PROLOGUE
Everything depended on my final year at school; I had to focus, I had to work hard, but above all, I had to stay out of trouble. Last term, I nearly got expelled, but instead, they just kicked me off the fencing team. Yesterday, I made a list to keep me on track:
1. Stay out of trouble.
2. STAY OUT OF TROUBLE.
3. Get back on the school fencing team.
4. Win my colours.
5. Make the top eight at the Under - 18 Nationals.
6. Study like a demon.
7. Study like a BLOODY demon.
8. Pass the Bac.
And if I did all that - and passed the Baccalauréat - I’d be heading to Notre Dame on a sports scholarship. I would be going to America!
Well… That was the plan.
CHAPTER I
THE NIGHT BEFORE
It was the first day of the summer holidays, and I was back, ready to fence. I tightened my laces, picked up my bag, and pushed open the changing-room doors.
Well-dressed members filled the magnificent reception hall, relaxing and gossiping, arriving and departing or waiting patiently for friends; some carried fencing bags. A beautiful movie star in a flowing red gown glided up the wide marble staircase. She was an excellent fencer.
Fencing was the raison d’être Club Paris had been founded - to teach gentlemen the art of staying alive. Now, it’s more of a social club. Not many fencers went upstairs - the restaurant and bar were very expensive.
I could have carried on training here after I was kicked off the school team, but I decided that if I couldn’t compete, I wouldn’t bother. Instead, I made a bunch of new friends. I met some really cool people, like musicians and art students, a couple of journalists, and a Turkish astrologer called Brenda. They were great fun, but they were much older and smarter than I was, and spending time with them made me realise that I should be following my own dreams.
Entering the fencing salle, I received a huge shock. I held my breath and looked around. Everything had changed - I’d been gone for less than a term - what on earth had happened? Where were the old rapiers? And where were the grand portraits of fencers and professors from yesteryear? Over five hundred years of history had vanished. The oldest fencing salle in Europe had been hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the wood panelling had gone. Everything was now painted white. I could smell the fresh paint. Everything sounded sharper. Everything was so bright. The only thing remaining was the sprung wooden floor. What had they done?
I joined Club Paris when I was 10 (it was Dad’s idea to stop me from stick-fighting with school friends in the garden), and at first, I didn’t pay much attention to the rusty rapiers hung haphazardly on the panelled walls. I preferred the dozen or so portraits of good old boys with bushy whiskers, posing in army uniforms and old-fashioned fencing kit. Then one day, the Professor told me that one of the displayed rapiers had been used to kill the ancestors of quite a few esteemed club members (the ones who went upstairs). I asked the Professor which one, but he didn’t say. That story captured my imagination, and now those ancient swords fill me with awe. Which one had been used in mortal combat? And I started to wish, with all my heart, that I had been born in a different era - an era where a man could make a difference with his sword and sharp wit, and I constructed elaborate daydreams of swashbuckling my way to victory and being a great hero (glorious adventures to daydream of in Maths). But as the years passed by, and the simple ‘one-two’ lunges continued to hit me elegantly on the chest, ‘Touché!’ I’d thank heaven that fencing was only a game. Sometimes, before bed, I would inspect the tiny bruises peppering my torso and realise, with a shudder, that my everyday mistakes - not so long ago - would have meant certain death.
“No footwork tonight, André?”
Footwork is as important as blade work, and many people will tell you it’s even more important. The footwork class faced Joe, the junior coach, waiting for his next command.
“No, not tonight, Joe”. What happened in here then?”
“It was falling down, too expensive to restore…”
“Too expensive? That’s a joke. Where’s everything gone? Where are the old swords? And the pictures?”
“Everything went upstairs,” Joe shrugged.
I glanced up at the restaurant and bar where the great and the good (and the bad and the beautiful) dined and drank and watched us fight. So, that was the story. They wanted to save money.
“I thought we had laws to protect old buildings.”
“Yeah, me too,” agreed Joe.
“Bloody vandals!”
Joe chuckled. “Good to see you, André.”
“Good to see you too, Joe.”
Joe turned back to the footwork class. “Step forward, lunge,” he commanded. The class stepped forward and lunged in unison. Joe left them in the lunge until those who had lunged incorrectly adjusted their posture. “Recover!” The class recovered into en garde.
I’d missed Joe’s easy friendship. That’s what happens when you stop fencing. Other fencers drift away. I had lots of new friends now, but none of them owned any swords. They all owned bongs.
A bunch of beginners, some of whom I vaguely recognised, sat on a low-slung wooden bench pressed against the wall. They should have been doing the footwork class - but it wasn’t compulsory. Some were gossiping and feeling the balance of each other’s weapons, while others worked on their tips.
The tip of a rapier is a simple affair. The tip of an épée (about the size of a flat nail head) is more complicated. Simply put, when the tip is pressed, it completes an electrical circuit and scores a hit.
