CHAPTER

22

THEY WALKED, SINGLE-FILE, through the backstage chambers toward the performance area. The French fencing master sat in the corner, a stack of notes under his chair. He insisted to the guy with the clipboard that he was supposed to lecture on the history of fencing in Jordan while Gabe and the King demonstrated moves. The schedule kept changing. Gabe didn’t know if Hafez was responsible, or there had been popular demand, or it came by order of the King himself, but apparently they were actually going to duel. The Italian master, who would also be a judge, was going over the rules—just two bouts, three minutes each or four hits, whichever came first. One minute in between. Or possibly a few minutes. Depending. And the official guy with the clipboard and a beard shadow across his lower face kept patrolling and issuing instructions: The King goes first, then you—make sure to bow—then you, you . . . No. You come first. His Majesty will emerge after . . . Nothing rough, remember . . . we finish in seven minutes. . . . Then will be time for discussion, Q and A, some instructional background . . .

Then the handlers were herding them out, and where was his daughter? And there was so much noise, so loud, Gabe thought there was some sort of waterfall nearby. After a moment he realized it was applause. The audience—so many people!—were on their feet. And Gabe was panting: he couldn’t feel his arms or legs, yet somehow, he moved. His nephew Omar was there saying things that Gabe couldn’t make out, so Gabe just imitated everything he did, touching his toes, jogging in place, rolling his head, his shoulders . . . Glove on, a foil was placed in his hand. His face mask pushed down into place. He gulped air, his ears as full of breath as if he were scuba diving. He wasn’t ready for this. The King emerged in his whites, his mask lowered, arms lifted. The crowd roared. They moved into position. Facing him across the line, behind the mask and uniform, Gabe’s opponent could have been anyone. The audience shouted and ululated.

At a sign from the Italian coach, Gabe tentatively lifted the hilt of the foil to his lips, extended the silver point to the referee, the audience, to the King. His Majesty did the same.

Someone cried, “Fence!”

With that, a rush and scramble of feet, a flash of silver, the tip streaking past. Gabe’s instinct was purely defensive, scrambling backwards, very nearly—but not quite—landing on his backside, saving himself, arms wheeling. He was so startled, he didn’t register his opponent’s hit, a chalk mark on his inner right shoulder, the King silent as he struck. Gabe barely heard the crowd as they shouted. The judges’ hands went up, counting the strike. He was slow and disoriented.

But then his muscles did begin to remember, as Omar had predicted—the shape of the game started to form. It came back to him—all those years ago, how they’d practiced, sometimes three or four hours a day—a patch of dirt behind the barracks, under the sun. They were young men together, buddies. But there was always that sense of being outmatched when he fenced with the King, always a hesitation, the whisper that the King always wins. Gabe was still strong; he’d spent the past decades lifting wood, hammers, and saws, but His Majesty seemed strong and spry and commanding—he remembered his old coach’s words: the King does everything like a taller man. Like a giant. Now they were sixty-year-olds, with cracking joints and not as much give in the knees. The King still smoked. Once again, he heard Sr. Cavelli remind him: “Distanza, velocità e scelta di tempo,” listing the three variables of fencing, always admonishing Gabe: Choose your time!”

They returned to their marks and this time when the King sprang forward, Gabe decided he too could pretend to be young and agile: he hugged in his rib cage, lifted his chin. The King’s tip sailed past Gabe’s stomach by a breath and Gabe parried with a singing swipe, missing as well. He remembered this, the conversation with one’s opponent, how there was small talk with feints and jabs then sudden plunges and heated flurries of back and forth. Gabe risked a full lunge and landed heavily, leaving himself open: the King whacked the outside of his waist. Another three points.

Three minutes were already up: First bout to His Majesty. One bout to go. There was a pause while a boy brought them bottles of water. Gabe drained his, the mask pushed back on his head. Omar gave him a towel and he mopped sweat from his eyes. His body was glowing hot. The King paced around, shaking out his limbs, mask pushed back to the top of his head. “This is amazing, Amo. You are the man,” Omar hissed. “You’re owning it.”

“Really? I look okay?” Gabe was panting.

“So, so much better than I thought,” Omar said. “But he is crafty, dude—he snuck in that first point when you weren’t looking. He’s psyching you out. Just—try not to think about who you’re playing,” he added. “Don’t let him inside your head. You’re the man.”

“The man maybe.” He mopped his face again. “But he is king.”

Across the strip, the King pointed at Gabe, nodding.

