EPTThe old man Papi Santelli sat brooding by the study window in the dark, his gaze directed at the distant horizon. The day had ended and the last vestiges of sunlight ebbed through the glass panes. Eclipsed by the long, tall and ugly figure, it rendered his jet-black silhouette a blood orange glow.
If Papi knew of Neli’s presence, he said nothing of it. But Papi knew. He had to have known, after that harsh licking mother had given her. Nevertheless, Papi’s study echoed nothing but placid silence. Time trickled by. Neli’s skin crawled. Papi was most wrathful when he was calm, and mother did mention something about a ‘good and proper beating’.
The man in the dark got up slowly, deliberately. He turned the armchair and dragged it across the room, towards her. The ancient floorboards moaned and groaned in protest. Once he was satisfied its position, he sat down.
“My girl, why do you fight in school?” he said.
“They said you were a loser Papi. It was dishonourable!” she replied.
“Take off your glasses girl. Kneel before your father.”
Knots gripped her stomach, and it churned, but the girl did she was told. She placed her glasses neatly by her side, and knelt before her father. She clamped her jaw, closed her eyes, and braced her self. Now daddy’s going to lick me too, and that’s going to hurt.
Papi positioned his right arm just above his left ear, tensed, poised to strike, and sent his daughter sprawling across the room. Pain builds character, Papi often said.
The pain was sharp and blinding. Bright stars peppered her vision. Her face burned, her body shivered, but she would not cry. She got to her feet and faced her father, trying her hardest to appear unscathed.
The old man Papi nodded at his daughter. Pleased, he retreated into his armchair, his left forefinger and thumb twiddling his pencil moustache, regarding his child with curiosity.
“Tell me again. What did they say?” he said.
“They said you were an old dog. Washed up and delusional. You cannot let go of glory days no one else remembers. Now and forever, you will always be remembered as a number two.”
Papi lifted his gaze from his daughter, buried in his thoughts. Finally, he croaked, “That might be true.”
Neli kept her silence, at a loss for words. A misstep on her part could further set her father off, and she was not looking forward to a third licking.
“Used to be that I was the swiftest blade alive. Men from all four regions would challenge me. None could best me, “ with a pause, he continued, “Now I struggle out of bed every morning. Once supple limbs now creak at every turn. It is a young man’s game and I am old. Next year I retire my blade. You have to be realistic about these things!”
Neli scowled at her father. For Maestro Santelli, nothing was more important in all of the four regions than fencing. She opened her mouth, ready to chide him, when he held his hand up. She held her tongue. The old man contorted his face into the most odious, devilish grin, and said, “Do not lose faith in me. This old dog might have one more surprise left in store. My next performance will be my best performance. This year, I will reclaim the Olympler.”
Fencing was etched deep into the annals of Etalian history. In Etali, fencers were respected by men, admired by children and coveted by women. It triumphed over all sports, the perfect combination of masculinity, art, and glamour. Being a mere fencing dilettante would gain a person considerable favor in the eyes of the public.
Tournaments were held regularly for aspiring fencers to test their mettle amongst one another, but one reigned over the others. Once a year, the people from all four regions would travel to the Nadi Sports Theatre in Etali to watch the best fencers in the world battle it out in The Olympler, the epitome of peak performance in fencing. To be crowned an Olympler was to join the ranks of the greatest maestros of all time.
School ended and Neli scurried over to the Nadi Sports Theatre as quickly as her little feet could carry her. It was the day of the Olympler and it had long since begun.
The sports theatre was a gargantuan antique white dome. Right in its center, it housed an elevated platform with a single fencing strip, surrounded by rows upon rows of stadium seats. It was there that Papi Santelli would battle the best fencers the world had to offer in three point bouts. Dusk had begun to fall, and it dawned upon Neli that it was entirely possible that her father had already been felled. She hastened on.
Neli caught sight of a meaty, pot bellied man sporting a tight, tweed jacket and a magnificent grey beard standing just outside of the theatre. He was squinting, searching for someone. “Coach Kovacs!” she called out to him.
Coach Kovacs waved her over and put a hand on her shoulder. He brimmed from ear to ear. Papi did good. “Come girl, I’ll take you to your father now,” he ushered her into the theatre.
They entered an area cordoned off for athletes. There, an eclectic mix of fencers from all corners of the word gathered together. Some chattered. Others rested. A lanky, sinewy man with dark skin was alone in a corner, hands on his face, crying. Neli launched an inquiry into her father’s performance and Coach Kovacs obliged. Papi was not in his best form today; he appeared sloppy, slow and clumsy initially. However, it was far from his worst form. After a first round scare, nearly losing to some no name from Aphrika, the old timer dug deep into himself, calling upon every dirty trick in his toolbox, every ounce of veteran savvy, and he clawed his way through the tournament. Bout by bout, point by point, he reached the finals.
