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The Dark Fights

Page 18

by Alexandra Vinarov


  The physician who examines me in the backroom after the fight says I might have a fractured shinbone, a dislocated shoulder, a torn meniscus, and worst of all, a possible neck injury and a severe concussion. With the adrenaline still pumping I don’t yet feel so bad, but I throw up a couple times and know that it cannot be a good sign. I hear the physician trying to convince Sergey that I should be taken to the ER for a CT scan or an MRI right away to rule out cervical fracture and intracranial hemorrhaging. Sergey first objects and tells the physician to try and fix me up the best he can right here, but then makes a call and says that it’s all settled. I’ll be taken to a hospital where a doctor on duty will not be asking questions.

  As I am being led out of the backroom, I start feeling pretty sick and my thoughts get rather confused. I struggle to stay conscious and I think Head Tattoo asks me questions and I try to answer but am not sure if the words come out right. His voice reaches me as if from the far end of a long tunnel and then fades out altogether. Instead, as if out of nowhere, Sergey’s prefight remark “martial artists can be a very good investment” pops up in my concussed brain. I catch on to that phrase and play it in my head again and again. Oh, I get it—he agrees to send me to a hospital only because he wants to protect his “investment.” The bastard. Didn’t he once tell me that badly injured fighters who no longer serve him a purpose are just dumped somewhere to fend for themselves the best they can? I suppose I should feel lucky to receive preferential treatment. Yeah, “lucky.” Damn it.

  I pass out in the car on the way to the hospital and then come to and throw up again. My stomach is empty and only bitter liquid comes out. During the MRI, I fall asleep inside the narrow tube despite the horribly loud noise. Later on they give me some meds and I am sleepy and groggy the whole time I am in the hospital.

  After the night in the ER and a bunch of tests and examinations that rule out cervical fracture and intracranial bleeding, they release me and the driver wants to take me to Roosevelt Island, but I tell him to drive to 82nd Street instead. I don’t want Drago to see me in my present condition. Head Tattoo rides with me and then practically carries me up to the fifth floor and helps me inside. Danilo is not in. Head Tattoo tells me something, but I cannot understand what he is saying and cannot focus my thoughts on anything at all. I lie down on the bed, close my eyes, and immediately fall into a strange sleep which borders on unconsciousness.

  When I wake up, Danilo is sitting by my side. I have a terrible headache, a bitter taste in my mouth, and I feel awfully nauseous. When I try to move, a big iron ball starts rolling around inside my head. The doctor did mention something about it being a very bad concussion. Well, I guess he knew what he was talking about. My neck is stiff and sore, but they said it was not fractured and that I should thank my luck for that.

  Danilo is holding a drink in his hand and the sight of alcohol intensifies my nausea and I throw up. Danilo cleans up the mess, gives me some lemon-ginger tea to drink, and sits on the bed again. He strokes my arm with his knuckles in his very own gesture of affection

  “Sash,” he pronounces in a very feeble, plaintive voice. “You can’t go on like this. Please.”

  “I must finish the five fights,” I say, every word ringing hard and loud somewhere in the depth of my brain.

  “Let’s chuck everything and move to Amsterdam together.”

  “Again with your Amsterdam.”

  “You can’t continue fighting.”

  “I only have three fights left.”

  “They’ll kill you.”

  “No. I just need to prepare better. I know what kind of training I need.”

  After a short while I fall asleep again. I don’t know how long I sleep for, but when I wake up, Drago is in the room. He and Danilo are talking.

  “You told him?” I ask my brother.

  “Yeah, he knows.”

  I ask Danilo to leave us alone for a bit. He says he’ll go make himself another drink.

  Drago sits on the side of the bed. He frowns and shakes his head.

  “Listen, girl,” he says, “you gotta stop doing that. You’ll get killed.”

  “No. I won’t get killed. Not if you train me.”

  He looks at me and doesn’t say anything.

  “Drago,” I say. “You won’t tell me what kind of work you did back in Europe or what type of training you had apart from judo. But I know you know how to fight. To fight for real. Train me.”

  Chapter 15

  I wake up with a start and don’t immediately know where I am. It takes me a few moments to figure out that I am in bed with Drago in the apartment on Roosevelt Island. I’ve been back here from 82nd Street for over two weeks now. Drago is lying on his back and breathing with difficulty. It is a bad position for him, and I gently roll him over on his side and he breathes easier. My T-shirt is damp. I must have been sweating in my sleep. Did I have a nightmare? I think I did but can’t remember what it was. I’ve been having nightmares almost every night since the last Dark Fight. Sergey’s doctor says it is most likely an aftereffect of the concussion.

  Drago cries out something and turns over brusquely almost hitting me with his arm. I block it just before it strikes me in the face. Drago does not wake up and rolls on his other side again. He does this a lot, the shouting out, the moving in his sleep. He usually quiets down in the first hours of the morning.

  I get up and put on a fresh T-shirt and walk to the kitchen for some water. I am still limping because of the injury to my knee. I was really lucky the meniscus was not torn. If it had been, I would have needed a surgery and the rehabilitation time would have been several months, at least. I go to physical therapy three times a week and it’s helping with the pain somewhat, but I will pretty much have to live with it and ignore it for a while.

