The Dark Fights

by Alexandra Vinarov

  Martine, the only other girl who was in the early-morning class, comes out of the shower. She is a good friend of mine and we’ve known each other for years training at the same dojo. I don’t think I sought her friendship—I guess it was she who always tried to get close to me, chatting me up, telling me secrets about her life and love adventures, and partnering with me as often as possible on the mat. Over time I started enjoying our training together and our conversations and opened up to her a bit more. Her exuberant outgoingness weighs down on me somewhat, but I do appreciate how caring, strong, and resilient she is and how optimistic she always seems. Martine is French and does not have a work permit here but always manages to find work in bars and such.

  She wraps a towel around her hair, puts on her panties, sits next to me on the bench, and helps me tape up my toes. The idea is to tape them up to the next toe pretty tight so as to immobilize them. We really should be binding them to a piece of wood or something so that they definitely heal straight, but I guess I don’t care too much about the perfect straightness of my toes. Just taping them up tight should do it.

  “The examinations are only a few days away,” Martine says.

  I know what she means by that and her words irritate me, and I don’t reply anything.

  “With this injury you’ll have to stay off the mat for a while, huh?”

  “Nah, couple days at the most.”

  “But your toes won’t heal that quickly!”

  I shrug and again don’t say anything.

  “Wow! You uchi-deshi definitely lead a strange life!” she exclaims. “Training six hours a day, all the endless chores around the dojo, not being able to go outside when you want to, and on top of everything, to train through injuries. You think it’s worth it?”

  I ponder my answer for a few moments. Martine has described quite accurately the life of an uchi-deshi, and yet her words do not capture its true sense. It is not just about living inside the dojo, training full time, and cleaning toilets—it is being Sensei’s direct disciple, knowing that you have been personally chosen as worthy of his close instruction both on and off the mat.

  Uchi-deshi live and breathe their martial art twenty-four seven—it becomes their life and permeates every aspect of their existence. Their skills on the mat improve at a rate that regular martial arts practitioners could only dream of.

  And then there is more.

  Being an uchi-deshi is also about learning to understand the true essence of the martial art, what it really means to be a martial artist, how to perceive the world and your position in it, and to learn to control and avoid the aggression and violence in yourself and around you.

  Before I came to this dojo, I’d trained in different martial arts—judo, sambo, and Russian hand-to-hand fighting. I competed quite a bit in my teen years and was making a name for myself on the junior tournament circuit. Winning felt good, but it wasn’t fully satisfying. Something was lacking from my martial arts training, and I didn’t know what it was. I was so young, of course, I couldn’t possibly be aware of what I was searching for. When I stepped into this dojo, as a regular student at first, I immediately sensed that this was not an ordinary place.

  The true tradition of the ancient martial art lives on here, and Sensei carries on the code of honor and wisdom passed through generations. Somehow, I felt right away that this was what I wanted to be a part of, that I belonged here. And when, later on, Sensei chose me to be one of his uchi-deshi, I realized that he understood me better than I did myself, that he knew exactly what it was I searching for.

  Sensei rarely has a direct conversation with a student, so the words he said to me on the day that I became uchi-deshi are etched in my brain. I was invited into Sensei’s quarters for the first time. I hadn’t had time to change out of my sweaty gi after the practice and it was cold in the room and I started shivering. Or maybe it was the solemnity of the moment that made me so tense. As soon as Sensei spoke, the shivering stopped and instead I felt hot all over.

  “The true martial art is not just about winning. The most important part is attaining balance, harmony in all aspects of life, inner strength, and discipline. The true martial art teaches us to be strong and empathetic and to treat others, on and off the mat, with respect and honor.”

  That was what he told me on that day, and I hope never to forget a single of those words.

  Sensei’s uchi-deshi learn the physical aspect of their martial art and participate in tournaments and often take first places, which is of course good for the name of the school, but their path leads much deeper than just competing. We are to carry on the code of honor, the very principles of the true martial art. And the more skilled you get at a technical level, the more in control of your body and mind you grow to be. I know it will take me many, many years to get there, and who knows I might perhaps never reach those levels, but it makes me feel good to know that I am at least heading in the right direction.

  I don’t explain any of it to Martine though. It’s too early in the morning for such a deep conversation.

  “I think it’s worth it,” is all I say.

  “Well, as long as you’re happy,” she makes a face showing that she highly doubts my happiness.

  “Didn’t you want to be an uchi-deshi too?” I ask, and I immediately regret the question. I am pretty sure she did, but Sensei did not choose her, and Martine and I never discuss the topic.

  She gives me a strange look and then laughs. “Nah. It’s much easier being just a regular student here—come in and train when I feel like it and then leave, no chores, no responsibilities, no strict rules.”

  We finish taping up my toes and I make a huge effort, unglue my exhausted body off the bench, get up, take a couple steps, and wince. Putting the full weight on the left foot is not an option for now. Oh well, I will just have to work around it somehow for a few days.

  “You’d better take a few ibuprofens,” Martine suggests.

  “Nah, I don’t like that stuff.”

