The Dark Fights

by Alexandra Vinarov

  I regain my position and get her into the juji-gatame again and arch my hips once more overextending her elbow. You can visually see her arm bending backward. The audience is roaring with excitement at this point. Still she does not tap out, but a terrifying cry of pain and rage issues from her wide-open mouth. Then she taps out.

  *****

  After the fight I am sitting alone in the plush armchair in the locker room. The physician has just left after treating my cuts and bruises. I don’t know where Martine is. The last glimpse I caught of her was when she was being loaded into a different elevator. I feel sad and gloomy. Ricardo the Stylist runs in all excited and I am glad of his company. He brings a garment bag with him and smiles and looks all mysterious.

  “The boss sends this,” he says. “I won’t show you yet, but it is beautiful.”

  I reach over and want to unzip the bag. Ricardo slaps me on the hand. “Get your dirty paws off this delicate beauty,” he says. “Take a shower first. Are you familiar with the concept of taking a shower, you . . . you . . .” He pauses looking for a word. “You fighter.”

  After I come out of the shower, he covers the swelling and bruising with makeup and arranges my hair in long flowing waves. Finally, he opens the garment bag and takes out a dress that is indeed beautiful, elegant, and almost ethereal. It is made of some very thin fabric, light peach in color, with a very slight sheen. He holds it in his hands delicately and when he puts it on me it feels so light, as if I were not wearing anything. The dress is long, covering the heels of my shoes almost to the floor, but it has a high slit on one side and so does not restrict my steps.

  When Head Tattoo sees me in it, he stares for a few moments, his head inclined sideways, his mouth opened slightly. And then he does something that quite impresses me. He offers me his arm. I smile and put my arm through his, and he guides me to the elevator, a very proud look on his face. This time we ride in the elevator for the formally dressed people. We get out on the second floor and go into the grill room.

  The grill room is large and dark, its walls paneled with wood that looks very old. Sergey meets me at the bar.

  “Oh, my beauty,” he exclaims right away. “You look stunning. Please, sit, sit, have a drink with me. Oh, I am so pleased. It was an amazing fight, your best fight. Absolutely captivating.”

  “You call this an amazing fight? Her elbow is severely damaged now, practically destroyed,” I say as I decline the drink and take a sip of ice water.

  “Her elbow should be the last thing on your mind right now. Try to relax and have a good time. Hmm, still thinking about her?” He asks after observing me silently for a while. “That girl is a decent fighter, but she’s started to give me trouble. She’s too argumentative. Anyway, she’s served her purpose. I have no further use for her. She needs to disappear.”

  “What?” I stare at him.

  He laughs. “Nothing like that. You have a wild imagination. She needs to go away is all. A call to a friend at the USCIS has already been made. Martine has extended her legal stay in this country and will be sent back to France. Come on, beauty, cheer up, I will introduce you to some of my friends.”

  Sergey leads me to a large table around which about ten men are seated. As I approach they all rise and a waiter moves my chair for me. Sergey introduces his friends by their first names only. They are all about Sergey’s age and are perfectly nice and polite, and their conversation is quite interesting. They do not make any reference to the Fights at all, and after a while I relax and, as I feel awfully hungry, order a crab cake appetizer, a filet mignon, and a mojito. With the food and the drink in me, I like the ambience of the place and the company more, and everything seems rather comforting and pleasant. Even Sergey’s heavy Russian accent does not grate on my nerves as it usually does. He asks me if I want something else to eat, a dessert perhaps, another drink.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but at some point I get up to go to the bathroom. All the men at the table rise again. After I come back I do not go up to the table, but stand at a distance for a while observing the whole room. As I look around, it suddenly dawns on me that I do not belong here, I should not be here at all. Head Tattoo comes up to me.

  “Get me out of here,” I say to him.

  He hesitates, looks at his boss, then nods, and walks me to the door.

  *****

  Back at home, I go into the bedroom. Drago isn’t sleeping. He’s watching a series on Netflix.

  “Wow,” he says when he sees me in my elegant outfit. “You look good, girl. Really good.”

  I take off my dress and walk around the room in only my high heeled shoes, feeling his eyes on me.

  “Come to bed, girl.”

  I sit at the edge of the bed, my back to him, and he puts his arms around my breasts.

  “How did the fight go?”

  “Fine. I won. Only two more left to go. Turn the TV off, please.”

  “Why? Are you going to tell me about the fight?”

  “No. That’s not what I want to do right now.”

  I lie on top of him, prop my arms on his chest and look him in the eyes for a while. I kiss him on the side of his neck, inhaling deeply his scent of cigarette smoke and Sauvage Dior, and then I kiss him on the mouth as hard as I can. He rolls me over, traps me under him, and stays on top.

  Afterward, lying next to him and holding his hand, I put my head on his chest. This is where I am supposed to be. This is home.

  Later in the night I wake up and walk naked to the window and stand there looking at the dark river and the lights of Manhattan across it. Drago gets up and comes up to me and puts his arms around me. It feels wonderful, standing like this, in his arms, in the middle of the night, as if we had tricked time and carved out a unique slot just for us. I don’t know how long we stand like this, but I guess at some point I get cold. A shiver runs across my body. He picks me up and carries me back to bed.

