Games Creatures Play

  She turned into the room, closing the door behind her.

  The man jumped back. “Peste!” he swore. Céleste looked rather splendid in her fencing gear, slim, blonde, leggy, and athletic; I took a certain pleasure in the fact that he was acting as if he’d seen a bug with too many legs. “What is he doing here?”

  “Calm down,” I told him. “It’s not a boy, it’s only Céleste.”

  She noticed me for the first time, and saluted me wryly. “And good day to you, too, Isabelle.”

  “See?” I went on for his benefit. “She can be polite when she wishes.”

  “Yes,” Céleste said briskly, “unlike some. But then, I was raised to it. Are you quite all right, Isabelle? Or are you practicing your conditional case where no one can hear your mistakes in grammar?”

  It was almost a relief to have someone from the outside witnessing her utter bitchiness. I turned to look at him—

  And he was gone.

  “Well, Mlle Blumberg? What are you staring at?”

  Distraction in a bout is dangerous. I’d think about him later. I pulled my attention back to Céleste and the fight at hand: “Did you drop something in here?” I asked her. I meant to imply that there was no other reason for her to be in the room, even in her gear. But she replied, “Not at all. I merely wish to practice.” She took a foil from the rack. “I trust I am not disturbing you?”

  For a moment, I thought about inviting Céleste to fence a round with me. It was true that Mme Gaillac had not paired us yet in any bout. She said it was better for both of us, to work with beginners; it would slow us down and sharpen our basic skills. How sweet it would be to fence with someone decent! But Céleste might not see it that way.

  I beat a retreat.

  I had time for a long shower before changing for lunch. I spent it thinking about how the man could have vanished without Céleste seeing him. A trick of the mirrors, perhaps? Or a simple diversion of attention, coupled with a swordsman’s skill, to slip through the hidden door?

  I decided to stop thinking about it until after lunch; then, I could go back and investigate. You did not want to miss Saturday lunch at Saint-Hilaire. In France, good food is considered as much a human right as fresh air and sunshine. Even the most simple meal at Saint-Hilaire was a feast. The only annoying thing was that we had to come to the table dressed in skirt and blouse, nylons and decent pumps—no loafers or tie shoes, let alone slacks!

  We sat at the long tables of the great hall, already set with tall glass bottles of mineral water, along with the usual baskets of cut-up baguettes, and fresh farm butter. Today’s meal began with a very promising paté de campagne, gorgeously laid out on a platter decorated with radishes and slices of cornichons, miniature pickles that cut the buttery unctuousness of the paté with little explosions of vinegary sharpness. I waited as patiently as I could while the platter proceeded down the table toward me.

  But as it neared, Céleste put her hand on Nicole’s wrist, lightly, like a fan tap, saying reprovingly, “Do not pass Mlle Blumberg the paté.”

  “Whyever not? Is there something wrong with it?”

  Céleste said, “It might disagree with her. Rich food is very bad for those with nervous dispositions.”

  I wanted that paté. “I assure you, Mlle de Puysange, it takes more than a little entrée to scare me.”

  “Really? I was so concerned to find you all alone in the salle d’armes, talking to yourself.”

  I had walked right into it. I reached for my glass of mineral water, to wet my dry mouth and buy a moment’s thinking time.

  The other girls leaned forward. Céleste, all pretense of civility gone now that she had me where she wanted me, crowed to them all, “There she was, and when I came in, she jumped a mile, and said, ‘Calm yourself! It’s only Céleste!’”

  The table exploded into giggles.

  “Perhaps you should see a psychoanalyst, Isabelle. I hear they are very popular in America.”

  Before I could answer, silly little Madeleine de Mailly said brightly, “Doesn’t Jean-Paul Belmondo see a psychoanalyst? My mother says they are very chic in film circles right now.”

  “Belmondo is a tortured soul,” Marie-Hélène said solemnly. “Have you seen his latest film?”

