I stood and started stretching to relieve my aching body. Fortunately, I had some life-giving ibuprofen in my backpack. I took three with the tea I’d warmed up on the cookstove. The heat flowed down my throat. and I started to feel a little like myself again. Wow. Five straight hours of bizarre, sadistic exercises and wrestling one-on-one with a famous athlete. Maybe I wasn’t doing so bad after all. And what time is it anyway, seven or eight at night?
A quick look at my watch made me do the traditional cartoon double-take. Five AM? How was that possible? I’d been sleeping since one o’clock in the afternoon!
Sartre paused in her eating to give me a disapproving “wheek.” She sure told me.
I reached into my duffel to grab a fistful of protein bars. I was just reaching for my third when I felt something in there that I did not pack. That’s weird. It felt like…like an envelope.
I pulled it out and dropped onto my cot with a sigh. There was no mistaking the Bombay family seal. This was a job. But how in the hell did it find me all the way out here? I looked around for hidden cameras. I wouldn’t be surprised to find photos of me in my flattering uniform in the family newsletter. Assassins are mean pranksters.
After throwing on a sweatshirt and jogging pants, I carefully opened the door and slipped outside. Sansar-Huu’s truck was rusting in the same spot he’d parked it two days ago. There were no vehicle tracks in the long, steppe grass. No hoof prints. Nothing. I circled the camp, then made my way back inside.
How did a Bombay manage to get this to me out here? And why now? I’d done two jobs in the last nine months. That was more than enough for a year. In fact, we usually had only one job a year. That’s why I’d planned this trip. I figured my particular services weren’t required.
The envelope was plain, the standard eight-and-a-half-by-eleven inches. The only thing that identified it as a Bombay job was the blood red wax seal stamped with the family crest. I set the envelope on my lap. Then I picked it back up. The curiosity was too great. And since I had no early morning cartoons or Pee Wee Herman cable reruns out here, I had to get my entertainment somewhere.
The only sounds coming from the camp were those of nature. No human was awake yet. I still had time. Very slowly, I broke the seal and slid open the envelope. The face of a European stared up at me. This was no Mongolian. How far would I have to go to get this done?
After reading the file, I put everything back in the envelope and shoved it to the bottom of my duffel to burn later. It was pretty cut and dried. My Vic was a Dutch mercenary named Arje Dekker. Usually, I didn’t mind mercenaries. In fact, sometimes they maintained the balance of civility in foreign countries rife with infighting and a week military. This bastard, however, was different.
Selling out to the highest bidder, Dekker had no problem who was paying him to do what. Interpol was investigating several accusations of extreme torture perpetrated by Dekker, mostly on women and children in a troubled African nation. This was one of the times I was grateful the Bombay Council didn’t give me too much information.
Apparently Dekker was hiding out in none other than Mongolia. There were reports he was going to be at the national Naadam in July in the capital. I was to use any means necessary to make him “disappear.” And suddenly, I had no problem with mixing business with pleasure.
“You are supposed to throw him to the ground.” Chudruk managed somehow amidst hysterical laughter. “He is an old man and you are young.” He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.
I stood up and dusted off my shorts and T-shirt. It had taken twenty minutes, but I convinced Yalta to let me train in my own clothes. The zodag and shuudag were just too much, and I suspect I was wearing them to merely entertain my hosts. I kept the gutals on. Since this game was played on foot, I knew I had to break them in.
Yalta grinned and slapped his thighs, indicating he was ready. I slapped mine in reply and we got to it. This time, I managed to keep him in a lock until he kicked my legs out from under me. In my mind, that was a victory.
We went through the same scenario no less than twelve more times, dammit. Still, I didn’t complain and kept working. By late afternoon, I was covered in sweat, dust and bruises while Yalta’s deel sported nary a wrinkle. But that was good, right? I wanted a coach. A real zazul to help me. Not so I would win. There was no way I could go up against men who had been doing this since they were toddlers. I just wanted to experience it. And not embarrassing myself in the process was also good.