  “Or I can bring you some pot for the pain.”

  “Nah, thank you though.”

  I take off the towel and start getting dressed.

  “You are becoming too skinny,” Martine says. I can see in the mirror she is staring at me. “You have very nice shape, but you are losing muscle weight.”

  She might be right. I have been training so much and probably not getting enough calories in. I examine my pale face, shadows under my eyes, protruding cheekbones. I need food and a bit of rest, that’s for sure.

  “Want some help with the chores? I can clean the shower or wash dirty gis or something.”

  “Thanks, Martine, I appreciate it, really, but it’s not allowed. Hey, I don’t mean to rush you, but . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll just blow-dry my hair real quick and I’ll go.” Still she keeps sitting on the bench and looking at me while I am putting on my clothes. “Hey,” she says, “I always meant to ask you—do you think Sensei will pick one more uchi-deshi? That’s a lot of work for just three people to do around here. Was easier when it was four of you, wasn’t it?”

  I’ve recently overheard Sensei mention to the head uchi-deshi that he has no intention of taking on another in the foreseeable future, if ever, and that all the chores will have to be handled by Liam, Hiroji, and me. I don’t relay this information to Martine, however. I don’t feel it is my place to do so.

  “But what actually happened to that fourth uchi-deshi?” she asks. “He just disappeared last year. People say he got horribly injured on the mat.”

  “Well, yeah, that is exactly what happened. He got injured and had to leave the dojo.”

  “Hmm, but did you actually see it happen?”

  “I did not.”

  “That’s the thing. Nobody did. Nobody! You don’t think it’s very strange? Kind of mysterious, no?”

  Why is she pressing
with these questions? I know she likes to gossip and it seems she wants to tell me something. She is just waiting for me to ask. But I don’t.

  As Martine finally starts blow-drying her hair, I debate whether to tell her again she needs to hurry up and leave soon. She is my friend and I don’t want to be rude to her, but according to the rules I cannot start cleaning the locker room if there is someone still using it. And I only have that much time to do all the cleaning and my other chores and get everything ready before the two midday classes, after which there is a short break, followed by the evening classes.

  Suddenly the blow dryer stops and I hear Martine’s voice. “Hey, Sasha, have you ever heard about the Dark Fights?”

  *****

  I still haven’t had time for a decent breakfast. I quickly ate two bananas and then had to get on with the chores. Now I’m in the laundry room, taking a load of gis out of the washer. The gis are double weave, 100 percent cotton, and the damp heap weighs quite a lot. It’s my job to get them as clean and white as possible, leaving no traces of blood, dirt, or other stains. I inspect them one more time before putting them in the dryer, all the while thinking that it would be nice to somehow sneak out to the café across the street and have a hot ham-and-cheese croissant or maybe a mushroom-and-goat-cheese omelet and some home fries. Ah, but that’s pure fantasy. All I have upstairs is oatmeal. I guess that will have to do.

  Hiroji sticks his head in.

  “There is somebody to see you at the front desk.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Says he’s your uncle.”

  “Is Liam around?”

  “Upstairs having coffee.”

  I shut the dryer door, set the timer, and then limp to the front desk, wondering what the hell is going on and who the visitor might be. I don’t have any uncles. In fact, after our grandfather passed away, it is just Danilo and I—no other relatives at all.

  The man standing here is probably in his mid or late fifties and is tall and well built. He has short salt-and-pepper hair, a short beard, and very dark eyes.

  I have an unpleasant pang in my stomach when I see him. “What are you doing here, Sergey?”

  He winces and I know why. He prefers that people address him by his first name and patronymic, Sergey Petrovich, but I’ll be damned if I give him that respect.

  “Hello, Sasha. So good to see you. I would say you are looking well, but I would be lying. You look exhausted and too thin. Still beautiful of course, but far too thin. And what’s with the limp?” His heavy Russian accent grates on my nerves.

  “What do you want, Sergey?”

  “No need to be rude, is there? Just stopped by to see my friend.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “Well, the sister of my friend.”

  “Again, you gotta be fucking kidding.”

  “Language, Sasha. You picked up such bad manners living in this place among boys. You’ve been here for too long. How old are you these days, beauty?”

  I do not answer.

  “Let’s see. Your brother is twenty-seven and he is four years older than you, correct? Perfect, you are just the right age.”

  “The right age for what?”

  This time he does not answer, just stands there looking at me in an evaluating manner.

  “Did you come for the money, Sergey? I don’t have it here. But I will get it to you in a couple days. And then leave Danilo alone. You hear me?”

  “Ha-ha-ha. Now it is my turn to ask if you are kidding. Do you really think I ever personally come to collect debts? I am a proponent of division of labor, ha-ha-ha.”

  He thinks he is being funny.

  “Whatever. I will get you the money, and Danilo will not set foot at 2 Gild Street ever again, and we will have nothing to do with you, ever.”