  “My sister has seen it three times already,” Madeleine replied, nibbling on a cornichon. “And she talks to his photo when she thinks no one is around. Perhaps she should see one.”

  From the faces of some of the girls, it seemed that perhaps several of them should seek help immediately. They all got into a debate about whether they’d sleep with Belmondo if he insisted.

  I did get some paté; nobody noticed or cared what I ate. It didn’t even matter if what Céleste had claimed was true or not. As long as I was humbled and silenced, an object of ridicule, they could ignore me. For now.

  The moment coffee was served and napkins folded and the demoiselles dismissed from table, I rushed back to the salle d’armes, without even changing out of my skirt.

  I was pretty sure I remembered which mirror had the door handle he always used. But none of them did. Not a single one. The closest I could find was a piece of lumpy woodwork, set in the molding at the right height. It was a spot that clearly had been filled in, sanded over, and repainted. I traced the outline of the entire panel. You could convince yourself that it had opened, once upon a time.

  “So. You are a young woman, after all.”

  He was simply there, gazing frankly at me in the mirror. Standing behind me, as always.

  “I can’t say I think much of the outfit, but at least you are not dressed for combat. Don’t tell me you’ve given it up?”

  “You mean the odious Céleste?” I wondered if he’d seen the way I had yielded the salle to her, and very much hoped that he had not. But who knew what he did and did not see? “Not at all,” I said, borrowing the hauteur of Grand-mère (or so I hoped). “There is an old African proverb: ‘Don’t shoot your arrows at the monkeys; save them for the lion.’”

  He grinned wolfishly. “An excellent sentiment. It is a lion, then, this other blade?”

  “No: monkey. A fool and a scoundrel.”

  “And refuses your challenge?”

  “I haven’t challenged her.”

  “You should.” I did not answer. “You would most surely defeat that one.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  I had to ask. “Did you watch her practice?”

  He looked down at his hands, avoiding my eyes. “I know what that one is made of. You can do it easily.”

  “With the little tricks that you have taught me?”

  “They are not the only ones I know,” he said softly. “As often as you return, I will show you more and more.”

  I stood very still. He did not press me. He just stood watching me for a flicker of movement, a sign of intent.

  Maybe I tightened my jaw a fraction, or even clenched a fist, thinking about Céleste. Thinking about defeating her with moves only I knew.

  Whatever it was, it seemed to satisfy him. He nodded and bowed. “So,” he said, “perhaps I will see you again soon. When you are ready for combat. And more ‘little tricks.’ I bid you good night, mademoiselle.”

  And, again, he turned the handle of the door that wasn’t there, opened it, and disappeared into the darkness . . . leaving me standing alone in the sunlit room.

  It was that that unnerved me—and confirmed in my heart what my brain already knew. What was on the other side of that door? A dark corridor, lined with tapestries, or pictures of ancestors, or . . . ?

  I looked out one of the tall windows. Nothing, that’s what. A wing that had been taken down. There was nothing on the other side of that wall but air.

  Outside, a golden afternoon was being wasted in the French countryside. I raced up to my room, changed i
nto pedal pushers and sneakers. There were school bicycles in the old stables; I pedaled off down the road to a dairy farm that welcomed local schoolgirls.

  Unlike my classmates, M. and Mme DuBois loved me for being American. Every time the old farmer saw me, his eyes would tear up as he told me how, not twenty years ago, the American troops had come marching down the road with candy for the children, having chased the Bosch like vermin from the fields of Normandie. He would take my hand in his work-hardened one, and grasp it hard. M. DuBois’s breath smelled of tobacco, his blue work smock was patched and faded, and his eyes were bright and blue, until they blurred with emotion. He always gave me extra of whatever I bought from the farm, and refused any more payment.

  So I took my bag of cherries, and went back to the chateau, and lay on the roof, working on my tan and rereading Gone with the Wind until the dinner bell rang.

