Redemption

by Dufour, Danny

  Everyone liked her for her happy and smiley attitude. This personality of the determined and dynamic girl, who was admired by so many girls in her entourage, hid the reality of the young girl with so much anger and rage within her. She understood that a smile for a beautiful woman was more powerful than anything but deep down, it was more like if you see the teeth of a lion, do not assume it is smiling at you. Many young men were attracted to her in college, but she found them boring and vapid. Despite her diplomacy and her mask, the real emotions took the upper hand sometimes.

  In her early twenties, several of her friends invited her to pass the afternoon at the beach to tan and boy-watch. She accepted. Over the course of the day, the group met several confident boys on the beach who seemed very interested in the pretty young girls in bikinis. Kamilia was cordial, but utterly uninterested. Of course, they'd noticed Kamilia and they tried to seduce her throughout the day without any success. The alcohol flowed around the young people and Kamilia was still down to enjoy the day and laugh with her friends. Everything was ruined when a boy who had drunk too much got a bit too forward with her. He signed to his friends that he wanted to take a photo with the group of girls. Kamilia came forward with her friends and the young man, accompanied by the other revelers, advanced shirtless with a cap on his head and a beer in his hand. He moved directly beside Kamilia and wrapped himself around her waist to lightly caress her ass. She responded by spinning around and smashing her elbow into his nose. He fell backwards onto the ground. Everyone was frozen in silence, watching the scene unfold, and seeing her red with rage.

  “If you ever touch me like that again, you imbecile, you going to find your teeth in your shit!” she spat.

  “Bitch, what's your problem? You a lesbian or what!?” he retorted, wiping blood from his nose, visibly disconcerted.

  “My problem? It's impertinent idiots like you.”

  “Fuck you. I don't give a half-shit about you anyway,” said the boy whose self-esteem had been murdered in front of his friends.

  “No, fuck you, you little shit. And by the way... you look like you fell off the short bus with your little doo-rag!”

  The other girls began to laugh and whistle, which lifted the tension.

  “Damn right, girl!” shouted one of them.

  A coffee enthusiast, she spent her nights studying, reading and working on her laptop on the terrace of a café by her place. Her interest and her knack for business permitted her to complete her university degree in finance and to open a restaurant-bar in downtown San Diego. She opened her modest business to finally become one of the most happening places in San Diego - she called it The System. You could eat the best food and continue the evening by moving to the nightclub right next door. Kamilia was the only owner. She ruled with an iron hand and an exemplary discipline, which was the reason for her success. She lead a double life: that of the business woman always dressed classily when she ran her business, and that of a martial arts goddess who fought both spiritually and physically against her inner demons. She regularly climbed into the arena for Muay Thai combats. She fought to increase her endurance and to learn to take hits. Her own hits were quick and powerful, her body and legs hard as rock over the years. She trained with the same ferocity in knife fighting, learning how to counter attacks with her knife and how to attack her enemy as efficiently and fatally as possible.

  She passed near Kono's café where she was used to come often in the morning to have breakfast on Crystal Pier. When she was done and energized by her meal, switching in the ocean to surf for hours. She made it to her Jeep where she'd parked it in a street nearby. She threw a few glances to make sure no-one else had followed her. She climbed into the car and set off toward downtown and her condo. She parked in the underground garage and climbed to her eighth-floor apartment. The whole way, she asked herself if anyone had witnessed the altercation. Everyone tomorrow would know that two men had died on Pacific Beach. She dragged her keys on the kitchen table with a rush, took a chair and sat, pushing out a long sigh. When she woke up that morning in her bed, she never expected she would have killed two people before lying down in it again. She didn't think there were any witnesses, but she couldn't prove it to herself. She went to the bathroom to make sure she wasn't accidently hurt in the violence of the fight. Apart from the pain from the first strike to her head, she wasn't hurt.

