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As the call to Terri's 'phone distracts, Martha smiled at Terri to show her shared sense of excitement.
Then sneaks a look to Terri's legs, then a shy smile to Falstaff. She's ready and eager to dive in with a question of two for him if things become awkward with the 'phone call.
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Falstaff only hears Terri Speaking's half of the conversation, but it's enough to deduce that he hasn't brought enough ice cream. He begins to wonder if he's blundered upon a secret society of sword-fighting super models, if he's capable enough to instruct them . . . he has to be! One does not get second opportunities at such bliss.
Adequately stretched--he might be two inches taller--he claps his hands. "Good, sounds like we'll have even numbers."
He thinks he might ask a few questions to warm up their minds while waiting for the fourth musketeer. Falstaff would, of course, be D'Artagnan. He gets into role, suddenly feeling smooth and sophisticated . . . and French.
"What's the objective of a sword fight, mademoiselle?" He asks Martha, now pacing, imagining his pencil-thin mustache and feathered hat.
He turns to Terri Speaking when she's finished her phone call. His breath, he imagines, is laced with the garlic butter of escargo just above his many-ruffled collar. "What's the weapon in a sword fight?"
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Martha smiled eagerly to Terri. Another student! There would be much to learn tonight!
But her thoughts on Terri's call were soon displaced by Falstaff's query. The answer seemed obvious to her, she smiled and merrily chirped;
"Oh!" she cheerily, unironically, raised her hand, as if at school, "Sir, I'd suggest to answer... a beautiful and honorable victory, sir!" she offered with nervous excitement. Hoping against hope that her answer was at least close to being correct.
Martha did enjoy questions and, with her bright eyes following Falstaff, she was clearly eager to hear his wisdom.
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"Wi, Madame." Falstaff nods his approval falling deeper and deeper into role, his French accent thickening. "Victory, zo zese tings may not be--how you say--belle et honourable. Rule 1: If you can avoid ze fighting, do not fight. Rule 2: If you must fight, zen win." They're not his rules of course; they're the ones he'd been taught. Although, he guesses that he agrees, so maybe they are his rules. He's teaching himself! "Zere is no such thing as a fair fight--no two opponents are exactly evenly matched, as strong, or as fast--anyone who insists on rules, likely gains advantage from them. In ze real fight, we must win or be dead--and ze dead do not care about ze belle et honourable." He feels fancy. Parroting his instructor's advice is just like memorizing and reciting lines.
He answers the question he'd asked Terry Speaking too, since he'd gained momentum, but he drops the accent--even he can't understand what he's saying. He decides he can be D'Artagnan after five years in the ESOL program. "The weapon in the swordfight . . ."--He pauses for dramatic effect--"is everything! If you becomes too focused on the sword, you might fall victim to the foot!" He stomps. "Or trip over the thing behind you!" He looks behind Martha's C-Leg. "Someone might throw dirt, knock over a lamp, spit blood, or call your cell phone! Once you see this you can attack with everything, and anticipate attacks by anything." He makes himself paranoid and checks over each shoulder.
Maybe she had thought he meant a competition match. "But, yes, in a regular bout, beauty and honor are very good. The referees get mad if you spit blood or call cell phones in a competition." He realizes he will feel stupid if Martha kicks his butt at swords, and then dismisses the thought: he could never feel stupid.
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When the phone call finished, Terri slid her phone back into her purse, making sure to put it on silent. She didn't want anymore disturbances if she could help it. Standing from her crouch, she glided over to Martha and Falstaff, a friendly smile on her face. "Sorry about that. By chance, a friend of mine saw my ad, a little late as it goes. She's going to be joining us."
Terri gives Martha a grin. No doubt Coco and her sweet friend will get on like a house on fire.
"So, what have I missed?" the redhead asks, looking from Martha to Falstaff, still grinning. It was definitely his attire.
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Martha was paying bewildered attention to Falstaff. For a moment or two she wondered if he was insane.
But he was talking sense.
So, smiling, tiny Martha listened carefully as he chatted about fighting dirty.
In truth, she half-suspected he'd meant a fair tournament duel, not some ugly down and dirty fight to the death.