“Who challenges my father,” Neli asked.
“Karl Schmidt, who else,” Kovacs replied.
Neli’s heart sank. She feared for her father. Karl Schmidt, also known, as the Schlange or snake in common tongue, was the reigning Olympler champion. Sweeping the fencing world in a tour de force upon his appearance ten years ago, the maestro from Chermani was a perennial fencing champion. Fencing critics agreed in unison that he is the best of all time. Only another had a career that was just as distinguished. His tenacity, aggression and athleticism on the piste were unmatched. A proclivity for risk taking, coupled with technical wizardry during battles earned him the endearment of fans across the country.
Neli knew him as the phantom that haunted Papi’s dreams. The adversary. Papi dreaded the man. A decade ago in the Nadi Sports Theatre, the relatively unknown man from Chermani defeated her father in a colossal upset. The match propelled Karl Schmidt into fencing stardom, but at the same time, it typified the beginning of the end for Papi Santelli’s long and illustrious fencing career.
Coach Kovacs led Neli into the sports theatre’s main hall. The lights were dimmed. A single spotlight illuminated the platform, and the piste. Not a single seat in sight was empty, but the theatre thronged with stillness. History was in the making, and an Olympler would soon by crowned.
By edge of the platform, Neli spotted her father, seated down, enjoying a loaf of Pita bread. “Papi!” she yelled in glee as she buried herself in her father’s arms.
Their moment passed, and Neli peered up to meet her father’s eyes. Sweat sprung from his forehead. His breath labored. She felt his hands shaking. The creases on his face seemed to grow deeper; his dark grey hair seemed to grow lighter. The old man had played the young man’s game and paid the price.
“No matter, you did good. I am proud. You did real good,” Neli said to her father.
“Aye. But it is not over yet, and I am all in,” her father shivered.
“Don’t be a fool. You have to be realistic about these kinds of things, remember?”
Before the old man could utter a word, a series of painful, hacking coughs took over his whole being. He gained a whole of himself and uttered a soft, guttural sound. He was giggling under his breath, and soon, he was cackling. “No one believes in me. My wife says I chase birds. Even my own daughter.”
Speechless, Neli gaped at her father. “Santelli! Schmidt! Piste, now!” the match president called.
Papi pulled Neli close and whispered in her ear, “I have one last trick up my sleeve. I know what kills a snake.”
With an audible grunt, the old man helped himself out of his seat, donned his fencing equipment, and proceeded to the piste. The finals were about to begin.
Kovacs tapped the girl on her shoulder, “Come girl, we sit by your father’s side.”
A hulking, monolith of a man popped out from the opposite side of the platform. A scraggly mane of dirty blonde hair obscured much of his long, sharp, comely features. You could not see it, but Neli knew the beneath the hair, lay a pair of pale blue eyes. The snake from Chermani. Eater of dreams.
The fencers partook in a cursory handshake and saluted each other. Arbitrary gestures of respect part and parcel of the code duello. The match president proceed to do a weapons check, and all was in order. The fencers moved to their starting positions.
“Does Papi stand a chance?” Neli asked.
“Nope,” Kovacs replied.
The brusque response stunned Neli. She thought about her father. About how she loved him and yearned for him to succeed. About how she could not bear to see his spirit crushed again. He had fallen apart before, and each time he did so, it became more difficult for Neli to pick up the pieces.
“However,” Kovacs interrupted her train of thought, “I want to believe that he can. Your father has grit. Perhaps he has one more shot at this.”
“Engarde!” the match president boomed.
“Pret?” are you ready.
“Allez!” go.
The fencers advanced. Neli noticed some oddities in her father’s form. His guard was lowered, tip pointed at the piste, and he gripped his Epee, his dueling sword, near the end of the handle, instead of the usual place behind the guard.
Papi glided back and forth on the piste. Two steps forward, one step back. One step forward, two steps back. An unusual, but not unheard of maneuver called bouncing, where a fencer ‘bounced’ back and forward in an attempt to disguise attacking distance. The match started slow. The occasional ring of blade contact could be heard, but neither fencer committed to an assault. Sick of playing this waiting game, living up to his name, the Schlange began his attack. A slew of lightning thrusts were unleashed on Papi. Neli’s heart sank as Papi made no attempt to parry the attacks, or raise his blade for that matter. Has he lost his strength?
Instead, the old timer leaped back, split seconds before the attacks could make a connection. And he leaped back again, and again. However, it was not long before he ran out of piste, his back foot well behind the end of the piste. Sensing blood, the Schlange lunged. Papi extended his hand. The Schlange planted the tip of his Epee firmly into Papi’s chest. A single light blinked on the electrical scoring box and Karl Schmidt tore off his fencing mask in celebration.
