Combat class was held after lunch in the rehearsal hall. We dragged battered blue mats out of the storage closet, spread them on the floor, and began to stretch halfheartedly, waiting for Camilo. Camilo—a young Chilean guy whose dark beard and gold earring made him look a bit like a pirate—was our fight choreographer, personal trainer, and movement coach. Second- and third-year movement classes were devoted to dance, clowning, animal work, and all the basic gymnastics an actor might need. First semester of fourth year was devoted to hand-to-hand combat, second semester to swordplay.
Camilo arrived at exactly one o’clock and, because it was a Monday, lined us all up to be weighed.
“You’ve put on five pounds since start of term,” he said, when I stepped on the scale. He’d been pleased with my progress over the summer, even if Gwendolyn hadn’t. “Are you sticking to the program I gave you?”
“Yes,” I said, which was mostly true. I was supposed to be running, lifting, eating well, and not drinking much. We unanimously ignored Camilo’s responsible drinking policy.
“Good. Keep at the weights, but don’t kill yourself.” He leaned closer, as if to share a secret. “It’s fine for Richard to look like the Hulk, but frankly you don’t have the metabolism for it. Keep your protein intake up and you’ll be lean and mean.”
“Great.” I stepped off the scale and let Alexander—who was taller than I was but always too skinny because he couldn’t stop smoking or wake up in time for breakfast—take my place. I eyed my reflection in the long mirrors on the wall opposite the windows. I was fit enough, but I wanted a little more weight, a little more muscle. I stretched and glanced at James, who was the smallest of us boys—barely five ten, slim but not skinny. There was something almost catlike about him, a kind of primal agility. (For animal work, Camilo had assigned him the leopard. He spent a month prowling around our room in the dark before he was sufficiently absorbed in the role to pounce on me in my sleep. I spent the next half hour waiting for my heart to stop hammering while I assured him that, yes, my cry of terror had been entirely genuine.)
“No Richard today?” Camilo asked, when Alexander stepped off the scale.
“He’s not feeling well,” Meredith said. “Migraine.”
“Pity,” Camilo said. “Well, we must carry on without him.” He stood looking down at the six of us, sitting like ducklings in a neat little row on the edge of the mat. “What did we finish with last week?”
Filippa: “Slaps.”
Camilo: “Yes. Remind me of the rules.”
Wren: “Make sure you’re not too close. Make eye contact with your partner. Turn your body to hide the nap.”
Camilo: “And?”
James: “Always use a flat, open hand.”
Camilo: “And?”
Meredith: “You have to sell it.”
Camilo: “How?”
Me: “Sound effects are most convincing.”
“Perfect,” Camilo said. “I think we’re ready to try something with a little more force. Why don’t we learn the backhand?” He cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles. “The backhand—you can do this with your fist or a flat hand, depends what you’re going for—is different from a straight slap because you should never cross the body.”
“How do you mean?” Meredith asked.
“James, may I borrow you?” Camilo said.
“Certainly.” James climbed to his feet and let Camilo position him so they were standing face-to-face. Camilo extended his arm so the tip of his middle finger was a hairsbreadth from the end of James’s nose.
“When you slap someone, you have to move your hand across the middle of their body.” He moved his hand across James’s face in slow motion, without touching him. James turned his head in the same direction. “But with a backhand, you don’t want to do that. Instead, my hand is going to go straight up along his side.” Camilo’s right fist moved vertically from his left hip up past the crown of James’s head. “See? One long straight line. You don’t ever want to cross the face doing this because you could just about take somebody’s face off. But that’s all there is to it. Shall we try it full speed? James, I’ll have you do the nap.”
“All right.”
They locked eyes, and James gave Camilo a little nod. Camilo’s arm flashed across the space between them, and there was a solid crack as James smacked his own thigh and lurched away. It happened so fast it was impossible to tell they’d never made contact.
“Excellent,” Camilo said. “Let’s talk about when or why you might want to use this move. Anyone?”
Filippa was the first to answer. (In Camilo’s class, she often was.) “Since you’re not crossing the body, you can stand closer together.” She tilted her head, looking from Camilo to James as if she were rewinding and replaying the blow in her mind. “Which makes it almost intimate, and especially jarring precisely because it’s so intimate.”
Camilo nodded. “It’s remarkable how the theatre—and Shakespeare in particular—can numb us to the spectacle of violence. But it’s not just a stage trick. When Macbeth has his head chopped off, or Lavinia has her tongue cut out, or the conspirators bathe their hands in Caesar’s blood, it should affect you, whether you’re the victim, the aggressor, or only a bystander. Have you ever seen a real fight? It’s ugly. It’s visceral. Most importantly, it’s emotional. Onstage we have to be in control so we don’t hurt other actors, but violence has to come from a place of violent feeling, or the audience won’t believe it.” He glanced from one of us to the next until his eyes landed on me. A grin flickered under his moustache. “Oliver, would you join us?”
“Sure.” I pushed myself to my feet and took Camilo’s place across from James.
“Now,” Camilo said, putting one hand on each of our shoulders, “you two are famously good friends, aren’t you?”
We smirked at each other.
“James, you’re going to try the backhand on Oliver. Don’t say it out loud, but I want you to think of what he would have to do to make you hit him. And don’t move a muscle until you feel that impulse.”
James’s smile faded, and he watched me with a close, confused sort of look, eyebrows pinched tightly over the bridge of his nose.
“Oliver, I want you to do the opposite,” Camilo said. “Imagine you’ve provoked this attack, and when it happens, let the feeling hit you even though the fist doesn’t.”
I blinked, already at a loss.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said, and stepped back. “Take your time.”
We stood there, motionless, staring at each other. James’s eyes were keen bright gray, but standing so close I could see a little ring of gold around each pupil. Something was moving, working, in his mind—accompanied by a tightening at the corners of his jaw, a nervous twitch of his lower lip. James had never really been angry with me, to my knowledge. Transfixed by the strangeness of it, I completely forgot my own part of the exercise and simply watched the pressure build, his shoulders rising, fists clenched tight at his sides. He gave me a small, curt nod. I knew what was coming, but some incongruous reflex made me lean forward, tilt toward him. His hand slashed up toward my head, but I didn’t react, didn’t do the nap or the turn, just flinched as something sharp flicked across my cheek.
It was weirdly still and quiet in the room. James frowned at me, the spell of animosity broken. “Oliver? You didn’t— Oh!” He took my chin in one hand and turned my head, brushed the side of my face. Blood. “God, I’m sorry.”
I grabbed his elbow to steady myself. “No, it’s all right. Is it bad?”
Camilo edged James out of the way. “Let’s see,” he said. “No, just a scratch, caught the corner of his watch. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t know what happened, I just spaced out and leaned into it.” I gave him an awkward shrug, suddenly aware that he and the four classmates I’d forgotten about were all staring at me. “It’s my fault. I wasn’t ready.” James, not forgotten—how could he be?—stood watching me with such profound concern that I almost laughed. “Really,” I said. “I’m fine.”
But when I went back to my seat I nearly staggered, as dizzy as if he really had hit me.