Why did I want to put myself through this? Well, why not? To me it was more of a question of what I didn’t want out of life than what I did. I could have had a normal life as a college professor in some little town in New England. I’d spend my days lecturing countless kids on why the words of a guy who died three hundred years ago were important and relevant. Then I’d head home to grade papers, eat supper and watch TV or read until I fell asleep. If I were lucky, I might have a wife and kids to break the tedium. Eventually the college would force me to retire and just maybe I would travel a little or maybe I’d read books on my front porch until I died.
The truth was, after spending all those years studying philosophy, I realized that nothing written by Hobbes, Aquinas or Kant told me anything about life. Granted, I understood the idea that philosophy was the study of why we are here…the meaning of life and such. And yet, it somehow wasn’t. To me, these old, dead guys felt that the only way to live your life was to sit and think of what it all means. Then they died not even knowing if they were right. What the hell?
And then there was the part of me that was Bombay. I was born into a career I did not ask for. I was a hired killer. Try wrestling with the ideas of Mahatma Gandhi while learning how to field strip a Remington sniper rifle. It just doesn’t work. Well, there is that time I was stringing garrotes while listening to Niccolo Machiavelli's classic on tape, but that’s an isolated incident.
Somewhere along the line, I became fascinated with the idea that while mankind aspired to apply thought and reason to life, they actually used violence to live it. Isn’t that interesting? Not terribly deep, but it struck me as interesting. So, I took some serious martial-arts training on campus. This was about the time I was in love with a young woman named Frannie Smith, so I had other interests, like sex.
When Frannie dumped me right after graduation, I knew I would have to be a nomad. I rejected the very idea of having a normal life. That’s how I ended up a carnie. And that’s when I started these little sabbaticals. Neat, huh? I’ll bet you were expecting something else. Trust me, aside from being a knitting assassin/carnie with a black belt in aikido and proud guinea pig parent (I have the bumper sticker on my trailer), I’m not that complicated.
“You really gave us a show today.” Sansar-Huu and Chudruk sat down next to me on a rock beside the stream. They hit it off immediately, so now I had two of them giving me a hard time.
“I aim to entertain.” I pulled off my boots and stepped barefoot into the icy water. It felt wonderful. I felt alive. Battered but alive.
“Oh, you are, my friend,” Sansar-Huu answered. “My wife wants to know if you will actually eat dinner tonight or are you planning to insult us by going straight to bed again?”
I wiggled my toes in the cold water, enjoying the shock. “I am sorry I offended you, my most gracious host.” I wasn’t being facetious. I really was sensitive to the fact that my non-appearance at dinner as a guest was noticed. You can’t go to a country like this, where hospitality is an important part of life, and act like an arrogant American.
“I will be there and bring my appetite.”
“Good,” Chudruk said. “And be thirsty. I’m bringing airag.”
“I can handle it.” At least I hoped I could. Airag, or koumiss as it is sometimes called, is a potent alcoholic drink made of fermented mare’s milk. I know, it doesn’t sound tough, but the first time I drank it I lost my voice – and the lining of my esophagus – for a day and a half. And these men were serious drinkers. I would ha
ve to walk a fine line of drinking enough to make my hosts happy and not too much that I’d be in a coma in the morning.
“Just be ready,” Chudruk said. “Yalta is going to start with the mekhs.”
There was a word I didn’t know. “Mekhs?” I asked.
“It means…” He scratched his chin thoughtfully for a moment. There was no dictionary or internet out here on the steppes. I hoped he could figure it out. The light came into his eyes and he smiled. “Techniques. My father is going to show you how to wrestle the way his father and grandfather taught him.”
Stepping out of the stream onto the grass felt good. I toyed with washing up but decided against it. The sun was low in the sky and I wanted to make sure I changed before dinner in Sansar-Huu’s ger.
The two men rose and started to walk away as I put my boots back on.
“By the way,” I shouted. My stomach rumbled and I realized I was very, very hungry. No power bars tonight. Tonight, I was going fully native. “What are we eating?”
