*****
The car takes me to the entrance of a large hotel in midtown, where Baldy waits for me, and we walk through the lobby, take the elevator to the twentieth floor, and there switch to a different elevator. Baldy scans a card and the elevator starts moving, but instead of going up, as I thought it would, it goes down. As we get out I have no idea what floor we are on, as I cannot see any windows. It does not look like a hotel layout at all, either. Instead of hallways with doors on both sides, there is a space with a single door, behind which, according to the already established routine, I am received by Buzz Cut, who then hands me over to the tattooed one.
While Ricardo the Stylist braids my hair and makes my face look “fresh and bright,” as per the boss’s instructions, I sit on the bench slouching and picking at a hangnail on the index finger of my right hand, deliberating whether to tear it off or let it be. For some reason, I just cannot seem to focus my thoughts on the fact that within a few minutes I will be stepping into the fighting cage.
The announcer calls “Samurai Princess,” and I don’t even pay attention and Ricardo the Stylist has to nudge me on the shoulder several times to get me to wake up from my stupor-like state.
“Listen,” Head Tattoo tells me as we make our way to the cage. “This girl you’re gonna fight right now, she trained in bajiquan and xing yi. Her punches are fucking tricky. Might not seem like much, but will rupture your internal organs. Your best bet is to get her onto the ground.”
“Where is Sergey?” I ask.
“Are you fucking listening to me? Pay attention. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here choking on your own blood.”
“No worries, just leave me choking on my own blood right there on the canvas. Surely all these fine people will enjoy such a show very much. Is your boss not here?”
“Oh, he is watching all right.”
After the announcer’s “Fight!” the xing yi girl attacks right away. I am protecting my central line and vital organs from her strikes while attempting to get in a position for a takedown. At one point I grab her wrist and do a powerful supinating wristlock throw, but the girl just jumps in the air and flips over her own arm, lands on her feet safely, and then strikes me in the ribs with incredible force. This attack is meant to rupture my spleen and end the fight right away, but at the very last moment I manage to change my body angle just enough for the strike to lose some of its penetrating force. I think it’s at this point that I finally come to my senses and start caring about what’s happening—and realize that I am not just an observer, but an actual participant in this damn fight, and if I do not fully apply myself, I will indeed be carried out of the cage very badly damaged or dead.
I block the next incoming strike, and she grabs my wrist and does the exact same throw on me that I did on her a mere minute ago. I too flip over my own arm, thus not allowing her to break it. The audience takes great delight in these visually spectacular maneuvers and erupts in loud cheering.
After some time, the girl’s potentially deadly punches start to really worry me. I’ve already caught one or two and expect the next one might connect with a vital point and finish me off. I remember my tattooed friend’s advice and so, at the first opportunity I drop down to the floor in a tomoe nage, a sacrifice throw, my foot catching her in the stomach, and hurl her backward over me, hard, and then roll on top of her. She does not seem to be very skilled in groundwork, and after a short while I am able to get her in a good position for a choke hold.
Right then my eyes start burning.
In an automatic motion I rub my face against my arm trying to relieve the scorching sensation, and at this she escapes from the choke hold, attains a dominant position, and strikes me in the head.
My eyes are filled with the stinging pain and I cannot see much, and I realize that this sneaky girl must have hidden a blob of something like Bengay behind her ear or some other place where it was not detected during a very sloppy pat-down before the fight. She then somehow got hold of it and smeared it onto my eyes during the full body-on-body groundwork. Damn it. A no-rules fight is one thing, but this sinks even lower than the whole no-rules concept. Now, with my vision severely impaired, she can do what she wants with me. She’ll fucking kill me. Fuck this.
“She put something in my eyes!” I call to the referee as loud as I can.
He pretends not to hear me.
“I. Can’t. See.” I shout again.
Still no reaction from the referee.
I tap out several times. The audience hates for the spectacle to end so quickly and starts booing.
“Fight goes on!” the referee announces, and the crowd applauds. He then bends down near my ear and repeats just for me, “Fight goes on.”
My eyes are burning like hell, and everything is a blur. Damn it, if I let this girl get back on her feet, I’m done for. I make a desperate attempt at tying her legs up, not just grappling with my arms, but utilizing my legs for control and, as we are locked in the same position on the ground for a long time without any visible progress on either side, the audience gets impatient and starts booing again.
Now the referee interferes and orders us to get up and again announces “Fight goes on!” to the great delight of the paying customers.
I know I only have a split second to act now. All I can see out of my damaged eyes is a vague figure before me and I charge right at that target, catching a punch or two as I do and moving through the explosive pain they cause. I then practically attach my body to the girl’s, holding her as tight as I can, not allowing her sweaty, slippery flesh to get away. As I unbalance her, I throw her over my shoulder, and she falls down hard, her head going into the floor first.
