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

by Sunniva Dee

  “What are you talking about?”

  I won’t let her see my eyes fill with water.

  “I’d find a Muay Thai ring—”

  “Exactly.”

  “—and I’d remain at the foot of the stairs, waiting until the fighters stepped down, until they fed me their leftovers and patted my head. Until they gave me a T-shirt they didn’t need anymore so that I didn’t have to sleep straight on the dirt.”

  “Victor…”

  “That’s when the dog would come and keep me company. In the blazing midday sun. In the cool night air.”

  “Victor!”

  I swallow because my voice stutters. “Yeah?”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  I drop the phone to the windowsill and dry my eyes with the back of my hand. I catch another glimpse of the horizon—it stretches far—if I took the elevator down and started walking, I would end up in Surat Hin—

  Jaden is probably at the gym already, waiting for me.

  “Are you there? Victor. Is that what happened to you?”

  “Yes!” There’s a fucking sob in my throat, and I lose control of it just like I’ve lost control over this trip. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

  “Go to video on the phone,” she says, stern-sounding.

  “Naw, this is fine.”

  “Switch it on, or I swear to you I’m not responsible for my actions the next time I see you.”

  And deep down beneath my despair I think that she’s badass.

  It’s my turn to obey. It’s what men and women do. We take turns. I’m brave. I show her my face, how I’m falling apart, and she stares at me too long, eyes brimming with tears and compassion.

  “Ha!” I snivel out. “And you know what kills me the most? You’re going to laugh so hard: it destroys me that Maiko isn’t here.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “No, that does not make sense. Are you crazy?” I blink to see her clearly through all this water. “A twenty-two-year-old momma’s boy. What are the odds? I can’t even travel without my mommy.”

  “She saved you, Victor.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t your parents adopt you and take you away from there?”

  “Yeah, but this is ridiculous. You see that, right?”

  “No, it’s not. It’s the first time you’re back to where you lived the hardest years of your life. Everything you’ve said so far are things that could only be true if you were still that little kid. So of course, if that’s where you’re at mentally right now, then not having Mrs. Arquette there to pick up the pieces and bring you back to America makes you lose all hope.”

  My brain objects. My pride and my manhood balk. But objectively, nothing I’ve said to her since I called has made any sense. Helena is right.

  “You’re the terrified little boy from back then right now, baby. I’m sorry. I wish you didn’t have to go through this. But deep down you know as well as I do that if you decided to remain in Thailand instead of moving back to the U.S.—”

  “I’d never!”

  “No, I know, but let me finish: if you did, you would be a very successful adult man. You’d own your own MMA gym in a matter of months. You’d be a pro fighter everyone came to see. You’d be the sexy American all the chicks went after, and hey, I bet you’d care for dogs instead of having them care for you.”

  My laughter is so quiet it’s a hiss. It feels good though. Very good.

  “Helena, you’re my princess.”

  “Crap, Victor. Not that again.”

  “No, don’t take it that way. I mean that you’re the princess of my heart and my mind. I love you.”

  Fear loses its grip. The shards of my crushed spirit have glue on them, and with her words she quietly assembles it.

  I stand from my hunched position by the window. Crunch a fist tight and press my knuckles against the glass in a frozen punch.

  “Kick that asshole’s butt, you hear me?” she whispers.

  “Do you call all fighters ‘assholes?’” I ask.

  “Only those who think they can beat you.”

  “Oh I’ll demolish him. Don’t you worry. I’ll call you after the fight.” It’s only when I go to sleep, long after my training session, that I realize Helena never reciprocated my I-love-you.

  HELENA

  “I’ll see them in the Blue Hall.”

  Elfriede scurries to the grand foyer, and two minutes later, she’s back with the groundskeeper and his son, Peter. The ten-year-old holds a baseball cap in his hands, twisting it nervously between his fingers.

  “Hi there,” I say. “Have a seat.”

  They comply, but the son’s stiff posture mirrors his father’s at the edge of a brocade-covered dinner chair.