  Madeleine was already in our room, changing out of her riding clothes for supper. “Glorious day,” she said breathlessly. “Le Magnifique and I rode all the way to St Martin and back.” Had she really named her horse after the magic steed in Cocteau’s Beauty and the Beast? Or was she just being affected? Yes, I’m sure her horse was truly magnificent.

  “If you wanted,” she said, “you could borrow a hack and ride out with me tomorrow.”

  “I can’t imagine,” I said, zipping up my skirt, “that a hack could keep up with Le Magnifique.”

  She turned a little red. “Oh—sorry—I didn’t realize—”

  I hate when people don’t finish their sentences. “What?”

  “Can’t you—Ah, that is, you don’t ride.”

  “Of course I can ride. I learned in Central Park. We do have stables in New York. Like the Bois de Boulogne. We even have ducks in a pond. It’s very civilized.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “I don’t think you’d like it,” I said. I helped her with her dress zipper, because those things up your back are pure hell, and one must be civil, even to one’s opponents. But we didn’t make conversation as we went down to supper together. The last thing I wanted was for her to start asking me if I really had problems talking to myself.

  I did not return to the salon that night. I had already practiced that day, after all, and taken a class as well. Of course, the mysterious man might not even be there. Perhaps I had offended him, and he was gone for good. But if he did wait for me, he could wait a little more. On Sunday, I had homework to complete. Monday, my class schedule was very heavy.

  Tuesday morning came, and I fenced badly in class. It was very strange being in the salon with all these other people, when I was used to having it alone with him. “Attention, Mlle Blumberg!” Mme Gaillac called out. “This is not the cinema! Please do not target the knee of your foe.”

  The other girls sniggered.

  “You are amused, ladies? None of you is exactly impressive this morning. Maybe this will wake you up. Speed drills.” She took out a large stopwatch. “Put on your masks, please. Then line up in two lines opposite one another, well apart. When I say Begin, fence with your opposite. Do not stop, and do not count a touch, just keep going until I cry Halt, which will be at the end of three minutes for each bout. And then, move on to the next person.”

  It was glorious. I regained my focus, and my joy. Each new opponent was a puzzle to be solved, quickly and efficiently. Having watched them all in class, I had a pretty good sense of each girl’s strengths and weaknesses. If you came straight at her with a direct lunge (and a solid glare), Marie-Hélène jumped back, utterly neglecting to defend herself. Françoise could be tricked with a simple feint into an ineffective parry every time. Madeleine had no defense against a disengage. True, we weren’t counting touches, but I knew as the drill went on that I left behind me a line of vanquished opponents.

  Then, there stood Céleste.

  “Begin!”

  Céleste attacked strong and hard, her usual pattern to assert control of a match from the start; but I retreated strategically, making her follow me. With her fabulous reach, she managed to make a touch. Noted and filed, I thought, and feinted an attack in Sixte that she parried brilliantly, only I wasn’t there, I was under her guard and straight in where I wanted to be, a clean touch to her front. This pleased me so much I tried it again in Octave, but she was a quick study and didn’t take the bait—indeed, and I hate to say it, she went right past my feint, not only touching me but parrying on the way back. Boy, she was fast. I counterparried, riposted, and hit her anyway, because it wasn’t a real bout. But we both knew.

  After that, we each backed off, and stood en garde, gently stepping back and forth while each tried to suss the other out. Fencing is a bit like a big game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, with your whole body and long, pointy weapons. We exchanged a little simple bladework, just to see if the other could be faked into an unconsidered move. I could see Céleste’s eyes through the mask, a blue as clear as my strange master’s, perfectly focused on me. And then—

  “Halt!”

  All around us, girls were removing masks and shaking out their hair, laughing and exclaiming over how much fun it had been.

  Céleste raised her foil in salute. “Until the next time,” she said.