“Well, don’t forget who you are either, Amo!”

“Ha-ha. Why? Who am I?” Still panting, Gabe slid his mask back down.

“Come on—you’re Zorro! Remember?” His nephew swiped the big Z, left, right, left! in the air like a child with a plastic sword. Gabe laughed and shook his head. He walked back to his mark. Facing off, he looked for the King’s eyes behind the mask.

“Y’akhi—you all right?” the King asked, but gently. Gabe nodded, lifted his hilt again, then saluted to the blurry distance.

At a signal, the King jumped forward and Gabe’s legs nearly tangled as he cross-stepped back, barely jerking out of the way. He remembered some rule about the rear leg not crossing the fore, but no one called him on it and then the King did it as well. As if in slow motion, he watched the King thrust at him straight-armed, then half-stepped backward with a quarter turn. Gabe deflected the blade with a swat to the right, jumping back slowly, so he felt himself hover then land, all his joints flexing and bringing him into position. He felt forty years lift from his body. The King made a false attack, which Gabe fell for, parrying; he made a solid riposte on a lunge, the King catching the side of his blade with his own, sliding its full length to strike Gabe at his sternum. Gabe laughed, surprised, and jumped in reverse. Crafty indeed.

His Majesty circled on bent legs, turning just his wrist, swirling his foil around Gabe’s—a coupé—a taunt. The foil thrust and swished past the bottom of his mask, under the chin. Gabe gulped air. Take the risk. He deliberately stamped once, loudly; the King started. Gabe opened one arm wide: a single riposte, he just missed the King. But His Majesty was distracted; it was his chance. Gabe hesitated for a bare moment, then lunged with a cry, and struck the King above his solar plexus, near the center of his heart, bending the foil nearly in two. The King yelled, “Touché!” Shouts went up from the audience. A judge raised his hand. They called the second bout for Gabriel Hamdan.

“They’re cheering for you!” Omar cried.

Startled, Gabe lifted his eyes.

He looked out at a sea of faces, streamers, and lights; he heard their cheers. The sense of this great, watching public poured into him. People did love El Zorro—defender of the little guy. His mother took him into town to see the movies on the rare occasion that a new one came; he remembered how she sat with him for showing after showing of The Mark of Zorro. She never said no. How she would have loved this day. One of the referees came out to the playing surface dressed in black pants and shirt, gray hair loose in the wind. Holding up both their hands, he announced to the crowd that the judges had deliberated, assessed their performances, and decided to declare the King was the winner.

Gabe smiled and swayed, trying to absorb the applause; the noise shook the bones in his head. Why was he so happy? A little girl with black hair bouncing down her back came out with armloads of roses and presented bouquets to both Gabe and the King. The King lifted Gabe’s hand and presented him to the crowd. “Imshee! Walk around. Arms up. Let them cheer you.” Gabe felt his mind step outside of itself; his legs carried him from one side of the arena to the other, arms lifted. He felt an airiness in his body. He looked for his daughter. He looked at the stage. The King’s jacket, knickers, and mask were smeared with rose-colored dust: a swatch of red extended from the top of his head to the lower right edge of his neck. A handler was trying to brush him clean with a towel. The King took Gabe’s hands sideways in both of his. “We did it, y’akhi!”

“We did?” Gabe croaked. “Alhamdullilah.”

THE KING WENT backstage for a few minutes before he reemerged in his desert robes. He grabbed Gabe’s shoulder and shook him, just as if they were brothers, then hugged him tightly. There was laughter from the audience. Someone tossed a rose that fell at Gabe’s feet. Gabe bent and tucked it behind his ear. His body was still catching up with the exhilaration. His eyes stung with sweat. He couldn’t stand straight, so he sat. A little boy had carried out folding chairs for him and the King, side by side. He was running on momentum. Tomorrow, Gabe knew, he would be aching and covered in bruises. For a few seconds he had flown.

Other former fencing partners crowded the arena while the Desert Patrol tried to shove the audience back. They had to get rid of the chairs. There were shouts and unruliness. Everyone wanted to stand up with the King, posing for cameras, chests puffed, chins raised. Gabe was tugged at, pulled this way and that: he wanted to tell the crowd that His Majesty had always been the superior fencer; that he was in all ways, the better man. But the mic was gone; some of the men were telling one another drinking stories from their days in the army. Gabe looked over and saw the King’s eyes light with humor; for a moment, just one of the guys.