After we exchange a few tentative punches, I shoot in for a kata guruma, the fireman’s throw. I get under her, wrapping my arm around her thigh, a move that is illegal in many sanctioned fights. I load her on my shoulders and drop her forward onto the canvas, rolling on top of her.
Kata guruma is really a visually stunning technique, and right away the audience erupts in applause and cheering. But this seemingly brilliant move doesn’t give me much advantage, because now we are both on the floor, and Formidable Freya demonstrates amazing groundwork skills. We attempt a series of arm bars and leg locks and I can barely escape from her juji gatame—a perpendicular arm bar executed in a supine position.
Back on our feet, Formidable Freya’s fist connects heavily with my jaw. It rattles me quite a bit, but I’m pretty sure that with the punch she’s done damage to her hand, maybe even broken a bone. Still, she manages to deal me a couple of hard ones, right on the breasts, though I myself have completely refrained from hitting her in that specific area.
As she attempts a kick to my ribs, I catch her leg, move in, throw her down, step over her leg, and get her in a knee bar. I know she must be in a lot of pain, and I think she might tap out now. That doesn’t happen. Formidable Freya is tough and skilled and is able to get out of the leg lock.
Immediately we scramble back up, I shoot in for an uchi mata—an inner thigh throw. My uchi mata fails, and we move into a clinch, where her looping hook connects with my kidneys. She manages to repeat this sharp stabbing motion several times, and the stinging pain nearly brings me to my knees. She then does a beautiful sacrifice throw, grabbing me and falling backward on the ground, rolling back, and hurling me over her. The motion propels me forward and down hard. Luckily Hiroji’s instruction has improved my ukemi tenfold and I manage to adjust my body angles and fall down safely.
She almost tags my head with a knee. A knee to the head of a downed opponent would be illegal in an authorized fight. At the very last split second I am able to move my head and avoid a potential knockout.
My strongest weapon in this bout are throws that are performed while simultaneously applying joint manipulation. They are prohibited in many competitions. Now, the audience goes wild when I execute them. At one point I have my opponent’s elbow so dangerously locked out that, if I finish the throw, the elbow will just break. This realization flashes across my mind and in a split second I make the decision. Something in me simply refuses to proceed with a technique that will definitively cause her a grievous injury.
I release the control of my opponent’s arm allowing her to escape.
The next instant, pow! I catch a devastating blow from her knee to my stomach.
The brutal knee strike leaves me reeling, and she grabs me and throws me against the fence, where she continues kicking and striking me and then gets me into a guillotine choke, pushing against the fence to make the choke stronger. I am determined to fight it off, tightening my neck muscles, trying to yank her hand off my neck or at least get a bit of the pressure off. None of it works and the choke gets tighter.
I remember what Sergey said about tapping out too soon. So, for a few more seconds I still do all I can to get out of the choke, but it is of no use. Everything starts to darken before my eyes. During training I have been put to sleep on several occasions with this choke. It comes on so suddenly you don’t even have time to realize it. One moment you are still conscious, the next you are waking up from being out and not knowing how much time has lapsed. I don’t want this to happen now and so I tap out. I hope I actually tap out and not just hallucinate doing it. At the very last second before I feel I am going to pass out, the referee pulls my opponent off of me.
*****
The referee announces that the Formidable Freya has won the fight. I get out of the cage and the tattooed guy leads me back into that small bathroom, which I guess has been designated my locker room for the night. There I sit on the bench for a few minutes alone. With the adrenaline still pumping, the exhaustion and the pain have not quite set in yet. My mind is racing. I want to make my thoughts stop but cannot get them under control. I catch myself going over the bout again and again, reliving the most dangerous moments of it. Damn, I don’t think my body had ever performed at such a level before tonight, giving everything it had, working at the height of its capabilities. But then again, never before had I participated in a fight like this, where every wrong move or a split-second-delayed reaction might and probably would cause you a serious injury.
My thoughts are interrupted when a physician comes in. He examines me and to my great relief states that I have not been badly injured. He works on my nose, which is bleeding but is not broken, puts my knuckles in ice and applies ointment to cuts. He also tells me to hold ice to my jaw and head where the opponent’s strikes connected. My head is ringing, but the doctor says I don’t have a concussion. He a rather worried about the repeated strikes to my kidneys. They are very sensitive to the touch now and he says I might be passing blood in my urine for a few days.
I realize that my left elbow hurts like hell. The doctor examines it and says a ligament or tendon might be damaged and that he can put a sling to immobilize my elbow and let it heal. I thank him but refuse the sling.
After the physician leaves, Sergey comes in.
“It was a good fight. Exactly what the audience wanted,” he says. “They loved you. You executed some very spectacular and dangerous techniques. It was great entertainment.”
“Ok.”
“That was a very stupid thing you did though, taking pity on her and not finishing that throw.”
“It would have broken her arm.”
“That should not have been a deterrent. You see, your momentary weakness cost you the win. Your opponent’s injuries, however grievous, should not worry you in the least.”