  I walk up and down the hallway and around the kitchen trying to step normally, bending and straightening both knees in the same way, without coddling the injured one.

  It feels very hot in the kitchen and in the living room, so I open a window and then sit down on the couch in the dark. I almost jump up when the couch starts moving.

  “Damn it, Danny. You scared me.”

  He has been doing this often now, coming over and spending the night on the couch in the living room. Drago gave him a spare key so that he wouldn’t be waking us up at odd hours. On the good days he arrives just in time for dinner and we three have a nice meal all together. Drago and I have to hide all the liquor bottles, however. We normally have some wine or brandy standing around, but when my brother is here, we gather all the bottles and lock them up in a cabinet. Sometimes Danny comes in late at night, already drunk and brings a bottle with him and continues drinking while we are sleeping. Now I see there is a glass and a bottle standing right on the coffee table, and from what I can discern in the dark, the bottle is half empty. I reach over to pick it up and take it away, but Danilo holds my arm.

  “Come on, Sash. I feel like shit. I need a drink.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. And you’ve already had enough. Go to sleep.”

  “I haven’t had enough. I am telling you I feel like shit. Worse than that. What is worse than feeling like shit? I’ll tell you. It’s when a guy knows that his sister is risking her life in a fucking cage for him, and there is nothing he can do about it.”

  “It’ll be all right, Danny. Don’t worry about it. I’ll train better and I’ll be fine. The fights will be over soon. We’ll be OK.”

  “Yep. Most definitely. But let me have another drink now.”

  I know I must not let him, but I don’t know how to go about it. It’s awful having to fight with him every single time. He pours himself half a glassful and starts drinking and I take the glass from his hand. We struggle for a while.

  “Shh, be quiet, Sash,” he tells me. “We don’t want to wake the Grumpy up.”

  Initially Danilo just took m
y relationship with Drago as a matter of fact, but then I think he rather warmed up to him. I think he is a bit fascinated by him and even looks up to him in a way. They do argue a lot, though, always about Danny’s drinking.

  He now picks up the brandy bottle quickly and drinks right from it. Then he rummages among the plates and such on the coffee table and finds a piece of pizza and offers it to me. I refuse, and he bites into the pizza and takes another drink from the bottle.

  Drago comes into the living room, turning the light on, his face sleepy and angry.

  “Oh, good. See what you did. Now he’s up,” Danilo mutters under his breath and tries to hide the bottle behind his back. Drago snatches the bottle from him and starts yelling at him. Danilo yells back. For a few minutes the room is filled with yelling and cursing. The one-eyed cat jumps up onto a high shelf and watches from over there.

  In the end, Drago out-yells and out-curses Danilo. It has happened a number of times before and always ends in the same way. My brother promises he will not touch alcohol again.

  “Why the fuck is it so hot in here?” Drago wipes the perspiration off his forehead and then looks in the direction of the kitchen. “Wait a minute . . .” he walks toward the stove. I get up and follow him. I have already guessed what happened.

  “Ah, dammit,” Drago exclaims and shuts off the oven. “Your drunkard brother was heating up the frozen pizza and forgot to turn off the oven again. One day he’s gonna burn down the house.” He turns to go back to the living room, his face angry and determined. Danny moves to the far side of the couch and barricades himself behind some cushions. I grab Drago’s hand, but he frees himself from my grip and walks quickly to the couch and stands towering over Danny for a few moments.

  “Ah,” Drago just waves his arm in the air and does not do anything else. “Come on, girl, let’s go back to bed.”

  “You go. I’ll sit with him for a bit.”

  Danilo lies down on the chaise section of the sofa and complains that he won’t be able to fall asleep now. He moves around for a bit, arranging cushions this way and the other. Within a few minutes his breathing changes and I know he is sleeping. From the bedroom, Drago’s loud snoring issues. The one-eyed cat jumps down from the shelf and makes itself comfortable next to my thigh. I sit for a long while and stare into the darkness of the room that merges with the darkness of the outside through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  *****

  When I am sufficiently recovered from my injuries from the last Dark Fight, Drago and I go to the small gym on the ground floor of the building. We go late at night so that there are no people there. At this time we have the whole place to ourselves. Drago has ordered judo mats online and fixed it up with the super to store them in the gym. He now places them on the floor and we start our practice.

  At the dojo I got too used to training in a traditional Japanese martial arts gi and to grabbing my opponent’s gi sleeves and collar for throws and choke holds, which has been to my disadvantage during the Dark Fights where no gis are worn and all you can grab is sweaty slippery flesh. I must work on completely breaking my old habits. Now I only have tight shorts and a sports bra on, and Drago is dressed in sports pants and a T-shirt.

  He has refused to wear any type of back support, and I am somewhat worried about how his lower back will hold up. It was badly injured in the past and every once in a while gives him trouble. It has been all right for some time now and he has been getting treatment for it, but I don’t want one brusque motion to mess it up again. As we do some warm-up exercises I tell him to be careful, especially when we get to the throws. He smirks and asks who I take him for. He’s dealt with much heavier stuff in his life than a bit of a “fucked up lower back” and trained and fought on tons of injuries.

