The Dark Fights

by Alexandra Vinarov

  “Don’t think about it, there’ll be other gigs.”

  He sighs deeply. “I want to show you something. I was watching this movie. Here, look, there is a scene in Amsterdam. What do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “About Amsterdam. Look, look at the screen, Sash. Don’t you think it’s a beautiful town? Look at all the old buildings.”

  “There’s plenty of old buildings in New York.”

  “But Amsterdam has all these canals.”

  “There is the East River couple blocks away.”

  “Not the same thing. Look, you can even live on a boat in Amsterdam. And there is a casino right in downtown. Isn’t it cool? That’s one thing New York does not have—a conveniently located, real casino.”

  “And yet you still manage to find spots to gamble here, don’t you? Isn’t 2 Gild Street where all the action takes place?”

  He ignores my snarky remark.

  “I think I might want to chuck everything and move to Amsterdam.”

  Here we go. He gets these ideas into his head every once in a while. They never amount to anything. Last time it was Lucerne. Now it’s Amsterdam. Always a town with a casino.

  Danny, Danny. There was a time when he was truly passionate about martial arts. He was very good, so limber and so strong on the mat. He trained in judo, sambo, and Russian hand-to-hand fighting. But then one day, he came home all excited saying he would not go to the next day competition because instead he had a modeling gig. That first shoot went really well. I wasn’t surprised at all. My brother being so handsome and fit—of course he was going to be a great model.

  I suppose somebody with more internal discipline and strength could have balanced martial arts and modeling, but Danny could not. Very soon the scale started tipping. There was more and more after-the-shoot partying and drinking all night with his new friends and less and less training. And when he did show up for training, he was too hungover and sluggish and couldn’t do much. Strangely enough, he didn’t give up competing, but in competitions you are only as good as your training.

  And then Sergey appeared, or rather reappeared, because I am pretty certain I remember his face from long ago, from when I was very little, and our parents were alive. Danilo says he just chanced upon him one night at some party or such. Hmm, I am not so sure how accidental that was. I don’t trust this Sergey person at all. He got his talons into my brother pretty hard, although I could not understand what he wanted from him. But he introduced him to gambling and got him really hooked on it, taking him often to his illegal gambling dens and to all the “best parties.” The gambling, the drinking, the vertiginous heights and rock-bottom lows with money—this has been my Danny’s existence, and for a while now I’ve had such a heavy feeling about him, always half-expecting that something really bad will happen to him and hoping so much that it will not. This feeling doesn’t leave me, even when I am very busy, training—it’s always inside me, weighing down on me.

  Just before Grandpa passed away several years ago, he told me that even though Danny is older than me, I’m the stronger sibling, and I should take care of my brother. I don’t think I have been doing a very good job. “Danilo, can you shut this off,” I say pointing to the screen, “I need to talk to you. Can we talk, please?”

  He turns the movie off, leans back, and puts his head on the cushion. His eyes are cloudy and his mouth is slightly opened in that unnatural smile. I don’t think he is in a condition to have a serious conversation now, but I don’t know when I will have another opportunity.

  “It was Sergey who had you beaten up, wasn’t it?”

  “Hmm, well, not exactly. It wasn’t like that.”

  “What do you mean? I thought you owed him money and wouldn’t pay and he had his people beat you up.”

  “You’ve seen too many Guy Ritchie movies.”

  “Danilo!”

  “All right, well, I do owe him money, but . . .”

  “But what? Damn it, Danny. Talk to me.”

  “Well, he had me do a Dark Fight.”

  Dark Fights. Didn’t Martine mention these words in the locker room? But she didn’t explain what they meant.

  I look at Danilo questioningly. “A Dark Fight,” he repeats, his voice rising and becoming almost shrill. “Yes. And I did it. And if I had won, it would have erased the whole debt.” He is talking very fast now. Agitated he leans forward, beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead. “But I lost, damn it, I lost.”

  “What’s a Dark Fight?”

  He does not hear me. His previous outburst seems to have exhausted him and he slumps back into the cushions and closes his eyes.

  “Danny?”

  “What?”

  “Tell me about the Dark Fight.”

  He sighs. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I am tired.”

  “Please.”

  He shakes his head and starts the movie again. “Let’s just watch this together. And I’m going to have another drink.”

  I get up from the couch and put on my coat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I am going.” I feel pretty frustrated. I wish I could get more information out of him about these Dark Fights, but it would be useless to try now.

  “What about the food?” he asks.

  “Not hungry.”

  As I walk out of the apartment, I remember to leave some money on the shelf near the door—for Danny to pay when the Japanese food arrives.

  *****

  Outside it is quiet and lovely, the streets blanketed with a fresh white layer that has not yet had time to turn into a dirty slush. The snowfall has dwindled to a few large snowflakes, each one very visible when caught in the brightness of a streetlight. There are few cars and only a handful of people out. All the sounds are muffled, the dirty smells masked, the garbage and the rats invisible. The city looks its most beautiful—a fairytale-like, but short-lived and deceitful beauty. I breathe in deeply, filling my lungs with the fresh frosty air as I walk around the neighborhood, trying to dissipate the heavy, ominous feeling inside me, but not quite succeeding. Danilo’s oxycodoned and whiskeyed voice pursues me and cuts through the enchantment of the night.