“Sergey”—I look him full in the eye—”what happens to the fighters who do get badly injured? Do they just get patched up in a bathroom and are then dumped somewhere?”
“That’s right, ha-ha-ha, my men just point them in the direction of the nearest ER and instruct them to say they got beaten up in a rough neighborhood, or better yet to keep their mouths shut altogether, ha-ha-ha.”
He laughs, yet I cannot figure out if he is joking or not.
“You see me in such dark colors.” He puts on a fake horrified expression. “What am I, a monster? No, no. I certainly am not. In really dangerous cases—but I am not talking about a broken arm or rib or such—they do get taken to a hospital and I take care of all the expenses. I pay a lot of money to some really good doctors who provide excellent services and don’t ask questions.”
Yeah. I bet he has a whole network of underworld doctors who “do not ask questions.” Damn it, how far does his empire stretch? Where else does he have people who “do not ask questions?” Police, for sure.
“I look after my fighters,” he declares in a suddenly serious tone of voice, “especially the ones who show great potential. As I want a long-lasting and successful collaboration, I am very generous with them. You will see.”
What? What the hell is he talking about now?
“No!” I say with as much firmness as I can muster. “My fight is done. My brother’s debt is erased. Right?”
“Well, yes. As per our agreement.”
“Good. Then I want to get out of here.”
“Why rush out? Wouldn’t you rather have a few drinks, maybe a late dinner with us?”
“No. I want to go back to the dojo.”
“All right. The car will take you. See you, beauty.”
“No. You will not. It’s all finished.” And I really do believe that accruing this huge debt has served as a sort of shock-therapy for my brother, that he has come to his senses, and that he will have no more dealings with Sergey, ever. And neither will I.
“If you say so.”
I am escorted out, and then
in the company of the first of the white-shirted men retrace my steps along the underground corridors and up the stairs that lead to the back room of Wolf Flannigan’s. The car is waiting for me outside the pub and it takes me back to the corner of 7th Avenue and 16th Street. I walk toward the dojo, but then change my mind. I suddenly feel such a yearning to see the man in the fisherman’s sweater, to be near him, to touch his skin and smell its sense, that even though it is around two o’clock and I know I’ll wake him up, I call and ask if I can come over.
“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice very sleepy. “Should I come pick you up?”
“No, I’ll take a cab. Just tell me the address.”
Chapter 10
The cab turns the corner of 2nd Avenue and 103rd Street, and I see Drago outside walking a huge Rottweiler. He comes up to the driver’s window and pays for my ride. As I get out, I pull the hood of my coat low over my face hoping Drago would not notice, at least not right away, that it is swollen and uneven. In the building entrance the light is pretty bright, but he is not looking at me, busy with picking up his dog and then carrying it all the way up to the third floor.
“She’s old and very sick,” he explains as I follow the pair up the stairs.
Inside the apartment, I immediately ask him to dim the lights. He does not question my request nor makes any comments, and yet somehow I get the feeling that he has already observed the poor condition of my face and is purposefully choosing not to say anything about it.
“You okay?” is all he asks coming up to me and offering to take my coat.
“Yep. Had an overly-intense training today, that’s all,” I say and keep my coat on. Don’t want him to see the attire I have underneath. “I am very cold though. Can I take a hot shower?”
He points toward the bathroom.
“Can I have something to wear? Sweats and a T-shirt or something.”
His eyes are fixed on my face for a moment, taking in, I am sure, every detail. He does not ask anything else though. He goes into the bedroom and brings me clothes, a towel, and a pair of white hotel slippers still in their original packaging.
In the bathroom I peel off with relief the vale tudo shorts and the sports bra, and then stand under the shower for a rather long time, washing my hair and letting the warmth penetrate and revive my stiff beaten-up body.
As I come out, Drago hands me a sweatshirt. “Put this on too. It is cold in the apartment. Are you hungry?”
My first reaction is to say no, but I realize that I am actually starving.
“Here, come, take a look.” He guides me to the fridge. “There are bread and cold cuts. I can make a salad or cook some pasta or eggs.”
“Can I have an egg-and-cheese sandwich and some hot tea?”
“Go sit over there.” He points toward the couch.
I settle down arranging several pillows under my back and my head. The Rottweiler comes over on her unsteady legs and lies down against my feet. I stroke her head and she looks at me out of her kind and sad eyes. A cat jumps down from a shelf and starts walking back and forth across my lap and then finds a spot it likes the best, on a pillow next to my thigh, and lies down. One of the cat’s eyes is hollow. I am not too much of a pet person, but I immediately like the Rottweiler and the one-eyed cat. Sitting on the couch in their company I feel so very cozy. In fact, everything in this apartment, its whole atmosphere have this calming, comforting effect on me, as if I had known this place for a long time and belonged here.
