He says this to me, Danilo’s sister, so casually, so matter-of-factly. What a bastard. Standing in such close proximity to him, I can clearly see the neatly trimmed hairs in his nostrils, the pores on his face, the clusters of small moles on his neck where his beard ends, and the exact location of carotid arteries, and somehow I can’t help but visualize my arm around his neck in a choke hold, tightening against those carotid arteries for a few seconds, restricting the blood flow to the brain and putting that smug face into a sudden sleep.
“I am just being honest with you, beauty. That’s one thing you can always expect from me, honesty. So, hear me out. I invite you into the Dark Fights. No-gloves, no-rules bouts attended by select public paying high dollars. Everything done in complete secret. Fighters do not know each other and only see their opponent when they step into the cage. No real names ever. No word gets out. It will not affect your training at the dojo. I strongly believe you will be a great success. With your superb martial arts skills and your looks, you will shine. Unlike your no-good brother, you have strong discipline. You train hard and are a real martial artist. You will win and make a lot of money. What do you say?”
“I say go to hell. Your Dark Fights are fucking illegal bloodbaths,” I shout into Sergey’s ear. The music has just been turned up, making a conversation in normal voices impossible.
“I strongly prefer the term ‘underground matches.’”
“Difference in terminology.”
“Ha-ha-ha, I like your spirit. I believe we will work very well together.”
“I believe you should get the fuck out of here.”
“You are refusing my invitation? And in such a rude manner! I might even get offended. You know, it is not my habit to recruit fighters personally. I usually prefer to stay in the deep shadows, so to speak. No fighter gets to know that I run the show. But I’ve made an exception for you! I came for you myself. And you treat me this way. Wait, we are not finished . . .” He wants to say something else, but at that moment we are interrupted.
“Come, Sasha! They are making caipirinhas!” Martine grabs my arm and pulls me in the direction of the bar. “Come on! They are delicious. We must drink to your success. Everybody is talking about how awesome you were on the mat.”
Sergey looks Martine over from head to toe, his eyes narrowing in that unpleasant evaluating manner that I have seen before. His gaze rests on her muscular arms, broad shoulders, and strong neck. Then he turns to me again, lifts his hands up, and makes an applauding gesture.
“Your friend is right. Indeed you were magnificent on the mat. It does warrant a drink and a celebration. Enjoy!”
As I walk away with Martine, I turn my head and see Sergey’s hands up above the crowd, applauding. A cold shudder runs through me, leaving behind a bitter taste, as if a premonition of something terrible to come. He is a dangerous man, that Sergey. Oh, I do hope that after the horrors of the Dark Fight my brother has finally realized it too and will now stay away from him.
*****
A visitor from Brazil has found all the necessary ingredients—cachaça, lime, sugar, and ice—and is mixing caipirinhas at the improvised bar. He makes a huge pitcher and Martine takes a sip from it and declares the drink is not strong enough. The Brazilian looks a bit offended that his mixology skills have been put to doubt, and he and Martine argue for a while. Then the party spirit prevails and he pours more cachaça into the pitcher.
I rarely, if ever, drink alcohol. I cannot say I don’t enjoy how light, cheerful, and carefree it makes me feel, but the effects the next day cancel all that out. It’s really difficult to train when your head weighs a ton and your whole body is sluggish and weak. Right now, however, being so worked up and angry after the conversation with Sergey, I decide to have a drink. I need to drown the unpleasantly dark and ominous sensation that has been building up inside me for a while, which increased tenfold just now. The caipirinha tastes smooth and sweet and goes down very easy. Cheered on by Martine, I finish my whole glass.
I don’t know how many drinks Martine has already had tonight. That girl can really drink. She often brags that she can drink like a man. I think she can actually outdrink any man, and the alcohol does not have any significant effect on her except that she gets very flirtatious and goes with great assertiveness after her chosen targets. For a moment Hiroji gets scared that he might be her objective for the night and escapes from her behind the counter. She then focuses her attention on the young Brazilian mixologist, who welcomes her advances with eagerness, and for a while he and Martine make various toasts and clink glasses together. In the meantime I am chatting with other people in the group, and they all want to drink with me to my Nidan.
