When it is my turn and I step into the marked area, my heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I do not know what I am doing here. I should not be here: I do not know the pattern. Then my opponent attacks and I parry. It is not a good parry — I was slow — but he did not touch me. I take a deep breath and concentrate on his movement, on his patterns.
My opponent does not seem to notice when I make touches. I am surprised, but Tom told me that some people do not call shots against them. Some of them, he said, may be too excited to feel a light or even medium touch, especially if it is their first match. It could happen to you, too, he said. This is why he has been telling me to make firmer touches. I try again, and this time the other man is rushing forward just as I thrust and I hit him too hard. He is upset and speaks to the referee, but the referee says it is his fault for rushing.
In the end, I win the bout. I am breathless, not just from the fight. It feels so different, and I do not know what the difference is. I feel lighter, as if gravity had changed, but it is not the same lightness I feel when I am near Marjory. Is it from fighting someone I did not know or from winning?
Tom shakes my hand. His face is shiny; his voice is excited. “You did it, Lou. You did a great job—”
“Yeah, you did fine,” Don interrupts. “And you were a bit lucky, too. You want to watch your parries in three, Lou; I’ve noticed before that you don’t use that often enough and when you do you really telegraph what you’re going to do next—”
“Don…” Tom says, but Don goes on talking.
“-and when somebody charges you like that, you shouldn’t be caught off-guard—”
“Don, he won. He did fine. Let up.” Tom’s eyebrows have come down.
“Yeah, yeah, I know he won, he got lucky in his first bout, but if he wants to go on winning—”
“Don, go get us something to drink.” Tom sounds upset now.
Don blinks, startled. He takes the money Tom hands him. “Oh — all right. Be right back.”
I do not feel lighter anymore. I feel heavier. I made too many mistakes.
Tom turns to me; he is smiling. “Lou, that’s one of the best first bouts I’ve seen,” Tom says. I think he wants me to forget what Don said, but I cannot. Don is my friend; he is trying to help me.
“I… I did not do what you said to do. You said attack first—”
“What you did worked. That’s the meterstick here. I realized after you went up that it could have been bad advice.” Tom’s brow is furrowed. I do not know why.
“Yes, but if I had done what you said to do he might not have gotten the first point.”
“Lou — listen to me. You did very, very well. He got the first point, but you did not fall apart. You recovered. And you won. If he had called shots fairly, you would have won sooner.”
“But Don said—”
Tom shakes his head hard, as if something hurt. “Forget what Don said,” he says. “In Don’s first tournament, he fell apart at the first match. Completely. Then he was so upset by losing that he blew off the rest of the tournament, didn’t even fight in the losers’ round-robin—”
“Well, thank you,” Don says. He is back, holding three cans of soda; he drops two of them on the ground. “I thought you were so hot on caring about people’s feelings—” He stalks off with one of the cans. I can tell he is angry.
Tom sighs. “Well… it’s true. Don’t let it worry you, Lou. You did very well; you probably won’t win today — first-timers never do — but you’ve already shown considerable poise and ability, and I’m proud that you’re in our group.”
“Don is really upset,” I say, looking after him. I think Tom should not have said that about Don’s first tournament. Tom picks up the sodas and offers me one. It fizzes over when I open it. His fizzes over, too, and he licks the foam off his fingers. I did not know that was acceptable, but I lick the foam off my fingers.
“Yes, but Don is… Don,” Tom says. “He does this; you’ve seen it.” I am not sure which this he means, Don telling other people what they did wrong or Don getting angry.
“I think he is trying to be my friend and help me,” I say. “Even though he likes Marjory and I like Marjory and he probably wants her to like him, but she thinks he is a real heel.”
Tom chokes on his soda and then coughs. Then he says, “You like Marjory? Like as in like, or as in special like?
“I like her a lot,” I say. “I wish—” But I cannot say that wish out loud.
“Marjory had a bad experience with a man something like Don,” Tom says. “She will think of that other man every time she sees Don act the same way.”
“Was he a fencer?” I ask.
“No. Someone she knew at work. But sometimes Don acts the way he did. Marjory doesn’t like that. Of course she would like you better.”
“Marjory said that Don said something not nice about me.”
“Does that make you angry?” Tom asks.
“No… sometimes people say things because they do not understand. That’s what my parents said. I think Don does not understand.” I take a sip of my soda. It is not as cold as I like, but it is better than nothing.
Tom takes a long swallow of his soda. In the ring, another match has started; we edge away from it. “What we should do now,” he said, staving off that problem, “is register your win with the scribe and be sure you’re ready for your next bout.”
At the thought of the next bout, I realize I am tired and can feel the bruises where my opponent hit me. I would like to go home now and think about everything that has happened, but there are more bouts to fight and I know Tom wants me to stay and finish.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I am facing my second opponent. It feels very different the second time because it is not all a surprise. This man was wearing the hat like a pizza with feathers. Now he is wearing a mask that’s transparent in front rather than wire mesh. This kind costs a lot more. Tom told me he is very good but very fair. He will count my touches, Tom said. I can see the man’s expression clearly; he looks almost sleepy, his eyelids drooping over blue eyes.
The referee drops his handkerchief; my opponent leaps forward in a blur and I feel his touch on my shoulder. I raise my hand. His sleepy expression does not mean he is slow. I want to ask Tom what to do. I do not look around; the bout is still on and the man could make another touch.
This time I move sideways and the man also circles; his blade leaps out, so fast it seems to disappear and then reappear touching my chest. I do not know how he moves so fast; I feel stiff and clumsy. I will lose with another touch. I rush into attack, though it feels strange. I feel my blade against his — I have parried successfully this time. Again, again — and finally, when I lunge, I feel in my hand that I have touched something. Instantly he draws back and raises his hand. “Yes,” he says. I look at his face. He is smiling. He does not mind that I made a touch.
We circle the other way, blades flashing. I begin to see that his pattern, while rapid, is understandable, but he gets a third touch on me before I can use these data.
“Thanks,” he says, at the end. “You gave me a fight.”
“Good job, Lou,” Tom says when I come out of the ring. “He’ll probably win the tournament; he usually does.”
“I got one touch,” I say.
“Yes, and a good one. And you almost got him several more times.”
“Is it over?” I ask.
“Not quite,” Tom says. “You’ve lost only one bout; now you go into the pool of other one-rounders, and you’ll have at least one more match. Are you doing all right?”