Drago brings me a plate with the egg-and-cheese sandwich and a salad and a large mug of steaming hot tea. Without saying a word he also hands me two ibuprofen and goes back into the kitchen and stands there smoking near an open window. The food he’s made for me is delicious, and I would be enjoying it more if my jaw did not hurt so much with every bite that I take.
Drago joins me on the couch and winces as he tries to find a comfortable position.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Have a herniated disk from an old judo injury. Must have aggravated it when lifting the dog.”
“Do you have any good ointment to reduce inflammation?” I ask after I finish eating.
He finds some ointment and I sit behind him, help him take off his sweatshirt, and start massaging his back. I discover the spot where a nerve is pinched, and I can tell that he is in substantial pain because of it. My own body is sore all over and my left elbow hurts like hell, but I really want to help Drago and so I keep massaging his back for a while. Having to use a lot of strength because his muscles are as hard as stone, and only being able to work with my right arm, I finally get exhausted and have to stop.
Still sitting on my knees behind him I lean on him and put my head on his back. I stay like that for a while and then start moving my lips against the nape of his neck and breathe in, deeply inhaling the scent of his skin, that mix of Sauvage Dior and cigarette smoke. I kiss the side of his neck and he turns his head and then our mouths are kissing. He gets up and picks me up in his arms.
“Your back!”
“It’s already messed up,” he replies and carries me into the bedroom.
He puts me on the bed, and I pull him down onto me, and it feels amazing to have the full weight of his body on top of me.
I want him to turn the lights out, but he refuses.
“I want to see you,” he says and takes all my clothes off.
We kiss so hard that it’s possible we’re hurting each other, and yet it doesn’t feel like enough and I want him to kiss me harder still. His hands are on my breasts, my stomach, my hips, my thighs, pressing hard into me, and yet not as hard as I am craving. Nothing feels like it’s enough or ever will be. I want more of him. All of him. I have never wanted anybody like this, nor have I ever known it is possible to want somebody like this, to have such an urgency for somebody’s body.
His finger is inside me, and then it’s not his finger anymore. I push him away and move my hips from under him.
“A condom?”
“Don’t have one,” he mutters, holds me firmly against him, and is immediately inside me again. I push him away once more, and he grabs my arms and holds them with one hand above my head, and with his other hand guides himself into me, and this time I don’t resist at all. “Just don’t come inside,” I murmur as I raise my hips and wrap my legs tight around him.
*****
On my way back from the bathroom I make a detour to the kitchen, find a yogurt and some dark chocolate and bring them to the bedroom, and sit on the bed naked, eating. I try to keep my hair over my face, especially the right side of it.
“I want to smoke,” Drago says.
“Well smoke then.”
“What am I, a barbarian to smoke in bed?” He gets up and leaves the room but comes back only a minute later with a pack of cigarettes and an ashtray, and some more chocolate for me. He lies down and smokes and I keep sitting across the bed from him, eating, and we just look at each other and don’t speak.
“When did you start smoking?” I ask after a while.
“A few years ago.”
“A judo master who smokes.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t compete anymore. Did my final competition three years ago.”
“Were the competitions very important to you?”
“Of course. How else does a man know that he is the best?”
I lie down next to him, put my head on his chest, and run my fingers over his ribs, his stomach, his hips, and back to his ribs. His body is beautifully proportioned and is in an amazing shape, lean and muscular. Two of his ribs are strangely salient, ruining somewhat the flawlessness of his figure.
“Broken,” he says.
“Only these ribs?”
“Nah, have more than twenty broken bones.”
“All from judo?”
“Nah.”
I pick up his
hand and examine it. His index and middle fingers are somewhat misshapen. Breaks that did not heal properly. I touch his arm. His muscles feel perfectly hard even when he is not flexing. Above the elbow the skin is of a different color and pattern. I look at the other arm, and it’s the same thing here.
“What are these marks?”
“Nothing.”
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Ok. I was burned. Also on my face and my feet. Doctors had to peel the skin from my upper legs and do the skin transplant. And I got to watch them do it.”
“What?”
“Yup. I am resistant to pain medication and anesthesia. They could not put me to sleep and I had to be awake and conscious. Hey, that’s not the worst thing I had to deal with.”
I ponder his words for a while. “How did you get burned?” I then ask. “Were you in some sort of a horrible accident?”
“Wasn’t an accident.”
“Somebody did that to you on purpose?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t remember. It was in another life and should stay there.”
“Wish you could tell me. I want to know about you.”
“Why?”
Because I think I love you. I have never fallen this hard for anybody before. I don’t know when or how this happened, but I love you now. I don’t say this out loud, but I’m not sure what’s stopping me. It’s not the fact that he would not say it back to me. I don’t care about that. I am filled to the brim with feelings that I had no idea existed in real life. It cannot be anything other than that thing that books and movies talk about and call “love,” and it’s rising up inside me, about to spill over, and I could say it a hundred times to him, shout it out, but instead I remain quiet and just hold him tight.
“And besides,” he says, “there is nothing to know about me. I am just another asshole on this overpopulated shithole called Earth.”
The Dark Fights Page 11