  “How can I help you?” I ask. “You look so somber?”

  “Well… my son has something to tell you, but maybe we should wait for the baron himself?” There’s a question in his voice. It sounds like the groundskeeper wants me to disagree.

  To be honest, today is a good morning for their visit. I’m relieved that we’re alone at the castle, with Mama and Papa off on their weekly shopping. If this has anything to do with Madonna number two, then I prefer to get to the bottom of it before involving Papa.

  “Let’s talk first. I’ll bring it to the baron’s attention if it’s necessary.”

  The groundskeeper bows his head. Then he nudges his son with two knuckles against his thigh. “Go ahead, Peter. Tell the baroness.”

  “Can’t you?”

  “No, this is your story. Start from the beginning.”

  Peter swallows. I find him a soda from the bar while he struggles with the first sentence. I offer a drink to the groundskeeper too, but he declines with a thank you. “From the start?” Peter finally asks.

  “Yes, all the way. One day Gunther Wilhelm Affenheimer the Fourth knocked on our door,” the father begins. “I wasn’t home, neither was your mother. Now, tell the baroness what happened.”

  “I opened, and Sir Affenheimer stood on the doorstep.”

  “Go on.”

  “He said he’d heard how much I wanted a pet, and he happened to have one for me. He held out a kitten, and it was Sophie. She was little and so cute and I wanted her so badly. I told him I couldn’t because of my mom’s allergy, but then he came back the day after and convinced them.” He looks up at his father for reassurance. The groundskeeper bobs his head, urging him to continue.

  “Yes, Baroness. A few days later, he came back to ask me a favor. He said I should climb into the tallest oak on the south side of the main building. There was a rotten branch up there, and he wanted me to saw it down. Since he’d done me a favor with Sophie, he figured I’d do him one too.”

  “Why did he need the branch gone?”

  “He said it was old and rotten and it should be cut down before it hit something.”

  “The branch he wanted gone was the big one that crashed into the roof of the south wing,” the groundskeeper adds, thumb and forefinger rubbing his chin anxiously.

  “How did he know the branch was rotten?” I ask.

  The groundskeeper verbalizes what I already know. “Sir Affenheimer has always been interested in Kyria. He spends a lot of time on the castle grounds, and he chats with the farmhands.”

  “He does,” I agree.

  The son pipes up again, eager to finish his story. “It was hard to cut the branch down. It was really high up, and really big. He didn’t want to use a chainsaw either, and he wanted it done on the evening of the gala downtown, so it was dark.”

  “The mayor’s gala?”

  “Yes, and your mother and father were the guests of honor,” the groundskeeper adds.

  “And of course everyone else was there, including the castle staff?”

  “Yes, there was no one at Kyria that Saturday evening. Even my wife and I…”

  “It took me so long to cut it off, but once it happened, it crashed into the roof and through the window. Sir A
ffenheimer told me not to worry, that he’d fix it for me. I should just not say anything about it. He wanted to make sure I wouldn’t get blamed for it, he said, so that’s why I should keep quiet. But then he came back a week later.

  “He told me I was good at keeping secrets, and that he appreciated it so much he had another job for me. He’d pay me one thousand euros if I helped him fix the roof above the portico.”

  I send the groundskeeper a look, but he has bowed his head. “He wanted you, a boy, to fix the leakage that seeped into the wallpaper and almost caused an electrical fire?”

  A strange sound escapes Peter’s throat. I study him, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking. He has brought his baseball cap up to cover his mouth. Peter’s eyes though, are big and scared when he replies, “No, it was before the leakage.”

  “Peter told him he couldn’t help him with that,” his father jumps in. “He suggested one of the farmhands, but Sir Affenheimer got angry, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, he told me he’d have to take Sophie back to her owner if I couldn’t help him. Said there was no way around it. He wanted the castle to be in tip-top shape, and I was the only one who could step on that thin roof without breaking the metal seams.”

