The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

by Sunniva Dee

  Broad stone steps carry me up to my father. He’s there, my darling Elfriede at his side, and the only resident groundskeeper and his son stand at the foot of the stairs, rakes in hand and smiles on their faces. His ten-year-old son has dark bangs hanging in his face and big black eyes peeking shyly at me from below. Actually, he isn’t smiling.

  I discover Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth’s car behind the fountain before I see him. He gets out. Stretches like he’s home, and plasters a jovial grin on his face too. I want this moment with my family. What is he doing here?

  “Helena, it’s so good to see you in the right environment again,” he murmurs. I’m busy hugging my father, stalling a tear of relief that he hasn’t turned older since I left. My ex-fiancé waits, gentleman-like, until I have to release Papa and turn to him.

  “Good afternoon,” I say, polite too. At Kyria, I cannot be rude to him. “I hear you’ve been helping at the castle since you came home.”

  “Oh.” He brushes me off, white little hand swiping the air between us. “It’s nothing. I happened to walk the grounds. A leisurely stroll, you know, and there it was. The Star Tower has a rot that’s going to cause major structural damage unless it’s taken care of right away. But let’s not talk about money, now. Right, Kerstin?” He winks at my mother. She’s so clueless she winks back. I doubt the two of them have any secrets.

  “Right, let’s celebrate your homecoming,” she says, leading us in the door.

  My grandmother is already seated in the dining hall, watching over silver-domed dishes with the detached elegance of a queen. I worry that she won’t recognize me, but when her tired eyes lift and find me entering, they light up and she tries to stand.

  “My little girl,” she says, a tremble in her voice. “You’re home.”

  “Muti,” I exclaim too, amazed at how long I’ve been away from her. What if she’d fallen ill? “Yes, yes, I’m here. Sit, please. I’ll be over to you in a second. I’ll be there.”

  Muti tires easily. Though our party isn’t big and the conversation is quiet, she’s exhausted at the end of the dinner. Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth fits in the way he always has, gallant with the ladies, filling glasses of water, beer, and wine.

  My grandmother loses her words. Confusion tints her gaze, making it clear that she’s disappearing into her mind again. We had her for a while.

  “She’d like fresh air,” I say not ready to let Muti go yet, and I roll her wheelchair away from the table. “Papa, can you show me Kyria? I’ve missed it.”

  Papa’s chuckle rumbles thick in his chest. It’s his happy-sound. Nothing pleases him more than me showing appreciation for this place. He doesn’t seem to understand that no matter where I go Kyria never leaves my thoughts. Is this how it’s been for all of my ancestors, Kyria first, always, always first?

  It’s because of Kyria that I’m okay with Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth crashing our daughter-father tour of the grounds. Muti doesn’t object when I jostle her up on a paved walkway. When my ex-fiancé starts to talk about extensive restoration, I’m hoping she doesn’t listen either.

  The pond is here, water lilies hiding frogs and blue leaves, the murky waters promising lost treasures. Muti’s gaze lingers on it, going soft as we pass by.

  “The leakage from the wooden shingles has been patched up, but…”

  I’ll Skype Victor tonight.

  “The electrical cables are so old in the grand foyer we shouldn’t settle for only replacing those that were damaged by the leak above the portico. I’ve taken the liberty of…”

  I can’t touch him though, feel how warm he is against me when I’m cold.

  “But my main concern now is the mortar of the Star Tower. Since it’s at the very foundation…”

  Life was easy in Tampa.

  I inhale deeply. Stop the wheelchair I’m still pushing. Then I face my father and my ex-fiancé and say with as much patience as I can, “Do you mind if I just enjoy my home?”

  Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth isn’t happy, but he ducks his head in a bow, giving in to my will. My father’s eyes warm though, apologies glistening like tears in them. “Of course, Mein Schatz. Yes, let’s not overwhelm Helena when she’s tired from her travels,” he murmurs to Gunther.