Most of the girls sitting on the bench had one eye on Jacqueline. It looked like she was having a tough fight. I’d known Jacqueline for years; we started fencing around the same time. She was the best female fencer in the club by far and the current under-18 French national champion.
Jaqueline’s opponent, an Englishman called Sam, was quite a bit older than us; his father was a diplomat at the British Embassy. He was training to be a chef. I dumped my bag beside their piste, signalling I was next in line to fight the winner.
Jacqueline needed one more hit to win. She flèched, but her timing was off. The Englishman had all the time in the world. He bent his knees and jabbed beneath her wrist as she stretched towards him. The tip of Sam’s épée glided past the target, and Jacqueline hit him square on the chest in slow motion. The green light blinked on the electric box: 7:10. I grinned. That will teach him - he should have parried instead of going for the stop-hit. As Jacqueline hurtled past (she’d picked up speed by now), Sam straightened his legs and knocked her with his shoulder. There was a collective gasp from the spectators as Jacqueline, all elbows and knees, scattered across the floor.
It would be impossible to prove that Sam had knocked her down on purpose. Professional fouls are like that. Accidentally on purpose or just poor timing?
Sam lifted his mask. “Sorry,” he said. He didn’t look very sorry. Nor did he offer his hand to help her back up. In the olden days, I would have slapped him in the face with my glove and challenged him to a duel for ungentlemanly conduct.
Tight-lipped, Jacqueline passed me the spool. It was winner stays on. It was her right to stay on, but she had nothing to prove.
I plugged myself in.
“First to ten?” asked Sam.
“First to five,” I said
“Suit yourself,” he said.
I nearly said first to one. First to five was a fair compromise. He got the message.
Jacqueline asked the fencers sitting on the bench if they thought I could beat the English bully. Because Sam was bigger and older, no one quite knew what to say. One of the beginners, a blonde youth whom I didn’t recognise, jumped up and cheered, “Go for it, André! You can do it!”
My chances of winning were excellent. In the past, I’d usually beaten Sam. He was tall and awkward (awkward in fencing is a good thing), and about five years older, but the English are notoriously poor fencers. English fencing is like English tennis (not very good).
Smack in the face! Bang! The red light blinked: 1:0. Focus!
A hit on the mask doesn’t hurt (obviously), but it does wake you up. It’s not just the noise that shocks you (a terrifying echo), it’s also the thought. In that moment, you can imagine everything for real. Even pretend swords can be lethal if you don’t wear the proper equipment.
We returned to the middle of the piste to start the next hit. Smack in the face again! 2:0. Another ear-ringing explosion. My head snapped back, more from shock than anything else. Our audience gasped at Sam’s bad sportsmanship. He hadn’t started even a fraction of a second before I was ready; it was more like five seconds before I was ready. He might as well have hit me a week earlier in my sleep. Instead of making a scene, I said nothing. I used the insult like a spur. I took my position en garde, this time ready for anything.
The same attack twice in a row. I remembered that Sam had a limited repertoire, but I never remembered him being so quick. Then, like a rock guitarist playing a monotonous chord, he flèched again. I ran back, knocked his blade out of line, and hit him on his back foot as he sailed past. At last, a green light: 2:1. I was off the mark.
A moment later, it was 3:1. Sam had copied my last move and hit me on the back foot. Marvellous. Hitting your opponent on the back foot is an absurd choice of target. Sam never used to have flair.
The next hit was a mess. My attack failed. The distance closed, and we punched our épées like pistons. Both lights, red and green, blinked together, and my blade snapped in two. The hit was a double: 4:2. Focus. If Sam hit me again, I would lose. It wasn’t looking good. I should have asked for ten hits instead of five.
The thing about swords (i.e., blades) is that each one has a different character. When fencers think about a blade’s character, they consider its balance and weight, and how it retains shape after a hit. It’s impossible to find a bunch of identical blades (which is what everyone would like to do), so anyone with more than one sword has a favourite. My spare épée was slightly heavier and a little bit stiffer. Not bad, but if I broke this one, I’d be in big trouble; I’d have to borrow one, and borrowing someone else’s sword is not recommended - it’s like wearing their shoes.
I’d made the oldest mistake: I underestimated my opponent. In the time I’d been away, Sam had found an extra gear. He was no longer a rabbit. And just to prove he had moved up the food chain, he unleashed a fearsome compound attack. A compound attack consists of multiple feints; it was well played. I felt his tip touch my shoulder. Damn it! I lost. But the hit was too light; it didn’t complete the electrical circuit. Sam hesitated and looked at the box. No light. I straightened my arm, and the green light blinked. It was a gift: 4:3. Time to even the score. Focus.
I started flicking, aiming for his arm and wrist. Got him! 4:4. Even-stevens down to the last. Excitement erupted from the bench. Focus.
