“He’s a good kid,” Chudruk replied. He seemed to be talking to himself more than me. “I want to see him go to school in the States. He’s smart. He should go to school.”
“Well, you know how I feel about education.” If I gave too much of an opinion, I might insult the family’s stance.
“He said you encouraged him. I’m happy about that.”
“What does Yalta want?” I was going for noncommittal here.
“He thinks he should go. He thinks Sasug, the girlfriend, has the face of a camel.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “I guess some problems are universal.”
“Well, it will work out. My brother and his wife will come around.” He stood up and smiled. “You should get some rest. I’ll come back for you about an hour before your match.”
Chudruk left and I lay there in the muffled quiet. Then I reached for my cell phone and made a call.
“I heard you did well!” I slapped Zerleg on the back a few hours later as I stood in the arena with him and his brother. My head still hurt, but I had been energized at hearing how the boy won two matches that afternoon. Zolbin and I would fight later.
“Thanks, Cy!” Zerleg’s face was glowing with glee. I couldn’t help noticing he kept looking over at a small group of girls in the crowd. One of the girls was dressed in Western clothing, wearing a miniskirt, a black T-shirt and large sunglasses. She was a lovely Mongolian girl, probably from the city.
“Who is that?” I asked him.
“Oh!” His face turned red. “That is Opia! She is a university student here.”
“I see.”
Veronica was in the stands with the others. Only athletes and their zazuls were allowed on the field. Zolbin was jumping up and down. He was up next. I spotted Chudruk waving from the bleachers. Ronnie ignored me. I was grateful for that.
Yalta nodded at Zolbin and the two of them walked toward the field. Zerleg dragged his attention away from the giggling Opia. We watched anxiously as Zolbin did his eagle dance around his grandfather, then slapped his thighs and approached his opponent.
To my shock, it was Arje Dekker he was to fight. Looking quickly into the stands, for reasons I had yet to comprehend, I saw Veronica give the son of a bitch a little wave. Dekker nodded at her and my gut twisted.
Zolbin attacked aggressively, his usual modus operandi. Dekker did the same, refusing to take a defensive stance. This could go bad for the kid. Dekker had a lot of experience in offensive measures.
While the boy was younger and stronger, Dekker had presence of mind. Again and again I watched as Zolbin attacked, looking for cracks in Dekker’s facade. Arje countered every movement. He struggled to hold on, but maintained his stance. Zolbin was trying to wear him down. The two locked arms several times, holding still for agonizing minutes on end. My head pounded. I desperately wanted to see Dekker beaten. Zolbin pulled back, then charged again, nearly knocking his opponent off of his feet. The crowd was silent. No one seemed to know where this was going.
The boy reached for Dekker’s thigh, lifting his leg from the ground, and threw him. I watched with great satisfaction as the Dutchman fell to the dirt with a thud.
“You did it!” Zerleg bounced into his brother’s arms and the two embraced.
I didn’t take my eyes off the field. Dekker rose slowly to his feet and dusted off his knees. He slowly looked up into the stands and smiled and nodded. I traced his gaze to Veronica, who smiled back, concern playing across her face. Concern that had recently been on that face for me.
I watched as he made a signal, pointing off the field. Then, to my anger, she nodded, stood up and walked away. Perfect.
It was especially galling because Arje Dekker was the primary suspect in my attack. The last person I wanted Ronnie going off with was someone who had sneaked up behind me and hit me over the head, leaving me to bleed out, unconscious, in the dark.
Then again, Dekker had no reason to attack me. He barely knew me. He certainly had no idea I was going to kill him. The Bombays were pretty good about things like that. Maybe he wanted Ronnie for himself? It seemed hardly likely he’d resort to a cavemanlike approach to knock me out of the competition.
And what about the weapon? Men like Arje didn’t travel unarmed. If he wanted me gone, he would’ve stabbed me. It would be more effective and easier to make it look like some drunk tried to roll me for a few tögrög or even American dollars. Why use a tree limb? No, that didn’t seem very likely.