  Raising his hand in an understated gesture, Papa displays the beauty of the Madonna Forest to me. I’ve seen it, played in it, grown up in it, but Papa knows what it means to me, and now he allows its peace to sink in over us without words.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth tells me on the portico. Darkness has fallen, and gas lamps bathe my home in fairytale mystique. Above us, the moon is free of clouds. Round and yellow, it lights my ex’s way back to his car.

  “I’ll be busy tomorrow,” I preempt any plans he might have.

  “Well, we need to talk.”

  And I hate that he’s right.

  I wake up in the middle of the night to hushed voices and hurried steps. Three toilets are overflowing at once. What the hell is going on in the castle? Are we cursed?

  The groundskeeper arrives, his ten-year-old with him, eyes wide with fear and worry. The groundskeeper’s got plumber tools, but we quickly realize we need a professional. Papa calls. They’re hard to get a hold of at three a.m.

  Papa’s eyes glisten like they did last night when he wanted me to enjoy Kyria instead of having the weight of it settle on me right away.

  The groundskeeper turns off the water to the entire castle until the plumber can get here. “You should take Peter back home with you,” I say. “Kids shouldn’t be up at this hour. And please, say ‘hi’ to Hilda from me,” I add, because I didn’t mention his wife yesterday.

  “No, he wanted to come. He’s been very concerned for Kyria lately, haven’t you, Peter?” his father says.

  Peter ducks his head like it’s a scolding. I don’t understand. His parents aren’t of the punishing type, and how could showing concern for Kyria be bad?

  “Are you okay?” I ask, sitting so I’m at his level. “I haven’t even seen you smile since I came home. Are you mad that I’m back?”

  He shakes his head vehemently, locks flying and coming to rest over his forehead. “No, Baroness. I’m happy you’re home. We like it when you’re here.” A blush flames across both cheeks as he speaks. I remember him as an outgoing, careless kid. Is this what puberty does to boys? And can puberty start at ten?

  I have a knot in my stomach. It’s tied to all the problems with Kyria. It’s tied to Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth, to my sad father, my nervous mother, and my knot grows bigger with how Peter can’t hold my gaze.

  “Thank goodness I got a hold of you,” I breathe to Victor, back in my room. His beautiful face is all over my laptop. He’s afternoon-awake in Tampa, sweat dripping from his chin down the opening of his sweatshirt.

  “Are you okay? The douchebag isn’t around, is he?”

  “I only saw him briefly yesterday when I arrived,” I lie.

  “Goddammit, why was he there? I wish I’d beaten the shit out of him while I still could!”

  Victor’s instant explosion lifts my mood. I smile, and he narrows his eyes at me. “What’re you all happy about?”

  “Just… it’s nice to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  “When’re you coming back?”

  “When’re you visiting Kyria?”

  Before I close the laptop and return to bed, I tell him about the knot in my stomach. I confess to each detail, each issue with the castle, about everything that has accumulated in the few hours I’ve been here and how it’s making me want to hurl with anguish.

  He says goodbye with a hand to his own cheek. “This is me giving you strength,” he whispers. “Feel it. Close your eyes.”

  I do. I close my eyes, and it doesn’t take long before his palm cups my cheek in a memorized caress. “Here’s me kissing the palm of your hand,” I sigh back, needing his reassurance so much.

  I open my eyes and find his closed, a small smile on his lips. “I feel it.�
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  Oh you’re cute.

  “Helena. Baby.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sleep now. Rest, okay?”

  “Yes…”

  “And tomorrow, when you get up, I want you to look around you. I have a bad feeling about W.G.”

  “Because he wants to pay for everything that’s wrong?” I try to sound flippant, leaning back against the headboard and bringing the computer with me.

  “No. Because of everything you’ve told me. It sounds like the castle started falling apart after you left.”

  “And you think he’s to blame. A lot of the time he wasn’t even in Germany.”

  “He has money, doesn’t he? Couldn’t someone else do his dirty work?”

  My heart hammers faster. “That’s just scary. Stop talking like that.”

  “Sorry, Helena. Just… don’t be alone with him, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  It’s a promise I won’t be able to keep.