  “Enough talk—let’s get down to business,” he says then, his face acquiring a serious and focused expression and his words sounding very much like an order.

  He demonstrates an exceptionally effective takedown. As soon as we are on the ground and his body is on top of mine, I breathe heavier, feeling that I want him. I know it’s not right. At the moment he is my instructor, and these training sessions are crucial for me, and I should be fully focused on learning the technique, but I just can’t help it. I want him.

  We get back up on our feet and now it’s my turn to try and throw him. Instead of grabbing his arm as he has just showed me, I move my hand slowly along it, feeling his muscles with my fingers. I then raise my eyes and look into his. He puts his hand under my chin, my neck between his index finger and his thumb. When he touches me like that I feel that I must have him right that moment or the whole world would just end. He kisses me hard. I sweep his leg and he falls backward onto the mat. I fall on top of him, a quick thought that this cannot be good for his back crossing my mind. I want to say something, but he closes my mouth with his and holds me tight with one hand while untying his pants with the other.

  Afterward we are both pretty tired and decide to continue the training another day. We return to the apartment, take a shower, and go to sleep.

  *****

  Around two o’clock at night the phone rings.

  “Sash, the fucking F train is not working. I can’t get to the island.” I can hear my brother is pretty drunk.

  “Take a cab, Danny.”

  “Can’t. Don’t know where my wallet is. Only have my metro card. But the fucking F train has signal problems and is not working.”

  “What’s going on?” Drago asks.

  “Danny lost his wallet.”

  “Tell him to take the damn cab and I’ll meet him downstairs and pay,” Drago grumbles, rolls over on the other side and I can hear him swearing.

  “Danny, listen to me . . .” I start saying.

  “Never mind,” he interrupts me. “I’m taking the air tram. My metro card works for the air tram.”

  “Danny, take a cab.”

  “No! I want a ride in the air tram.” And he hangs up.

  I get out of bed and start dressing as quick as I can.

  “Where are you going?” Drago asks.

  “Go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I go outside and hurry toward the tramway’s terminal which is about ten minutes of brisk walk along the Main Street. I get to the terminal just when the tram is arriving. Two police officers are escorting Danilo out. They say he’s been making trouble during the ride, scaring other passengers. They tell me they’ll let him go if I promise to take him straight home. I give the police officers my solemn word.

  It takes us almost an hour to get back to the building, because every few feet Danilo wants to stop and look at the sky and try to find some constellation or another. We don’t see any stars at all, and he gets frustrated. Finally at the building, he does not want to get inside and crosses to the other side of the street and sits down on the bench by the Church. I sit next to him. Nights are still pretty cold in April and after a while I start shivering. Danny takes a flat bottle of cognac out of his coat pocket and offers it to me. I refuse and he drinks alone.

  Drago comes out of the building in a coat and pajama pants. He sees Danilo with a bottle, grabs it from him, and yet again they start yelling and swearing at each other.

  The two police officers appear again.

  “You promised you would take this one straight home,” they say. “And now there’s two of them making trouble.”

  “We live right here,” I tell the officers. “We are going in right now.”

  “Oh, yes,” Danilo puts in. “We are not making any trouble. We are just enjoying the quiet and lovely night. Won’t you join us?” and he tries to offer the police officers a drink from his bottle.

  “Just shut the fuck up.” Drago locks Danilo’s arm behind his back and makes him get up from the bench, and walks him in that position, the arm locked out behind his back, across the street and into
the building. I say goodnight to the officers and follow Drago and my brother inside.

  *****

  Several days later a phone call from Danilo wakes us up again in the middle of the night. This time Drago picks up. When he hangs up, he starts getting dressed right away.

  “He is in some bar in the Bronx. Drunk off his ass. I’ll go get him.”

  “I’m coming with you,” I say and put on the first things that I see lying around, jeans and one of Drago’s Henley shirts.

  We are out of the door in less than two minutes and once outside we walk fast to the garage. We don’t talk at all, each immersed in our gloomy thoughts. The weather has been shifting. It is very humid and muggy out. An occasional strong gust of wind flings my long messy hair into my face. Before we get to the garage, we hear a loud thunder and see several flashes of lightning.

  “What a fucking lovely night to be outside,” Drago mutters.

  It starts pouring while we are driving. When we get to the bar from where Danilo called earlier, Drago tells me to stay in the car and he runs out and disappears through the bar door. I hate sitting in the car and just waiting and decide that if he is not back within five minutes I am going in too. He returns very quickly however, completely drenched, swearing. Danilo was not in the bar.

  There are several other bars on the block and Drago checks them all, and Danilo is not there either. We drive slowly around the neighborhood. There is nobody out, no people, no cars, just our car creeping through the walls of rain. It is almost impossible to see anything, and I don’t know what this driving around can accomplish and I start feeling pretty desperate. Drago does not give up and widens the search area, turning down each side street, one by one, his face tense and focused, his eyes narrowed. After a while it stops raining, and a few rolls of thunder and an occasional lightning appear again, but farther in the distance.

 

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