The Speed of Dark (34 page)

Her hair is so beautiful… I find myself analyzing the color, the ratio of the different colors of hairs, and then the way the light shifts along them as she moves.

I sit on the floor and begin my stretches. After a moment, the women also start stretching out. I am a little stiff; it takes me several tries before I can touch my forehead to my knees. Marjory still can’t do it; her hair falls forward, brushing her knees, but her forehead doesn’t come within four inches.

When I have stretched, I get up and go to the equipment room for my gear. Tom is outside with Max and Simon, the referee from the tournament. The ring of lights makes a bright area in the middle of the dark yard, with strong shadows everywhere else.

“Hey, buddy,” Max says. He calls all the men buddy when they first arrive. It is a silly thing to do, but it is how he is. “How are you?”

“I am fine,” I say.

“I hear you used a fencing move on him,” Max says. “Wish I’d seen it.”

I think Max would not have wanted to be there in real life, whatever he thinks now.

“Lou, Simon was wondering if he could fence with you,” Tom says. I am glad that he does not ask how I am.

“Yes,” I say. “I will put my mask on.”

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Simon is not quite as tall as Tom and thinner. He is wearing an old padded fencing jacket, just like the white jackets that are used in formal competition fencing, but it is a streaky green instead. “Thanks,” he says. And then, as if he knew that I was looking at the color of his jacket, he says, “My sister wanted a green one for a costume once—and she knew more about fencing than dyeing clothes. It looked worse when it had just been done; it’s faded out now.”

“I never saw a green one,” I say.

“Neither had anyone else,” he says. His mask is an ordinary white one that has yellowed with age and use. His gloves are brown. I put on my mask.

“What weapons?” I ask.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks.

I do not have a favorite; each weapon and combination has its own patterns of skill.

“Try épée and dagger,” Tom says. “That’ll be fun to watch.”

I pick up my épée and dagger and shift them in my hands until they are comfortable—I can hardly feel them, which is right. Simon’s épée has a big bell guard, but his dagger has a simple ring. If he is not very good with his parries, I may be able to get a hit on his hand. I wonder if he will call hits or not. He is a referee: surely he will be honest.

He stands relaxed, knees bent, someone who has fenced enough to be comfortable with it. We salute; his blade whines through the air on the downstroke of the salute. I feel my stomach tighten. I do not know what he will do next. Before I can imagine anything, he lunges toward me, something we almost never do in this yard, his arm fully extended and his back leg straight. I twist away, flicking my dagger down and out for the parry and aiming a thrust over his dagger—but he is fast, as fast as Tom, and he has that arm up, ready to parry. He recovers from the lunge so quickly I cannot take advantage of that momentary lack of mobility and gives me a nod as he returns to the neutral guard position. “Good parry,”

he says.

My stomach tightens even more, and I realize it is not fear but excitement. He may be better than Tom.

He will win, but I will learn. He moves sideways, and I follow. He makes several more attacks, all fast, and I manage to parry them all, though I do not attack. I want to see his pattern, and it is very different.

Again, again. Low high high low low high low low low high high : anticipating the next, I launch my own attack as his comes low again, and this time he does not quite parry mine and I get a light glancing touch on his shoulder.

“Good,” he says, stepping back. “Excellent.” I glance at Tom, who nods and grins. Max clenches his hands together over his head; he is grinning, too. I feel a little sick. In the moment of contact, I saw Don’s face and felt the blow I gave and saw him fold over when I hit him. I shake my head.

“Are you all right?” Tom asks. I do not want to say anything. I do not know if I want to go on.

“I could use a break,” Simon says, though we have only fenced a couple of minutes. I feel stupid; I know he is doing it for me, and I should not be upset, but I am upset. Now it comes again and again, the feel in my hand, the smell of Don’s breath whooshing out, the sound and sight andfeel all together. Part of my mind remembers the book, the discussion of memory and stress and trauma, but most of it is simply
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misery, a tight spiral of sadness and fear and anger all tied together.

I struggle, blinking, and a phrase of music ripples through my mind; the spiral opens out again and lifts away. “I… am… all… right…” I say. It is still hard to talk, but already I feel better. I lift my blade; Simon steps back and lifts his.