At some point I realize that Martine has abandoned her Brazilian conquest and is now standing very close to me, pressing her hip against mine.
“Hey, who was that man you were talking to before, by the water fountain?” she asks while refilling my glass.
“No one,” I reply quickly. “My uncle,” I add after a short pause. I can’t quite explain why, but I have decided to go along with Sergey’s cover of being my uncle.
“Well, did you see how he looked at me? Do you think he liked me or something? He might be a bit too old for me, ha-ha.”
“Don’t be stupid, Martine. And stay away from that man. For your own good.”
“Chill, girl, I was just kidding. You are so tense.” She puts her hand on my back and starts massaging it. A little while later she pours more caipirinha for me and clinks her glass to mine.
As the caipirinhas take effect, the dark heaviness inside me gives way to a light pleasant sensation. I can have fun and be a part of this festive night just like everyone else. I can enjoy the laughter, the easy inconsequential conversations. Somebody asks me to dance and I readily accept and we go to the mat area where they have set up the sound system and a bunch of people are already dancing. I dance with one guy after the other giving in to the enjoyment of the music, the movements, the flirtation. Male hands are on my back, my hips, and my butt. I don’t seem to mind, floating in some sort of a colorful fog. At one point I realize I am dancing with Martine, her strong arms leading me in the dance pressing my body against hers, and her mouth chewing on a strand of my hair near my ear. My chignon has by now collapsed, releasing my long, unwashed hair, but I couldn’t care less at the moment.
*****
Someone puts another drink in my hand and I finish this one, too, as I walk around looking for something or someone. In a momentary flash of awareness I realize it is Liam I am trying to find. Yes, I’ve gotten off the improvised dance floor because suddenly I had a feeling his dark, severe eyes were following my every move. Now I need to find him and ask him something. What it is I want to ask I am not completely sure, I just know it’s important I talk to him. I have no idea what time it is, but it must be really late as a number of visitors have started taking their leave.
Even though it is not as crowded as before, I still can’t find Liam, and soon I give up and join a group of my friends, martial artists from the Dojo. They always stay until the very end of the party, or rather, their eventual departure in the early morning hours marks the end of the Winter Assembly festivity every year. I have another drink with them, not sure if it is still a caipirinha or something else, as I can’t quite taste what I am drinking anymore.
At some point I hurry into the locker room to use the bathroom, suddenly feeling like my bladder is fuller than it has ever been. I have trouble squatting unsteadily over the toilet. It takes some time and my quadriceps start cramping up. Later, standing at the sink, I stare for a long while in the mirror and do not know whom these dark unfocused eyes with their deep shadows and these salient cheekbones surrounded by long messy hair belong to. I am now feeling pretty dizzy and nauseous and splash some cold water onto my face, but it does not help much. I sit down on the floor in the locker room, my back against the bench
, and close my eyes.
When I open them again, Liam is sitting on the floor next to me.
“What are you doing in the women’s locker room?” I ask.
He does not answer and just looks at me. “You’re drunk,” he finally says.
“So? You’re drunk too.”
“Yep. Very.”
We sit silently for a few minutes. I remember now what it was I so urgently wanted to talk to him about, but I can’t bring myself to open my mouth and just say what’s on my mind. My head feels so heavy. I really want to close my eyes again and go to sleep. Liam reaches over and touches my bare leg, moving his hand up from my knee to my thigh. He gets to the line of my dress, pauses for a moment, and keeps moving his fingers up along with the dress, exposing more and more of my skin. My reactions slowed down, at first I am just watching his hand. When it touches my panties I finally wake up and push his hand away forcefully. He turns toward me and tries to kiss me and I elbow him in the stomach. He does not try anything else and just sits motionless for a while.
“What the hell, Sasha?” he then says. “You dance with all these idiots, flirt with them all night. What about me?”
