The Toledo Blade (black and white version)

Zorro: I understand you have been

looking for me, Comandante.

Monastario: It seems I have found you!

Zorro (1957 TV series)

Enrique loved Madrid less than Toledo, but more than other cities in the Kingdom. This year, the beginning of September was not much different from August, although the evenings were cooler. But not in a tavern on the outskirts of the city: the stale air filled with wine fumes, the noise of voices, the sounds of alegrías and the click of heels. “Look, what a girl.” Lieutenant Monastario nudged his friend with his elbow. Taking a sip from his mug, the man smacked his lips approvingly. “Pretty girl. Must be new one.” To avoid the obligations brought by the uniform, this evening he and Jorge were dressed in civilian clothes. You want to have a good rest when you are on leave. Across the table was sitting a young man, no older than sixteen judging by the suit,—the son of a wealthy provincial. He was staring at the young dancer, his eyes shining, and clapping to the beat. Enrique was amused by this. He, himself a foster child from a monastery orphanage, had never been like him. After the dance, some majo began to force himself on the dancer, and Monastario was about to intervene, but the young admirer of the señorita beat him to it. He drew the blade from its sheath awkwardly, and his stance left much to be desired. Enrique sighed: such boys are usually taught by their fathers or older brothers, who are not particularly skilled swordsmen. If the young man were a recruit, he might eventually become a fine fencer, but he was probably a guest of the capital or a student, so he would return home, at best having learned to pull the wool over his peers' eyes, and that is all. “Shall we intervene or let this baby bird be taught a lesson?” Jorge said lazily. “We’ll see,” Enrique answered and asked the waitress for more wine. “I bet he will try to jab the boy with a knife...” And so it happened. At the sight of the Navaja knife, Enrique’s heart was filled with a bad feeling; he unexpectedly jumped up, and, having managed to push the young goof away in time, took his place. Fortunately, Monastario knew how to fight with knives, and quite well. It would have been easier to announce who he was, but it was unlikely that the officer would be welcomed in this establishment, so he and the majo began to spin around in a duel. For some reason, Enrique was sure that the young man being saved from death was constantly looking at him, and it was pleasant. It was a sweet feeling, fighting like this. One he had almost forgotten. Monastario did not kill the unlucky suitor, but seriously wounded him. Out of breath, Enrique took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from the knife. The dancer, contrary to expectations, showered the defender of her dubious honor with intricate curses—apparently, she liked the dark-eyed, dapper bandit more than Monastario. Around him, patrons were disappointed that the fight didn’t go to its very end. Especially when a woman’s favor was at stake. It might be time to look for another tavern… “Thank you,” the boy said. In his voice, there was none of the expected fear, only admiration. Wow. That was curious. Did he even understand that Enrique didn’t fight to save the girl? Monastario nodded and rubbed the scar on his right cheek. Jorge patted his friend on the shoulder approvingly, but wisely did not say anything in front of strangers. “I would be honored if, as a token of gratitude, you accept this blade as a gift from me,” the young man continued, stammering. “You deserve it.” Unlike you, Enrique chuckled mentally. And for the first time he looked at the young man carefully. Cute baby bird. Well-bred señoritas like such boys, but it’s too early for him to hang out in the sordid places of the capital. Lieutenant Monastario picked up the weapon. The discreet engraving Luchar a capa y espada was visible on the blade. “Ooh, a Toledo blade! You are lucky to have been born in Toledo, señor. I myself am from this city, so we are fellow Toledanos.” “No, I come from New Spain, but my ancestor was from Toledo, that’s true.” Enrique realized that the young man did not want to give his name, and did not ask. “How are you going to do now, without a weapon?”, he wanted to ask, realizing that if the young man were to get into trouble on his way home, it could this time end in tears. But such a question might hurt the boy’s pride, so he asked instead, “Will you allow my friend and I to accompany you?” “I'd be honored. Moreover, it’s more fun in company!” the young man smiled, flattered. In a few