The Fencer

By Ayala R.

Francis is a world-class fencer but a damaged and complex young man. Handsome, intelligent, cultured and wealthy, he is the younger son of a rich father who, after an unfulfilled fencing career, pushes his children to the limit so that they can one day obtain the title of World Champion. Torn between his love for playing the piano and his duty towards fencing, Francis gets into a fight with his father and seals his own fate. Still barely a child, he leaves home for good, pledging to one day make his father pay. He also leaves behind his older brother, who is to become his deadly rival.

Francis moves to Paris and is taken under the wing of Monsieur R., a renowned fencing coach. He also becomes friends with Paolo, the Italian fencing champion, and they become a formidable girl-hunting team. But it all comes to a head when Francis meets Agnes...

The book tracks Francis' progress, both as he fights to overcome the emotional problems caused by his obsessed father and tries to open his heart to love, and as he advances in the fencing world championship in a bid to reach the final.

The Fencer is an intelligent and character-driven literary novel, with influences from existentialism and romanticism. Informed by the author's own experience as a competitive fencer, it provides a unique insight into the world of professional fencing.

After finishing his studies at Stanford University in the United States, Ayala R. migrated to Europe. He has lived in seven countries and speaks five languages. Ayala R. was living in Vienna at the time this book was published.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803133423

Book preview

Tableau de 64

Every time Francis put on his mask, it stopped being a sport to him and turned into something real: as real as it had been at the time when people used to demand satisfaction after witnessing their honour and pride compromised and thus blood needed to flow in order for the offence to be washed away. And so, every time that Francis found himself on the piste, he was determined that the blood to be shed would be that of the person in front of him and never his own. A combat to the end!

It was down to the sixty-four finest blades in the world, and Francis was present amongst them. It was his birthright to be there. Years of sacrifice and deprival he had endured in order to make it that far, yet to stand on the podium meant nothing to him compared to the contentment that he would experience when his triumph proved wrong the one person who had once disavowed him.

Francis was the stronger of the two, the faster of the two, the one with the better technique; and despite being paired against the finest that a great nation such as Hungary had to offer, the combat was already poised to be one-sided, only a few minutes into the assault. Every attack from his opponent was met by a swift parade, followed by a strong and decisive riposte. And every attack that Francis began always met its target, up to the point that any offensive movement that he made was greeted by a desperate retreat from his adversary, who tried to keep as much distance between them as possible.

Francis always waited with the point of his épée downwards, in the seconde position. He would then bring his point up into sixte with an outside semicircular movement every time that the Hungarian prepared an attack and then back to seconde with another circular movement just as his opponent fell short of an engagement. Francis continued the seconde/sixte movement, always trying that way to find the threatening blade in order to turn the rival’s offensive action into an attack of his own, always measuring the distance between the two.

Your tempo! Pay attention to your tempo!

It was the voice of his Maître d’Armes breaking through the clamour of the crowd: the only man that Francis obeyed without questioning or hesitation, the only person he respected.

But Francis could listen to nothing but his own breathing from behind the mask as he tried to predict his adversary’s next movement with all of his senses.

The Hungarian tried to get closer, but stopped when he saw Francis’ weapon going from one position to the other as he tried to shorten the distance. Francis advanced with the repetitive movement of his blade and then retreated in his solid en garde stance, inviting his opponent to come closer, but then pressed him away.

The Hungarian took then an energetic step forward, and Francis’ point went again into sixte and then not back down to seconde but straight into his rival’s hand, just as he was starting to extend his arm in an attack, catching him unprepared! The green light went off.

Halte!… Touché à gauche… 8 à 3…

À vos places… Messieurs, en garde… Êtes-vous prêts?… Allez!…

II – The Flat in Vienna

Francis had already opened the back door of the taxi when a beautiful woman caught up with him. It was the person who had sat next to him on the plane.

Francis had not exchanged more than a couple of words with her during the one and a half hours’ flight and vaguely retained the fact that she was in town to attend a business meeting of some sort. He was not completely sure because he had not paid much attention to her. Yet Francis had made an impression on her because she came running towards him in somewhat of a hurry, wanting to say goodbye one more time. And so, handing him her visiting card, she bade farewell.