  She took a shower to unwind. She let it flow for several minutes to feel the water over her skin, like a massage. Back in the kitchen, she realized that she was a killer and had always been one.

  “Oh well... so be it!! ”

  She grabbed one of her many knives and hurled it at a wall target. The knife made two complete spins before landing bang on target. She shut off the lights stretched out in her king-size bed and slept a deep sleep in her white silk sheets.

  CHAPTER 23

  Year 2011, Los Angeles, California.

  “Hajime!” shouted the referee.

  The two modern samurais began to fight, armed with bamboo swords and their blue grilled helmets. The fighters were dressed in dark blue kimonos and long baggy pants, a dress called hakkama. The other kendo practitioners formed a circle around the fight. They were all dressed in the same blue uniforms and hidden behind their helmets, removing all human appearance. It looked like a sect of cursed priests performing a sacred ritual. The way of the sword was a difficult discipline that Shinsaku had mastered and practiced for many years. He was also a master of aikido, another art he taught. Kendo is a sword technique that samurais had used and that had been transformed into a sport, replacing the slicing steel blade with a more benign bamboo sword commonly called the shinai.

  Shinsaku liked fighting with his students to bring to life the experience of sword combat. Kendo developed rapidity of movement, but also rapidity of perceiving hits in space-time. Shinsaku's reflexes in evading hits was extraordinary. He let loose a battle-cry from under his mask to intimidate his partner, who took his sword in two hands. With a swipe, Shinsaku knocked the sword right out of the student's hand. The latter lost it and the sword rolled across the wood floor.

  “Go get it!” he ordered.

  The student nodded and ran to get it. He put himself back on guard to continue the fight. The student rode to attack him, raising his arms to hammer home a blow to the head. Shinsaku's speed was that of a lightning bolt, and he took the opportunity to slash at his side before he could lower his arms. Shinsaku pulled back and jammed the sword to his throat. The impact of the sword to the neck guard made a dull knocking sound. With a real blade, the hit (called tsuki in Japanese) would mean instant death. He saluted the student, bending at the waist.

  “Good, continue in this manner,” said Shinsaku.

  “Thank you, Sensei!”

  The lesson he had imparted was that, in reality, he had to continue to train, that he was not yet ready. The way of the sword was a difficult path and Shinsaku knew it. He signaled to all his pupils to line up. They obeyed, and kneeled in front of Shinsaku, who faced them all. He signaled again and they removed their helmets and Tenugi, the traditional cotton scarf worn to absorb sweat. The wearing of the Tenugi was also a Japanese tradition dating to the time of the samurais. Most of the students sweat copious amounts because of the intensity of the lesson. Shinsaku saluted them all and they returned the gesture. The lesson was done.

  The dojo closed, he turned off the lights and lit a few candles to illuminate the space in a mottled light. He pulled out his real katana from the wooden sheath. He drew his hakkama aside, took the handle in his hand, and slid the blade from its sheath. The katana, slender as ten razor blades by itself, shone in the semi-darkness of the dojo. He practiced his katas, slicing the air, eliciting a swish. With bare feet, he slid over the floor like a phantom. The secret forms practiced by Shinsaku were ancient methods taught long ago to real samurais. Every movement consisted of a mortal hit, attacking the vulnerable points of his adversary. The truly fatal techniques were not taught to the public. Only a small
number of initiates in the world had received the secrets of the ancestral knowledge, and Shinsaku was one of them. He practiced unsheathing and re-sheathing his sword with a speed like lightning in his scabbard. He moved as one with the sword. His Japanese ethnicity, small size, square face and long, smooth black hair gave the impression that he was an authentic samurai, a relic of the past. His serious gaze, warrior traits and black eyes inspired a sort of fear and respect toward him. With a calm and coolness, he never lost control of himself. His grave voice was imbued with serenity.