  Chapter 17

  On a very warm evening in late June, my brother and I are sitting on a bench on Roosevelt Island. It is one of those rare New York nights when the weather is hot but not humid, and we are enjoying the breeze from the river and don’t feel like going inside. We are eating ice cream—Danilo chocolate, I green tea. I haven’t had sweets in a long time, because they are bad for your muscles and make you sluggish, but now that the Dark Fights are done with, I can relax and eat as much ice cream as I want. I can only finish half of mine though, finding the taste too sweet, and I give the rest of it to Danny.

  Danilo is back from the rehab on Long Island and is doing an outpatient program in Manhattan, and it seems to be going really well. He hasn’t had a single drink in quite a while. We’ve just come from a modeling shoot in a studio in Hell’s Kitchen, which he invited me to watch. He was worried about the look of his new teeth and his nose not being as perfect as before the two breaks, but it did not detract at all from his beauty and was barely if at all noticeable in the photographs. Sergey got him this modeling gig, but Danilo is quite optimistic he’ll now be able to get more on his own.

  “Isn’t it great, Sash?” Danilo asks making a big gesture with his ice cream as if wanting to include the whole world in his definition of greatness.

  “What is?”

  “Well, everything! Things are starting to pick up for us, don’t you think? You’ve finished all the Dark Fights and never have to step into the cage again!”

  “Yep.”

  “Come on, show some more enthusiasm.” He nudges me lightly with his elbow. “You must admit you are absolutely relieved and happy that the fights are over. I know I am.”

  “Well, yeah, sure, it’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you gotta promise you are not gonna tell Drago.”

  “Sure. I promise. I won’t tell the Grumpy.”

  “Well, the thing is that the last f
ights went so well that I think I might have started to enjoy them.”

  “What! Are you crazy?!”

  “Wait, let me explain.”

  “There is nothing to explain. It’s just crazy.”

  “Look, I don’t know how to put it exactly. It’s this . . . the adrenaline rush, the excitement of the moment, the way your body and your mind function at the very height of their abilities. It is . . . I don’t know what it is, Danny. It is fucking addictive, I gotta tell you.”

  “Really? And all the injuries, and the fear of not getting out of there alive, and the pain?”

  “Drago trained me really well, you know. He taught me how to fight for real. Something changed. I don’t feel like a passive scared creature in that cage anymore. I feel strong and ready to take on any opponent.”

  I’m not sure Danny is the right person to understand this. He’s been in the cage but he never passed that point where the fear becomes one with the exhilaration and then dissolves in it, disappears altogether. When you conquer the fear and cross over that line, what a rush. The high you experience during the no-rules fight is so high, precisely because you’ve learned to transform your fear into something else and channel it into a driving force, and it drives you up and up, and when you come off of it, you feel sort of lost for a bit and don’t know what to do with yourself and you crave more of that high.

  “Well, I don’t want to hear any more,” Danilo says and even bangs his fist on the bench to really get my attention. “You’ve done the five fights. It’s over now, OK? No matter how good of a fighter you think you are, every time you step into that damn cage you risk not getting out of there alive. You are done with all that, all right, Sash?”

  “Yeah, OK. Chill. It’s over.”

  “Just look at your face,” he says and shakes his head. “Your lip is still swollen from the last fight. “Be grateful you didn’t get a few teeth knocked out as well.”

  I touch my swollen lower lip with the tip of my tongue and smile. This is not from the last Dark Fight, it is from Drago. In the past he had always refrained from biting me, but after last night I have his teeth marks on my back, my butt, and yeah, he also bit my lip pretty hard. It was quite a night we had. We wanted each other again and again, until at one point we were both exhausted, and had to stop, him still inside me, still very hard. We took a break and ate some bitter dark chocolate and drank water, and then he wanted to be inside me again and I wanted him to fuck me for as long as there was an ounce of energy left in him. Every time I would come, it would turn him on even more, and he wanted to keep going. And those were not the superficial brief clitoral orgasms that I don’t like at all. They were the deep, slow-building, and long-lasting internal ones, the real ones that are felt deep within and shut out the whole world and leave me shaking and then absolutely limp. He would wait until I recovered a bit, opened my eyes, and became responsive again, and would then keep going. I did not want him to stop either, I wanted him to empty himself completely into me. I wanted all of him. I don’t know what came over us last night, and now I am pretty sore inside and my mouth hurts, and yet I cannot stop smiling. If it’s even possible, now I feel more in love with that man than ever before.

  “What are you smiling about?” Danny asks.

  “Nothing. Are you finished with the ice cream? Want to go inside now?”

  “Yeah, let’s go. We don’t want the Grumpy to get angry that we’re late for dinner.”

