Minnesota

Fencing

Constantina, Monique and Bruce entered the large stone building. Cool air greeted them, a pleasant escape from the summer’s heat.  

          “Fancy.” Bruce grinned. They followed a gentleman dressed in a tight black suit to their assigned seating. With gloved hands, he pulled out a chair. Connie sat down and waited for Monique and Bruce to be seated. A young waiter pulled a bottle of champagne from the chiller, opened it and filled their glasses. His motions a fluent dance of grace and expertise.

            “Well, I’ve never been to a fencing competition.” Monique tipped the champagne flute.

           “I could get used to this.”

            Connie grinned. “It comes with a lot of rules. It used to be the sport of the aristocracy. Pete’s been training for this for years. It’s by invitation only. And saying ‘no’ to such an invitation is tantamount to rebellion. Not that Pete would decline this opportunity. Luckily, some visitors declined, or he wouldn’t be able to get three tickets.” Connie explained.

            Bruce placed his hand on the back rest of Monique’s chair, glancing at the other tables. The seating area was surrounded by two long stretches of polished parquet floors.

“That's an odd flooring set up.” Bruce pointed toward them.

“That’s where they’ll fence. They're fencing parquets, thicker and treated to prevent slippage. Two opponents will go at the same time. One to the left, the other to the right.” Connie explained.  

The doors adjacent to the parquet floors opened. Several men, all wearing white, stepped through. The room erupted with knocking noise as the guests rapped their knuckles on the tables. Bruce and Monique glanced around and, ever the quicker, Monique realized the greeting. She fisted her hand and brought it onto the table, trying to join the greeting. Connie stopped her by sliding her hand over Monique’s. “No, only men. It’s unseemly for women to tap knuckles.”

            “That’s sexist. And how do you know all this?”

            Connie released Monique’s hand. “I helped Pete with his social training. The proper etiquette rules are tedious. They’re into pretending to be aristocracy, it’s a bit weird.”

            The men kept rapping the tables until the fencers took their positions. The welcoming noise seized. Monique didn’t pay attention to the spectacle unfolding before them. She stared at her friend. “That is so old-fashioned. I can’t believe you would want to see this. I can’t believe Pete would want to be part of this.”

            Connie shrugged. “He wants the recognition.” She inhaled the smell of the freshly polished parquet. The cool chill of the stone hall gave her goosebumps. And the sound of glasses touching in toasts, the rustling of the gowns tickled her ears. Ambient light streamed in through the stained-glass windows situated beneath the high ceiling.

Among all these impressions, there was another, stronger, fascination. Her skin tingled, knowing something was noteworthy. She turned, looked past Monique, all the way into the furthest corner. She saw a man with straight posture, his hands clasped behind his back. The formal suit tailored to his physique. Connie stared at him, fascinated. He wears the clothes easy, as if he was born into it. The silence in which he stood was in stark contrast to his radiating energy. His eyes, the color of river stone, missed nothing. Connie’s hands felt moist. Then her heart skipped a beat as she recognized him. Steve O’Toole, Regina’s partner. What is he doing here?

            Monique opened her mouth. Right then, the referee began speaking and Monique’s thoughts remained unsaid. Connie’s attention was drawn away from the man in the corner.       

            “Mesdames et Messieurs, welcome to the 137^th tour de challenge at the manor of the honorable Monsieur de Franĉ, a descendant of the patrician family de Franĉ, house …” The Maître de rattled off titles and names that meant nothing to Connie. Monique raised her eyebrows and Bruce glanced around the assembled guests.

            Monique leaned toward Connie. “You weren’t kidding about the aristocracy.” The announcer continued with a boring, long account of the family lineage that appeared to go all the way back to the Middle Ages somewhere in Germany.

            “Now, without further delay," The Maître de finally concluded, "I announce our first duels. On the left floor, we have paired Messieurs James Jourdaine and Bentley Morris. On the right floor, are Messieurs Duane Beckwith and…”. Monique and Connie stared at the man moving among the guests, taking a bow.

            “So much for classy affair.” Monique whispered. Bruce put his arm on her headrest and leaned in. “What do you mean?”

            Monique turned her head and whispered into his ear. The fencers stepped forward and bowed. Duane’s short, wiry physique was perfect for this sport. He held the epee mask in his hand, nodding to one of the guests three tables over. Connie leaned to the right to get a better look at whomever Duane greeted.  The friend had short, brown hair, a stout figure that not even the expensive Armani suit could hide. The most remarkable thing about him was a deep scar, just under his right jaw. He lifted his glass in a salute to Duane. The kindred spirit that flowed between them made Connie wonder if they were related. Cousins perhaps. Just then, Duane’s friend turned toward Connie, as if he felt her attention on him. His eyes, the cold blue of a crisp sky at sunrise, sparkled at her. When he saw Bruce sitting next to her, he smiled. He rose and approached them.

            Bruce exhaled sharply, his suntanned skin turning pale. Monique leaned in. “Are you feeling sick?” Monique caressed his hand.

            He shook his head, emptying his champagne in one swoop. He smiled. That’s the weirdest fake smile I’ve ever seen. Monique and Connie glanced at each other.

            “Bruce, my friend, what a surprise.” The stranger had made his way to their table.

            Bruce reached for the champagne bottle, refiled his glass, and emptied it. “Mark Praeda.” He nodded. “I’d ask you to sit down, but there’s no fourth chair. Besides, I don’t want to miss the show.” At the mention of his last name, Connie looked at the young man with renewed interest. She wanted to ask if he was related to Regina. But Bruce’s unwelcoming demeanor made her hold her tongue. And do you really want to talk to him, if in fact he’s family? 

Mark eyed Bruce, then waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Give me call, we can catch up.” Manicured hands produced a midnight-blue business card, embossed with silver lettering. The waiter approached Mark and leaned toward him. “Right, manners, got it.” Mark laughed, drawing attention from those around the other tables. The Maître de, too, began glancing at them.

“They’re stuffy here, can’t leave assigned seats during performance. So, call, my friend.” Mark sneered, then returned to his table.

The fencers had taken their place on the parquet, their masks on, fences in hand. A loud voice demanded attention. The tournament began. All eyes fixed on the two pairs of fencers, clashing metal against protective clothes.

            Bruce exhaled and reached for Monique’s hand. Their eyes focused on each other. The tournament momentarily forgotten.

Connie had no idea how Bruce knew this guy or if that was the reason Steve O’Toole was here. She turned to see if Steve was still here. And he was. His eyes met hers, his lips hinting a smile. It had been years since last she saw him, but he was not a man easily forgotten. Her hands became balmy, her breath quickened.

Some men just have that effect.

Still smiling, Steve turned left toward the exit. He winked at her.

Then his gaze locked on to Mark Praeda.