  His training concluded and not far from his apartment, he decided to remain in his uniform and walk home to enjoy the warm night. His bag in hand, he walked through the dark streets of Koreatown he knew perfectly. The streets were empty and a light desert breeze blew through them. He passed before a little corner store in a typical Southern California L-shaped strip mall, open all night to sell liquor, cigarettes and food. He didn't know why he took a moment to look, but he was interested to see whether there were clients at this hour. It was at this moment that he glimpsed an old Asian clerk, at whom a gun was pointed from across the desk by a pair of what seemed to be gang members. One of these seemed to be yelling at the man, incomprehensible at this distance to make out. The image instantly recalled the murder of his own parents, who had been killed by thieves in exactly the same circumstances so many years ago - a pair of robbers had stormed his parents' store late at night and shot them to death. The contents of the cash had amounted to hundreds of dollars and the killers were never caught.

  Shinsaku began to run toward the rear of the little store. There was a back entrance. He dropped his bag, pulled out two black scarves and began to wrap his head, making a sort of hood that let nothing show but his eyes. He pulled out a knife that he shoved into the door jam and it gave after a moment. He slid his katana out of his belt and opened the door to dive into the store in silence. Inside, he heard the man screaming at the front.

  “Come on, old man! Don't you tell me that's all you got here,” one of them yelled.

  “I beg you! There's nothing else more what I give you! This all I have!” begged the clerk in broken English.

  “You're lying. You don't tell me where you got the rest, Imma kill you, feel me?”

  “No! Please! Fifty dollar, thass all there is, take it!”

  “We ain't amateurs, old man. Kill his ass,” said the other.

  Shinsaku knew they weren't just trying to scare the clerk with empty threats. They were jittery and agitated. By all evidence, they must have been two small-time street criminals looking for money to pay for their next fix. He's got a few seconds left. Shinsaku held his sword at the ready and advanced with a light, quick step toward the cash. He set his sights on the arm brandishing the gun; with a jerk the forearm fell to the ground. Its former owner began to scream at the sight of his new stump that was retching blood. They wheeled around to see what must have been an apparition: a dark, hooded silhouette in a swirling tunic. The hakkama fluttered over the floorboards, hiding Shinsaku's feet - he might have been floating. The silhouette, masked and armed with a sword, arriving out of nowhere such that death herself with her reaper, scared for several seconds those that had been terrorizing the clerk. He planted his sword on the throat of the one-armed thug and killed him instantly. In almost a single movement, he swung back around and dealt with the second thug's head. It flew from his body and bounced against the door, coming to rest on the ground with a dull thumb.

  “Are you hurt?” asked Shinsaku calmly from behind his mask.

  “No! ...No...,” babbled the clerk, who was crouched behind the desk, himself scared by the dark silhouette that had massacred two people right in front of him.

  “Don't be afraid, I'm not here to hurt you. These two are dead, I had no other choice. You're safe,” he said.

  “Hey... hey, who are you?”

  “An ordinary person who was here at the right time. Do you have surveillance cameras?”

  “Yes, behind the counter.”

  Shinsaku slipped behind the counter and pulled out the tape that had recorded the event.

  “I'm taking this, if you don't mind. What will you say if someone asks what happened?”

  “A man came in and defended me. My vision is no good at my age, I can't give no good description.”

  “I thank you,” he said, pulling the man to his feet.

  “No, please. Without you, I would be dead now. God bless you!”

  “Ditto.”

  Shinsaku helped him sit on a chair and pressed the panic button under the counter.

  “The police will be here in a few minutes, sit here for a bit.”

  “Yes, thank you. Thass a nice sword. What kind is it?”

  The old man, who had turned his back for a second, realized suddenly that he was talking to himself. When he turned back to look at the hooded man, the mysterious visitor had disappeared as quickly as he'd arrived. Only the police sirens were heard through the night.