years he would become a man, but now he seemed like a mere child. Of course, on the way they talked about Toledo steel and, suddenly, horses. The young man claimed that he was literally born in the saddle. He was bragging, of course, but he was much better a rider than a fencer. At Puerta del Sol, at the center of the city where the rich lived, they began to say goodbye. It was not the first time that Enrique promised himself that he would achieve a position in society—he did not crave wealth as such, but did not want to be content with just a blade, a horse and a uniform. Money was freedom and Enrique wanted freedom. “Good night, señores!” In the light of the full moon, round like an orange, the eyes and smile of the young man flashed. “What is your name?” Monastario asked before he could stop himself. What difference did it make, in essence—they unlikely to see each other again, and if they did, they wouldn’t need to exchange words. “Diego de... just Diego,” the young Criollo answered quietly and unexpectedly seriously. Enrique also answered seriously, “Now goodbye, Don Diego. I shall be glad to meet you again, no matter unlikely.” Who knew why the young man did not ask Monastario's name. Who knew how his life would turn out. Three years later, Monastario received the rank of Captain and acquired a foppish goatee. His temples turned gray on that January night when he had to decide whether freedom was in money or not. Enrique didn’t regret his choice, because he might get rich in Alta California, although in the colonies Monastario, like many other supporters of the 1820 military revolt, was not sent away by chance. If you didn't wish to see your career—perhaps even your life—you better served the Crown faithfully. That was how you should understand this appointment as the Comandante of the Pueblo de los Ángeles. Well, Enrique was not averse to showing his official zeal. Moreover, the majority of Californians sincerely toasted to the health of the King, despite the fact that the war for the independence of New Spain had been going on right next to them for ten years. Of course, there were exceptions like Señor Torres, but Monastario did not believe that he supported the rebels for ideological reasons. Torres was simply more far-sighted than others and understood who to bet on. Therefore, Enrique was not tormented by his conscience when he—not without reasons—accused Don Ignacio Torres of treason. Enrique was completely indifferent under what flag he would own the land, as long as he had the land. Unlike Spain, he did not care about the fate of America. He immediately realized that this was a foreign land for him. But who knew, maybe he would have to live his whole life overseas... The only thing for which Monastario was grateful to the locals was that in the colonies no one discussed his appearance. There was this one time, where someone called his eyes “blue, like the sky above flower gardens,” but this turned out to be rather funny. And nice. Enrique was more used to everyone’s hostility. Yet fortunately for him, some dark-eyed Californian women had a soft spot for light-eyed caballeros. Some time later, meeting Don Diego de la Vega in the Pueblo de los Ángeles, the Comandante had shuddered: could “just Diego” have become this young señor? Yet, he didn't want to believe that fate could have played such a cruel joke. The son of Don Alejandro de la Vega, a rich, narrow-minded ranchero! And how could the Comandante's blade’s former owner not recognize his weapon? Sure, Monastario had replaced the scabbard, and the engraving wasn’t visible from a distance, but still, no matter how much Enrique waved the sword in front of the very nose of the young de la Vega, he showed no interest in the blades. Steel ones, at least... No, definitely, the Diego from his past could not be Diego de la Vega, their external resemblance was nothing more than a coincidence. It was just as well, because Enrique disliked the young señor at first sight. He had a fox-like expression on his pretty face. Ooh! Could de la Vega really be the Fox? It was a guess worth checking… Once El Zorro managed to break his blade—of course, not the Toledo sword, no one could break Toledo steel—his confrontation with the outlaw reached the point of no return. Even if the Fox was de la Vega, a wealthy heir, and even if his execution would destroy Enrique’s military career, Monastario was unable to stop. Sometimes, the Comandante wondered what he would do if it did turn out that it was Diego de la Vega that he had met in Madrid. He thought and drove away such thoughts. Fate couldn’t be avoided, whatever it could be.