The first part is easy: my name, address, contact number, age, height, and weight. I do not know what to put in the space marked “persona.”
“Ignore that,” Tom says. “It’s for people who like to play a part.”
“In a play?”I ask.
“No. All day, they pretend to be someone they’ve made up, from history. Well, from pretend history.”
“It is another game?” I ask.
“Yes, exactly. And people treat them as if they were their pretend person.”
When I talked about pretend persons to my teachers, they got upset and made notes in my records. I would like to ask Tom if normal people do this often and if he does it, but I do not want to upset him.
“For instance,” Tom says, “when I was younger I had a persona named Pierre Ferret—that’s spelled like the animal ferret—who was a spy for the evil cardinal.”
“What is evil about a bird?” I ask.
“The other kind of cardinal,” Tom says. “Didn’t you ever read The Three Musketeers ? ”
“No,” I say. I never even heard of The Three Musketeers .
“Oh, well, you’d love it,” he says. “But it would take too long to tell the story now—it’s just that there was a wicked cardinal and a foolish queen and an even more foolish young king and three brave musketeers who were the best swordsmen in the world except for D’Artagnan, so naturally half the group wanted to be the musketeers. I was young and wild, so I decided to be the cardinal’s spy.”
I cannot imagine Tom as a spy. I cannot imagine Tom pretending to be someone named Pierre Ferret and people calling him that instead of Tom. It seems a lot of trouble if what he really wanted to do was fence.
“And Lucia,” he goes on. “Lucia made a most excellent lady-in-waiting.”
“Don’t even start,” Lucia says. She does not say what he is not supposed to start, but she is smiling.
“I’m too old for that now,” she says.
“So are we both,” Tom says. He does not sound like he means it. He sighs. “But you don’t need a persona, Lou, unless you want to be someone else for a day.”
I do not want to be someone else. It is hard enough to be Lou.
I skip all the blanks that concern the persona I do not have and read the Ritual Disclaimer at the bottom.
That is what the bold print says, but I do not know exactly what it means. By signing it I agree that fencing is a dangerous sport and that any injuries I may suffer are not the fault of the tournament organizers and therefore I cannot sue them. I further agree to abide by the rules of the sport and the rulings of all referees, which will be final.
I hand the signed form to Tom, who hands it to Lucia. She sighs and puts it in her needlework basket.
THURSDAY EVENING I USUALLY WATCH TELEVISION, BUT I AM going to the tournament.
Tom told me to practice every day I could. I change and drive over to Tom and Lucia’s. It feels very strange driving this way on a Thursday. I notice the color of the sky, of the leaves on the trees, more than I usually do. Tom takes me outside and tells me to start doing footwork exercises, then drills of specific parry/riposte combinations.
Soon I am breathing hard. “That’s good,” he says. “Keep going. I’m having you do things you can do at home, since you probably won’t make it over here every night.”
No one else comes. In half an hour Tom puts on his mask, and we do slow and fast drills on the same moves, over and over. It is not what I expected, but I can see how it will help me. I leave by 8:30 and am too tired to go on-line and play games when I get home. It is much harder when I am fencing all the time, instead of taking turns and watching the others.
I take a shower, feeling the new bruises gingerly. Even though I am tired and stiff, I feel good. Mr. Crenshaw has not said anything about the new treatment and humans. Marjory said, “Oh. Good for you!” when she found out I was going to be in the tournament. Tom and Lucia are not angry with each other, at least not enough to quit being married.
The next day I do laundry, but on Saturday after cleaning, I go to Tom and Lucia’s again for another lesson. I