We salute again. This time his attack is just as fast but different; I cannot read his pattern at all and decide to attack anyway. His blade gets past my parry and hits low on the left abdomen. “Good,” I say.

“You are making me work entirely too hard,” Simon says. I can hear that he is breathing hard; I know I am. “You almost got me four times.”

“I missed that parry,” I say. “It wasn’t strong enough—”

“Let’s see if you make that mistake again,” he says. He salutes, and this time I am the one to attack first.

I do not get a touch, and his attacks seem to be faster than mine; I must parry two or three times before I can see an opening. Before I get a touch, he has made one on my right shoulder.

“Definitely too hard,” he says. “Lou, you are quite a fencer. I thought so at the tournament; first-timers never win and you had some first-timer problems, but it was clear you knew what you were doing. Did you ever consider taking up classical fencing?”

“No,” I say. “I just know Tom and Lucia—”

“You should think about it. Tom and Lucia are better trainers than most backyard fencers—” Simon grins at Tom, who makes a face back at him. “But some classical technique would improve your footwork. What got you that last time wasn’t speed but the extra reach that came from my knowing exactly how to place my foot for the best extension with the least exposure.” Simon takes off his mask, hangs his épée on the outdoor rack, and holds out his hand to me. “Thanks, Lou, for a good round.

When I catch my breath, maybe we can fight again.”

“Thank you,” I say, and shake his hand. Simon’s grasp is firmer than Tom’s. I am out of breath; I hang up my blade and put my mask under an empty chair and sit down. I wonder if Simon really likes me or if he will be like Don and hate me later. I wonder if Tom has told him I am autistic.

I’M SORRY
, ”
LUCIA SAYS; SHE HAS COME OUTSIDE WITH HER GEAR
and sits beside me on my right. “I should not have blown up like that.”

“I am not upset,” I say. I am not, now that I know she knows what was wrong and is not doing it.

“Good. Look… I know that you like Marjory and she likes you. Don’t let this mess with Don ruin it for you, okay?”

“I do not know if Marjory likes me in a special way,” I say. “Don said she does, but she has not said she does.”

“I know. It’s difficult. Grownups are not as direct as preschoolers and make a lot of trouble for themselves that way.”

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Marjory comes out of the house, zipping up her fencing jacket. She grins at me or at Lucia—I am not sure of the direction of her grin—as the zipper jams. “I have been eating too many doughnuts,” she says.

“Or not walking enough or something.”

“Here—” Lucia holds out her hand, and Marjory comes over so that Lucia can unjam the zipper and help her. I did not know that holding out a hand was a signal for offering help. I thought holding out a hand was a signal for asking help. Maybe it only goes with “here.”

“Do you want to fence, Lou?” Marjory asks me.

“Yes,” I say. I can feel my face getting hot. I put my mask on and pick up my épée . “Do you want to use épée and dagger?”

“Sure,” Marjory says. She puts her mask on and I cannot see her face, only the gleam of her eyes and her teeth when she speaks. I can see the shape of her under the fencing jacket, though. I would like to touch that shape, but that is not appropriate.Only boyfriends with their girlfriends.

Marjory salutes. She has a simpler pattern than Tom’s and I could make a touch, but then it would be over. I parry, thrust short, parry again. When our blades touch, I can feel her hand through the connection; we are touching without touching. She circles, reverses, moves back and forth, and I move with her. It is like some kinds of dance, a pattern of movement, except for not having music. I sort through the music I remember, trying to find the right music for this dance. It gives me a strange feeling to match my pattern to hers, not to defeat her but just to feel that connection, that touch-and-touch of blades to hands and back.

Paganini.
The First Violin Concerto
in D Major, Opus 6, the third movement. It is not exactly right, but it is closer than anything else I can think of.Stately but quick, with the little breaks where Marjory does not keep an exact rhythm changing directions. In my mind, I speed up or slow the music to stay with our movements.

I wonder what Marjory hears. I wonder if she can hear the music I hear. If we were both thinking of the same music, would we hear it the same way? Would we be in phase or out? I hear the sounds as color on dark; she might hear the sounds as dark lines on light, as music is printed.

