“Touché,” the maestro announced.
Bienot tore off his mask. “His knee touched the mat!” he shouted in French. If true, it was an infraction that would have voided the touch.
“Non,” the maestro said. “Deux, zero.”
McGarvey took off his mask as the boy came close. “You might win on the piste, son, eventually, if you learn to control your attacks. But you won’t win the fight you want to pick.”
Bienot was on the verge of exploding.
“I’m going to score on your left knee as you score on my mask. There is no other choice.”
“En garde,” the maestro said. He had to repeat it before the boy put on his mask and took his position.
“Prêt. Allez.”
The boy lunged forward again, but this time, Mac backed up, and near the end of the piste, he suddenly hunched down again and thrust against the kid’s toe, the same as the last time. The boy leaped into the air, his blade arched over the top of McGarvey’s head, coming down and smacking into the top of Mac’s mask at the same time McGarvey caught the kid in the leg just below the knee. Both lights came on. It was a tie; both touches counted.
“Coup double,” the maestro announced.
McGarvey had won, three to one. The audience applauded as he took off his mask and saluted, but the boy turned and stalked off the piste.
Pete and Martine were applauding and grinning, but Kurshin did not look happy.
18
McGarvey walked around to the other side of the piste where Martine and Kurshin were waiting with Pete, who handed him a towel and a bottle of Evian. He was breathing heavily out of his mouth but making a show of trying to hide it.
“Are you okay?” Pete asked.
“The kid was pretty fast,” Mac said.
“He had good technique and plenty of wind, but he was dismissing you out of hand,” Kurshin said. He glanced across as the maestro was finishing his short explanation of why McGarvey and not the younger fencer had won.
“Sounds like he’s making excuses,” Martine said.
“The kid’s probably one of his star pupils, and he’s embarrassed. Losing the bout was a testimony to how good or bad an instructor he is,” Pete said.
Mac wiped his face and took a drink of water. “What do you think?” he asked Kurshin.
“He’s probably a B-rated fencer. In another year of seasoning, he might be ready for a crack at the world finals for a spot on the French Olympic team, but he underestimated you, and it was only a three-touch match.” A rated was the top designation for elite fencers.
“You’re right, of course. I wouldn’t have made it through a fifteen-touch championship bout.”
Kurshin said nothing.
Two fencers came onto the piste. The maestro introduced them, one from a club in Paris and the other from Monaco. They were both young, still in their late teens, and arrogant, especially the Parisian, who strutted like a peacock. He towered a good six inches over the local kid.
This match was at foil, a much lighter blade with more stringent rules of engagement. In épée, a touch anywhere on the body, even the mask or the bare hand, counted as a score. Simultaneous touches counted. At foil, only the part of the fencer’s torso covered by a wire mesh vest that was hooked into the electronic scoring system counted. And only touches from the fencer who had established right of way — essentially, the first one to attack — scored.
This match lasted a little longer than the first. The fencers were fairly evenly experienced, and they attacked, parried, and gave and took ground at tremendous speed.
At one point, the Parisian flicked his sword hand with a very strong, very quick action that caused the tip of the blade to arch in midair, almost like a bullwhip, the point cracking decisively on the right shoulder, the scoring light coming on.
“Touché,” the maestro said.
“It’s not fair; he has the height advantage,” Martine said.
“No handicaps in this sport,” McGarvey said.
“Except for age,” Kurshin countered.
“Didn’t seem to matter in M. Arouet’s bout,” Martine said.
The round lasted only a couple of minutes longer, the Parisian making the same flicking attack twice more for which the local fencer seemed to have no effective defense.
“That has to hurt,” Martine said.
“It does,” Kurshin agreed.
The maestro came over. “Are you gentlemen ready?”
“Sure.” McGarvey nodded. He wiped his face again, took a drink of water, and handed the towel and bottle back to Pete.
“Knock him dead,” she said.
“Only three touches,” Mac mumbled, and he turned his head so that Kurshin couldn’t see his face, and he winked.
On the piste, the maestro introduced McGarvey again, to a light applause, and Kurshin as the gentleman from London.
They saluted each other, the maestro, and the audience, donned their masks, and at the command, “Allez,” began.
Kurshin was cautious at first, presenting his blade against Mac’s, stepping forward in a false attack and then retreating a few steps as Mac pressed the counterattack.
They were testing each other, probing defenses, testing blade control and speed. In épée, landing the point on a precise spot at the precise moment was everything. Épée fencers spent countless hours training touch accuracy against an AAA battery hanging from a string at what would be the opponent’s midtorso height. The battery was swung so that it moved back and forth fairly quickly in an erratic orbit. The object was for the fencer to move forward and then retreat as the battery swung farther or nearer. At the right moment, the fencer would attempt to touch the battery with the point of his épée. It wasn’t easy, but it taught precision point control.
Forty seconds into the bout, Kurshin made a mistake, intentional or not, by moving a little too close.
McGarvey suddenly leaned forward to a position where he was completely off balance and just about to fall on his face when he brought his rear leg forward, and as it was just about to touch the ground, he pushed off with a powerful thrust from his front leg, the point of his épée extended to Kurshin’s sword hand.
It was called a flying flèche, or arrow. The move was meant to be such a surprise that the opponent wouldn’t have time to react.
Mac stumbled at the last possible instant, and Kurshin easily sidestepped the attack, planting his épée on McGarvey’s shoulder.
Spinning away as if he were totally out of control, Mac was forced to skip off the piste before he could catch his balance.
“Touché a gauche,” touch left for Kurshin.
The audience did not applaud.
McGarvey took off his mask, apologized to the maestro, and took his place on the piste.
He took a deep breath, saluted, and then put on his mask and assumed the en garde position.
This time, Kurshin attacked immediately, forcing Mac to retreat almost out of bounds at the end of the strip.
Mac did a simple French coupé, taking his blade over the top of Kurshin’s and at the same time turning his hand to the right toward the sixth position, which should have moved Kurshin’s blade far enough off target that an attack to the sword hand was possible.
But Kurshin easily disengaged, slapped Mac’s blade away, and landed a touch on the wrist.
“Touché,” the maestro said. “Deux, zero.”
Pete came over with the towel and water bottle as McGarvey took off his mask. He was breathing hard now.