Sansar-Huu waved and shouted back, “Testicle soup!” As he turned away, I had the distinct feeling that he was smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Tick: Gravity is a harsh mistress.
- The Tick
The next few days went as you can imagine. I survived the testicle soup and found it really was not that bad…if you imagined it more like Campbell’s chicken and dumplings, and had a lobotomy to rid your brain of the meaning of the word “testicle.” The mind works in mysterious ways.
As my training continued, I found, like I always did, that my stamina increased. So did my stubbornness. And slowly. Very, very slowly, I started to understand what I needed to do. In my opinion, fighting is eighty percent mental. Every time I was thrown, I learned something. Granted, I wasn’t as good as even the most amateur wrestler, but I was beginning to understand the physics of this form of wrestling. (Psst…it’s all leverage.)
I asked Chudruk to forget the archery and horseback portion competitions (partly this was because I was afraid Sartre would see the horse as a compatriot in her mocking of me). It would take everything I had to get through the wrestling. And I had my first Naadam in a couple of days. Trying to concentrate on two sports didn’t make much sense. All of my faculties would be needed to stay upright and avoid as much humiliation as I could. I knew I would lose my first few competitions. But the longer I stayed on my feet, the more I would learn.
The Naadam was a local competition, lasting only one day. These were held throughout the country with the crowning event being the National Naadam, which was three days, in mid-July. I wanted to prove myself. So I started training harder. Before Yalta made it to the stream where we worked, I was already there and had completed sixty, then seventy pushups. I could lift larger stones over my head. I even managed to catch my zazul off-guard, tripping him to where he landed on one knee. It counted. Anytime you catch your opponent off-balance so that a hand, knee or back hits the ground – it counts. I didn’t even gloat when I helped him up.
Of course this also meant that I’d had a couple more evenings of airag and various, questionable boiled sheep parts. But I didn’t mind that anymore. Sansar-Huu and Chudruk’s families were becoming my families. And I didn’t have to kill anyone to be part of it. That was very refreshing.
Everyone but a couple of teenagers traveled with me to the Naadam. The smaller children promised to feed Sartre. They were fascinated with her. She was less so with them, but throw in some fresh grass and she was in hog heaven.
Yalta had two grandsons in the competition besides me. Apparently, they did not need him as much as I did, because it seemed to me I used up most of his time. Chudruk gave me a gift – a beautiful chocolate-colored deel made by his mother for my first competition. I was grateful and told her I would try even harder not to fall in her honor. She thought this was very funny.
Sansar-Huu surprised me with my own peaked hat. It was black and square with a sort of steeple at the top. I thanked him, feeling a little overwhelmed by the generosity of these two families.
As we all piled into Sansar-Huu’s truck, I wondered if I would see my Vic, Dekker, at this Naadam. I didn’t expect to. My intel only said he would appear at the national event. And it didn’t say what he would be doing there. Would he just be a spectator or a participant? If he was anything like me, I’d have guessed he was planning on wrestling too. He was a man of action. It would be unlike him to just sit and watch. On the other hand, he could just be curious or passing through. There really was no way of knowing why he was there so I gave up trying.
The truck bumped along, jostling the riders in the back. I had tried to give up my passenger seat to Odgerel’s mother, but they insisted I sit up front. I was their guest, they explained. If I had pressed the matter, they would’ve been insulted, so I did as I was told. If I didn’t, I suspected we would have testicle soup every day for the rest of my visit.
My friend and guide pointed out the various wildlife along the way. There was so much life here. So much stark beauty. I felt at peace in this place. As I looked out the window, I tried to picture Genghis Khan and his men, riding on their horses beside me as they made their way toward China or Russia, Persia or Europe seeking conquest.
Genghis Khan was the reason for the Naadams. He believed that wrestling, archery and horseback riding were the three manly games that tested his men’s mettle for the battlefield. He was a sacred son here. And his nomadic ways were still revered by the very people in this truck.