When it’s down to the last and all to play for, people are usually cautious. But Sam had a different strategy in mind, and he charged like a crazy unicorn. I wasn’t expecting an aggressive attack. I was expecting a war of attrition. I darted back, twisting desperately to avoid losing the point. Before I was forced over the end of the piste (which would have been a hit against me and cost me the fight), I squatted as low as I could, with my forehead almost touching the floor, and thrust upwards, reaching for the sky. Sam’s forward momentum forced him to hurdle me. As he jumped over, I got lucky and hit him on the leg. Yes! I clenched my left fist in victory.
Sam complained and said the last hit should be annulled, because I’d scored the hit after he passed me. The rules get complicated here, but I argued my case and told him he was speaking rubbish. Sam countered by saying the position I’d been in (just before I’d scored the hit) had been unsafe. The back of my neck had been dangerously exposed, and in a competition, the referee would have restarted the fight for safety reasons. It was one of those moments. If the Englishman had got the hit, he would have thrown off his mask and declared himself the victor. Instead, he threw off his mask and had a tantrum.
So, we fenced the final hit again. This time it was a war of attrition. Sam really had improved. I wondered what his cooking was like. It was probably quite good by now. When the English want to improve their cooking (and fencing), they come over to France.
Sam flicked the tip of his blade under my wrist.
“Eh la!” he shouted in triumph.
If you got points for shouting, Sam would have won.
I pointed at the box. It was the green light. My flick to the top of his wrist got him first. It was game over. A collective murmur of approval emanated from our audience. What a great stop-hit!
“Well played, Andre!” Jaqueline called out.
Sam knew when he was beaten. He looked resigned. We shook hands (as you are meant to at the end of a bout).
“It won’t be as easy next time,” he said.
“It will be for me,” I replied.
“In your dreams,” he said.
I looked around for Jacqueline, but she was fencing with someone else. I unclipped the spool and passed it to him. “You can stay on,” I said.
Sam was becoming quite good. He was probably having lessons from the Professor. I never realised he was so ultra-competitive. It was going to be a fun summer. I put my broken épée into my bag, alongside the broken end - the tip could be reused. I needed to buy some new blades.
Home was twenty minutes away by fast train. It was steak night tonight, my favourite, and after supper I’d watch a film with Dad, then do some revision. If I didn’t get into Notre Dame, I’d probably end up working for Mum at her hang-gliding club. For me, going to university wasn’t about the degree; it was all about fencing. A sports scholarship gave me three years of fencing - competing worldwide - with all expenses paid. The degree wasn’t important. I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do after school, and I certainly didn’t know what to study if I got into university. Maybe a bit of history or something. My only ambition was to fence at the Olympics, and the chances of that were slim. But it was something to aim for. You have to have something, right? And if it all fell apart and I didn’t get the scholarship, a job with Mum at her hang-gliding club would let me carry on training here at Club Paris, and maybe one day I’d make the French national team.
The changing-room doors swung open and out stepped the Professor, dressed like the Michelin Man in his protective padding. I’d been dreading this meeting.
“Hello, Professor.”
“André! What a surprise. Why are you leaving so soon?”
“Not fit,” I admitted. “Pulled a muscle.”
“You didn’t warm up,” he chortled. “You should have done the footwork class,” The Professor scrutinised my face. “You need a haircut.” I smiled in agreement. There was an awkward silence.
“I need to get back on the school team for my sports scholarship to uni.”
“Good lad,” he said.
The Professor’s neat white hair and sharp, angular features gave him an air of trustworthy knowledge. He knew everything about fencing and the history of swords, and he held strong opinions on almost everything else. He was my mentor and coach, and I felt I’d let him down.
“What’s the most popular day now? It used to be Wednesday, but there’s only Jaqueline and Sam here tonight.”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he replied.
“What about Fridays?”
“There are a few good Blades here on a Friday, but they don’t stay too long.”
Suddenly, two men hurried past. They wore grubby jeans and black leather jackets, and each one carried a bulging rucksack.
“Who are those two?”
The Professor ran into the changing rooms. “Thieves!” he cried. “I thought they were behaving strangely.”
What a mess: the changing rooms had been ransacked. I grabbed my broken épée (the one I broke fencing Sam) and dashed outside.
The Professor followed closely behind. I glanced at him as my feet hit the pavement; he seemed to be smiling. Was it a look of approval, or was it an old man’s grimace? I took it for approval.
The two thieves accelerated away in a large, dirty white van. Without thinking of the consequences, I sprinted across the road and punctured the van’s rear tyre with my jagged, broken blade. The vehicle’s back end shimmied out of control and catapulted into the oncoming traffic.
I think André is at his best when his narration leans into that wry, observant and slightly detached voice. It feels conversational and alive.
“If you got points for shouting Sam would have won.”
“Professional fouls are like that. Accidentally on purpose or just bad timing?”
“In the olden days, I would have slapped him in the face with my glove…”
There were so many good quips in this, especially directed at Sam. Great way to end the chapter too, full stop in the midst of tension.