  On my way out of class, Mme Gaillac drew me aside. My heart thrilled; she had noticed, then, my strong work with Céleste. I tried not to smirk as she began, “That little bout was something to behold, my girl. You have the aggression, speed, and strategy. But you are too proud.” I felt the blood drain from my face, as though she had actually pierced me with her words. “You are fighting with passion and anger—in short, you are fighting, not fencing. Leave your feelings at the door to the salon. It is the sword that matters, not yourself.”

  I was biting the inside of my cheek to hold back tears. How could she be so unfair?

  I sat by myself at dinner and excused myself early, so I could go and practice in the long, golden light of a French summer evening.

  • • •

  “Welcome, mademoiselle.”

  There was courtesy in his voice. He didn’t think I was a disaster. Whoever and whatever he was, I was glad to see him.

  “Are you prepared for your lesson?”

  Silently, I nodded. And we began.

  It was all wrong, of course. What he showed me involved ways to hold your shoulders or bend your knees so as to disguise your actual reach, which would work only if you were hurling your weight from back to front on a vicious throw. And hits that were far off target: ways of slicing the forehead to blind your opponent with blood; ways of pinking their kneecaps, stabbing their shins, and piercing their arms.

  I loved it all. It was like having spent years sketching, and suddenly being allowed to paint with oils.

  “And the throat,” I said eagerly; “surely that’s a good one?” Of course, ours are protected by the collar of the jacket and the bib of the mask. And it is not a valid target. But even a button-tipped foil, at sufficient force, can do real harm in that soft, vulnerable spot.

  He raised his hand to his own throat again. I had thought it an affectation—but now, it looked oddly protective.

  “You are insatiable,” he said with a weak smile.

  The sun was still at that beautiful point before it set. The room was painted in levels of gold, soft and diffuse; the ancient gilding of the molding’s highlights glowed along with the rays along the floor, all reflected at different angles in the mirrors.

  “So you will show me . . . ?”

  He hesitated. “I think not. I am tired.” He had never been tired before. “That is enough for one day. It grows late.”

  I wondered if, for once, he was seeing the same sun that I was—if, somehow, we were drawing closer together.

  “Must we stop? There is still plenty of light.” I waved my arm at the window, half-turning to do so.

  “Do not turn around,” he said
sharply. “The mirror is your best teacher.”

  “I thought you were my best teacher.”

  “Cheeky girl.” He smiled.

  “Who taught you?” I asked.

  “My father hired me good masters here at the chateau. But then I went to Paris, to study with that Italian for a while. That thing I showed you—with the flanconnade—that was his.” He sighed. “Perhaps I should never have come back here.” His back was to me, looking out the window. I wondered what he saw. “I grow tired of waiting.” He turned fiercely back to the mirrors, back to me: “You will remember, yes? You will remember everything? Do you swear it?”

  “Yes, I will. I’ll try.”

  “In a real fight, there is no second chance. Each move must be definite, with a definite goal.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is very strange,” he said, touching his hand to his throat in what I was coming to know was a gesture of unease. His eyes seemed dark, his face pale, not lit by the golden light at all. “I seem to wait alone.”

  “Not alone,” I breathed. I reached out my hand to the mirror, as if I could touch him there, somehow.

  “Yes. I have you, do I not?”

  “Yes,” I breathed. I leaned forward, that old habit of mine.

  “And you will always return to me?”

  In any match, the outcome depends on who controls the action.

  I drew back my hand. “What is your name?” I asked boldly.

  “Honoré.” He shrugged. “Of course, after what happened, it should be Deshonoré—But I have not yet been defeated. My honor remains intact.”

  “Ah, yes?” I didn’t look at him.

  He didn’t like that. “My cousin, you understand.”

  “Really?” I did a little bladework, tried to sound bored.

  “He has excellent taste in women. And no manners”—he lashed the air with an invisible blade—“whatsoever.”

  I nodded. “One must, of course, teach such people a lesson. He is a swordsman, your cousin?”