Free The Fencing Master by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page B

lithe animal beauty, combining the masculine quality that Don Jaime had noticed in her before with a lightness of movement that was at once firm and supple. In those flat shoes, thought the fencing master, the young woman moved like a cat.

    She leveled her violet eyes at him, trying to gauge the effect of her appearance. Don Jaime did his best to remain inscrutable. "Which foil do you prefer?" he asked, half-closing his eyes, dazzled by the light that seemed to fold her in a voluptuous embrace. "French, Spanish, or Italian?"
    "French. I like to have my fingers free."
    With a slight bow, he congratulated her on her choice. He too preferred the French foil, with no crossbar, with the grip unimpeded as far as the guard. He went over to one of the racks of weapons on the wall and studied them thoughtfully. Estimating the young woman's height and the length of her arms, he chose the appropriate foil, an excellent weapon with a blade made of Toledo steel, as flexible as a reed. Señora de Otero took the weapon and studied it attentively; she closed her right hand about the grip, appreciatively weighed the foil in her hand, and then, turning to the wall, she tried the blade against it, pressing it so that it curved until the point was about twenty inches from the guard. Satisfied with the quality of the steel, she turned to Don Jaime. With the frank admiration of someone who knows how to appreciate the quality of such a weapon, she stroked the well-tempered metal with her fingers.
    He handed her a padded plastron and solicitously helped her to put it on, fastening the hooks at the back. As he did so, he accidentally brushed the fine fabric of her blouse with the tips of his fingers, and smelled the sweet scent of rose water. He completed his task rather hurriedly, disturbed by the proximity of that beautiful bent neck, of the smooth skin offering itself up to him in all its warm nakedness beneath her hair gathered by a mother-of-pearl comb. As he fastened the final hook, he noticed with dismay that his hands were shaking. To hide this, he immediately occupied himself in unbuttoning his own jacket and made some banal comment : about the usefulness of the plastron in fencing bouts. Señora de Otero, who was drawing on her leather gloves, looked at him rather oddly, bemused by this sudden, uncalled-for loquacity.

    "Don't you ever use one, maestro?"
    Don Jaime smoothed his mustache and smiled benignly. "Sometimes," he replied. Then, removing his jacket and scarf, he went over to the rack and chose a French foil with a square grip, slightly inclined in quarte. With the foil under his arm, he went and stood opposite the young woman, who was waiting for him on the piste, very erect and with the point of her weapon resting on the floor by her feet, which were at right angles, the heel of her right foot facing the ankle of her left, impeccably positioned to place herself on guard. Don Jaime studied her for a few moments, regretting that he could not fault her position. He nodded approvingly, put on his gloves, and indicated the masks lined up on a shelf. She shook her head disdainfully.
    "I think you should cover your face, Señora de Otero. As you know, in fencing..."
    "Perhaps later."
    "That would be running a needless risk," insisted Don Jaime, taken aback by his new client's coolness. She doubtless knew that a careless stroke, delivered too high, could mark her face irrevocably.

    She seemed to guess his thoughts: she smiled, or perhaps it was the little scar that smiled. "I commend myself to your skill, maestro, not to be disfigured."
    "I'm honored by your confidence in me, madam, but I would feel happier if..."
    There were flecks of gold in the young woman's eyes now, and they glinted strangely. "We'll fight our first bout with our faces uncovered," she said, as if introducing the extra risk made it all the more attractive to her. "Just this once, I promise."
    He could not get over his surprise; the young woman was devilishly stubborn