"The fact is, Prim is ready to strike," whispered Carreño confidentially, with a lack of originality that was greeted with derisive laughter by the others.
Cárceles changed the direction of his implacable artillery. "As our friend Don Lucas pointed out a little while ago, Prim is a soldier. A more or less glorious soldier, but a soldier nonetheless. I don't trust him an inch."
"The Conde de Reus is a Liberal," protested Carreño.
Cárceles brought his fist down hard on the marble tabletop, nearly spilling the coffee in the cups. "A Liberal? Forgive me if I laugh, Don Antonio. Prim a Liberal! Any real democrat, any proven patriot like yours truly, should on principle distrust any plans a soldier might have, and Prim is no exception. Have you forgotten his authoritarian past, his political ambitions? In the end, although circumstances currently oblige him to do his plotting amid the British fog, every general needs a king in his hand if he is to keep the upper hand. Let's see, gentlemen, how many military uprisings have we had so far this century? And how many of them have been called in order to proclaim a republic? You see? Nobody is graciously going to hand over to the people what only the people can demand and take for themselves. There's something about Prim, gentlemen, that I don't trust. I'm convinced that he'll arrive with a king up his sleeve. The great Virgil already said as much: Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."
A lot of noise was coming from Calle Montera. A group of passersby had formed a crowd outside the window and were pointing toward the Puerta del Sol.
"What's happening?" asked Cárceles eagerly, forgetting about Prim. Carreño had gone over to the door. Indifferent to all these political upsets, the cat was dozing in its corner.
"There seems to be a party going on," said Carreño. "Let's go and see!"
They all went out into the street. People were gathering in the Puerta del Sol. There were carriages, and policemen were advising passersby to take another route. Several women came hurrying up the street looking flushed and harassed, glancing fearfully over their shoulders. Don Jaime went over to a policeman. "Is anything wrong?" he asked.
The policeman shrugged; it was clear that events had gone beyond his powers of analysis. "I'm not quite sure, sir," he said, embarrassed, touching his cap when he saw the distinguished appearance of the person addressing him. "It seems they've arrested about half a dozen generals. They say they're taking them to the military prison at San Francisco."
Don Jaime told his colleagues what he had heard, and the news was greeted with exclamations of consternation. The triumphant voice of the irrepressible Cárceles rang out in the middle of Calle Montera: "Gentlemen, it's just as I said! Now they're showing their hand. These are the death throes of blind repression!"
SHE was standing before him, beautiful and enigmatic, with a foil in her hand, watching his every move.
"It's very simple. Now watch carefully."
Don Jaime raised his foil and crossed it gently with hers, so lightly that the touch was like a metallic caress. "The two-hundred-escudo thrust begins with what we call countertime: a false attack that presents your opponent with an opening in quarte, in order to provoke him into attacking in that position. That's it. Respond in quarte. Perfect. I parry with a counterparry of tierce, do you see? I disengage and attack, still keeping that opening in order to lure you into opposing me with a counterparry of tierce and then attacking immediately in quarte again. Fine. As you can see, so far, no secret."
Señora de Otero stopped, thoughtful, her eyes fixed on his foil. "Isn't it dangerous to offer the same opening to your opponent twice?"
Don Jaime shook his head. "Not at all, madam. Provided you have mastered the counterpatty of tierce, which you have. My thrust does inevitably involve some risk, but only if the person using it is not skilled and expert in our art. I would never think of teaching it to an apprentice fencer, who would get himself killed the first time he tried to use it. Do you understand now my initial reserve when you did me the honor of requesting my services?"
The young woman gave him a charming smile. "I'm sorry, maestro. There was no way you could know..."
"Indeed I couldn't. And I still can't quite understand how you—" He broke off, looking at her, absorbed. "Anyway, that's enough talking. Shall we go on?"
"Please do."