"Vergebungsgasse," said Francis to the driver.

"Forgiveness Street? Ja wohl, mein Herr!"

And make it fast. I’m in a hurry to get there, insisted Francis, as he folded in four the card he had just received and threw it away.

"Ja wohl!"

Francis sat back and occupied himself with his own thoughts. A couple of minutes into the journey, the driver started to ask friendly questions, but when Francis gave sharp, cold answers in reply, he stopped. And so the rest of the trip took place in complete silence, with Francis staring out the window.

For a significant portion of the ride, Francis followed the path of the Donaukanal with his sight, until they were in the city and the dominating green of nature had been brutally substituted for the decaying grey of man.

A couple of turns left and right, and in no time, the driver had found the correct street.

Please wait here, it won’t take long, he instructed the driver.

Francis went inside the building, and once he reached the top floor, headed to the second door to his right. He took a key out of his pocket and turned the knob. It was the first time the door had been opened in years.

It was dark, yet he did not bother to turn on the lights, knowing in advance that they would not work. Francis tried to get to the other side of the room, walking with caution along the edges, taking care not to stumble into something on the floor, guiding himself by the touch of the walls. It wasn’t until the palm of his hand felt a thick and warm fabric that he stopped. Grabbing it with both hands, he forcefully pulled the heavy curtain aside with a loud hissing sound.

With the window uncovered, the day’s last rays of light shyly lit up the room and revealed the particles of dust that had been detached with violence from the still swaying curtain. Thousands of glowing sparks floated around him, randomly making their way to the floor.

In the dim light, Francis could distinguish all the different shapes in the room well enough. Everything was exactly as he had left it, covered in white sheets. All that furniture! It had been Zsazsa who had insisted on it. Francis could have done without it.

Yet in the middle of the room, there was a big empty space, as if some significant possession were missing.

Francis rested his forehead against the wall, drumming his fingers against the window. Memories came back to him with such clarity that he could have sworn they were recollections from the previous day. It was as if she were in that same room with him that very moment. As if he had her trapped against the window, where he would be holding her in his arms, kissing her. As if he were smelling the scent of her hair and feeling the warmth of her body against his own, just as he had so many times before. And so he caressed the window with his eyes shut, as if it were her soft skin that he was caressing.

Francis went to one of the sofas in the room and sat down on it, exhausted not because of that day in particular, but because of his whole life that lay behind it. He did not wish to think about anything except those long-gone intimate moments with Zsazsa, the only source of happiness he ever knew after leaving home and family.

Francis got up in a hurry and went into his former bedroom. Without being able to see clearly, for there was almost no light there, he opened up the wardrobe, and not caring which one, he reached out and grabbed a suit from the selection hanging there, covered in plastic. He changed into it and left.

Adolescence

Francis and his brother had been just children when their father had decided that they were to learn the discipline of fencing. That was also the time when he had a fencing hall built inside his mansion because, for him, no fencing club in the region was good enough for his own flesh and blood.

Yet a fencing club without fencers was meaningless, and so he began to recruit. He began to create the world-class institution that his children required. He had, after all, the necessary resources.

His was a small, private club, yet a very exclusive one. It was one in which he lured fifteen of the best fencers in the world, all coming from different countries and all living under one roof for a period of a year. It was a year in which their only occupation and duty was to train and fence under the right supervision and with extreme discipline. A year in which he would take all those young, talented athletes under his wing, becoming their protector and benefactor. And come the end of the year, he would extend invitations to another fifteen top fencers, along with the usual incentives, which were so difficult to decline.

To have them show him their gratitude, he made them wear the family’s coat of arms on their shoulders when he sent them out on tournaments: two black wolves, attentive, mysterious, fearless, one on top of the other in a field in argent and a border in gules, with eight golden crosses around it. Because they were not fencing for their respective countries anymore but for him. That was the unspoken agreement.

To fight with that emblazonry on their shoulder became a distinction that inspired both fear and respect in their adversaries, and a myth that fed more fire into the legend growing around his club.

