As he approached the Sports Halle doors, Hoffner heard the familiar clink of foil on foil, along with the occasional cheer and applause for a touch. He checked his watch: he was over forty minutes late. He had gone to Luxemburg’s flat because of its proximity to the school. He now knew that had been a mistake. What Hoffner was still debating was how conscious a mistake it had been.

One or two spectators-seated along the hall’s risers-peered over as the groan from the doors’ hinges announced his arrival. Hoffner ignored the stares and instead scanned the line of boys sitting in full gear off to the side; Sascha was the second one in. It was clear he had already fenced: his hair was matted in sweat, and his cheeks were flushed. He sat staring at the bout in progress. Even so, Hoffner could tell that his son had seen him come in: Sascha’s eyes were too intent on the action as Hoffner continued over to the stands. He found a seat in the front row, sat, and, for a few minutes, allowed himself to slip into the easy rhythm of the match.

It was the footwork he had always enjoyed most. The rest-mano di ferro, braccio di gomma (iron hand, rubber arm)-had never really been his strength. What had set him apart was his uncanny ability to keep just enough space between himself and his opponents: close enough for the quick touch; nimble enough to make that closeness disappear instantly. Over the years, Hoffner had often wondered how much of that talent he had taken with him beyond the fencing strip.

A hit. The boys on the bench stamped their feet; they shouted out for their teammate. Hoffner applauded politely with the rest of the crowd, one of whom was clapping loudly enough to draw his attention. Instinctively, Hoffner glanced over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him blanch: there, staring directly down at him from three rows behind, sat Polpo Kommissar Ernst Tamshik. Neither man showed the least reaction. Tamshik stopped clapping. The two exchanged a cold nod, and Hoffner turned back to the match.

For the next several minutes, Hoffner did his best to follow the movements on the strip, but his mind was racing to images of Luxemburg’s flat, the porter’s wife-he was sure he had been careful there. He pieced through the details of last night’s conversation, anything that might have brought the Polpo to Sascha’s school. A message? Was Weigland’s little chat insufficient? And here: why?

Hoffner forced himself to refocus on the boys, both clearly too green to do much damage. As if divinely inspired, the smaller of the two suddenly tripped on the matting and unwittingly managed something resembling a hit. For a moment the director stood motionless, unsure what to do. Then, with a look of genuine relief, he raised the flag and awarded a point to the boy. It gave him the bout, and gave Sascha’s side the match. There was another chorus of foot-stamping-along with a mighty cheer and the requisite handshakes-before the two teams dispersed to the waiting crowd.

Hoffner decided to follow protocol: without a thought for Tamshik, he headed over to Sascha. The boy was packing up his gear when Hoffner approached. “The squad looks strong,” said Hoffner.

Sascha remained in a crouch; he was busy fitting his foil into its canvas bag. “Not really,” he said. “The other school was weak.”

“Still,” said Hoffner. “A victory’s a victory. Always worse to lose to the weak ones.”

Sascha pulled the bag together and stood. “I suppose.” He looked directly at his father. Up until this moment, Hoffner had never realized how tall Sascha had grown. They were standing nearly eye to eye.

“So,” said Hoffner. “You won your bout?”

“Yes. Fifteen to two.”

“Impressive.”

“I’m second on the team now, Father.”

“Yes. Your mother told me. Excellent.”

This only seemed to make things worse. Sascha said, “It means I fence second, Father.” Sascha knew his father already understood this. At fifteen, however, he was still impatient with the subtlety of his jabs. “That means early, Father,” he said. “Did Mother fail to tell you that?”

Sascha might still have believed that, with enough goading, he could provoke a response. Somewhere along the way, however, Hoffner had seen his son lose sight of that hope and instead settle for cruelty. Given the setting, it seemed only fitting; besides, Hoffner knew he deserved it. “She didn’t mention it, no.”

Sascha looked as if he had something else to say. Instead he brought the bag up to his shoulder and waited; father and son quickly slipped into silence, which Hoffner took as his cue to glance back for Tamshik: he saw him standing with a small boy, smaller even than the recent victor on the strip. Nodding over, Hoffner said, “Do you know that boy?”

Sascha looked over. “Why?” Hoffner repeated the question. “Krieger,” Sascha said grudgingly. “Reinhold Krieger. Hasn’t even made it into a junior match yet. Terrible. Why?”

“Let’s go over.”

Sascha let out a forced breath. “I have to get out of my gear, Father, and I’m meeting-”

“Come on, Alexander,” Hoffner said, and started to walk. “Let’s go say hello.” It might have been the surprise at hearing his full name, but Sascha gave in without another word. When they were within earshot, Hoffner called over, “Herr Tamshik?”

Tamshik looked up. He did what he could with a smile and said, “Herr Hoffner. What a coincidence.”

“Yes.” Neither man believed it. Hoffner motioned to Sascha. “This is my son Alexander. Second year.”

Sascha snapped his head with an efficient bow.

“An excellent fencer,” said Tamshik. “You must have been sorry to miss it.”

Hoffner wondered how long it took a man to develop so acute a sense of viciousness. Tamshik made it seem effortless; perhaps he had simply been born with it. “Yes,” said Hoffner. “I was.”

“You were a fencer, as well? As a boy?” said Tamshik.

Hoffner did his best to hide his surprise; Tamshik had evidently done his homework. “I was.”

“Easy to tell. Something like that gets passed on. The flair.” Tamshik nodded to the other boy. “This is my nephew. Reinhold Krieger. First year. My sister’s son.”

Hoffner could hardly have imagined a less likely duo. Tamshik’s physical power, apparent in his every gesture, seemed capable of crushing the boy simply by its proximity. Reinhold was tiny. He tried his best to mimic Sascha, but on one so small and awkward, the quick drop of the chin gave the impression of a marionette fighting against its twisted strings. Hoffner knew the boy would be hopeless as a fencer. He could only guess at whose insistence he had signed on for his imminent torture.

“Reinhold is small,” said Tamshik, staring down at the boy without the least thought for his feelings. “And quite weak. But he has an agile mind. I think the one can help the other, at least on the fencing strip. Isn’t that right, Reinhold?”

“Yes, Uncle.” To his credit, the boy seemed equally dedicated to the ideal of improvement.

“And a strong will,” said Tamshik. “Which the boy has.” He looked at Hoffner. “Something he shares with your Alexander.”

Hoffner nodded. He was not quite sure how to answer. “Alexander is very dedicated,” he said.

“That much is clear.” He turned to Sascha. “Your footwork is most impressive, young Hoffner.”

“Thank you, mein Herr.”

“Herr Kommissar,” Hoffner corrected.

“Herr Kommissar,” said Sascha.

“Not at all,” said Tamshik. “A pleasure to give such a compliment.”

Reinhold spoke up: “If I could watch or train with someone like you, Hoffner, I’m sure I would become much better.”

Hoffner senior wondered how many versions of the script Tamshik had worked on before coming up with this one. At least Reinhold was remembering his lines. That notwithstanding, the prospect of a direct link between his own son and a Polpo surrogate-no matter how junior-hardly sat well with Hoffner, especially after last night. He was about to make some excuse, when Sascha spoke up.