“Who, me? Nah. Fights scare me. What if I get a bruise?”
Then his face grows serious. “How old were you when you started training?”
“Nine.”
“Why did you start?”
Usually when people ask me about what got me into martial arts, I shrug my shoulders and tell them I don’t really know or don’t remember. But I don’t want to lie to Drago. I keep silent for a while taking slow sips from my glass.
“My parents died some time before that,” I say after a rather long pause. “I was scared. All the time I just felt scared. My grandfather thought doing judo might help. He was right.”
I worry that Drago might want to know how my parents died. If I say, “they were killed by shots from a passing car,” that will just provoke more questions. Grandpa never explained much, even though I got a feeling he knew the whole backstory. From his brief unwilling explanations I gathered that in the ’80s, when he and my parents came to this country, there were great turf wars between two powerful Russian Mafia gangs in NYC. Racket and extorsion were ubiquitous. It was practically impossible for a recent Russian immigrant to work and prosper in this town without choosing a side and having the protection of one of the Mafia bosses. My father tried to stay neutral for as long as possible, but in the end was forced to seek an “association” with a person of influence. He trusted that person and even invited him to family events. I think it was in the retinue of that person that I saw the then young Sergey for the first time. Some years later there seemed to arise a disagreement with the trusted person of influence. As a result, my parents were mowed down by the gunshots. When I think of that, a spasm starts somewhere in the depth of my stomach and goes up and my throat tightens and closes up.
I am really not prepared to talk about my parents, not even with Drago. Good thing he leaves the matter alone.
“Where did you do judo?” he asks instead.
“My Grandpa had been a judo master and then a coach in the USSR and he ran a very small dojo here as well, just for neighbors and friends.”
I gather my thoughts before going on.
“Stepping into that small dojo and seeing people throw each other had a strange effect on me. Instead of making me more scared it made me feel calm and as if shielded. My brother was already training there.” I look at Drago, and he nods with encouragement.
“I remember the first day I put on the gi. They didn’t have the right size for me and the sleeves were much too long, but the rules don’t allow you to roll the sleeves . . . I looked pretty funny in that huge gi, but I liked the feel of its heavy cotton against my skin. At the end of the class I learned to do the basic o goshi throw. It felt good. I enjoyed it.”
“What happened with that place?”
“My grandpa got too old to teach, and the little dojo closed, but I kept training at various locations in the city. I did judo for quite a while. Then my brother started sambo with some Russians and hand-to-hand-fighting, and I got into that too. Judo and those other martial arts were very good, but they are relatively new, and I dreamed about switching to a really traditional Japanese martial art, so came to Sensei’s Dojo, first as a regular student, then as an uchi-deshi.”
“And how long are you planning on being an uchi-deshi?”
“As long as I can. As long as Sensei allows. Dojo is my home now and being Sensei’s uchi-deshi is who and what I am.”
“That’s not a very normal life you are leading, you know.”
“Someone once told me not to use the word ‘normal.’ It’s devoid of meaning.”
“True.” He nods his head. “But hey, listen, being shut inside the dojo for so long, with all the rules, the intense training, the hard work—don’t you feel you are missing out on . . .”
“What?”
“Hmm, life.”
I don’t say anything to that.
“You sure you are not just holding onto a sort of a sanctuary, a safe harbor you found to avoid dealing with the messiness of the real world?”
Still, I remain silent.
“They say she is tough. I think she is pretty fragile,” Drago mutters under his breath and takes a long drink of his cider.
“Are you talking about me?”
“Nah.” He stares into his almost-empty glass. “And why such fascination with traditional Japanese martial arts anyway?” he suddenly asks.
“Well, I think, when I was little.” I pause and smile, “I really liked the samurai. Hey, I still do. I think they were awesome with their strict moral code, rules, loyalty, and honor.”
“Ha, girl, you’ve seen too many samurai movies. Sorry to burst your bubble but what those movies show is just a romanticized fairy tale.”
I take a sip from my glass and raise my eyes to glance at him.
“Yup, all these beautiful words—strict code of honor, moral principles, noble actions—had no meaning or presence in the samurai world,” he pronounces with conviction. “It’s a myth. The real samurai sold their martial arts skills to the highest bidder. Their loyalty was to the money only. They were paid killers who in the time of peace bragged about how great and honorable they were, and in a battle used any means necessary, however ignoble and treacherous, to kill their opponents.”
I look at him in silence for a while.
“Well, don’t get all upset.” He signals to the waiter to bring me another glass of Sauternes. “To give them some credit, they were exceptionally skilled and highly dangerous fighters, these samurai of yours. We do owe a lot to them. Japanese jujitsu, daitō-ryū, aikido, judo—all have roots in the samurai fighting style,” he explains, and I listen with great attention. “The techniques are deadly and are meant for a quick and efficient kill. Of course, in modern martial arts rules were introduced in order to make them more like sports and reduce, as much as possible, the occurrence of injuries in competitions, but the basics are all the same.”
“Are we trained to be killers then!” I ask after finishing the strong wine in one gulp.
