by Roland Perry
A breaking story claimed that the king was ‘fully supportive’ of the junta and what it was doing. This would help legitimise the new regime, which, Cavalier was coming to believe, was backed, for the moment, by the bulk of the population. He’d found that most Thais preferred not to discuss politics and the coup. Instead, they went about their business, seemingly unconcerned. They had experienced this kind of thing intermittently since 1932, which meant that almost all of them had become familiar with unstable governments and military intervention.
*
Cavalier rang Dr Na and invited him to the fight. The doctor, who had tried and failed to obtain tickets, was most grateful. At 2.30 p.m. Cavalier walked down to Asok and made his way across Soi 21, off Sukhumvit, to Soi Cowboy, a popular sex strip for foreigners, which connected to Soi 23, where he was surprised to see twenty or so soldiers sitting at the bars. But they were not carousing with the women. They were on duty, watching every passer-by as if they might be a suspect.
The heat was at its most intense; the air was still. The traffic was heavy but not yet in peak-hour gridlock, although the number of military trucks and cars were helping it along. There were a few bored-looking women touting for customers among those who dared sit among the soldiers. Cavalier knew that they would be more spirited at dusk, when foreigners from every nation would be wandering along Soi Cowboy, if the military’s presence did not put them off. He noticed some early signs of what he referred to as the ‘slow march of the codgers’, with their mandatory raggy and sleeveless vests, unshaven faces, potbellies, concave arses and slightly drunk manner. They strolled along the street, or sat on bar stools having monosyllabic intercourse with women a third of their age.
Cavalier reached the uneven footpath of Soi 23, which was nearly empty. Most people, even locals, were staying out of the boiling, debilitating sun. He had to step over a couple of dogs prostrated near a 7-Eleven shop filled with lingering customers. They were reluctant to leave the air conditioning and face the forty-plus heat, which promised to climb higher before sundown. The only vigorous action was by rats taking advantage of a big mound of rubbish bags that had been there for a couple of days. At night they would run the gauntlet of wild cats, but the extreme heat during daylight hours kept their mortal enemies in the shade, too lazy to chase and attack them. The sun’s intensity also brought out a nauseating stench from the pile as Cavalier passed it and sidestepped several scurrying rodents.
On his left, he could see the towering Grand Millennium. He stopped by it for a moment. There were armed guards at the rear entrance, indicating that Mendez was probably there. Cavalier tipped his fedora over his forehead, adjusted his dark glasses and wandered on, avoiding the few girls from massage parlours who had ventured out, despite the conditions, to offer him their services. He found the Massage, Therapy and Recovery Centre, where Waew Ing worked, above a hairdressing shop. Hesitating outside the salon, he decided to have a cut. Fifteen minutes later, and with short back and sides, he was walking upstairs, feeling more denuded than he had since his air force days.
Waew, thin and bespectacled, looked strikingly like an Asian version of a young Jackie Kennedy, with large eyes set wide apart. She went to work for an hour, rubbed a special balm on the Achilles and then strapped it.
‘You’ll need more intense work,’ she said, ‘if you want to be right for the cricket.’
They made a second appointment for Cavalier, at his hotel at 10.30 p.m., between the end of Jacinta’s fight and start of the curfew.
FIGHT NIGHT
Cavalier, binoculars slung around his neck, took a taxi the five kilometres to the fight stadium. He met Dr Na at the front entrance, where a few thousand people lingered, hoping for a ticket sale. Touts were prevalent. Some fans were prepared to pay up to sixteen-hundred US dollars for a ticket, which, for the average Thai, was a small fortune to spend on any form of entertainment.
It was 7.15 p.m. when Cavalier and Dr Na entered and found their seats, which were at the rear of the special ringside rows. The stadium was packed to the rafters with five thousand screaming fans. The Queen song ‘We Are the Champions’ boomed out from the sound system. The next song played was a drum-heavy Thai rock anthem, which fitted the thumping powerhouse brawl that was the warm-up fight before the main bout. Multicoloured strobe lights flashed over the enclosed amphitheatre as if it were a disco, and two red-carpeted ramps running from the dressing-rooms up to the ring. A video screen showed the warm-up fight. Another spruiked the coming event between ‘the Russian Bear’ and ‘the Flying Angel’.