  My mind is in turmoil, but I keep my spine erect and my face in solemn folds as I continue my questioning. “Did you believe him?”

  “I didn’t know,” Peter bursts out. “He was about to take Sophie away from me again. My mother had even let her sleep in my room. I would have no company all over again if he took her away from me.”

  “It’s okay. Shh, I understand.” I lean over and pat his arm.

  A sob escapes him. “I did that for him too. I didn’t see anything wrong with the roof. All I saw was just a little green at the seams over by the wall. Sir Affenheimer gave me a bottle, and I was to pour it on those seams to clean them.”

  “The liquid corroded through the surface and left it open to the storms after the third time,” the father says.

  “You went up there three times?”

  “Yes. And the last time he gave me a bucket of water too, to rinse it off with. I was afraid the water would leak into the house, but Sir Affenheimer said not to worry. He’d already checked with the experts, and it was the right thing to do, to rinse it thoroughly.”

  “And here he claimed bats caused the damage on the portico roof,” I say. I’m in an alternate reality. Yes, I’ve had my suspicions about my fiancé, but his crimes reach far beyond anything I could imagine. I’m upset. I’m disappointed. But at the same time there’s this tiny nugget of hope stirring in my chest.

  “Do you have the bottle?” I ask.

  “No, he took it with him.”

  “He told me not to touch it though, because it would burn my fingers.”

  Elfriede hasn’t left the room. Now, she speaks up, her chest inflating before she starts. “Peter, I have one question for you, if the Baroness allows?”

  I nod.

  Peter jerks his chin up in one worried motion so he can meet her eyes. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward until now?”

  “Because I promised Sir Affenheimer I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Did you think you were helping Kyria?”

  “In the beginning I did, but then I saw that the green color that was supposed to come off the metal didn’t change at all. Dad says it must have been acid in the bottle, because it sizzled when it hit the roof and then it burned through the metal. I knew that couldn’t be good, because everyone knows it’s bad with holes in the roof when it rains.

  “So I asked Sir Affenheimer about it, and then…” He inhales for courage to continue. “I thought he’d tell me, maybe, that it took some time to work or something. But he didn’t. He just told me he’d take Sophie again if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.”

  “You do realize the disaster you’ve created over a cat, Peter, right?” Elfriede growls.

  “Nana, please.” I use my nickname for her, but my tone isn’t sweet. She straightens and prunes her lips closed.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not all,” the groundskeeper whispers. “Finish your story, Peter.”

  “He came back again…”

  “Two weeks ago,” his father finishes.

  “Sir Affenheimer wanted me to etch something into one of the Madonnas, and that can never be right. I knew that. He didn’t even say it in a nice way. He just…” Tears fill Peter’s eyes and one of them trickles out.

  “Tell me exactly what he said,” I say.

  “First he said that it needed to be cleaned up anyway so I should just write something on it for fun. He even gave me a few words he wanted on there. I told him that I couldn’t help him though, that I was tired of helping and he should find someone else to offer his jobs to. I even told him he could have Sophie back because the favors he asked of me were too big.”

  “But Sir Affenheimer didn’t accept. Son, tell the baroness what his reply was.”

  “He gave me two choices: I could write on the statue for him, or he would take Sophie and… and…” Peter’s stomach trembles with the urge to cry. Pleading, he glances at his father, who finishes for him.

  “Sir Affenheimer threatened to put my son’s cat into a bag, tie it shut, and drop her in the river.”

  It’s not until darkness floods my rooms and the outdoor gas lamps are lit that I allow Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth to become a monster in my head.

  I’ve been brought up to see the good in people. There is no true evil except what grows by accident in people’s minds, and for that to happen, the coincidences have to be specific. Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth is a man of strong convictions, a man with a plan and an agenda, one of insatiable ambition. I’m unsure whether his ambition has room for love.