If we put the two together, would they cancel out sight, dark on light and light on dark?Or…

Marjory’s touch breaks the chain of thought. “Good,” I say, and step back. She nods, and we salute again.

I read something once where thinking was described as light and not thinking as dark. I am thinking about other things while we fence, and Marjory was faster to make a touch than I was. So if she is not thinking about other things, did this not-thinking make her faster, and is that dark faster than the light of my not-thinking?

I do not know what the speed of thought is. I do not know if the speed of thought is the same for everyone. Is it thinking faster or thinking further that makes different thinking different?

The violin rises up in a spiraling pattern and Marjory’s pattern falls apart and I sweep forward in the dance that is now a solo dance and make my touch on her.

“Good,” she says, and steps back. Her body is moving with the deep breaths she’s taking. “You wore
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me out, Lou; that was a long one.”

“How about me?”Simon says. I would like to be with Marjory more, but I liked fencing Simon before and want to do that, too.

This time the music starts when we do, different music. Sarasate’s
Carmen Fantasy
… perfect for the feline prowl that is Simon circling me, looking for an opening, and for my intense concentration. I never thought I could dance before—it was a social thing, and I always got stiff and clumsy. Now—with a blade in hand—it feels right to move to the internal music.

Simon is better than I am, but it does not bother me. I am eager to see what he can do, what I can do.

He gets a touch, another one, but then I get another one on him. “Best of five?” he asks. I nod, breathless. This time neither of us gets a touch right away; this time we fight on and on, until I finally make another touch, more by luck than skill. We are even now. The others are quiet, watching. I can feel their interest, a warm space on my back as I circle. Forward, sideways, around, back. Simon knows and counters every move I make; I am just able to counter his. Finally he does something I do not even see—his blade reappears just where I thought I had parried it away, and he gets the final touch of the match.

I am dripping with sweat even though it is a cool night. I am sure I smell bad, and I am surprised when Marjory comes up to me and touches my arm.

“That was gorgeous, Lou,” she says. I take off my mask. Her eyes are gleaming; the smile on her face goes all the way to her hair.

“I am sweaty,” I say.

“So you should be, after that,” she says. “Wow again. I didn’t know you could fence like that.”

“Neither didI ,” I say.

“Now that we know,” Tom said, “we’ve got to get you to more tournaments. What do you think, Simon?”

“He’s more than ready. The top fencers in the state can take him, but once he gets over tournament nerves, they’ll have to work at it.”

“So, would you like to come with us to another tournament, Lou?” Tom asks.

I feel cold all the way through. I think they mean to do something nice for me, but Don got mad at me because of the tournament. What if someone gets mad at me every tournament and because of me one after another have to have a PDD chip?

“It is all day Saturday,” I say.

“Yes, and sometimes all day Sunday as well,” Lucia says. “Is that a problem?”

“It—I go to church on Sunday,” I say.

Marjory looks at me. “I didn’t know you went to church, Lou,” she says. “Well, you could just go on Saturday… What’s the problem with Saturdays, Lou?”

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I have no answer ready. I do not think they will understand if I tell them about Don. They are all looking at me, and I feel myself folding together inside. I do not want them to be angry.

“The next tournament nearby is after Thanksgiving,” Simon says. “No need to decide tonight.” He is looking at me curiously. “Are you worried about someone not counting hits again, Lou?”

“No…” I feel my throat closing up. I close my eyes to steady myself. “It is Don,” I say. “He was angry at the tournament. I think that is why he… got so upset. I do not want that to happen to anyone else.”

“It is not your fault,” Lucia says. But she sounds angry. This is what happens, I think. People get angry about me even when they are not angry with me. It does not have to be my fault for me to cause it.

“I see your point,” Marjory says. “You don’t want to make trouble, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“And you cannot be sure that no one will be angry with you.”

“Yes.”

“But—Lou—people get mad at other people for no reason, too. Don was angry with Tom. Other people may have been angry with Simon; I know people have been angry with me. That just happens.As long as people aren’t doing anything wrong, they can’t stop and think all the time if it is making someone else angry.”