I am aware that I am expected to finish her off with heavy strikes to the head, and the crowd is cheering me on to do so. Yet despite the trick with the Bengay, there is no rage against her inside me. As far as I am concerned, the fight is over. After the throw, she stays down and does not get up for a while. When she does, she is very unstable on her feet and looks disoriented. She can only make a few steps and then sinks down again. I am sure she has a bad concussion, and maybe a neck injury, and needs to be taken to an ER straightway. The crowd sees my inaction and starts booing once more. To hell with them. Hitting the girl on the head now can kill her, and I simply cannot bring myself to act so brutally.
*****
As I get in the car, sit back, and close my eyes, the door suddenly opens and Sergey gets in on the seat beside me.
“How are your eyes?”
I shrug. I washed them with copious amounts of water right after I got out of the cage, and then the physician rinsed them out with eye solution and put cold compress on them, but the burning is not completely gone and things still look somewhat blurred.
“If you need, I’ll arrange for you to see an ophthalmologist,” Sergey says. “Listen, beauty,” he goes on after a pause. “We need to have a serious conversation about certain aspects of your in-cage presentation.”
“If it’s my hairstyle or makeup that worry you so, talk to Ricardo the Stylist.”
“Good one.” He laughs with apparent gaiety. “I am glad that the long and difficult bout has not affected your sense of humor. Unfortunately, there is something more important than your braids and eyelashes that we need to address,” he pronounces in a quiet voice that suddenly has very distinctive cold and hard notes. “I will let it slide this time that you tried to give up and tap out too soon. I must warn you, however, that such behavior might nullify our deal. You’ll know better than to do that in the future. Also, I would very much like to remind you that the persons you are fighting in the cage are not your training partners, but your opponents, your enemies. They will do anything it takes to defeat you. You understand? You must treat them the same way. You cannot show mercy. You cannot walk away from a half-defeated enemy. You must continue until the end. Nothing less than that will do.
Is that clear?”
I don’t say anything.
“Is that clear?” he raises his voice.
“Yep. Can I go back to the dojo?”
“Certainly. I will leave you now. Have a good night, beauty.”
*****
I turn the corner and approach the dojo walking slowly, my head bent down, lost in thoughts. Suddenly I hear a voice and realize it is my friend Amadeus the Homeless Guy calling to me from across the street. He gets out of his sleeping bag and comes over.
“Look, look!” He points to the windows on the third floor of the dojo. Those are the windows of Sensei’s room and they are now brightly lit.
“Oh.” I stop in my tracks.
“Your chief is back.”
What! Sensei has returned from Japan already. We weren’t expecting him back until the day after tomorrow. So strange. As a head uchi-deshi Liam would certainly have been informed of any changes to Sensei’s itinerary.
For a few minutes Amadeus and I stand together on the street looking up at Sensei’s windows and not saying anything.
“Do you think your cover is blown?” he asks then.
“I don’t know,” I say trying to convince myself that everything is all right but cannot quite dissolve the dark premonition that quickly sets in. “Ah, almost forgot!” I give him his favorite tuna sandwich that I just got for him at the twenty-four-hour deli around the corner. As I hand over the paper bag, my eyes are still locked on the brightly lit windows and my thoughts are getting gloomier and more despondent by the second.
“Much appreciated.” He takes the wrapper off and bites into the sandwich. “Well, if they throw you out, you are welcome to use my sleeping bag, and if it gets too cold I know where we can get shelter for a night or two. I don’t forget my friends.”
“Thank you, I think I’ll go in now and see what’s going on.”
“Good luck.”
I walk through the garage and come out into the backyard all the while telling myself that maybe all is not lost. Perhaps my absence has not been detected and I can still get to my room, and in the morning my life at the dojo will continue, and I will take Sensei’s class and then do my chores as usual, and then more classes, and . . .
I get to the spot where the ladder must be hanging, and all shreds of hope disappear.
The ladder is not here.
Ah, damn it. So that’s it then.
The light is on in my room, and I remember perfectly well having shut it off. I stand for a few long minutes huddled against the wall, trying to get my thoughts together and not knowing what my next move should be. Hiroji’s head leans out of the window.
“Hey, are you down there?” he calls, and then tells me to go in through the front door and straight up to Sensei’s office.
*****
The last time I was in Sensei’s office was when right after my examinations he invited me in to congratulate me on my second-degree black belt. At that occasion the room was filled with high-ranking guests who were eating and drinking, and the ambience was fun and festive. Now Sensei is sitting behind his huge desk looking stern and sad at the same time, the corners of his mouth drawn down. The last time I had a cut on my side that bled a lot but was not too painful and I could stand up straight. Now, besides being bruised all over, I have two broken ribs and have to stand bending forward and a bit sideways taking shallow breaths. I would very much like to sit down or at least lean on the table, but of course out of respect for Sensei I do not do that.
“Those events you participate in, those Dark Fights, they go against the spirit and values of true martial arts.” Sensei says passing his fingers through his thick white hair. “Martial arts teach you discipline, of body and mind. Responsibility. Self-control. Restraint. Honor. Respect for your fighting opponent. In that cage fighters get maimed and killed for no other reason than money and spectacle. That is not martial arts. The unrestrained, unchecked violence will corrupt your body and soul and will make you lose yourself. You must stop now, while it is not too late.”