  VICTOR

  “It’s better for your concentration that the girl is gone.” Maiko washes dishes by hand in our little green kitchen. She grabs my equally green plastic plate and washes it too.

  I mumble something short that’s neither a yes nor a no. To some extent, she’s correct. The fight in Thailand could be my seventeenth win in a row. If it is and ACW’s sponsor guru, Markeston, does his job right, I could have a shot at a title fight when I return. It wouldn’t be for the EFC, of course—I haven’t been invited to that level yet—but between the Thai fight and the title fight, Vegas heads might turn in my direction.

  I need all my concentration to prepare for Thailand. Now I don’t have to worry about Helena at Hooters, Helena as a ring girl, Helena at fucking Stripes. I sleep in my own bed again and follow my scheduled routine, no alcohol or deviations from my diet.

  Helena left two weeks ago, and I’ve never been in better shape. Maiko’s eyes glitter with contentment, and Dawson watches me spar with measured awe. I see them both. It’s good. But Helena’s a permanent fixture in my brain, and I’m worried sick about her ex and how he’s going to mess with her in Germany.

  “Markeston is on the phone.” Maiko holds out my cell. I’m going on twenty-three, but she still picks up my calls if I’m not fast enough. I don’t fault her for it. I’m slow at picking up, plus I could never fault her for anything, my mother, my savior.

  “Hey, sir. Any news?” I ask, trying to suppress the loud crunch of the celery I’ve got between my teeth.

  “Yes, we’re almost there with the negotiations. The royal rep, he’s so stubborn,” he puffs into the phone. “They won’t release a single video of their big hero. The stats are fine—I sent them to you as well, right? With reach, height, weight, and all that good stuff?”

  “Yes, our builds are identical, it sounds like.”

  “Eerie, huh? Anyway, the rep has spoken with the crown princess herself, and she has conceded not only to televising the fight, but allowing us to film it ourselves.”

  “What? How the hell did you pull that off?”

  Markeston chortles, happy with himself. “I’m usually all about diplomacy in my negotiations, but some situations call for a different approach. In this case, I could have lost you the fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told him the truth, that if we didn’t get to film the event and bring it back to America, whatever occurred during that fight would mean null to your career, which again would mean wasted energy and no reason to travel to the other side of the world for a fight.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You said it nicer though, right?”

  “Nope, I think I was a tad more brutal than that, actually.” He laughs openly now, that big, booming, jovial laughter I’ve heard from him before. It’s contagious and causes me to snicker too. Maiko lowers her brows infinitesimally, displaying her confusion.

  “And that’s how Victor Arquette was set to rock the Thai monarchy on its foundations,” he finishes, radio-host-style.

  We’re five weeks from the trip to Thailand, and it’s been three weeks since I last saw Helena. Both have me worked up, but I can’t allow my energy to deviate from my preparatory mood.

  My sleep is usually restful and quiet. If I dream, I’m not one to recall them. Maiko says dreams reflect issues a person doesn’t work through while awake. I can see that now—

  Now I dream at night, like I did as a child. Back then, I’d wake up in my new soft bed, expecting a dirty fighter T-shirt under my body and a stray dog resting against my back.

  My adult dreams aren’t real enough for me to wake up confused. But they’re there, and I remember them. More than anything, I dream about the young fighter who gave me his shirt, who shared his hot food and fresh water whenever he had it. He was just a boy himself.

  His skin was browner than mine and his eyes lighter. They shone with ferocity and kindness, amber against the darker face, short lashes accentuating them. Then, there was that monster around his upper arm, biting its tail like I’ve seen on snake tattoos.

  Would I want to return to Surat Hin? Would he be too old to fight the rings now? He’d be eight, nine, max ten years older than me, and Muay Thai fighters find their prime around seventeen. I wonder what he’s doing with his life now—or how he’s doing.

  I have much to be grateful for, and the fighter with the monster tattoo was my first savior. It would feel good to thank him. Perhaps I’ll risk going back for him, to my first hometown.

  “Don’t cry, little Chanchai. All you need is a chunk of Pad Thai, and you’ll be okay. Look, the sky’s blue.”