“See, that’s the thing.” Drago leans forward and looks at me with intensity. “True martial arts teach you these deadly techniques while at the same time teaching you to be strong in body and mind, disciplined, in control. How you apply these skills is ultimately your choice. You understand? For example, a situation where you must defend your life or the life of your dear ones is very different from instances of unrestrained aggression and violence for money.”
“Have you ever been paid to kill?”
“I was paid to do my job, which at times might have resulted in somebody getting killed, but only if circumstances left no other option.”
“And you could not refuse the money?”
He gives me a long look and does not reply. He drinks his beer and I can tell he’s now done with the topic and probably regrets having said too much.
The conversation has touched something very deep in me, something really important and meaningful. I want it to continue in the same serious vein, but I sense Drago would rather switch to something lighter now. He sits back, his face relaxing, wrinkles on his forehead smoothing out, and a half smile hovering on his lips.
“Do you want another glass of Sauternes?” he asks.
*****
The restaurant was still pretty full when we arrived, but by now has become almost empty and the man who stood behind the bar counter comes over and introduces himself as the owner and asks if we want anything else. Drago invites him to join us and he sits down for a bit at our table and has a glass of wine with us. After he goes back behind the counter, I want to ask Drago more about his life and work in Europe, but all he does is smile and reply that he doesn’t remember.
“At least tell me how you got into judo. Or is that also a restricted topic?” I ask.
“That I can tell you. I was six years old and the only things for boys in my little town were
judo and soccer. I went for judo. I knew nothing about it, of course, but it sounded cooler than soccer. When I just started, there were about twenty boys in the group. By the time I was sixteen, it was only me and my best friend. Soon he gave up too. The training was just too intense.”
“But you stuck with it?”
“Yup. I was a wild kid, always a troublemaker. Judo kept me in check. And I always enjoyed the competitions.” He looks pensive for a moment and then starts laughing. “In the little spare time I had, I took ballroom dancing, believe it or not.”
“What? A judoka taking dancing classes?”
“Yup. Salsa, tango, all that.”
I look at him in disbelief.
“It was to pick up girls, ha-ha-ha. That was the only reason. Wasn’t a single girl doing judo in my small town. So, I had to be inventive.”
I smile picturing this tall, muscular man, who walks with a sort of a sailor’s gait, doing salsa moves.
We are both having a very good time, sitting in the empty restaurant and talking, and if it were up to us we could spent another hour or two here, but we can tell that the owner wants to close for the night, and so Drago pays the bill and we get up to leave.
“Should we go find another place to have one more drink?” he asks. “Or what do you want to do?”
“Well, I’d like to go dance some salsa with you.”
“What? No! And how do you even know how to dance salsa?”
“Ha! I’ve lived in NYC my whole life. Of course I can dance salsa. Come on, let’s go, yes?”
“I don’t know, girl. I am too old for that.”
“Too old! What are you, thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Something like that. And my back hurts too.”
“Oh.”
I place my hand on his lower back and start massaging it. He looks me full in the eyes and smiles, and I wish he would put his arm around me or touch my thigh or just kiss me or something. Why is he keeping his distance? I am craving his touch and I am sure the same thoughts are going through his head. I can feel such a strong sexual pull between us. Is he resisting it on purpose?
“Well, all right,” he says, “let’s go dance some salsa. Is there a place nearby?”
“But what about your back?”
“You’ll have to massage it for real later.”
*****
El Hogar y la Leña is only a couple blocks over on Broadway, and from a while back I remember that late at night on the weekends the floor above the restaurant turns into sort of a salsa dancing club. It’s not really much of a club, the space is small and there is no live band, but it’s the nearest locale I can think of. We leave the car, so as not to lose the good parking spot, and walk to Broadway and East 12th and go through the restaurant and up the stairs in the back.
Upstairs they charge a cover and want to see our IDs, which I don’t remember from before. We also have to check our coats. It is pretty hot and I wonder if I should also check my sweater. I probably won’t be comfortable dancing in it. Underneath I am wearing a silk-and-lace camisole over my bra. I decide that in the semidarkness the camisole can pass off as a top, and so take the sweater off.
Inside it is packed. There is a bar counter, a few tables—all occupied—and in every square foot of available space there are people dancing or just standing around and watching. We stay near the entrance for a bit and take in the crowded, loud, hectic, and sweaty ambience.
“Well, this is my idea of hell,” Drago shouts to me over the music.
“Do you want to leave?”
“They are not even playing salsa.”
He is right. Merengue and bachata music have been on this whole time. I motion to him that we can leave, but at that moment the merengue song ends and people stop dancing and hurry toward the bar, leaving the floor pretty empty. Then introductory notes of a salsa song come on.
“Well, since we are already here,” Drago extends his arm, “Would your ladyship like to dance?”