In the warm-up contest, the nineteen-year-old Thai girl who Jacinta had named the next big thing was thumping a lad of the same age. He was no match for the muscular female known as Haley the Comet, who, while under a hundred and eighty centimetres, had axe-handle shoulders. Haley was a classic example of power trumping technique. No sooner had Cavalier and Dr Na sat down than the wiry, courageous lad’s back hit the canvas from a swinging left hook to the side of his bony head. He did not move. Doctors rushed into the ring and wrenched out his mouth guard. Dr Na stood, concerned, ready to enter the ring to assist. After water was poured on the stricken fighter, he stirred. As he was carried from the ring, Haley did a jig, to clapping and cheering.
‘What’s it all coming to?’ Dr Na said. ‘She is inflating herself with drugs to be like a man, even though she technically is still a woman.’ He shook his head more in sadness than in disgust. ‘I am told her clitoris is three inches long.’
‘Freak show,’ Cavalier said softly.
‘Bionic freak show,’ Dr Na corrected him. ‘I am afraid we are heading into a crazy era. And some of my colleagues are at the forefront of experimentation.’ He leaned close to Cavalier. ‘I can’t tell you how many fighters have died from attempts to find the undetectable advantage. Everything from blood transfusions to heart transplants.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Bigger hearts and lungs for athletes.’
Cavalier winced, before being distracted by the entrance of Police Chief Azelaporn. ‘Of course, he would be here,’ he said, as he watched the top cop take his seat on the other side of the ring. Many people went over to him and did exaggerated wais.
‘Anyone would think the king himself had arrived,’ Dr Na whispered.
But Cavalier wasn’t listening. He was watching a group of bodyguards in Stetsons and high boots escorting someone to a seat not far from Azelaporn. Now it was the top cop’s turn to bend the knee. He even removed his dark glasses to wai, and then shake hands with, the new arrival.
Cavalier manoeuvred in his seat and could make out the cruel feline features of Mendez. So far, neither he nor Azelaporn had noticed him, and, from their prime ringside positions, they would have to stand on their seats and examine the audience on the other side of the ring in order to spot him.
The warm-up bout had finished early. Now, Thai dancers were in the ring, performing a beautiful routine that mimicked the boxers’ moves and high kicks, with as much athleticism but more grace. Their ten-minute show had the audience clapping politely. A moment after they had slipped out of the ring, a huge mixed roar, of more catcalls than cheers, had all heads turning to one of the dressing-rooms.
Out marched the Russian, wearing a fur hat and a long black funereal gown—Mr No Frills. He meant business and he was in the business of winning. He’d had sixty-one fights, both official and unofficial, and no one had gone anywhere near the distance with him. An Australian with the theatrical name Geoff ‘The Shark’ Lord had gone six rounds of a scheduled twelve with the Russian. He had been so crushed that he never fought again.
Shostakovich played to accompany his entrance. The music was so slow and heavy that it was as if a steamroller had entered the arena. Cavalier imagined Stalin would have swooned over it in the nineteen thirties.
Dr Na paled as the Russian clambered up into the ring. ‘I hope the doctors are quick in stopping this,’ he said. ‘I have lost my money. He may kill her.’
&nb
sp; The Russian disrobed. He was all bulging muscle.
‘He’s not gym-pumped,’ Cavalier remarked. ‘Those limbs are purely genetic—out of the Russian steppes, a hundred generations ago.’
‘She can’t match it with him,’ Dr Na remarked.
‘Not necessarily,’ Cavalier said. ‘Fighting him will be life or death—I have seen her in that situation. She has the speed and stamina but it’s whether she can avoid those hammerfists.’
‘You are optimistic!’ Dr Na said.
‘I’m not alone,’ Cavalier said, pointing to a video screen advertising that fans could still bet until seconds before the first bell. The odds were even.
‘Someone has made a huge plunge,’ Dr Na said, ‘but this always happens with the Angel!’
Cavalier angled himself in his seat to observe Azelaporn, who had put on his glasses again and was on his phone. He was nodding and smiling. Very like an alligator, Cavalier noted. A further twist in his seat allowed him to see Mendez two seats from Azelaporn. He was chatting to a guard. He smiled, but again it was a furtive look, his eyes darting everywhere. Cavalier resumed his usual position and was out of their eyeline once more.