  The Dark Fights. I just can’t get these words out of my head. In the locker room, all Martine told me was that she had overheard Liam and Hiroji mention them at some point and was very curious herself. Strange. Well, one thing’s for sure, if Sergey is behind these Dark Fights, they must be a nefarious and dangerous thing, and I need to get my brother out of all that.

  Having walked west, I find myself standing in front of the Met, gazing absentmindedly at this impressive building. I walk up Fifth Avenue alongside Central Park for a bit and then turn back into the streets. On ninety-something they’re filming a movie. There are several vans parked, many lights, and a large crew. I pause on the south side of the street to watch. Quite a few people have gathered and the crew members ask us to stay on this side, as they are filming a scene on the other. We all stand and watch as the director explains something to the actors, moving his arms emphatically, and a car involved in the scene backs up and moves forward innumerable times, and a girl in tight black leather pants gets in and out of the car. We discuss which movie it might be and someone says that it’s actually an episode of a series that is currently airing. A crew member signals to us to be quiet each time they start shooting.

  They shoot and reshoot the scene at least ten times and I never knew it took so long to get one tiny scene. I am getting tired of watching the car drive up to the curb and the girl in tight leather get out of it again and again. I am about to walk away when there is finally new development. A guy comes out of a building and pulls out a gun and another guy throws him down in what is a rather awkward hip throw.

  “Nah, that does not look right,” a loud voice to my right comments.

&
nbsp; A crew member overhears and is visibly irritated. “What does not look right?”

  “That throw. Not realistic at all.” The voice has a familiar accent.

  “And who are you?” The crew member asks.

  “Me? Nobody. Just a passerby.”

  “Well, then keep passing by.”

  The man smiles a sort of a condescending smile, starts walking away, but then pauses, turns around, and looks directly at me. I come up to him.

  “He at least should have tried to get the kuzushi and the footwork right, no?” I ask the man in the fisherman’s sweater. Without the kuzushi—unbalancing the opponent—the throw looked really artificial. You cannot throw somebody who is so firmly planted on his feet unless he is basically letting you do it or is just jumping over you.

  “So you know martial arts?” the man smiles, this time a nice, genuine smile.

  I smile back at him.

  “And is your boyfriend also a martial artist?”

  “My boyfriend?”

  “The guy in the ER, with the broken face.”

  “My brother. And . . . well, he is sort of a martial artist, or used to be. He doesn’t train much these days.” I look away, lost in my thoughts for a moment. Then I glance back at the man in the fisherman’s sweater.

  “Why are you looking at me so suspiciously,” he asks.

  “No, it’s just . . . it seems a bit strange that we should run into each other again.”

  “Why strange? We probably live in the same neighborhood is all. Now that the snow has stopped, everybody’s out for a walk. Don’t you ever run into the same people around here?”

  I don’t answer. I know life is full of coincidences, but for some reason it’s always hard for me to write them off as such.

  “You’re too suspicious.” He wrinkles up the corners of his eyes. “You don’t think I have been tracking you, now do you? I’m not nearly as romantic or crazy to be tracking a girl, even if she is as beautiful as you are. Besides, it was you who approached me now. And I am glad that you did.”

  I am still just looking at him without saying anything.

  “You been living around here long?”

  I am not sure how to answer this simple question. I am not technically living in this neighborhood now, but yeah, Danny and I were very little when we came to live here with our grandfather in his rent-stabilized one-bedroom on 82nd street after our parents died. And when Grandpa passed away, the friendly super didn’t let the landlord know, and we were able to keep the apartment. I sum this all up with an affirmative nod. The man in the fisherman’s sweater returns my nod and smiles.

  “Are you hungry, neighbor? I am hungry and I don’t want to eat alone,” he declares all of a sudden. “Let’s go have dinner.”

  It does not sound as a question but as a definite statement. I notice that all his sentences have a very convinced, confident ring to them. In other people it would have annoyed me, but in this man somehow I find it very appealing.

  “I’d like to . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well . . .”

  He thinks I live around here. I can come up with an excuse, some lie, of why I don’t have much time for dinner. But for some reason I don’t want to lie to him. And then, without giving it another thought, I just tell this unknown man the truth about my training in an ancient Japanese martial art, being an uchi-deshi and living in a traditional dojo with very strict rules, sneaking out tonight to see my convalescing brother, and having to be back before the head uchi-deshi gets in. I am amazed at my sudden openness. I never tell people about myself.

  “An uchi-deshi, huh? Did not know a thing like that existed in the modern-day New York. Definitely sounds like something out of the past centuries Japan. Well, tell you what, uchi-deshi girl, we go and have a bite to eat now and then I drive you to the dojo myself. Yes?”

  “You have a car?”

  “Yup, parked a few blocks up.”