So maybe it was just a chance mugging. A Westerner would be a prime target in any country. Even though I’d been at a few local naadams, there were many people here who didn’t know I had Mongolian connections and would see me as an easy mark. It was late and dark when I had slipped from my tent. There were more than five hundred contestants and thousands of visitors here. Too many suspects to make it easy for someone to pursue.
“It is time, Cy.” Chudruk clapped me on my back, snapping me back to the present. I glanced at the stands. Veronica wasn’t there. She would not see me wrestle. Fine. It was going to be over after this anyway. So why did I feel so bad?
Making my way to the field, I tried to focus on the match. My opponent faced me and we slapped our thighs to begin. My mind fought to keep focused on what would happen.
He was a very large man, and in his eyes I could see he was ready. I had been careful to wipe away the dried blood from my wound. It would have stood out too much against my blond hair. My sore shoulder was red, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. If he grabbed too hard, I would wince and it would all be over.
Unfortunately, the first thing he did was grab both shoulders. Pain shot through the injured one into my arm. I stood as still as I could in an attempt to show no pain. My arms were beneath him, so I brought them together, up and through his hold to break it. Sweat poured down my face as I struggled with the agony of using that shoulder. As the hold broke, I reached for his knee and pulled it up as hard as I could. He fell. It was a miracle. I stared in disbelief as he sat on the ground. Instinctively I reached down to help him up. My opponent took my hand and yanked in an attempt to right himself. Unfortunately I had offered him the wrong hand and my shoulder screamed. He patted me on the back and I walked toward Yalta, my features placid, not betraying the twisting pain beneath.
“I cannot fight again today,” I said to Chudruk in short, gasping breaths.
“Is it your head?” he asked, his face dark with concern.
“No.” I laughed bitterly. “No, it’s the damned shoulder.”
“But you must fight again, Cy!” Zolbin cried out. “You have to win again to qualify for tomorrow!”
I understood that. But I also understood that I still had to kill Dekker. But now my shoulder was dislocated, and it would only get worse if I continued to wrestle. The naadam, for me, was over.
Chapter Twenty-one
Verbal: A man can convince anyone he’s somebody else, but never himself.
—THE USUAL SUSPECTS
I watched from the edge of the arena as Zolbin won his second match. The thrill was bittersweet. I knew I shouldn’t be pissed. I had done what I’d come here to do and succeeded. But it was over. It had to be.
Dr. Baatar managed to pop my joint back into place, and I managed not to scream during the process. It was a minor victory, if a hollow one. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. How many men got to do something like this? And I’d managed to win with multiple injuries. In the past, I would’ve considered this a perfect experience.
So why didn’t I consider it that now? The boys were advancing and I was happy for them. Zerleg was up in the stands, flirting with Opia. I could only guess that they were talking about poetry by the way she looked at him. Good for him. Zolbin was off with his friends. Yalta made him swear off the beer, but I knew his buddies would be celebrating for him tonight.
Back at the ger, the three of us sat on our cots dissecting the boys’ matches as I helped them plot their moves for the next day. I promised to cheer for them, an
d Yalta convinced me to be on the field to help him coach. That made me feel good. It also made me realize that I was no longer twenty-one. Hell, I’d be forty soon.
Yalta had accepted the passage of time and moved gracefully from athlete into his role as coach. When would I do the same thing? Was Veronica right? How long was I going to travel around the world, fighting men younger and better trained than me?
Whoa. This idea shook me to my core. I was aging. Me. In fact, I was considered old in most of the countries I trained in. And while my experience had helped me win today, my body had given out on me. Granted, the concussion was not an age thing, but the shoulder was. I listened to the boys as they fell asleep, oblivious to all but victory and glory. They weren’t even twenty, but here in Mongolia they were men. Back in the United States they would still be mostly pampered by their parents.
