabbards, they watched the passersby with the grim certainty that came from knowing that whoever won, they would still be the instruments of public order. Whether the government was Progressive or Moderate, the Civil Guard were never dismissed.

  Don Jaime sat back in the carriage, looking abstractedly about him, but as they approached the Palacio de Villaflores, he started and looked out the window with alarm. There was an unusual amount of activity outside the home of the Marqués de los Alumbres. More than a hundred people were milling around in the street, kept back from the entrance by several guards. They were from all social classes, mostly people from the neighborhood, along with various others who had nothing better to do. Some of the more daring busybodies had scaled the railings and were peering into the garden. Making the most of all this fuss, a couple of peddlers were meandering in and out among the parked carriages, crying their wares.

  With a dark presentiment, Don Jaime paid the coachman and hurried to the gate, pushing his way through the crowd. The people were jostling one another to get a better look, in ghoulish expectation.

  "It's terrible, terrible," a few women were saying, crossing themselves.

  A gray-haired man carrying a walking stick and wearing a frock coat was standing on tiptoe trying to see what was happening. Hanging on his arm, his wife was looking at him questioningly, waiting for news.

  "Can you see anything, Paco?"

  Another woman was fanning herself, with the air of someone in the know. "It happened during the night," she said. "One of the guards told me; he's a cousin of my daughter-in-law. The judge has just arrived."

  "It's a tragedy," remarked someone.

  "Do you know what happened?"

  "His servants found him this morning."

  "They say he was no better than he should be."

  "That's a lie! He was a gentleman and a Liberal. Don't you remember how he resigned when he was a minister?"

  The woman resumed her furious fanning. "A tragedy. And he was so handsome too."

  Fearing the worst, Don Jaime went over to one of the guards at the gates. The municipal policeman stopped him with the firmness conferred by the authority of a uniform. "You can't come in here, sir."

  Don Jaime clumsily indicated the case of foils beneath his arm. "I'm a friend of the marquis. I have an appointment with him this morning."

  The guard looked him up and down and, seeing the gentleman's distinguished appearance, somewhat moderated his attitude. He turned to a colleague on the other side of the railings.

  "Corporal Martínez! There's a gentleman here who says he's a family friend. It seems he has an appointment."

  Sleek and portly behind his golden buttons, Corporal Martínez came over, eyeing Don Jaime suspiciously. "What's your name?"

  "I am Jaime Astarloa. I have an appointment with Don Luis de Ayala at ten o'clock."

  The corporal gravely shook his head and half-opened the gate. "Would you mind coming with me?"

  Don Jaime followed the guard down the graveled path, beneath the familiar shade of the willows. There were more municipal police at the door, and a group of gentlemen were talking in the reception room, at the foot of the broad staircase adorned with large urns and marble statues.

  "Would you mind waiting a moment?"

  The corporal went over to the group and in a low voice exchanged a few respectful words with a short, dapper gentleman with a dyed, waxed mustache and a wig covering his bald pate. He was dressed with a certain vulgar affectation and wore metal-rimmed glasses with blue lenses, attached by a ribbon to the lapel of his frock coat, on which he wore the insignia of some civil award. He listened to the guard, then turned and looked at the new arrival. Muttering a few words to his companions, he came over to Don Jaime. His astute, watery eyes glinted behind the lenses.

  "I am the chief of police, Jenaro Campillo. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

  "Jaime Astarloa, fencing master. Don Luis and I—"

  The man interrupted him with a gesture. "Yes, I know about that." He stared at Don Jaime, as if sizing him up. Then he pointed at the case that Don Jaime had under his arm. "Are those your implements?"

  Don Jaime nodded. "My foils. As I said, D
on Luis and I ... I usually come here every morning." He broke off and looked at the policeman, stunned. He realized that, absurdly, only now did he take in the truth, as if his mind had blocked it out, refusing to acknowledge something that was all too obvious. "What has happened to the marquis?"