"Right." He avoided her eyes as he spoke. "As soon as your opponent attacks for the second time, at the precise moment when your blades touch, you must bend with this counterparry, like this, attacking immediately in quarte outside the arm. Do you see? Your opponent will normally resort to a parade de pointe volante, bending his elbow and raising his foil to an almost vertical position to fend off the attack. That's it."
Don Jaime stopped again, with the point of his foil resting on Señora de Otero's right shoulder. He felt his heart beat faster when he made contact with her skin, he seemed to be able to feel her through the steel, as if the foil were merely a continuation of his hand. "Sentiment du fer," he murmured to himself as an imperceptible shudder ran through him. The young woman looked sideways at the foil, and the scar on her mouth deepened into a subtle smile. Embarrassed, the fencing master raised the steel an inch. She seemed to know what he was feeling.
"Now comes the decisive moment," Don Jaime went on, forcing himself to recover the concentration that, for a few moments, had vanished completely. "Rather than make a full thrust, when your opponent has begun the movement, you hesitate for a second, as if you were making a false attack with the intention of performing a different thrust. I'll do it slowly so that you can see: like this. You make it impossible for your opponent to complete the parry; instead he is interrupted halfway, for he prepares to parry the other thrust that he thinks is about to follow."
There was a jubilant gleam in Señora de Otero's eyes. She had understood. "And that's where your opponent makes his mistake!" she said gleefully, relishing the discovery.
He made a gesture of benevolent complicity. "Exactly. That is where the mistake arises that gives victory to us. Watch. After that briefest of hesitations, we continue the movement, at the same time shortening the distance between us, like this, to avoid his stepping back, and leaving him very little room to maneuver. At that point, you give your wrist a quarter of a turn, that's it, so that the point of your foil lifts about two inches. You see how simple it is? Done properly, you can easily hit your opponent at the base of the neck, by the right clavicle. Or, if you want to settle the matter, in the middle of the throat."
The tip of his foil brushed the young woman's throat, and she looked at him with her mouth half-open, her eyes flashing with excitement. Don Jaime studied her. Her nostrils were flared, and she was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling beneath her blouse. She was radiant; she was like a child who has just unwrapped a marvelous gift.
"That's excellent, maestro. Incredibly simple," she said in a whisper, giving him a look of warm gratitude. "Incredibly simple!" she repeated thoughtfully, looking in fascination at the foil in her hand. She seemed entranced by the new fatal dimension that the steel blade had just acquired.
"I suppose that's where its merit lies," remarked Don Jaime. "In fencing, it's simplicity that requires inspiration, the complex moves are just technique."
She smiled happily. "I know a secret thrust that doesn't appear in any of the treatises on fencing," she murmured, as if the thought gave her enormous pleasure. "How many other people know it?"
Don Jaime made a vague gesture. "Ten, twelve. Perhaps a few more. But then what happens is that one person shows it to another person, and after a while it loses its efficacy. As you've seen, it's very easy to parry once you do know it."
"Have you used it to kill anyone?"
He looked at her, startled. It was not the kind of question one expected from a lady. "I hardly think that's relevant, madam. With all due respect." He paused, while his mind went back in time to the distant memory of a poor wretch bleeding to death in a field, with nobody able to do anything to stanch the blood pouring from his throat. "And e
ven if I had, I would not feel particularly proud of the fact."
Señora de Otero made a doubtful face, as if that were debatable. And a worried thought crossed Don Jaime's mind: there was a touch of dark cruelty in those violet-colored eyes.
LUIS DE AYALA was the first to raise the matter. He had heard certain rumors. "It's unprecedented, Don Jaime. A woman! And you say she's a good fencer?"
"Excellent. No one was more surprised than I."
The marquis leaned toward him, visibly interested. "Is she beautiful?"
Don Jaime made a face that was intended to be neutral. "Extremely."
"You are a devil, maestro!" Luis de Ayala wagged a finger at him and gave a knowing wink. "And where did you find this jewel?"