  *****

  Drago is not home. The one-eyed cat jumps down from the shelf and rubs against my feet, first meowing softly, then with more insistence, demanding food. A usual can of some nutritious seafood-y substance takes care of the cat’s hunger. My brother, however, is not so easy to please. He has been looking forward to the rib eye steak dinner that Drago has promised us, and now doesn’t want to settle for anything else. I offer to make him a sandwich or some pasta, or order Japanese, but he just says no to everything. He opens the freezer and his eyes sparkle as he spots a pizza. He then remembers what happened the last time he heated up a pizza in the oven, changes his mind, and shuts the freezer with a loud bang.

  He walks around the kitchen humming a tune by You Bred Raptors?, a local band that we heard perform earlier today in a subway station. The melody has a strange combination of lively energy and deep suspense that kind of creeps under your skin. I really liked the song, but for some reason Danilo’s humming it now bothers me. In his interpretation it just sounds too gloomy, almost chilling and ominous, and makes me shiver. I ask him to stop. He breaks off for a minute, but then continues, probably without even realizing.

  He walks back and forth restlessly, looking at the old photographs on the walls, then starts going through the stack of mail on the counter. I tell him not to touch Drago’s stuff. He picks up one envelope, and abruptly his humming stops.

  “What the fuck!” Danilo exclaims staring at the envelope, a startled expression on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “The company that sent this to your boyfriend. I know the name. I got checks from them in the past for some of my modeling gigs.”

  “What are you talking about? Drago doesn’t do modeling.”

  “No shit. Use your brain, Sash! Don’t you understand? This company is a front for Sergey’s businesses.” With this Danilo rips open the envelope.

  “Hey!” I protest but shut my mouth as soon as I see what’s inside. It is a check for seventy-five thousand dollars. Danilo and I stare at it for a few long moments.

  “Sash,” he pronounces gently.

  “No!” I interrupt him. “Don’t say it. It can’t be true. It just can’t. There must be some other explanation.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “Your boyfriend works for Sergey.”

  *****

  In the absolute silence I hear the front door open and close and steps come down the stairs that lead into the living room. Drago approaches, greeting us cheerfully and places a bag with what I guess are three rib eye steaks onto the counter. He smiles while announcing that the master chef will now demonstrate his excellent cooking skills and a superb dinner will be ready in no time. He wants to say something else but cuts himself short, taking a closer look at our faces and then at the check in Danilo’s hand.

  Drago’s smile vanishes right away and his eyes narrow. He makes one quick motion going for Danilo’s wrist. I strike with the blade of my hand deflecting his move. In less than a split second he counters my strike, reaches Danilo with his other hand, and holds him in a tight grip. Danilo’s fingers release the check, letting it fall to the ground.

  Attracted by the disturbance, the one-eyed cat comes up, and for a while the four of us just stand there, our gazes fixed on the rectangular piece of paper on the floor. I am not sure how much time passes. We all seem to be hypnotized, unable to move or avert our eyes.

  In an involuntary gesture I crack the knuckles on my fingers, and the harsh grating sound startles everyone, the one-eyed cat jumping away and settling in the corner.

  “Drago and I need to talk,” I say to my brother. My own voice sounds strangely hollow and almost lifeless to me.

  Danilo refuses to leave at first, but I give him the look, which he understands. I don’t want him in the apartment now, and after some deliberation he heads out.

  Drago pours himself a glass of water, drinks it in long gulps, and then sits on the windowsill in the kitchen, facing me.

  “Just tell me everything,” I say nodding at the check, which still remains in the same spot on the floor.

  “Sit down.” He points to one of the chairs and lights up a cigarette.

  I remain standing up. “Tell me.”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “What do you want to hear?”

  The truth of course. I want to know the truth. But do I really? Doesn’t some part of me want him to make up a lie, a nice smooth lie that
would miraculously erase this sinking feeling that I have inside me now and would patch over the rift that is already starting to form between Drago and me?

  “All right, well, yes, the Russian paid me to train you.”

  I remember when I was a little girl and would play on a swing on a playground and would swing myself so high that I would get a chilling hollow sensation in my stomach. I get that same sensation right now.

  So, there it is. The truth is out. There will be no merciful lie. The rift between us is growing bigger by the second, threatening to turn into an abyss.

  “You knew all along I was in the Dark Fights?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t give a fuck.”

  He puts out his cigarette but then immediately lights up a new one. “Listen, girl, it’s complicated.”

  I don’t want to cry. I’m doing my best to suppress the tears. On the inside I’m screaming with pain, and, when a tiny moan issues from my mouth, I immediately shut my lips as tight as I can. I try to breathe deeply in and out through my nose to stabilize myself. I need to know more. I now doubt everything, our whole history together. “Was it a plan all along?” I ask in as even a tone of voice as I can muster. “Was I targeted from the beginning? You actually did track me, didn’t you?”

  Drago exhales loudly, as if exasperated by all this questioning. “You want me to say that our meetings were not a coincidence. OK, they were not. The Russian had this whole master plan for you, he wanted you caught in a ‘spider web like a little moth’—his exact fucking words, not mine. But I’ll tell you one thing, girl—I did not want you doing the Fights. I argued with the Russian for a long time. I found him other fighters. There was no use. He wanted you. He saw you were something very special and decided to invest in you. After that there was no changing his mind.”

  “So you gave in. Why? The money?”