I remembered that age. I was invincible. Bulletproof. And while forty wasn’t old back home, men my age usually settled for softball and golf, not fullcontact sports. Here, people were more philosophical about aging. They embraced it as the next stage in life…one to be respected and revered.
When would I have respect for my own age? Was that what Veronica was trying to tell me? Hell, she was in her late twenties. Why would she worry about my age?
I hadn’t seen her since she left the stands after Zerleg defeated Dekker. That worried me, but I didn’t check up on her, because I assumed Odgerel was in contact. I wanted Ronnie to come to me. I wanted her to say she trusted my judgment and that this was my life to do as I wished. But she hadn’t. There wasn’t so much as one word from her.
Oh, well. I had pretty much decided it was over anyway, right? There was no way I could reconcile our divergent lives. No, it was better this way. After tomorrow, she’d hop back on a plane to her little ivory tower, thinking of this as just an adventure before settling down in a classroom somewhere.
It saddened me to think this was the only living she would actually do, but it was her decision to make. Just as I owned my life, she owned hers. It was no longer fair for me to judge her or tell her what to do. There. That was mature. Yay, me.
Exhaustion pressed on my chest like a weight. I’d been awake since before dawn. I had wrestled and been broken in both body and soul. The pain I felt emotionally had outstripped the physical pain. Sleep wasn’t going to be defeated, and I gave in willingly.
I woke up early the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, but excited by the boys’ spirits. Today was the last day of the naadam, and it was possible they could win, returning to their families in victory and impressing a girl or two.
I gave them the last of my protein bars and, after several cups of tea, I started warming them up with exercises. I put on a pair of khaki pants, my gutals, a T-shirt and my deel, and coached them until Yalta arrived. I saw Ronnie leave with the others to head to the stands. She did not look at me.
We arrived in the stadium, and the boys translated for Yalta and me as we watched the other matches, sizing up the competition. I felt honored that Yalta considered me his assistant. I tried to be helpful and respectful. Zolbin was up soon, and we were watching his opponent warm up.
“Look.” I pointed at him for Yalta and spoke in Mongolian. “He favors his left leg. I wonder if he injured his right one yesterday?” Sure enough, as he turned, we saw a large bruise darkening his right calf. Yalta told Zolbin to use his foot to hook him on his sore leg and bring him down. When it was Zolbin’s turn, the match lasted all of one minute.
I felt better standing in the sun and being useful. The day’s competitors were seasoned, and these bouts took longer. Zerleg barely managed to squeak through his first event, but he won and that was what was important. The boys were scheduled for their second competitions at the same time before noon. Yalta and I split up, and Zerleg and I walked to the opposite end of the field for his match.
“Nervous?” I asked as I stripped off his deel.
He was looking anxiously at the stands. “Yes.”
I admired the honesty of these people.
“Don’t win for Opia,” I said. “Win for you.” When I noticed he was still staring at the bleachers, I added, “Or don’t win, and you can spend the rest of the day charming her with poetry.”
Zerleg laughed at this as the judges indicated they were ready. I stood still as the kid did his eagle dance around me, and it hit me what an honor this was. He considered me his zazul and was showing me his respect. I felt a sense of pride others might feel when their son hit a home run or daughter aced that spelling bee. Wow. I didn’t see that coming.
The opponents squared off, and I had to stow my feeling of euphoria. It was time to help him from the sidelines. And strangely enough, I really enjoyed it.
“Watch his left arm!” I called. Zerleg didn’t have to acknowledge this. I knew he understood. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. Zerleg shifted to the right as his opponent tried to sweep his legs using his left arm. The dodge worked. The young men locked their shoulders and began to strain. They appeared evenly matched for strength. Zerleg would have to win on his brains this time.
Chudruk appeared at my side and the two of us continued to shout encouragement. We watched as the two wrestlers moved back and forth, appearing to rock each other. Neither side gave one inch. This was going to be a long match. As Chudruk made suggestions, I realized that all I’d had was one minor glimpse into the world of this sport. There was so much more I would need to devote my life living here to learn. I froze on the spot.