  My thoughts roam on this as I tiptoe down broad, stone-laid stairs to a basement that once held a dungeon. Since my great-great-great grandparents’ time, the grotto—deep and with rounded stonewalls butting into a low, vaulted ceiling—has been our wine cellar.

  The room keeps its chill day and night, summer and winter, and now I feel my thighs prick with goose bumps as I select port wine from an upper rack. I won’t grab a bottle from the lower, dustier shelves, but even from the more accessible areas, the selection is decades old.

  I pull the cork out with a wet pop. Lift it to my nose and let my nostrils flare over its aroma. It’s a good one. It always is. I position singing crystal on top of the wine barrel we use as a tasting table. Pour a small amount at the bottom of the bulb, and roll it in my palm, causing the liquid to shine in small ripples as it dances in the glass.

  Then I start on my long, quiet walk back to the north wing.

  I position myself against the headboard of my bed. I’ve laid in it since I was old enough to move out of my mother and father’s suite. Before me, my great-aunt Ophelia lied here. I never met her. She died of tuberculosis before my time, and until I was born, this room with its gilded bed remained unused.

  I study the canopy curtains, hand-dyed brocade worn thin from the passing of time. I remember Muti describing how vibrant the blue once was. Now a faded pastel, more beautiful than ever to me, the blue was the hardest of all colors to create centuries ago. As a little girl, I wanted Muti to tell and retell how they had distilled the blue color from urine. It was a sure way for her to make me giggle when she lifted imaginary fabric and dipped it in imaginary buckets while grimacing from the imaginary smell.

  “Sheep urine, right?” I’d ask, hoping for her most playful retort.

  “It could have been your great-great-great grandfather’s chamber pot. I heard he had quite a bit to offer after his late nights visiting the wine cellar.”

  A smile tugs at my cheeks for a moment at how close Muti and I used to be. But then I’m back to these curtains, to the gold flaking in small but visible dots off the crown at the center of the footboard. I twist. Stare at the bigger, more detailed crown on the headboard; the gold is intact… except where one ornate ten
tacle is chipped, missing a piece of wood.

  My home, my castle, my heart, my—hearth. It’s old now. It needs to be restored. How could Gunther Wilhelm instigate its destruction while promising glory days no one has seen in ages? I don’t understand. Rip down with one hand and build up with the other?

  My instinct is to confront him. But when someone is sneaky, disguising their plans, doesn’t it make sense to do the same?

  If only I had more time.

  Papa and Mama are asleep. Elfriede has returned to her cottage in the village, and now it’s just me, my port wine, and my thoughts.

  I want to call Victor. I wish we could discuss what’s occurring at Kyria, but to do so, I’d have to delve into Gunther Wilhelm’s proposal, how I accepted, and how he has become my fiancé all over again.

  Victor is hours away from a life-changing fight. He says he loves me, and there is no doubt that I love him too. Just, what does love mean when it’s not in the cards?

  I sigh. Sink down in my pillows. I curl my toes away from the flaking gold on the footboard while the last sip of port trickles to the back of my tongue.

  Cass.

  I call her. Talk with her. My mind and my mouth bubble over, and I tell her everything I can’t share with Victor. She’s a friend, a good friend who isn’t so close she’ll be in pain from my situation. Cass has a ticket to come watch my nightmare wedding in the setting of a fairytale.

  Oh God, my beloved Madonna Forest, the little church at its top. It has hosted every baptism, confirmation, wedding, and funeral for the Von Isenlohe family for centuries. I wonder if it has hosted more than one unhappy holy union.

  It is astonishing how good it feels to unknot my thoughts. I picture Cass in sunny, humid, modern Tampa, going about her day-to-day business. Then I close my eyes, sleepy now that I’ve talked myself dry and littered out all of my fears and worries.

  “I’m going to take a catnap now.”

  “Okay, sweetie. I’m heading to work,” she says. “Thursday Fight View. But do as I say. You need to let Victor know what’s going on. You can’t wait just to spare him.”

  I don’t answer, because I won’t lie to her.