  Meanwhile, Shinsaku arrived at his apartment. He flicked the light switch deliberately and dropped his sack near the door, looking at nothing but the katana in his hands. He went to the sink to watch it and remove all traces of blood that remained on the blade. He demanded of himself whether he'd made the right decision, killing them so quickly. Ultimately, he'd had a few seconds to control the situation in which one of the two had been armed. A hesitation on his part and the guy who was armed could have fired on Shinsaku and the clerk right after. That wasn't even counting the other guy who was probably also armed. No, he had done what needed to be done, and the old man was still alive, that was most important. He took a burning shower that filled the apartment with steam. He pored himself a glass of sake before kneeling naked in his apartment with pieces of moxa herb and acupuncture needles. He planted a needle in each piece and lit them with a lighter. They began to smoke, like incense. He planted the needles on his chest and shoulders, creating a smoking circle around him from which moxa vapors swirled around his head. He concentrated on his breathing and relaxed. He entered a deep and silent meditative state in the depth of the L.A. night.

  CHAPTER 24

  August 2012, Chinatown, Montreal, Canada.

  “Ten dollars to know your future!” said an old Chinese man to the pedestrians that moved through the maze of the Quartier chinois.

  The man was seated on an old wooden chair planted on the sidewalk. He shook sticks in a vase to attract tourist attention, making a noise like a feisty rattlesnake. He had a little shelter in case of weather, under which he'd installed another chair and a table for those who wanted to know their fortune. The man's skin was wrinkled and dry, like a mummy in a sarcophagus. The man was accompanied by a German shepherd sleeping at his feet. The old man wasn't far from homelessness and had put out a basket for alms. Toward him walked a very brisk woman out of nowhere to challenge a parking agent.

  “I'm over a meter from the thing!” said Ming Mei irately to the parking agent, who had issued a ticket for having parked her bike too close to the fire hydrant.

  “Listen, madame, the law clearly indicates that a motor vehicle must be at least five meters from a hydrant.”

  “Five meters! Find me a single person that parked themselves over five meters in this city. It's ridiculous!”

  “That's not the question. I calculated that you're about a meter from the hydrant in question.”

  “Exactly. I'm not in front of it, I'm a meter away, like always!” said Ming Mei, more and more furious with the young parking agent.

  “If you don't agree with the ticket, you have thirty days to pay or contest it!” he said, visibly unmoved by Ming Mei's rhetoric.

  “Great, I'll see you in court. I'm not paying these bullshit hidden taxes,” she said, completely furious.

  “Just doing my job, mademoiselle.”

  “Great! Do you work. I have no problem with that. I have a problem with your utter lack of judgment,” she retorted dryly.

  The agent kept his mouth
shut, got back into his car and went on his way, leaving her on the sidewalk, staring at the offending ticket.

  “Dumbass,” she muttered, looking glumly at her well-parked motorcycle.

  “Would you like to know your future, mademoiselle?” asked a feeble voice behind her. Ming Mei turned around to look and regarded the man and his dog.

  “No thanks. I know my future. Paying false fines!”

  The old man smiled, but didn't speak. She calmed down and looked at the impoverished man a bit more attentively. Suddenly, she wondered how long he'd been here. Days, months, years? She didn't know. Most of the people that walked by him didn't see him, like he was part of the decor. She took pity on him pulled out a green twenty-dollar bill.

  “Here, take it. I don't want to know my future, but here's a twenty so you can eat... you and your friend,” she said, looking at the dog and slipping the bill into his hand.

  “Thank you, madame,” he said as he tightened his hand.

  And when he looked at her with milky white eyes, she realized he was blind.

  “Don't mention it. Good luck, eh?”

  The fortune teller held out a crumpled piece of paper with a smile.

  “What's this?”

  The man didn't answer; he just smiled, and continued to shake his rattler. She unfolded the paper and mouthed the word Shiai meaning tournament in Japanese. It was an advertising leaflet for a future martial arts tournament.

  “It's not really my style, old man, but thanks anyway!” she said calmly, but suddenly overcome with a strange sensation in looking at those white orbs.