  The policeman looked at him thoughtfully; he seemed to be weighing the sincerity of the emotions apparent in the fencing master's stunned response. After a moment, he gave a little cough, put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a Havana cigar. "I am very much afraid, Señor Astarloa," he said calmly, as he pierced one end of the cigar with a toothpick. "I am very much afraid that the Marqués de los Alumbres is in no condition to fence today. From a purely forensic point of view, I would say that he was not at all well."

  He made a gesture with his hand as they spoke, inviting Don Jaime to accompany him. Don Jaime caught his breath as he went into a small room that he knew intimately, having been there every day for the last two years: it was the anteroom to the gallery in which he practiced with the marquis. On the threshold between the two rooms lay a motionless body, stretched out on the floor and covered by a blanket. A long trail of blood went from the blanket and split into two in the middle of the room. There, the trail took two directions, culminating in two coagulated pools.

  Don Jaime dropped the case of foils on an armchair and leaned on the back of the chair; he was completely at a loss. He looked at his companion as if demanding some explanation for what seemed a cruel joke, but the policeman merely shrugged and lit a match, taking long pulls on his cigar, still watching Don Jaime's reactions.

  "Is he dead?" asked Don Jaime. The question was such a foolish one that the policeman raised an ironic eyebrow. "Completely."

  Don Jaime swallowed hard. "Suicide?"

  "Have a look for yourself. I would value your opinion."

  Jenaro Campillo breathed out a cloud of smoke, bent over the corpse, and uncovered it to the waist, standing back to observe the effect on Don Jaime. Luis de Ayala's face still bore the expression he had worn when surprised by death: he was lying on his back, his right leg bent beneath his left; his half-open eyes were opaque, and his lower lip seemed fixed in a last grimace. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie undone. There was a perfect, round hole on the right side of his throat that passed through to the nape of his neck. That was the source of the stream of blood now creeping across the floor of the room.

  Feeling as if he were in a nightmare from which he hoped to awaken at any moment, Don Jaime stared at the corpse, incapable of a single coherent thought. The room, the stiff corpse, the bloodstains, all spun about him. He felt his legs give way. He breathed deeply, not daring to let go of the chair he was leaning on. Then, when he finally managed to impose some discipline on his body and some order on his thoughts, the reality of what had happened here hit him suddenly and painfully, as if someone had pierced his very soul. He looked at his companion with horrified eyes. The policeman frowned, returning his gaze with a slight nod; he seemed to guess what Don Jaime was thinking, encouraging him to put it into words. Then Don Jaime bent over the corpse and reached out his hand to the wound, as if to touch it, but he stopped short. When he stood up, he looked badly shaken, his eyes wide, for he had just come face-to-face with naked horror. There was no mistaking a wound like that. Luis de Ayala had been killed with a foil, with a single, clean thrust to the jugular: it was the two-hundred-escudo thrust.

  "IT would be most useful to me, Señor Astarloa, to know when you last saw the Marqués de los Alumbres."

  They were sitting in a room, surrounded by Flemish tapestries and beautiful gilt-framed Venetian mirrors, next to the room in which the corpse still lay. Don Jaime seemed to have aged ten years: he was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. His gray eyes, dull and inexpressive, were fixed on the floor. The chief of police's words reached him from afar, among the mists of a bad dream.

  "On Friday morning." Even his own voice sounded odd. "We said goodbye shortly after eleven o'clock, after our fencing session."

  Campillo studied the ash on his cigar for a few moments, as if he were more concerned at that moment with the correct burning of his cigar than with the painful matter at hand. "Did you notice anything that might have led one to expect this misfortune?"

  "Not at all. Everything was completely normal, and we parted as we did every day."

  The ash on the cigar was about to fall. Carefully holding the cigar between his fingers, the chief of police looked about him in search of an ashtray, but failed to find one. Then, glancing furtively at the door of the room in which the corpse lay, he decided to flick the ash onto the carpet.

  "You often visited the, ah, deceased. Do you have any idea as to the motive for the murder?"