He leads me to the center of the room and puts his right hand on my back, I put my left hand on his shoulder, and for a few moments we stand still. I look up at him and he seems to be very focused on listening to the music. By the way he is holding me I can sense he is somewhat tense. Is it possible that the man in the fisherman’s sweater is nervous? Ha, I believe he is. When he is around people, he almost always has this expression on his face—a tiny smirk, a certain look in his eyes—which reads as if he knew something that others don’t. Well, now this expression is gone. He makes the first few steps, checks if I follow his lead well, if my body responds to his moves, realizes that I am perfectly pliable in his arms and react to his slightest motion exactly the way he wants me to, and immediately regains his usual self-assuredness.
I’ve guessed from the start what sort of a dancing partner he will be. His lead is strong and protective at the same time. As the music continues, the floor becomes packed again, but Drago makes sure that nobody ever bumps into us. He does not do any overly complicated combinations or wild turns that some dancers do just to show off and that could be dangerous in this crowded room, and I feel comfortable and secure in his arms.
Salsa songs come in a sequence of three of four and for the duration of this sequence, which is maybe some twenty-five minutes or so, I am completely surrendered to Drago’s control, and it feels intoxicatingly good. My body is fully attuned to his and he guides with confidence and precision my every turn, every step. At one point I even close my eyes for a while and feel with each particle of my being this perfect combination of music, movement, and voluntary surrender.
“That was quite something,” he says when the music stops. “The things you make me do, girl.”
He won’t admit it, but I can tell he’s actually enjoyed dancing with me very much.
He asks if I want something to drink and gets a bottle of water for me and a beer for himself. We stand in the corner by the bar counter for a while and watch people dance merengue and wait for another salsa sequence to come on. When Drago goes to the bathroom, some guys who are sitting at a nearby table and have already consumed a heavy amount of alcohol, start asking me to join them. I do not reply, and one of them gets up and comes up to me and, standing on rather unsteady legs and struggling with words, tells me that they are celebrating his friend’s birthday and would very much like for me to have a drink with them. I decline the drink. He then asks me to dance and tries to grab my arm. I get him in a wristlock and apply a bit of pressure, not aiming to injure him, just to make him understand that his advances are not welcome. Despite being pretty far gone on cheap booze, he gets the hint and retreats, staring at me as if I were an alien or something.
Another guy from their company wants to try his luck too and approaches, shouting to the bartender that my drinks are on him and explaining to me that I will definitely be dancing “the next one” with him. He starts executing some dancing moves right in front of me. I am not sure what to make of the situation and so just back away from him until I am all the way in the corner and he is dancing barely a few inches away from me. I am very tempted to punch him in his red, perspiring face, but don’t want to make a scene. Drago appears behind him, towering a full head above the guy. He puts him in a light rear naked choke and, in a careful and friendly way guides him back to his chair and drops him onto it.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” He wrinkles the corners of his eyes at me. We look at each other for a few seconds and then his expression grows serious and he focuses his gaze on my mouth and I feel the excitement build up inside me because I know what he is thinking and I am absolutely certain we are thinking the exact same thing at this moment.
From the table yet a third guy gets up and, speaking in a cautious and respectful manner, tells Drago that there has been some misunderstanding and that he apologizes for his friends who did not realize that the lady was accompanied
, and that it is his birthday that they are celebrating and offers Drago a beer. Drago accepts the beer, clinks bottles with the birthday guy, but does not drink from it and leaves it on the counter.
Standing at the bar, he puts his arm round my waist and presses his fingers into my hipbone and my thigh, then touches his chin to my naked shoulder and kisses it.
“I am all sweaty and salty,” I say.
“Yes, you are. What should we do now? Dance some more or go to my place?” he asks.
A new group has just come in. They are maybe eight or ten people, and Martine is one of them.
“Definitely go to your place. Let’s leave right now,” I say and, as we walk toward the exit, I try to hide behind Drago and stay out of Martine’s line of sight.
*****
In Drago’s apartment I take a shower and he comes into the bathroom and asks if he can get into the shower with me. I tell him no, because I absolutely do not see a point of two people taking a shower together, and that he will have to wait for his turn. He chuckles, closes the toilet lid, sits down, and watches me shower through the transparent curtain. When I step out, he hands me a towel and says I should stay and entertain him with stories while he is taking a bath. I do not believe that he will actually take a bath, but he does indeed fill the tub with water, adds some salts and such, and gets in.
“My back is really out. This helps,” he says.
“Ok, enjoy your bath. I’m going to bed.”
“Nope, I wasn’t kidding. Stay and talk to me.”
So, now it is my turn to sit on the toilet lid. I tell him stories about the dojo and he especially likes the one about a rat jumping out of the toilet early one morning and trying to bite Hiroji and then the guys attacking the rat with the swords.
When he is done with his bath, we go to the bedroom, and I tell him to lie down on the bed, face down, so that I can massage his back. I take my towel off, sit on top of him and rub the ointment into the sore spot on his lower back and massage it in. After a few minutes of lying still, he starts touching my legs, tentatively at first, and then with more insistence. I bend down and push my breasts to his skin, and then lie fully on top of him. He turns over brusquely, trapping me under him, and then is inside me and moving strong and hard.
The Dark Fights Page 13