  “Why talk about money?” he makes a face. “It absolutely goes against my upbringing to discuss money with a woman. I am a perfect gentleman. There are some things a gentleman just does not do.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that shit,” I say and start walking away. Sergey grabs my arm to stop me. I turn brusquely and apply a classical rotational wristlock. During practice on the mat, my partner would flip over his own arm to prevent his wrist from breaking. Sergey instead starts sinking down on his knees sort of sideways, grimacing in pain. I was being careful and did not do it hard enough to cause any serious damage, but I know it still hurt a lot and a muscle or a tendon could have been pulled.

  I release the wristlock and Sergey straightens up and, looking quite angry, actually tries to punch me with his uninjured hand. So much for his being a gentleman. I intercept the punch, rotate his arm so that his shoulder is down and his wrist is up, and put him in an elbow-hyperextending arm bar. He attempts to get out of it, but I apply more pressure on his elbow and with each move he just causes himself more pain. The elbow is such a delicate joint and it takes precision and self-restraint on my part not to dislocate it now.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” Hiroji calls out from the door of the laundry room.

  “Fine,” I reply and keep pinning Sergey down.

  Finally Sergey taps out. I let go and he emits a few colorful Russian expletives under his breath while bending and straightening his arm several times to make sure the elbow is intact and is working all right. Then quite unexpectedly he smiles and nods his head in approval. “Hey, this is what I am talking about. You are good. You are very good. I’ll go now, but I will be seeing you. We have a lot to discuss.”

  “No, we do not.”

  “Indeed, we do. I will definitely be seeing you again, beauty. I hear you’re taking your examinations in a few days. Relatives and friends are invited to watch, correct? I will be sure to stop by.”

  How the hell does he know about the black-belt examinations?

  Damn, the upcoming event is a rather sensitive topic for me.

  In order to be promoted to the next rank, which for me would be Nidan, second-degree black belt, you must win a certain number of competitions, which I already have. Afterward however come the examinations. They are the most important, difficult, and spectacular part of the passage to the next rank. There have been a few occurrences when a martial artist who competed successfully in tournaments, then performed poorly at the examinations and was not promoted.

  Only Sensei determines if you are qualified to test for the next rank. I did have high hopes that I would be allowed to participate in the examinations this year. I felt I was ready. I was waiting that any day now Sensei would let me know. In fact, most everybody at the dojo already took it for granted that I was testing and were wishing me good luck. But the stupid accident in today’s morning class has ruined everything. And it’s not about the broken toes not healing in time—I could not care less about that, I can deal with the pain all right. But Sensei saw my failure on the mat. A martial artist worthy to try for a Nidan does not lose focus on the mat, no matter what. None of it is Sergey’s business though.

  He goes away waving goodbye as he walks, then turns around and blows me a kiss. He smiles, then almost instantaneously the smile disappears, and his face gains a serious and focused expression, and he looks at me attentively for a few moments, as if appraising me. I feel uncomfortable under that heavy stare, but I do not turn away and I hold his gaze. Sergey smiles again and disappears down the stairs.

  In less than an hour, while I am still busy with the chores, a delivery guy brings a bag for me. In it there is a variety of freshly prepared breakfast items, enough food for several people. I know Sergey has sent it, and my first impulse is to throw everything out, but I am just too hungry and the food smells so good. I unwrap a ham-and-cheese croissant and bite into it.

  Chapter 4

  The noise from the old industrial-size vacuum cleaner is deafening, and its cord has a tendency to snake around on the floor and try to trip me. I kick the infernal mac
hine in desperation. Well, at least we only bring it out on special occasions. But damn it, why do I have to be the one vacuuming? Oh, of course neither Liam nor Hiroji can be bothered with this chore. Being the lowest in rank among the uchi-deshi, it’s me who has to do it. I do miss the days when we had the fourth uchi-deshi, who was the same rank as me. He was a quiet and hard-working guy who, in rare moments of free time, liked to make sketches of martial artists performing various techniques. Said it helped him understand the dynamics of the movement. Someone once called him “Leonardo da Vinci,” then it was shortened to Da Vinci, then to Dav and that was what everybody called him.

  So strange that nobody talks about him. Last week in the locker room when Martine was asking questions about his disappearance was the first time in a long while somebody had brought him up.

  The vacuum cleaner is so loud it’s shutting out my own thoughts and the whole world around. For a while I’m working almost on autopilot, my head filled to the brim with the noise. Suddenly, as I look up, I see Liam’s figure towering over me and his lips moving emphatically, but I can’t hear a word he is saying. The cringe on his face reflects an infinite irritation, and I can guess that the owner of the cringing face has been taking a nap upstairs and been woken by the roar of the vacuum cleaner.

  Liam gestures for me to shut it off.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, clearly a rhetorical question. “Sensei is taking a nap.”

  Sensei. Yeah right. There is a very visible pillow mark on Liam’s cheek.

  “I thought Sensei went out for an early dinner with his guests?” As is customary every year, some of Sensei’s friends, very high-ranked martial artists from Japan, came to NYC a few days ahead of the Winter Assembly. “Didn’t he cancel the evening classes because of the upcoming snowstorm?”

  Liam’s eyes narrow and he gives me an evil look. “Go clean the toilets now,” he orders.