We arrived at the site of the games two hours later. Men walked around in their wrestling uniform or carried large bows. There were horses everywhere. A couple of gers formed a circle in the grass, where, I was told, the wrestling games would take place. Yalta went to arrange for my competition as I removed my deel and donned my zodag and hat. As I warmed up, my thoughts went to my training. I imagined every possible action and reaction. My brain prepared to think without me. It had to be instinctive. My concentration was focused on the possibilities.
“You will wrestle seventh,” Chudruk said to me quietly.
“Do you know who?” I asked, my eyes darting around, measuring up the other athletes. There was quite a range from short, skinny guys to men who qualified for sumo wrestling. Yalta had explained that the match-ups weren’t based on fairness but randomness. So, a neophyte like me could end up fighting a seasoned champion in my first match.
“Not yet. Does it matter?” My friend answered.
It did to me. I was kind of hoping to wrestle a four-year-old who’d had some cold medicine recently, but figured that was too much to ask. As to their laissez-faire attitude on match ups? That made sense. On the battlefield, you didn’t have the opportunity to pick your opponent or the luck of having to fight someone weaker or the same size as you. Why should that tradition end now just for my comfort?
The very first match was actually between Yalta’s grandson, Zerleg and a favorite who had won many competitions and even qualified at the rank of arslan or lion. Zerleg was a tall, thin youth about seventeen years old. His name meant “savage,” and he was anything but. From what he had told me one night, he wanted to be a poet. Wrestling was something he was doing for his grandfather’s approval. Chudruk thought he had talent.
I watched as both young men did the devekh, or eagle dance. They each stood at opposite ends of the circle, walking around their coaches, flapping their arms like an eagle. It was a very graceful dance. An interesting introduction to a fighting competition.
Both men slapped their thighs, indicating their willingness to begin. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. This was the first time I was seeing this tradition in person. The athletes walked slowly around each other, crouched and ready for grappling. In a split second, Zerleg’s opponent reached forward and the two men were locked, hands on each other’s shoulders, straining against the other’s strength.
I’m always surprised when people watch matches like this, or Brazilian jiu-jitsu, and think nothing is goi
ng on. Action has come to a standstill and the men seemed to be holding still. Nothing could be further from the truth. Very small, very important movements are being made, like a chess game of the flesh. You may not be able to make it out, but the grapplers are inching their way, inflicting their will on millimeters of movement. And each flicker, each strain is a physical action that must be countered or one man will be thrown.
The men stand still for so long, sometimes I start to wonder if they’ve frozen this way.
“Sometimes, the bukhs will stay this way for hours,” Sansar-Huu whispered in my ear. “Sometimes a match can last all day. It usually isn’t allowed at the national level, but sometimes here…” He shrugged.
I watched, transfixed, as Yalta called out to his grandson. It was obvious he was encouraging him, but I wasn’t sure how. Would I understand what he was saying to me when it was my turn? I hadn’t thought of that. I was quite familiar with the language, but if it wasn’t for Chudruk, translating for his father, I would still be doing pushups in the stream.
The old men sitting on a blanket up front never blinked as far as I could see. These were the judges and whatever they said would be final. Their eyes squinted against the summer sun, missing nothing. I suspected they would do better than the controversial computer at the Olympic games.
On the grass, Zerleg and his opponent continued to strain. Sweat drizzled down the side of my face. It was about sixty-five degrees here, and yet I was perspiring in nothing more than briefs and an open-chested blouse. Hmmm…maybe I should wear this when I work back home. Hello, ladies!
Zerleg made an aggressive move. He slipped his right shoulder down to his opponent’s hip and made a play to sweep him off his feet. I could feel my shoulders turning rock hard with tension. For a second, Zerleg seemed to have the advantage, as both of the other man’s feet swung up off the ground. But with an amazing recovery, he managed to land flat-footed. Zerleg was so startled, he missed the fact that he was being shoved backward by the other guy’s hands. He was on the ground, stunned as the call was made that he had lost and would not be competing any further.
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