“What about you?”
“How am I supposed to feel?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“What the fuck am I talking about?! I am talking about you and me. Or you just erased it all from your memory? How convenient!”
“It was one night last year. One night.”
“Yeah, because you didn’t want me anymore.”
“Wrong. You know I wanted you. It wasn’t the right time. It was not right. Both of us living here, training. It just wasn’t right.” How does he not understand this? It wasn’t like those one-night-stands people have after meeting in a bar. Liam and I were close, and I had feelings for him, and that one night was amazing, but it couldn’t continue. There are no express rules against a romantic relationship between the head uchi-deshi and a junior uchi-deshi—probably because there was no precedent for anything like that—but I was certain Sensei would not have allowed it anyway. I chose my training. I tried to explain this to Liam before—he never believed me.
“Bullshit! You simply didn’t want to be with me. Why settle for one guy when you have so many admirers, so many guys to sleep with.”
“Why are you insulting me? You know I don’t sleep around. I do nothing but train.”
I am feeling really dizzy and try to focus on one point on the wall to stop the room from going in circles. Liam wants me to look at him and takes my chin and makes me turn my head. He moves a strand of my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear, and then tries to kiss me again. I push him away and stubbornly remove that strand of hair from behind my ear.
“I know you are not sleeping around, but there is someone, isn’t there? Someone you like?” he asks with pressing insistence.
“None of your business! What the fuck are you doing? One minute you sabotage my examination, the next you try to kiss me. That tanto switch was a fucking dangerous thing to do. Don’t think I don’t know it was you who did it. You are so fucked up, Liam.”
So, there it is. I’ve said out loud to him what I wanted to say all evening. But it seems he has not heard a word.
“There is someone else then?” he asks, focused entirely on one thing. “I knew it. Who is he?”
“Oh, go to hell.”
“Fuck this shit.” He gets up and storms out of the changing room, hitting the doorframe with his shoulder.
*****
Coming out of the changing room on my unsteady legs I discover the reception area empty. I go toward the stairs and stand at the landing for a few minutes deliberating whether to go up and lie down in my room or go downstairs and hang out for a bit with the remaining people who must have stepped outside for a smoke or fresh air and whose voices and laughter I can hear. I choose to go downstairs as I don’t feel like being by myself right now, alone with my thoughts and the spinning walls.
I am just about to make the first step down the stairs, when someone’s hands push me hard in the back and I go rolling down the whole length of the steep stairway, hit my head on I don’t know what, and black out.
When I come to, my first instinct is to get up as fast as I can. I have no idea for how long I’ve been out. Maybe I am still in danger and need to put up a fight against the invisible opponent. Trying to stand up, however, I see moving spots before my eyes and feel extremely nauseous and throw up. I then realize that there are people around me, multiple friendly arms trying to sit me back down, concerned kind voices, and the words concussion and ER pronounced several times. I think at that moment I start laughing. That laughter must sound very odd and rather scary to everyone. I suppose they believe I am in shock. I probably am. A heavy pain is driving through my head, shredding my rational thinking process into tiny fragments. Out of that painful chaos one thought emerges and sticks, and for some reason I find it funny—looks like I am going to the hospital after all. If the tanto did not quite manage to do it, then the push down the stairs did.
Chapter 8
On December 31st the last class of the year starts at eleven thirty at night. It is an old tradition at the dojo to meet the New Year on the mat training. No visitors are allowed in this unique class. Only some twenty or thirty of the most dedicated regular dojo students and us, the three uchi-deshi, are here.
Sensei is in a very good mood, smiling and telling jokes, and the overall ambience on the mat is intimate, light, and festive. We are practicing a standing ude-garami—a top shoulder lock—also called a figure-four lock. I like joint manipulation techniques a lot and ude-garami is one of my favorites, but I also know that Sensei tends to do them in conjunction with a throw, and so I’m a bit nervous about what’s coming. These days, hard throws are not exactly within my comfortable range.
