CHAPTER

6

OMAR’S EYES were framed by a piece of hair falling across his forehead. He had an expression Gabe had seen on his daughter’s face—an expectant look. But what for? Gabe wished he were wise. He wished he knew how to use words and could offer more of himself. Instead, he pointed to the hilly fields to their left. “Come this way. I got an idea where we can practice.”

Omar’s laugh was bright. “Ya bay yay! Here we go.”

He still felt fragile and light-headed after a week in Jordan. But his nephew had had that hopeful look when he appeared this morning, so Gabe had slipped a note under Amani’s bedroom door and dragged himself out. He and Omar climbed over a short rock wall onto the sandy dirt. A sign advertised this spot as the future home of a Bank of Jordan: a few stacks of concrete cinder blocks and some rebar. They passed the construction materials and walked up a scrubby hill. At the top, he dropped his gym bag and pulled out the case holding the foils. “I think this is it. Where we used to go. Me and the guys, when we were learning. See—the fencing pavilion is still over there? It’s good to practice outside—in the open air. You’ll see.”

Omar shook out his arms, stretching a little, as Gabe handed him a foil. “Cool. Outdoor training. Good idea—your match is going to be outside.”

Gabe said, “So, let’s do basics.”

A morning breeze rippled through their thin jackets; overhead, the sky was mottled with pewter-colored clouds. The air had a metallic taste that made Gabe think of snow. Omar lifted his foil. “Amo—your word, my command.”

Gabe touched the length of his own foil to his open palm. He rolled back his shoulders. Perhaps he hadn’t fallen apart completely just yet. He gave thanks again that he didn’t sit behind a desk for a living. Lifting his foil, he called: “En garde!” then moved into the crouched stance, weight slightly forward on his right foot, his foil tipped forward.

Omar imitated him, crouching and lifting. The clouds expanded overhead, glistening and back-lit. In the distance, a goatherd flanked by a bawling flock came nearer to watch. The man wrapped his red-checked keffiyeh more closely around his face, only his eyes and nose showing, and squatted to his ankles. Shaggy, droop-eared goats milled around him, shaking off flies.

“The way it works,” Gabe said, frowning, thinking through the old moves. “One attacks, the other retreats. Lunge—like this.” He kicked his leg stiffly before him, landing heel first, rolling forward. “You go. But don’t stab me.”

Omar tried the unnatural kick, coming up a bit high, landing swiftly, his thrust coordinated with his legwork.

Gabe felt some vigor in his step; his back did seem looser. The match was on the nineteenth, scarcely more than two weeks away; between the visits and family gatherings, there was little time for training. Still, he saw his younger self in Omar—his sincerity, standing the way Gabe had stood in his uniform, solemn and impor­tant, saluting the king. Their commander had brought in a teacher from Florence who spoke no Arabic. Gabe and three other privates learned by shadowing his every move. He was an elegant, stern teacher, and within a matter of weeks the four young men could follow him like dancing partners; after a month, they were duelists and Gabe spoke some Italian. Now Omar rocked backward on one foot, uncertain, but Gabe urged him forward, as Sr. Cavalli had once done with him. “Attento alla scelta del tempo”—you must pick your time, he used to say. Gabe smiled, remembering. He called to his nephew, “Try again—strike, with the tip. Come, come. It’s all right. See, I’ll try to avoid you.” He scooped his stomach, back arching, his legs instinctively sinking back, making himself airy, light. “Become invisible,” was something Gabe learned in Italian. Diventare invisibile!

Watching Omar, Gabe wondered if he would’ve been a better father to a son than a daughter. So often, he’d felt he was failing Amani: it seemed she needed more—or something other—than he’d known how to provide. Gabe and Omar lunged and parried over the hilltop, the goatherd watching in the distance. Omar’s face glowed as he lunged and retraced, eyes wide with concentration. Gabe bounded back and swept the foil up, while Omar charged with a yell, then stopped, hovered. Gabe took a step, another step, a skip backward, a skip forward. They held their foils half-extended, half-withdrawn, their chests rising and falling.

He and Omar dodged each other, occasionally losing their footing on the sandy dirt. Gabe stopped adjusting his nephew’s form and let him go. Sr. Cavalli used to say: Form first, then improvisation. Omar stumbled and recovered, grinning, swinging wide. Gabe lunged and his foil struck the center of the boy’s chest. He jerked back, apologizing, but the boy cried, “Yella, Amo. Imshee!” They jabbed and feinted to the cheers of the goatherd. Gabe made hit after hit and swayed out of his nephew’s reach.

The two fenced until they peeled off their jackets and sweaters, and stood, arms limp, wrists burning, their bodies drenched and weaving. Finally, Omar dropped his foil. “I’m dead. All done, Amo. Dead and buried.”

Gabe wiped off his head with the crook of his elbow, deeply relieved. “Enough?” He picked up the foil and returned the equipment to the case. The goatherd approached them and shook their hands one at a time in both of his, though it hurt Gabe to uncurl his fingers to do so. The man’s palm felt thickened; his face was burned to mahogany. He thanked God for giving him this show, he prayed for their continued good health, and he told Omar that someday, God willing, he would be as great a warrior as his father.

Omar shook out his hands. “Yeah, inshallah,” he said, “but I doubt it.”

Gabe lifted one finger to the sky, now bright and cold and swept clean. He dashed it right, left, right. Remembering with the motion what it had meant to him to lift a foil. He believed that was why the King had also loved to fence. If one absolutely must fight, then let it be in defense, and let it happen with nobility, the dignity of shared danger.

Was there any way to explain this to his daughter?

The goatherd laughed with recognition and made the Z in the air as well. “The mark of Zorro!” he cried. “Today I met Zorro. Truly, God is great.” He embraced Gabe, kissing his cheek.