Zerleg went for his opponent’s knee. This was the big moment. His competitor somehow managed to step back, saving himself. Zerleg had overestimated his strength and stumbled forward, his right hand catching the ground. It was over.
“You did great, kid.” I patted him on the back.
Chudruk smiled at his nephew. “You made us proud!”
Zerleg grinned. It wasn’t all about winning here. He had done well. And his prize was a pretty, educated girl beaming at him from the stands. I noticed that as he walked over to her, he didn’t even bother to cover up with his deel. Tonight he would be celebrating a victory of sorts.
We walked back to the others to find that Zolbin had lost his match too. But Yalta was grinning ear-to-ear. For us, this competition was over. And everyone was happy.
I checked in with the others before heading back to my ger. I still had one thing left to do. Dekker would be getting ready to leave. And it was my job to make sure he didn’t.
I still didn’t have a plan for the hit. Before I formulated one, I’d need to know where Dekker was staying. I really didn’t want Veronica to have the answer, but she was the best lead I had at the moment.
“Have you seen Ronnie?” I asked one of Sansar-Huu’s children. They were playing in the grass with Sartre.
The girl nodded, then in Mongolian told me that she had gone east, toward the steppes. I winked and left them to their play.
The campground faded into a large, grassy meadow on the edge of the city. For a moment I wondered if I had misunderstood the kid. I couldn’t see anyone. I decided to keep walking for a while before turning back. The grasses were tall, and if Ronnie was sitting on the ground, I’d have a hard time seeing her.
It was the giggling that kept me from turning around and going back. She was here, all right.
“I can’t believe you did that! Did you really blow up a plane by accident?” I heard her say.
My blood turned to stone. There was only one person she could be with.
I saw her hair rising above the sea of grass. Then I saw him. Veronica was sitting on a blanket, holding a pen and notebook, while Arje was stretched out on his side next to her. My hands formed fists. I was going to kill him right in front of her.
“Cy!” Veronica jumped a little. That was somewhat satisfying. “What are you doing here?”
Dekker didn’t bother getting up. “Bombay,” he said gruffly.
“I was told to find you for our interview,” I said grimly.
I sat down and joined them. “Sounds like you’ve started without me.”
“How did Zerleg and Zolbin do?” Ronnie asked, her voice quavering a little. Did she feel guilty? I wondered how she was going to feel when she watched me rip Dekker’s throat out in front of her.
“They both lost.” I wasn’t interested in making her feel better about playing hooky.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said quietly, avoiding my eyes.
“I was just telling Ronnie about my work.” Dekker’s voice had a strange edge. He was challenging me. But for what? Ronnie? Or just that need men had to best an opponent who had taken them down?
I took a deep breath. If I was going to kill him, it had to look like it wasn’t premeditated. I replaced my naked fury with a relaxed smile.
“I bet you have some good stories,” I said.
Dekker did not relax. You couldn’t cut the tension with a Ginsu knife. Ronnie’s skin flushed red. It was clear she had never been in a situation like this before.
“Really, guys, this is no big deal. Maybe we can meet up for dinner or something?” She tried to smile but was too nervous. For a moment I allowed myself the luxury of wondering what she was thinking about.
“I don’t think Bombay is interested in talking.” Dekker’s voice was rough…ugly with intent. He rose to his feet, fists clenched.
I remained seated but slowly took off my deel. It was a gift, after all, and I didn’t want it ruined by what was about to happen. I’d been fighting men all of my life. I could spot a gauntlet being thrown down a mile off.
“And why is that?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“I think you know why.” He spit the words. There was no mistaking his intent. But where did this come from? Was he fighting because he wanted Ronnie? Or did he know why I was here?
Fighting men have a sixth sense. It is something that has kept them alive on many occasions. The failure to develop this ability means certain death. The sixth sense is one of self-preservation under dangerous circumstances you set in motion yourself. If I survived this, I made a mental note to tell Ronnie so she could use it in her thesis.
I Shot You Babe Page 12