It was not long before he began to receive unsolicited applications from the best fencers or from national federations all over the world, which wanted to send their top fencers there to train. But even then the rules did not change: fifteen fencers, by invitation only. His was not a club for making talents but a club made of talents. Racing, Levallois, Mangiarotti, Giardino, Tauberbischofsheim, Heidenheim, Honvéd, ZSKA Moskau, Dynamo Kiew. What it took elite clubs in Europe generations to accomplish, he built within a few years.

Of course, when dealing with such talent one also needed the best of trainers, and so he recruited three of the most experienced and successful Maître d’Armes there were, former world champions all of them. Unnecessary to mention that none of them were to interfere with the training of his children, who represented all his hopes and ambitions. That was his responsibility alone.

In Francis’ eyes, his father had wanted to create beauty the same way a poet does in writing an ode. He was persuaded that his father had wanted to express his innermost creativity the same way a novelist does by filling page after page, chapter after chapter from what had been only blank sheets of paper. He was convinced that his father had wanted to experience the same feeling of satisfaction as the poet and novelist alike, when they see their finished work in front of them, their masterpiece. Francis believed in the nobility of his father’s intent. Only years later would he understand that his father’s creativity was fuelled by a dark muse, his deepest frustrations… his true source of inspiration.

Francis was standing outside the fencing hall before a pair of medieval armour suits: steel giants guarding the entrance menacingly with shield and halberd in hand, proud and strong. Fearless sentinels, mighty gatekeepers, noble protectors bearing the family’s heraldry like the fencers within.

He went inside and stopped a moment to look at the glass enclosures mounted high on the walls. Behind them were the antique swords that his father had spent a lifetime collecting. The same lifetime he had spent chasing after dreams that had never come true.

Francis would spend minutes before each training session contemplating the rare pieces that had actually seen blood on their blades. He remained there, fascinated by them, until he heard a voice behind him. Francis turned and saw his father, big, strong and looking equally distinguished and elegant in his training attire as he did in a black suit when hosting a social in his home.

You are late, said his father in a severe tone.

I’m sorry. I was with my music teacher playing the piano and…

I do not want your excuses. Your brother is waiting. Five touches only.

His heart oppressed by his father’s coldness, Francis walked slowly towards the middle of the hall.

"Salut, Germain," said Francis to his brother with a timid smile, as he stepped into the piste.

Germain did not answer. He just looked fixedly at Francis with his dark, menacing eyes. Those eyes, which he got from his father and which contrasted with Francis’ beautiful bright eyes, full of love and compassion, which he got from his mother.

They put on their masks and the combat between brothers began.

Germain, two years older than Francis and already in his middle teens, dominated the match by force for he was bigger and stronger. But Francis had a natural understanding of the sport and, without need of much force, displaced his small and fragile body graciously across the piste, making Germain’s movements seem slow and clumsy.

"Halt! yelled their father. Time is over. One single touch to break the tie… Allez!"

Their father had just given the signal to resume the match when Germain tried to surprise Francis with a direct attack. But Francis was waiting for him. The match was over.

Francis took off his mask and walked towards his brother, hand extended. But Germain, against all etiquette, did not give him the hand and walked away instead.

Germain, it’s only a game, said Francis, as he walked behind his brother, trying to catch up with him.

"It may only be a game to you…"

Tableau de 64 (Cont.)

The Hungarian, still down on the score, with time running out, knew that he needed to press. He knew this was the direct elimination phase and that the only way to advance in the tournament was by winning. Francis knew that as well and so he had adapted his tactic accordingly. He had stopped attacking and was simply waiting for his adversary to come to him. Leading the match by a comfortable margin, Francis had been profiting from his rival’s desperate attacks and mistakes in order to make the final touches that he needed for the assault to be over with and, that way, come one step closer to glory.

The Hungarian continued moving forward, trying to take Francis’ blade with his own as a preparation to his attack. But Francis would respond each time with a dérobement, doing either a contre-parade in sixte or a contre-parade in seconde in order to prevent the prise de fer that his opponent intended; or he would just take a step backwards with an air of overconfidence.

His adversary pressed again while Francis kept his distance. It was then, when the Hungarian least expected it, that