The Russian did some knee bends and then a few Cossack-dancer moves, but not enough to suggest he could manage that sort of exertion for long.
‘More show than substance there,’ Cavalier said in Dr Na’s ear. ‘Those knees are creaky.’ He scribbled a note on a pad. ‘I must let Jacinta know.’
‘What can she do?’ Dr Na said with a hopeless hand gesture.
‘A heel-kick on the top of the knee joint,’ Cavalier replied. ‘Look!’ They watched as the Russian made some shadow-boxing moves. ‘He drops that left shoulder back. He’ll jab in close with it. But he won’t swing with it.’
There was an eruption of sound, and all heads turned to Jacinta’s dressing-room. The cheering lifted the roof as she pranced down her red-carpeted runway to the sound of ‘Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)’. Two tall, stunning African women accompanied her. They all wore pink tops and tight miniskirts. Each had a holstered gun around their waists. Jacinta’s hair was piled high, giving the illusion of extra height.
Cavalier handed the note to Dr Na. ‘Could you give this to one of her girls? Tell them to give it to Jacinta before the first bell.’
Jacinta had the arena gasping as she made a running high-jump leap at the ring, lifting her long frame and arching her back. She cleared the top rope and landed on her feet like a cat. She danced to the music, and removed a pistol, gun-slinger style. As the words ‘Bang bang, he shot me down’ echoed, she aimed at the Russian. He stood still, apparently content with his meagre warm-up.
The music changed again, to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. Up on the screen were takes of Jacinta ending fights with her high-flying kicks, one of them her speciality of a jump, kick and somersault finish. The crowd was ecstatic. Cavalier trained his glasses on the Russian. For perhaps a second, his eyes flicked to the screen. Did he register a flash of fear? Cavalier wondered. The video screen then showed the Russian torturing opponents with neck holds, scissor holds, bear hugs and huge swinging punches, always with his right hand. Instead of avoiding these clips, Jacinta watched them. She looked back at the Russian, smiled cynically and tapped her left shoulder. She was letting him know what her target would be. It was brazen. The Russian glared back and spat into his corner bucket. When he looked up, she punched her left shoulder and leered.
‘She’s so damned gutsy!’ Cavalier murmured. Dr Na now delivered the note to one of the tall Africans, who passed it to Jacinta. She read the message, smiled slyly, stood, waved in Cavalier’s direction and blew a kiss. Those in the front rows turned to see who was receiving this attention. But Cavalier was planted in his seat, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Jacinta sat down in her corner, to allow a trainer to strap her left wrist and push on her gloves.
She went into an elaborate warm-up routine, which was part martial arts, part dance, and part prayer to a human-sized golden Buddha that sat placidly on a high podium in one section of a stand. Cavalier focused his binoculars on her. She wore eyeliner and lipstick; the most make-up he’d ever seen her wear. In the middle of her warm-up, people everywhere began to stand. The three key junta generals had appeared, with an entourage of soldiers and guards. The music changed to a nationalistic martial dirge. People clapped in polite support for the generals. TV cameras turned to the junta leaders, and journalists prattled into microphones. No one in the media expected the generals to be there. They knew the coup leaders were fearful of assassination, especially with General Gaez making public promises to get rid of them.
The new arrivals and their soldiers and guards filled a block of two rows three quarters of the way up a stand. Then the screens were filled with shots of the king—the unsmiling and mysterious, yet popular, monarch who had ruled Thailand since 1946. The national anthem was played. When it finished, Jacinta had her African girls remove her wrist bands, a Buddha neck chain and her hip holster. She moved forward to hear the black-shirted podgy referee’s final words. She was a few centimetres taller than the Russian, but seemed so much smaller in body frame and muscle that no Jacinta supporter could feel other than fear for her wellbeing. She leaned forward to eyeball him. He sneered at her and displayed three glistening metallic teeth. Jacinta tapped her nose hard and pointed at his. It was another provocative gesture, which riled the Russian and caused the referee to caution her.
‘The Russian is as nervous as her,’ Cavalier declared in Dr Na’s ear. ‘He’s keen to finish it quickly. She wants him in a reckless mood.’