  It always seemed blue to me. It wasn’t new.

  “You have a friend.” The fighter with the monster tattoo tipped his head to my dog. “Look, she’s hungry, but she wants you to eat first. That’s a momma right there. She’s your momma dog.” He grinned, lifted his fist in a bump against my bony one. “You lucked out with that dog.”

  I’d watch him like the king he was to me when he jumped the steps to the ring, two at a time. At the top, he waved at me and winked, pointing at my momma dog. I knew what I had to do. With one hand I stuffed Pad Thai into my mouth. With the other I scooped up a handful and left it on the ground beside her. My momma dog’s brown eyes met mine from a dirty-white face. “Have it,” I said. “Eat.”

  She took a moment before she accepted. When she did, she licked it up as slowly as a cat. I knew then that she needed a name. “You’re Tilak,” I told her, smiling because my stomach was full and I’d found the right name, “darling.” I also recall how the two of us curled up and slept after our meal.

  “You’ve got the look,” Maiko says. “Are you thinking of Thailand?”

  I study the sneakers waiting in my hand, finally seeing them. I’m about to head for the gym. Maiko never misses it when my thoughts are somewhere else. “I was thinking of Surat Hin,” I murmur. “Of Tilak. I’ve never asked you why you did that, go through the paper mill of bringing her with us back to Florida.”

  “I can tell you how that came to be,” Maiko says like it will take a while. “On your lunch break? I’ll make an egg-white omelet and some fresh tilapia for you.”

  “No, let’s hear it now.” Jaden’s meeting me for sparring. We’re going all out today, and I don’t want to wonder about what Maiko has to tell me.

  Maiko’s cup of green tea stops an inch from her mouth, hovering. Then she bobs her head and waves me out to the backyard, to the small wooden bench that doubles as Tilak’s grave marker.

  I stretch my legs in front of me, lean back with my arms over the backrest behind my mother. Then I wait for her to start.

  “We came back five days in a row, your father and I. You were dirty, hair matted and without shine, but you watched the fighters in the ring with such intensity I saw you as much as I saw them. Your father mentioned you before I did, chuckling at your energy, at the way you almost had some of the advanced strikes down, how you did aerials from the railing over Tilak’s head, only barely missing her.r />
  “She never ducked, never cowered to you, which spoke of incredible precision for such a small human being. You’d work through whole fights, sweat shining on your little body, belly protruding a little with malnutrition and ribs showing beneath the taut skin above it.

  “After five-round fights, your little chest would heave with exhaustion, because you had shadowed the moves in the ring. Instinctively, you knew who the better fighter was, and that’s who you copied. Through each fight, Talik sat there beaming at you like you were the stars and the moon.

  “She’d know when you were done with your shadow-fight. Your father and I talked about how she could know, but we never really figured it out. A dog recognizes small gestures in their owners, and even as young as you were, it was clear to us that you were hers. Whenever you finished, she’d sit up taller, ears back and nose wiggling, sniffing the air between you. Then you’d do a last aerial flip and fall to the ground next to her.”

  I smile, recalling short fur prickling my nostrils as I embraced Talik. She’d lick me, clean me of sweat, probably, and I’d tell her “no” in a less-than-convincing way.

  “You’d slump to your back, and Talik would lay down next to you. She leaned her head on your chest, right beneath your chin, and you’d murmur words to her that sounded like a song.

  “Once we began discussing the possibility of bringing you back home, your father and I agreed that you would not be happy separated from Talik. If there was anything we could do to ease the transition, this was it. We needed to adopt her too.”

  I rub my mother’s shoulder. It’s thin in my palm. “You fell in love with her, huh?”

  Maiko nods a little, stare bent to the grass at our feet. After all these years, I still miss Talik. We never got another animal, because it would only accentuate the grief after Talik, and that would be unfair to the newcomer.

  “Remember how she sat next to the ring in the backyard, watching with rapt attention like she’d taught you everything you knew?” Maiko asks, a small twist of her lip showing her amusement.