  Don Jaime shrugged. "I don't know. Robbery, perhaps."

  The policeman shook his head and took another long pull on his cigar. "We have already questioned the two servants, as well as the coachman, the cook, and the gardener. An initial visual examination seems to indicate that nothing of value was taken." The policeman paused, while Don Jaime, not paying much attention to what he was saying, was still trying to put his own ideas in order. He felt certain that he had some clues to the mystery; the question was whether to confide what he knew to this man or first to tie up a few loose ends himself.

  "Are you listening, Señor Astarloa?"

  Don Jaime jumped, blushing, as if the chief of police had seen into his thoughts. "Of course," he replied hurriedly. "So that rules out theft as the motive for the crime."

  The policeman made a cautious gesture, then reached an index finger under his wig to scratch his left ear. "Partly, Señor Astarloa, but only partly. At least as regards a conventional larceny," he said. "Do you know what a visual examination means?"

  "I imagine that it is one made with your eyes."

  "Very funny." Campillo looked at him darkly. "I'm glad you haven't lost your sense of humor. People die, and you make jokes."

  "So do you."

  "But I represent the competent authority."

  They looked at each other for a moment in silence.

  "The visual examination," the policeman went on at last, "confirms that during the night a person or persons unknown entered the marquis's private apartments and spent some time forcing locks and going through drawers. They also opened his safe, this time with a key. It was a very good safe, by the way, made by Bossom & Son of London. Aren't you going to ask me if anything was taken?"

  "I thought you were the one asking the questions."

  "That is the custom, but not the rule."

  "Was anything taken?"

  The chief of police smiled mysteriously, as if Don Jaime had put his finger on the problem. "You know, that's the odd thing. The murderer, or murderers, stoically resisted the temptation to carry off the considerable quantity of money and jewels contained therein. Strange criminals, I think you'll agree." He sucked on his cigar, then exhaled the smoke, savoring both the aroma, and his own reasoning. "To sum up, it's impossible to ascertain if they took anything or not, since we have no idea what he kept in there. We don't even know if they found what they were looking for."

  Don Jaime shuddered inwardly, trying to conceal his emotions. He had more than enough reason to think that the murderers had not found what they were looking for: it was doubtless a certain sealed envelope hidden behind a row of books ... His mind was working quickly, trying to piece together all the fragments. Recent situations, words, expressions with no apparent connection were now slowly and painfully fitting together so perfectly that he felt a pang of fear. Although he still could not see the whole picture, it was clear what his role in the events had been. He realized all this with an acute sense of anxiety, humiliation, and disgust.

  The chief of police was looking at him inquisitively; he was waiting for an answer to a question that Don Jaime had not heard.

  "I'm sorry?"

  The policeman's shining, bulbous eyes, like those of a fish in an aquarium, were obse
rving him from behind the blue lenses of his spectacles. They seemed almost benevolent, although it was hard to tell if this concern was genuine or merely the product of a professional attitude intended to inspire confidence. After a brief moment of consideration, Don Jaime decided that, despite Campillo's manner and his eccentric appearance, he was no fool.

  "I was asking, Señor Astarloa, if you could think of any detail that might help me in my investigation."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Really?"

  "I don't usually play with words, Señor Campillo."

  The policeman made a conciliatory gesture. "Can I speak frankly, Señor Astarloa?"

  "Please do."

  "Despite the fact that you are one of the people who saw the deceased most often, you are not proving to be of much use to me."

  "There are other people he saw regularly too, and you said a moment ago that they could not help you either. I don't know why you should place so much importance on my testimony."

  Campillo studied the smoke from his cigar and smiled. "To tell you the truth, neither do I." He paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's because you seem to me an honorable man. Yes, perhaps that's why."

  Don Jaime made a dismissive gesture. "I'm just a fencing master," he replied, trying to sound indifferent. "Our relationship was an exclusively professional one; Don Luis never made me his confidant."

  "You saw him last Friday. Was he upset, worried? Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior?"