Don Jaime protested weakly. It was absurd to think that at his age, etc. It was an exclusively professional relationship. I'm sure Your Excellency will understand.
Luis de Ayala understood all too well. "I must meet her, Don Jaime," he said.
Don Jaime gave an ambiguous response. He wasn't at all happy at the prospect of the Marqués de los Alumbres meeting Adela de Otero. "Of course, Excellency, whenever you like. There's no problem at all."
Luis de Ayala took his arm; they walked beneath the leafy willows in the garden. It was hot even in the shade, and the marquis was wearing only light cashmere trousers and an English silk skirt, with gold cuff links bearing a coat of arms.
"Is she married?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know where she lives?"
"I went there once, but I saw only her and a female servant."
"She lives alone, then!"
"That is the impression I got, but I can't be sure." Don Jaime was beginning to feel troubled by this interrogation, and he was trying desperately to change the subject without appearing to be impolite to his client and protector. "The fact is that Doña Adela doesn't talk very much about herself. As I told Your Excellency before, our relationship is entirely professional, that of teacher and student."
They stopped by one of the stone fountains: a chubby-cheeked angel pouring water from a jar. A few sparrows flew off as they approached. Luis de Ayala watched them disappear among the branches of a nearby tree and then turned to Don Jaime. The two men could not have been more different: the strong, vigorous physicality of the marquis was in marked contrast to the lean distinction of the fencing master. Anyone seeing them would have thought that Don Jaime was the aristocrat.
"It is never too late, though, to revise certain apparently immutable principles," said the marquis with a wicked wink.
Don Jaime started, clearly piqued. "I would rather you did not to continue down that particular road, Excellency." There was an edge to his voice. "I would never have accepted the young woman as a client had I not seen that she had undoubted talent. You can be absolutely sure of that."
Luis de Ayala sighed, and adopted a friendly but teasing tone. "Progress, Don Jaime. The magic word. New times, new customs, they affect us all. Not even you are safe from that."
"With the greatest respect, Don Luis, I believe you are mistaken." It was evident that Don Jaime was greatly perturbed by the turn the conversation had taken. "You may consider this whole story to be the professional caprice of an old fencing master—an aesthetic matter, if you like. But there's a vast difference between saying that and imagining that such a thing opens the gate to progress and to new customs. I'm too old to consider seriously any major changes in my way of thinking. I believe myself safe both from the follies of youth and from giving too much importance to what is, I believe, a purely professional activity."
The marquis smiled approvingly at Don Jaime's measured words. "You're right, maestro. I owe you an apology. Besides, you have never been one to defend progress..."
"Never. I have spent my whole life trying to preserve a certain idea of myself, and that is all. You have to cling to a set of values that do not depreciate with time. Everything else is the fashion of the moment, fleeting, mutable. In a word, nonsense."
The marquis looked at him hard. The light tone of their discussion had vanished. "Don Jaime, your kingdom is not of this world. And I say that with the greatest respect, with all the respect I bear you. I have long felt honored by your friendship, and yet I am still surprised every day by this peculiar obsession of yours with duty, a duty that is not dogmatic, religious, or moral. It is—and this is what is so unusual these days, when everything can be bought—a duty to yourself, imposed by your own will. Do you know what that means?"
Don Jaime gave a stubborn frown. The new direction the conversation was taking made him feel even more uncomfortable than had the previous one. "I neither know nor care, Excellency."
"That is exactly what is so extraordinary about you, maestro, that you neither know nor care. Shall I tell you something? Sometimes I wonder if in this poor Spain of ours the roles have not been sadly switched, and if nobility does not, by rights, belong to you instead of to many of my acquaintances, including myself."
"Please, Don Luis..."
"No, let me speak. My grandfather, may he rest in peace, bought the title because he grew rich trading with England during the war against Napoleon. Everyone knows that. The real nobility, the old nobility, was won not by importing contraband English cloth but by brave deeds with a sword. Am I right or not? And you're not going to tell me, dear maestro, that you, with a sword in your hand, are worth less than any of them. Or less than myself."
