He took a sabre out of his bag.
“Don’t want to waste no time, then,” Teagarden said. “Masks on. On guard.”
Henderson slid on his mask, the big Cyclopean fly-eye. He liked the mask; it made his head as featureless as a light bulb.
“Remember the drills,” Teagarden said.
Controlled relaxation, Henderson intoned, controlled relaxation. This was the key to the Teagarden approach; this was the core of zencing. And this was why he persisted with Teagarden’s abuse and truculence: it did him good, he hoped. He didn’t need to exercise, he needed the therapy.
“On the toes.”
Henderson rose on his toes, legs apart, left hand perched on his hip, the sabre held angled in front of him.
“Feel that blade,” Teagarden said, now masked and on guard opposite him. “You are that blade. There is only the blade. You do not exist. What are you?”
“I, um, am the blade.”
“Controlled relaxation.”
Henderson relaxed and tried to stay in control.
“Take your measure.”
The sabres made contact. A tinny scratching sound.
“Feel it?”
“What?”
“The sensation du fer.”
“Oh yes. I feel it.”
“OK. Fleche attack any time you like.”
The fleche attack was a sort of mad scampering charge that often took the attacker thundering past his opponent. At some point during the attack one was meant to deliver a cut to the cheek or the flank.
Henderson swayed. Teagarden was poised and immobile. Henderson thought he might fall over he felt so relaxed.
He sang a song to himself, another of Teagarden’s drills. For some reason he always sang ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’.
Nymphs and shepherds, come away, come away. I am the blade, he reminded himself, I am the blade. Come, come, come, come away. He was going to make a fleche attack on Teagarden’s left side — unorthodox — but administer a cut to the right side of the face — even more unorthodox. So fingernails of the sword hand down, sword arm straight behind the guard, breathe out, relax, a feint to the right and charge!
He felt Teagarden’s stop cut jar on the inside of the right elbow and, almost simultaneously, the thwacking cuts to the head and left cheek as he galloped by, skewering air.
“What you doing, man?” Teagarden shouted, as Henderson caromed into a wall ladder. “You was wide open. You was fuckin’ slashin ‘, too.”
He wandered over, mask perched on the top of his head. “The cut is a twitch of your little finger.” Ping, bock, rasp, scratch, ping. Teagarden’s sabre administered five cuts to Henderson’s mask in as many milliseconds.
“You ain’t Errol fuckin’ Flynn. Is all wrist, man. You’re like chopping meat.” He swished madly in the air in illustration. “You ain’t a butcher, you a artist. You’re a art-man, it should come natural.”
“Sorry,” Henderson mumbled.
“OK. So just breathe.”
They breathed for a couple of minutes.
“Controlled relaxation,” Teagarden said.
Henderson relaxed.
“Let’s do it this way,” Teagarden said. “You’re on top of a mountain, OK? In a white room. You was born there. You lived there all your life. Why? ‘Cause you’re the king of fencing. The lord of sabreurs. People come from all over to your mountain to watch you in your room. To watch your fleche attacks. Why? Because you fleche attack purely, man. Pure. Got that?”
“Mountain, white room, pure. Yes.”
“Shut your eyes.” His voice dropped a tone. “You are the lord of sabreurs in your white room on the mountain. Think about it. Imagine it. Be there. What are you?”
Henderson opened his eyes and looked about him edgily. Nobody appeared to be listening. He shut his eyes again.
“I’m, ah, the (little cough) lord of sabreurs.”
“Louder.”
“I am the lord of sabreurs.”
“Louder.”
“I am the lord of sabreurs!”
“Louder!”
“I AM THE LORD OF SABREURS!”
Henderson opened his eyes. People had stopped exercising, a small crowd had gathered. For some reason he felt curiously elated, almost lightheaded with embarrassment. Only Teagarden could make him behave like this. Only in America would he have complied.
“OK. I’m going to feint at the head and you parry quinte. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Then parry at flank with seconde and riposte at right cheek.”
“OK.”
“Then I’ll cut at flank, parry tierce on the lunge, make a counter riposte to head and we’ll take it from there.”
“Fine.”
“And do it purely, for God’s sake. Pure.”
♦
In the locker room afterwards Henderson and Teagarden towelled down after their shower. Henderson tried not to look at Teagarden’s long thin cock and attempted as best he could to preserve his own modesty. Ever since leaving his boarding school he felt ill-at-ease being naked with other men. What made this occasion worse was that Teagarden was the first black man he had ever seen naked, outside of books and National Geographic magazines, and Henderson was concerned not to seem curious. He hummed ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’ quietly and appeared unduly interested in a corner of the ceiling. Teagarden did a lot of unselfconscious walking around, his towel slung about his neck, but eventually put on his underpants.
Henderson told him he was going away for a few days and probably wouldn’t make the Wednesday lesson.
“That’s up to you,” Teagarden said aggressively.
Henderson pulled on his shirt. Really, the man was impossible. The most neutral exchange of information denigrated into some sort of offence.
“Where you going?”
“The South. Georgia, I think. To start with. I’ve got to go to Atlanta first.”
“Shit. What you want to go there for?”
“It’s for work.”
“Hell, you don’t want to go down there.”
“Why?”
“It’s bad, man.”
“Worse than here?”
Teagarden shrugged. “Maybe not. It’s different, that’s for sure.”
“How? How do you mean?”
“Shit, I don’t know…Well, maybe everyone’s the same everywhere. Dishin’ out the same shit.” Teagarden looked intensely at him. “Dishin’ the shit. That’s what it’s all about, ain’t it? Dishin’ the shit?”
Henderson was perplexed. “Well, not all the time. Some of the time, but not all the time, surely.”
Teagarden sat down to lace up his shoes. “That what you think?”
“I suppose I do.”
Teagarden laughed. He seemed to find the notion genuinely amusing.
“Then good luck to you, Mr Dores. You sure gonna need it.” A little unsettled, Henderson said goodbye and left.
♦
Henderson picked up a cab on East Fifty-ninth Street and gave the driver Melissa’s address. He sat back on the red leatherette seat and tried to forget Teagarden’s words and his laughter. He thought, with only second order guilt, of going south with Irene. He felt at once tired and invigorated after his exercise with the sabres. Perhaps he would sleep tonight.
He banished all thoughts of Irene from his mind as he approached Melissa’s apartment in the upper eighties. Neither of the women in his life knew anything of the existence of the other. Accordingly certain levels of concentration had to be maintained to prevent a careless slip.
He paid off the cab and paused for a moment outside the doorway of the apartment block. It was cool and he stood beneath the firmament of shining windows collecting his thoughts. He adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. It was like paying court; then he remembered he was paying court. Last week Melissa had allowed that they were on the point of becoming ‘unofficially engaged’ again. He was quite expecting her to demand a ring.