“Point Santeli!”
The Schlange spun around to face the match president, his outburst of felicity replaced with a slack jaw. Someone from the back row coughed loudly.
“How?” Neli asked Coach Kovacs.
“Reach,” he gestured to his right wrist.
The match president called the fencers to their starting positions once more, and the match continued. The Schlange was un-phased by the previous turn of events. Fool’s luck, nothing more. He pressed on with a series of wild, brutish attacks, accelerating his pace with each thrust of the blade. Papi was old, and he could not keep up with the melee. He shot his hand out in an attempt to protect his ground, but the Chermian was ready. He swung his weapon down in a savage arc and the weapons crashed. Papi’s blade was ensnared in a textbook bind. Having gained the upper hand, the Schlange leaned forward, twisted his hips, and launched himself into the air point-first. A masterfully executed fleche, the deadliest attack in a fencer’s arsenal.
Neli gripped the edges of her seat and her hands turned cold. Her heart was racing. Her breath was shallow.
The old man refused to be beaten. He pulled his sword free and dropped into a deep squat. The Schlange soared mid-air, point connecting with a great deal of nothingness, into Papi’s weapon.
“Point Santelli!”
Applause filled the theatre. Neli drew in a deep breath and released a sigh of relief. Match point. Is he really about to do it? It niggled her however, the way her father fenced. It eschewed fencing dogma, the way he held his blade, the way he made no effort to clear his opponents blade. She nudged Coach Kovacs and asked, “What is this trick, I do not understand.”
Kovacs chuckled to himself and replied, “He drops his guard to appear vulnerable. Harmless. He bounces back and forth, taunting Karl Schmidt, angering him. The attack comes, but your father skirts away at the last moment, always a few inches out of reach. The Schlange underestimates Papi and grows reckless. He does not realize that your father disguises his attacking distance and reach,” he paused to make a jabbing motion in the air, “With every attack, he gives way a little information. Papi bides his time, waiting, and when the opportunity presents, he strikes, always in the middle of Schmidt’s attack. The Mongoose uses a similar tactic to battle the king of reptiles. A strategy based purely on counter attacks, a treacherous ploy.”
A slither of guilt crept up on Neli for doubting her father. For telling him to be realistic. A bald, stocky man clad in a black polyester tracksuit barked Chermanian at Karl Schmidt. While she did not understand Chermian, she guessed that Schmidt’s coach was expressing his displeasure, for his words were laced with fury and vitriol.
“Engarde? Pret? Allez!”
The battle raged on. The Schlange approached with caution. Papi bounced back and forth, daring him to attack. The Schlange obliged. He performed a series of blinding beats to Papi’s blade. The sound of metal clashing reverberated throughout the sports theatre. Papi leaned forward and extended his arm, poising himself for a stop hit, but was mistaken. The attacks were feints. The Schlange swatted his blade away like straw on wind and pulled his blade back. The force of the sudden change of direction created a whiplash effect, causing blade to bend at an acute angle. The tip came crashing down onto Papi’s wrist.
“Point Schmidt!”
The sports theatre raged with thunderous cheers of approval. Karl Schmidt had performed a ‘flick’, a gaudy technique typically reserved for showmanship. A crowd pleaser nonetheless. Once more, knots seized Neli, and her stomach churned.
“Allez!”
The Schlange pushed forward and the old man bounced. Papi feinted down low and went high, launching to an attack of his own. Blades whirled and flashed as the fencers engaged in a heated exchange of parries and counter parries. Drawing upon decades of acquired experience, Papi marshaled every inch of his being into a final, devastating attack.
The once indomitable Karl Schmidt was ostensibly outclassed. Papi harried the Schmidt with a flurry of blinding, complex jabs, grounding and pounding on his foundering defense, a flash of brilliance reminiscent of his youth. It was not long before Schmidt forced into the edge of the piste. His competition life on the line, he shifted his weight onto his back foot in a last ditch attempt at a lunge, a fatal error. With a deafening, visceral roar, Papi fleched his opponent and sent him tumbling off the elevated platform.
The following morning, Neli Santelli entered her father’s study room. She wanted to bid him farewell before she left for school. The old man sat by the window, newspaper in hand. A large picture of him covered most of the front page and his name was featured in the headlines. She moved to his side and took his hand. “You finally did it Papi, you proved to them that you were number one,” she said.
He smiled at Neli, and said, “It only matters to me that I am number one in your eyes now.”
Neli frowned at her father.
“You’ve always been number one in my heart,” and with that she left the room.
The old man gazed beyond the window, troubled.