Dr Na executed a quick prayer ritual and wai’d the Buddha high above.
In the ring, Jacinta pointed to both the Russians’ knees and made a gesture as if she were snapping a twig. The Russian went puce and said something angrily to her but she was already turning away to take up her ready position. She did a cute disco dance, where she tapped her nose, her left shoulder and her knees. The crowd roared, as if it understood the message, which was unlikely. But the effect on the huge Russian was palpable. He was not a performer as such, and was not acting when he pointed at her and beckoned her to him. The referee pushed the Russian back, so eager was he to begin the combat.
The referee made a slicing vertical motion with his hand to signal the fight’s start. The bell sounded. The Russian rushed forward, fists ready. Jacinta circled backwards as if on a bike. She avoided his lunges and kept pedalling; back, then forward. The Russian looked irritated. He gesticulated, making it clear he wanted her to stand and trade blows. He followed her around the ring for another minute. The crowd waited, as if holding its collective breath. It sensed a flying kick was coming but when, how? Then she made her first aggressive move. She feigned a high kick; the Russian, well prepared, showed surprising agility and swayed his torso back, as though he were in The Matrix. But the second kick came low and smacked him hard on the top of his left knee. He stared in surprise and pain. Jacinta swirled around and feigned another high kick, but her heel slammed into the Russian’s other knee. He was in pain and mild shock at this unconventional attack on the weak spots in his iron-clad frame. As he stumbled, she swung to his left and let fly with two sharp elbow strikes on his left shoulder. He grabbed at this newly injured part of his body. The Russian was rattled. He stumbled at her, swinging and missing for the best part of another minute. He wanted to ease close to her body and grapple her. But she was so quick that she was often behind him.
One of her kicks slapped into the back of his head. He stumbled forward. She let go a flying kick. It was a blow that had everyone in the crowd gaping or cheering. The outside of her left foot clipped his nose. He grabbed at it. The bell sounded for round one and the Russian’s team moved fast to stem the flow of crimson liquid from both nostrils. His already well-broken nose may have incurred its worst dislocation.
‘Oh, Buddha, thank you!’ Na said with a heavenward wai. ‘I think she has got him!’
‘Not yet,’ Cava
lier said, his binoculars on the Russian. ‘She’s in control; at least of herself. She took her chance to attack his weak spots. But he’ll come back.’
‘No! Why?!’
‘He’s never been beaten. No one that good rolls over after one round. Her blows have been sharp, accurate snipes, but not knockout ones.’
During the break, Jacinta didn’t sit on her stool. She dropped to her knees and wai’d the Buddha for the entire time. The bell sounded for round two and she bounced forward, surprising the Russian again. This time she managed to collect him with a flashing heel-kick hard on the sternum. The Russian, winded and hurt, stumbled and grabbed a rope to steady himself. Jacinta stood back even before the referee cautioned her. He stepped to the Russian and began to count. He reached three and stopped. The Russian was furious. He let go of the rope, stood up straight and protested that the referee had no right to start a count while he was still on his feet. But the referee was the sole judge. He argued that the blow was a technical knockdown.
If the Russian was angry before, he was now on fire. He wheeled at Jacinta, doing everything he could to corner her, but she slipped from under his bear hugs and lunging gropes and began her backward cycling. He had stalked her for thirty seconds before she let go her third flying kick. Jacinta lifted herself high and snapped her left leg in such a quick action that Cavalier and the rest of the audience glanced at the video screen to see the replay. Her leg extended so far that it seemed mechanical. The Russian’s jaw swung forty-five degrees, and blood and sweat sprayed onto the crowd metres beyond the ring. The kick, which would have broken the jaw of other fighters, stopped the Russian, who seemed out on his feet for a few seconds. Somehow he stayed upright.
Sheer will kept him bumbling after Jacinta. She led him a merry dance, often looking him in the eyes. Yet, at no point was she tempted to move close and out-punch him or hit him with a flurry of elbow blows. She relied on speed, evasion and that deadly horse kick. Her punches and elbow strikes only came when she had him on an angle and on her terms. She avoided his right arm. Whichever way he lumbered at Jacinta, she swung to his left, letting go the odd sharp punch or elbow snap at that weakened left shoulder. He winced every time. But the big man kept coming.