seemed stiff, but he quickly shifted into a style that took advantage of his more fractal movement. Tom circled, changed direction, feinted and probed and offered fake openings, and Lou matched him movement for movement, testing him as he was tested. Was there a pattern in Lou’s moves, other than a response to his own? He couldn’t tell. But again and again, Lou almost caught him out, anticipating his own moves… which must mean, Tom thought, that he himself had a pattern and Lou had spotted it.
“Pattern analysis,” he said aloud, just as Lou’s blade slipped his and made a touch on his chest. “I should have thought of that.”
“Sorry,” Lou said. He almost always said, “Sorry,” and then looked embarrassed.
“Good touch,” Tom said. “I was trying to think how you were doing what you were doing, rather than concentrating on the match. But are you using pattern analysis?”
“Yes,” Lou said. His tone was mild surprise, and Tom wondered if he was thinking,Doesn’t everyone?
“I can’t do it in real time,” Tom said. “Not unless someone’s got a very simple pattern.”
“Is it not fair?” Lou asked.
“It’s very fair, if you can do it,” Tom said. “It’s also the sign of a good fencer—or chess player, for that matter. Do you play chess?”
“No.”
“Well… then let’s see if I can keep my mind on what I’m doing and get a touch back.” Tom nodded, and they began again, but it was hard to concentrate. He wanted to think about Lou—about when that awkward jerkiness had become effective, when he’d first seen real promise, when Lou had begun reading the patterns of the slower fencers. What did it say about the way he thought? What did it say about him as a person?
Tom saw an opening and moved in, only to feel the sharp thud on his chest of another touch.
“Shoot, Lou, if you keep doing this we’ll have to promote you to tournaments,” he said, only half joking.
Lou stiffened, his shoulders hunching. “Does that bother you?”
“I… do not think I should fence in a tournament,” Lou said.
“It’s up to you.” Tom saluted again. He wondered why Lou phrased it that way. It was one thing to have no desire for competition but another to think he “shouldn’t” do it. If Lou had been normal—Tom hated himself for even thinking the word, but there it was—he’d have been in tournaments for the past three years. Starting too early, as most people did, rather than keeping to this private practice venue for so long. Tom pulled his mind back to the bout, barely parried a thrust, and tried to make his own attacks more random.
Finally, his breath failed and he had to stop, gasping. “I need a break, Lou. C’mon over here and let’s review—” Lou followed him obediently and sat on the stone ledge bordering the patio while Tom took one of the chairs. Lou was sweating, he noticed, but not breathing particularly hard.
TOM FINALLY STOPS, GASPING, AND DECLARES HIMSELF TOO tired to go on. He leads me off to one side while two others step onto the ring. He is breathing very hard; his words come spaced apart, which makes it easier to understand them. I am glad he thinks I am doing so well.
“But here—you’re not out of breath yet. Go fight someone else, give me a chance to catch mine, and we’ll talk later.”
I look over at Marjory sitting beside Lucia. I saw her watching me while Tom and I fought. Now she is looking down and the heat has brought more pink into her face. My stomach clenches, but I get up and walk over to her.
“Hi, Marjory,” I say. My heart is pounding.
She looks up. She is smiling, a complete smile. “Hi, Lou,” she says. “How are you tonight?”
“Fine,” I say. “Will you… do you want to… will you fence with me?”
“Of course.”She reaches down to pick up her mask and puts it on. I cannot see her face as well now, and she will not be able to see mine when I’m masked; I slide it back over my head. I can look without being seen; my heart steadies.
We begin with a recapitulation of some sequences from Saviolo’s fencing manual. Step by step, forward and sideways, circling and feeling each other out. It is both ritual and conversation, as I balance parry against her thrust and thrust against her parry. Do I know this? Does she know that? Her movements are softer, more tentative, than Tom’s. Circle, step,