  “And I’ll be back at the dojo by midnight?”

  “Guaranteed, Cinderella. Any more questions? ’Cause we can certainly stand on this corner and talk some more or we can go, say, into that restaurant over there and continue the conversation inside. You know, where it’s warm and there’s food.”

  As we walk toward the bistro, he notices me limp slightly and nods questioningly at my foot.

  “Nothing. A couple of broken toes.”

  He gives me a long and attentive look. “Tough girl.”

  *****

  In the French place, over a meal of duck a l’orange, I learn that the man in the fisherman’s sweater is called Drago and that I was wrong about his accent. He is not from Eastern Europe but from the Balkans and has lived in New York for ten years. He is a fifth dan in judo and a two-time national champion—and besides judo he has had other martial arts training, something to do with his previous work in Europe. That part—about his other martial arts training and his previous work in Europe—he is not very, if at all, willing to talk about.

  I listen to his every word with great attention. Everything about this man seems exceptionally interesting to me. Noting the manner of his speech and his body motions I get an impression that he would behave the same self-assured and confident way in any situation, that there is nothing in this world that might make him lose his cool. As first impressions go, it might be wrong of course.

  At the very beginning of the meal the waiter comes over and asks, “How’s everything.” A standard question, to which I give an expected reply, “everything looks great, thanks.”

  “We’ll see,” is what the man in the fisherman’s sweater answers instead.

  A small detail, but it makes me think that perhaps this man does not like to follow social rules and conventions. He must have his own set of rules according to which he lives. I wonder what they are.

  “Do you want dessert?” he asks after we are done with the duck.

  It’s been a long time since I had a dessert. Sugar is bad for your muscles and makes you feel sluggish on the mat.

  He notices my hesitation. “You should get one. Find something good.”

  I choose a Tarte Tatin. When the waiter brings it, Drago asks for the check, pays it right away, and gets up.

  “Stay, don’t rush,” he answers my silent question. “Eat your tarte and come outside in fifteen minutes.”

  I can’t say that I have a vast dating experience, but I went on a number of dates before I moved into the dojo, and so I’m pretty sure it is not a standard procedure to leave your date at the table alone and give her precise instructions as when to leave. But I have already realized that I am dealing with a rather extraordinary man here, one who has his own way of doing things.

  When I step out of the restaurant, he smiles to me from inside his car. “Your carriage is served, your ladyship. It will get you to your castle by midnight, as promised. Hope it won’t turn into a pumpkin afterward.”

  Driving on the streets of New York is a special skill and getting into a car you tend to wonder whether your driver has truly mastered it. Could be a hit or a miss. You never know. You might get someone who blends in seamlessly with the chaotic picture made up of other vehicles, streetlights, bicyclists, and pedestrians. Or you get a driver who proceeds with jerky motions and erratic changes of speed and is unnerved by such a common thing as one or two persons crossing an empty avenue on red light late at night. Even cabbies, who are supposed to be professionals, often times make me quite tense. But with Drago at the wheel, I relax completely. I have never seen such mastery of driving, such confidence and smoothness on the road. Perhaps this man does everything with great skill and this same calm assuredness. It’s as if his inner strength shines through in all of his actions. I find it amazingly attractive.

  Drago turns into 16th Street and finds a parking spot. We sit and talk for a few minutes. I know I must go very soo
n because I absolutely cannot risk Liam returning home before me and settling on his red couch for the night, but I really don’t want to get out of this car, to say goodbye to Drago. It seems almost impossible that I should open the door and walk away from him. I don’t think I have ever felt this attracted to anybody before. Such attraction cannot be one-sided. I don’t have a logical explanation for why, but it strikes me as absolutely inconceivable that he should not be feeling the same as I am at this moment. It is as if there are invisible threads pulling us together, and if I can feel their pull, so can he, I am certain of it.

  I reach over and touch Drago’s arm. His sleeves are rolled and I move my fingers up along his arm, from the wrist to the elbow. The feel of his skin is intoxicating, and the sensation goes through my whole body. I am not sure I know what I am doing. Never before have I initiated physical contact with a man, not like this. He leans in and kisses me with intensity and strength. I pull back and look him in the eyes for a few moments. I touch his face with my fingers, tracing a line from a cheekbone to the chin. Then I bring my face closer to his, past that point where you can look at the eyes, closer still, and then feel his lips with mine gently and softly. When he tries to kiss me, I pull back slightly, and then move in again. I brush my lips against his lower lip, touch his upper lip lightly with my tongue, and bite it a little bit. At that he starts kissing me again, with even greater intensity than before, putting his hand behind my head and pulling me toward him.

  At first, I am very aware of his tongue and his teeth, but then everything gets rather hazy and the lines are blurred, our mouths are so melted together. I don’t know how long it lasts and who breaks it off. Suddenly we are just looking at each other.

  “Wow,” he whispers.

  “What?” I ask. My voice sounds strange and unknown to me.

  He does not reply and takes my hand and puts his lips to it

  “I have to go, Drago.”