When Sensei talks to you, you are supposed to bow and reply “Yes, Sensei.” Now, I do bow, but I cannot say, “Yes, Sensei.” I cannot lie to him pretending that I am finished with the Dark Fights. I still have four fights to do.
“Promise me you will never step into that cage again.”
“I am sorry, Sensei.”
He waits for a few long moments looking at me with a mix of severity and deep sadness.
“You are not an uchi-deshi anymore,” he says. “You must leave the dojo.”
“Yes, Sensei,” I say and bow, everything inside me filled to the brim with such utter misery that, if Sensei says just one more word, I might not be able to contain myself and simply break down. But no more words are said.
I go to my room and lie down on the bed and want to fall asleep and wake up in the morning and for this night never to have happened. Being an uchi-deshi has meant so much to me. It has been my life, my true existence, my real path. The dojo has been my home. If I am not an uchi-deshi, then what am I? Nothing at all. A homeless, purposeless woman, whose vision of the future does not extend beyond the four fights she must do to fully extricate her brother from Sergey’s clutches.
*****
Hiroji knocks on the door and I tell him to come in. He leans on the windowsill and looks at me silent for a while. I don’t say anything either. What is there to say? Everything is pretty damn clear. Oh, actually, there is one thing that is not quite clear.
“Hiroji, how did Sensei find out?”
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Was it Liam who told him?”
“I don’t know. Listen.” He comes over and sits on the bed. “Maybe you don’t realize how fucking dangerous that shit is. Liam and I should have warned you, we should have told you about what happened to Dav, our fourth uchi-deshi, but we didn’t want you to know that shit even existed.” Hiroji’s face is quite composed, but his hand is tightening into a fist, his knuckles becoming almost white, and I can tell how perturbed and upset he is. “We knew the underground fights were out there At one point we were approached by some people. We didn’t want to have anything to do with that shit, though, and we didn’t know any of the particulars nor who was really behind it—we sort of just closed our eyes to it. We acted stupid, I guess, like those birds, ostriches, sticking their heads in the sand. I don’t know, I guess we thought you were safe from all of it here, inside the dojo. Somehow, those bastards got to you. Liam seems to think it was through your brother.”
At this, my thoughts immediately go back to that phone conversation that Liam might have overheard.
“Look, let me tell you now about Dav,” Hiroji says.
“I already know.”
“And that didn’t stop you?”
I do not reply.
“All right, look. I guess being crippled or killed does not scare you. But have you considered the other thing that might happen in that cage?”
“What other thing?”
“That you might actually cripple or kill your opponent. Do you have any idea whats it's like to kill a person?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” Hiroji says in a low voice that has a ring of frightening certainty to it. His eyes gain that hard, cold shine that I have on several occasions observed in them before and that I have found quite unsettling. “Back in Japan I killed. And I am telling you, once you realize what you’ve done, you want to jump out of your own skin and not be you anymore.” The scary light in his eyes fades, and he sinks his head onto his chest and sits motionless. Then he gets up and walks to the door. “I wanted you to know. I hope you do not repeat my mistakes. They are hard to rectify, very hard, Sasha.”
*****
I keep lying down trying to gather enough energy to get up and start packing my stuff. My beaten-up body refuses to cooperate and pref
ers to stay in the horizontal position. I get frustrated with having to take careful shallow breaths, but every time I try to breathe in deeply, a sharp pain shoots through my ribcage as if I were being cut in half.
After a while there is another knock on the door and this time it is Liam who comes in. He remains standing by the door, completely immobile, looking at me and frowning. I wonder if he is going to say anything or will just stand there indefinitely, keeping silent and observing me. Finally, he unglues himself from the spot by the door, walks into the room, and . . . all of a sudden he kneels by the bed.
He is looking right at me, and his dark eyes are filled with the same tenderness and affection I saw in them when I was sick with the flu. But I don’t trust him. He is not going to be able to trick me now. I am more than sure it was he who snitched on me to Sensei, so that I would get kicked out of the dojo.
“What do you want?” I ask adding as much coldness to my voice as I can muster.
“What do I want?” he mutters sounding a bit lost. He then gets up from the floor, takes a turn around the room, and tells me that he brings a message from Sensei. I don’t have to leave right this minute. I can stay in my room for a few days, until I feel better and find new accommodations.
“Sasha . . .” I can see that he has something on his mind that he really wants to tell me but doesn’t know how to put it into words. He comes up closer to the bed again. He touches my hair in a very tender but hesitant gesture. I move my head slightly and he withdraws his hand.
“Do you have a place to stay?” he asks, and by the tone of his voice I can tell that that was not what he wanted to tell or ask me.
“Yes, I do.”
At this he simply flips out. “Where? With that smoker you’ve been seeing?” He cries out not even trying to conceal his sudden and seemingly uncontrollable fury. All the tenderness and affection go out of his eyes, instantaneously replaced by anger, jealousy, and irritation.
The Dark Fights Page 16