Don Jaime looked up and fixed Luis de Ayala with his gray eyes. "With a sword in my hand, Don Luis, I am worth as much as any man."
A breath of warm air shook the branches of the willows. The marquis looked back at the stone angel and clicked his tongue, as if he had gone too far. "Anyway, you're wrong to isolate yourself, Don Jaime. Allow me, as a friend, to tell you that. There's no profit in virtue, I can assure you, or any fun either. For heaven's sake, don't imagine that I would presume to give a man your age a sermon. I just mean that it's thrilling to look out into the street and see what's happening around you. Especially in historic times such as these. Have you heard the latest?"
"The latest what?"
"The latest plot?"
"It's not really my forte. Do you mean the generals who were arrested?"
"No, that's old news. I'm talking about the agreement reached between the Progressives and the Liberal Union that has just been uncovered. You could see it coming, but they've completely abandoned their stance as the legal opposition and have decided to support the military revolution. Their program is now to depose the queen and offer the throne to Montpensier, who has committed the modest amount of three million reales to the enterprise. Deeply hurt, Isabel has apparently decided to exile her sister and her brother-in-law to Portugal. As for Serrano, Dulce, Zabala, and the others, they have been deported to the Canary Islands. The supporters of Montpensier are now working on Prim, to see if they can get him to give Montpensier his blessing as candidate for the throne, but our brave Catalan soldier is not saying a word. And that's how things stand."
"A fine mess!"
"You can say that again. That's why it's so exciting to follow the details from the sidelines, as I do. What can I say? When it comes to politics and women, you have to taste all the sauces, but you must never let either one or the other give you indigestion. That is my philosophy, and here I am; I enjoy life and its surprises while they last. And afterward, who cares! I disguise myself in a peasant's hat and cloak and wander past the stalls during the festival of San Isidro with the same scientific curiosity I felt during the three months I worked in that wretched post as secretary in the Ministry of the Interior bestowed on me by my late uncle Joaquín. You have to live, Don Jaime. And this from a man who yesterday lost three thousand duros on the casino table, and did so with a scornful smile on his lips which was much commented on by the public. Do you understand?"
Don Jaime smiled indulgently. "Perhaps."
"You don't seem very convinced."
"You know me well enough, Ex
cellency, to know what I think."
"Yes, I do. You are a man who feels like a foreigner everywhere. If Jesus Christ had said to you, 'Leave everything and follow me,' you would have done so gladly. There's nothing you care about enough to regret its loss."
"Apart from a pair of foils. At least allow me that."
"All right, keep the foils. Assuming that you were the type to follow Jesus Christ, or anyone, but that is assuming rather a lot." The marquis seemed amused by the idea. "I've never asked you if you are a monarchist, Don Jaime. I mean the monarchy as an abstraction, not our pathetic national farce."
"Before, Don Luis, you said that my kingdom was not of this world."
"Nor of the next, I'm sure. The fact is, I unreservedly admire your ability to remain on the margins."
Don Jaime looked up; he was studying the clouds in the distance, as if there was something familiar about them. "Perhaps I'm too selfish," he said. "An old egotist."
Don Luis made a face. "That often has a price, my friend, a very high price."
Don Jaime turned the palms of his hands up in a gesture of resignation. "You can get used to anything, especially when you have no option. If you have to pay, you pay; it's just a question of attitude. At a particular moment in your life you adopt a certain position, whether mistaken or not. You decide to be like this or that. You burn your boats, and then all you can do is defend that position, come what may."
"Even when you're clearly living a mistake?"
"Especially then. That's where aesthetics comes in."
The marquis gave a broad smile, revealing his perfect teeth. "The aesthetics of the mistake. That would make a fine academic thesis. There would certainly be plenty to say on the subject."