Nodding, she signals her full attention, trying hard to follow his accent and wondering if he'd rather she spoke French and wore something more... Bourbon.
Something, perhaps, with lace, heavy gloves, frills and Musketeer thigh boots with pantaloons and a lovely blue silk tabbard.
"Oh, I quite agree, Monsuier!" she added, by some instinct speaking first in French and then quickly reverting to English with a French accent echoing his own.
She always seemed to admire a sense of fun and decided to play along.
At this point Terri reported her call and Martha clapped her hands in obvious glee.
"Golly! How exciting! Oh, Monsuier Falstaff was instructing me in the protocol of winning a dirty fight, Miss!" she chirped with bright innocence to Terri's news.
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Falstaff panics when he sees that Martha actually speaks French, panics doubly when she speaks so overtly of dirty fights. He develops sudden Tourette's: "Uh, yes . . . baseball is another subject." He decides to subtly shift their attentions. It's no use . . . baseball would not save him. "Alright, yes, yes . . . but good dirty, like mud pies; not bad dirty, like garbage. I was merely illustrating the, uh . . . merits of resourcefulness and misdirection. The latter is a natural advantage of such beauties as yourselves. You may be trying to kill a man, and he might forget your sword, thinking, 'My, isn't she lovely--painfully so . . . oh wait, that's a rapier in my lung . . . she takes my breath away.' Yes, everything must be leveraged in battle--as Ms. Martha says--for beautiful and honorable victory . . . even dirt."
He adopts a stance of certainty, like General Patton, but with a larger penis. "Shall we wait for your friend--Mocha was it?--or try to skewer one another before then?"
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As Martha watched his transformation from confident jester to spluttering buffoon she had a moment of clarity.
Her mind was distant from his question about duels.
Martha fancied she realized this man was a true Joker.
She'd somehow caught him off-guard and suspected it would be the last time she'd do so.
The more she thought about it, Martha imagined she saw the outlines of Falstaff's philosophy.
Quite why he assumed the social attire of the Zany and took nothing seriously wasn't yet clear. Yet Martha was becoming certain that here was a gentleman his classmates had always relied upon for the quick gag; the strange one-liner to diffuse tension.
That, she assessed, could be a perversely lonely existence.
Suddenly, she found her respect for him growing.
He wasn't insane. Nor, she was certain, was he just a feckless idiot. Being this dedicated to making jokes all the time was simply too much work for the lazy.
Falstaff was a man with an insight she could learn from.
Martha hoped she communicated this sudden insight to Falstaff by a swift and genuine smile and made a private vow that, in their next meeting, she planned to be wearing something more fittingly Bourbon.
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"A rapier in the lung would certainly be bad," Terri chuckled, looking from Falstaff to Martha and then back again, clapping her hands together.
"Sure, we can start! When Coco," she adds, correcting Falstaff, "arrives, she can join in."
A pause as she bit her lip. "I've not got a practice sword though. Sorry."
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"That's fine," Falstaff says to Terri. "I'm a firm advocate of training with the weapon you plan to fight with--you become more familiar with the grip, the length, the weight . . . it's an intimate relationship, weapon and wielder. For now--so that Martha doesn't die, because I like her--let's all practice our maneuvers in front of the "gosh-I'm-hot" stretching mirror, see we can see ourselves and correct our forms--by forms I mean stance and such; neither of your forms need correcting. Next time, we can get something to cover the tip of your sword-spouse."
Falstaff takes up a stance in front of the mirror to demonstrate, winking first and blowing himself a kiss. He thinks his way through correct posture: the placement of his feet, the alignment of his hips, and shoulders, the firm laxity of his sword hand, his other upraised for balance. He's careful not to lead, to announce his actions by pointing his toes or eyes. He performs a few basic foot movements, scuttles forward and then back, thrusts. "Like that. How'd I look to you, besides handsome? Something I did wrong or could do better? Fencing your reflection is as hard as it comes; it matches your movements exactly so that you can never beat it . . . no matter how good you are at ping pong, you'll always lose to a wall." He invites them to try after they offer him feedback.
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