Yep, I was right. Soon Sensei calls a combination of ude-garami and a throw. It is a pretty brutal technique and I can feel every muscle in my body tense up. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sensei look at me. I think he half expects me to ask permission to sit this technique out. But I don’t want to do that. I will keep on training.
I am partnered with Hiroji and he performs all the motions including the cranking of my shoulder and elbow very hard, but at the very last moment, right before the actual throw, he lets up and puts me on the ground very smoothly. I breathe out with relief and move my lips in a silent thank you to Hiroji. He does not say anything but gives me a slight nod of the head.
After my fall down the stairs and the resulting concussion, Hiroji has proved a really good friend. I was back on the mat within a few days but haven’t been able to take hard falls yet without feeling dizzy and getting a headache. Doctors said that the symptoms would soon go away, but for now my training has been somewhat limited, and Hiroji has been very protective, partnering with me often and making sure I am being thrown in a controlled manner. He also started teaching me how to take ukemi—all types of breakfalls—the Hiroji-style.
Practicing traditional Japanese martial arts, which originated in combating fully armored samurai on the battlefield and developed a system of the most effective techniques—joint locks, choke holds, pins, and, above all, throws—it is inevitable that you are going to be thrown down hard innumerable times. So it is crucial to acquire safe breakfall skills early on in order to minimize the risk of significant injury.
During training sometimes we do up to a hundred breakfalls in one class, and Hiroji has really perfected his way of taking ukemi, focusing on adjusting body positions in the air in such a way so as to land on the mat as safely as possible, even when being thrown extremely hard. What he is able to do with his body might sometimes even seem to be beyond human capability, but I know it is just many years of dedicated practice. Often at nighttime he goes onto the mat and works on his ukemi alone for hours on end.
; In the past he has pointed out to me that my ukemi needs improvement. Sometimes when I am being thrown, my body angles are off, he says, which exposes me to potential injuries upon hitting the mat. That’s why he was looking at me so critically that time on the mat when Liam was throwing me really hard in a shoulder throw. Hiroji did not think my ukemi was good enough. And after my fall down the staircase he even went so far as to tell me that if I had had better ukemi, I might have been able to roll down the stairs in a more controlled manner and possibly avoid the bad concussion. He says it’s a matter of getting your body accustomed to taking perfect ukemi, no matter what the circumstances of the throw might be. So now he’s taken to instructing me in his method of taking ukemi, and I am so very grateful to him for sharing his skills and secret knowledge, which he has worked years on acquiring and perfecting and is really not obligated to reveal to anyone.
A few minutes before midnight, the training pauses, we watch the Times Square Ball Drop on the big screen, drink a glass of symbolic non-alcoholic champagne, hug each other, and then get back on the mat for another hour of training. Afterward, everyone takes a shower and gathers in the reception area for real drinks and dinner. It is not a loud rambunctious party as the one during the Winter Assembly. This one is more intimate and quiet, though people will most likely stay up until morning, drinking and talking. The food is also better and more substantial than what was served to the hundreds of visitors. Sensei is treating and has ordered from a nearby restaurant, and there are delicious mini cheeseburgers, salads, roast beef with grilled vegetables and roasted potatoes, and cheesecake and two types of pie for dessert.
Throughout the dinner I try to call Danilo several times, but he does not pick up. When he finally answers the phone, I abandon my food and hurry up to my room to have a quiet conversation with my brother. After a few minutes I grab my coat and come out onto the roof, because it is nearing two o’clock and I want to be able to see the street down below. It is freezing up here and I am wearing a dress, the same short off-white dress as on the previous occasion, since it’s pretty much the only dress I have—all my other clothing being gis, sweats, hoodies, sweaters, and jeans. I would have been more comfortable in jeans and a sweater of course, but I had my reasons for putting on the dress tonight. Now, standing on the roof I am very cold and I wrap my coat tight around me and pull the hood low over my face. I can still feel the frozen wind, especially on my legs, but don’t want to go inside.
The Dark Fights Page 8