Sergey calls for me to approach him, and Head Tattoo gives me a hand and pulls me up from the floor. Without his help I really feel that I do not have enough energy even to get up. I take a few tentative steps toward the bench, collapse on it, and don’t want to move ever again. Sergey offers me a bottle of water and places two pills in my hand. They will make me feel better, he says. Under normal circumstances I would start asking millions of questions, but right now nothing seems to matter much to me, and I swallow the pills without saying anything—just like that. I then lean my head against the wall and close my eyes. I do not know how much time passes, probably about fifteen minutes or so. I start feeling pretty strange, as if shaking on the inside. It comes on abruptly and intensifies fast, and soon I can’t sit still and feel almost like jumping out of my own skin.
I get up from the bench and start pacing back and forth. Sergey motions to Head Tattoo to resume training and to attack me. He strikes several times in a rapid succession, and I move so fast that none of the strikes connect. I then grab hold of him and throw him down with a powerful o-goshi and finish with a juji-gatame—perpendicular arm bar. Two new training partners arrive, and Sergey tells them to join in the practice and to attack me.
A peculiar intense energy is almost splitting me apart from the inside, propelling me to perform all of the techniques with great strength and speed. When I’m doing an inner-thigh throw, I lift my leg too brusquely and injure my hamstring. The pain is very sharp, but I don’t seem to care and continue training on what seems to be a pulled or maybe even partially torn hamstring. A strange need for destruction, violence, and aggression has taken over me, and I don’t want to nor seem to be able to stop.
Then all of a sudden I start feeling nauseous, cannot control it, and throw up right in the middle of the gym.
Afterward I am exhausted like never before, and still nauseous. The doctor confers with Sergey and with his permission gives me another pill, assuring me it will take the nausea away and make me recover quickly after the intense training session. I take the pill and then rest for a while sitting on the bench. Sergey and the doctor get up to leave, and, as they walk away I catch a few words of their conversation, something about a very big Dark Fights night coming up.
Riding up in the elevator with Head Tattoo, I ask him about those words I have overheard, but he averts his eyes, wrinkles his forehead, and tells me he doesn’t know anything.
*****
Back at the apartment, Ricardo the Stylist is going through my closet. After a careful inspection he declares I have absolutely nothing decent to wear and that, if it were not for him and the dresses he’s brought, I would have to go to the party in my training clothes.
“The hell you talking about? What party?”
“The party! Tonight. The boss insists that you attend.”
I want to tell Ricardo the stylist that I am not going to any party because I am nauseous and sick, but to my surprise I realize that the nausea is actually gone and I feel quite all right, physically. The doctor’s pill really worked. Still, I am in no mood for parties. I will just stay here in the apartment and . . . hmm, do what exactly? Watch a movie maybe? Nah, they all bore me now. I got too used to watching movies with Drago, hearing his comments, asking him questions, and always getting precise and interesting responses, whether the topic being aliens and parallel universes, corporate espionage, or martial arts. I don’t want to watch movies without him. So, what then? Go to bed alone with my sadness and try to fall asleep? I will have to take a sleeping pill. Hmm, maybe going to a party instead is not such a bad idea.
I take a shower and come out of the bathroom wearing only a pair of panties. As I put a compression bandage on my injured hamstring, Ricardo the stylist observes me with great attention and declares that I look out of shape.
“Possible.” I shrug my shoulders. “Tonight is the first time I trained in quite a while. All I have been doing is eating and sleeping.”
“It’s all right. Perhaps you are not in a perfect shape for the cage, but you’ll do quite well for a party. Ricardo the Stylist will make you look beautiful.”
He helps me try on several dresses, and we settle on the steel-gray one with a very low-cut back. He gives me a pair of high-heeled sandals to go with the dress, then does my hair and applies a bit of makeup to accentuate my eyes. I look in the floor-length mirror and it shows a dressed up young woman with incredibly sad eyes. I can’t take these sad eyes to a party, I think, and I’m about to take the dress off, but then change my mind again and leave the dress on. Maybe being in a crowd of people will do me good after all.
“Hey, Ricardo” I say while he is putting the finishing touches to my outfit, “you know everything that goes on around here. Have you heard about some important event coming up, some really big Dark Fights night or something?”
He freezes up for several long seconds, then gets back to adjusting a strap on my dress. “Nope, haven’t heard anything like that.”
*****
The party is two-leveled—in an apartment on one of the higher floors and on the rooftop of the building. I first take the elevator up to the rooftop. The music is blasting really loud. People are crowding around tables covered with food and the open bar. On the chaise lounges couples are lying down and drinking champagne. Everybody seems to be extraordinarily cheerful and there are bursts of laughter coming from every direction. It is extremely humid today and I start sweating even though I am only wearing the thin dress. I walk through the crowd and find an empty corner, where I stand leaning on a parapet and looking out to the city.
“Can I interest you in a glass of champagne,” a voice with a strong German accent asks me from behind.
I turn and the owner of the voice is a tall, dirty-blond man with an athletic build, a polite smile, and clever eyes.
“Is it cold?”
“I will make sure it is. Don’t move. I will be right back.”
He comes back a few minutes later with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two flutes. As soon as he hands me one I empty it in a long gulp. He refills it right away.
“It is very hot and humid out here,” the German says. “I believe it is going to rain.”
Oh good, small talk. Next we will be discussing NYC weather patterns. I turn and look out onto the city again. He leans on the parapet next to me and after a long pause starts telling me about himself, his work, places he likes to travel to. The champagne has gone straight to my head and I feel rather tipsy and I look at him with curiosity, studying his face, his words going in one ear and out of the other. I suppose he is a good-looking man. He definitely is. He misinterprets my fixed gaze and leans in and kisses me. I don’t kiss him back, I don’t even open my mouth. He pulls back, his eyes asking what’s wrong, and all of a sudden I just start laughing.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
He really seems an understanding and nice-enough guy.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Can I get you anything?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I am in the mood for company though.”
“Got you. I’ll be around, if you change your mind.”
I stroll through the party, looking at people’s faces, listening to shreds of their conversations. A number of men try to talk to me, but I do not pay attention to their advances and walk away. When the good-looking German kissed me, I did not feel attraction, I did not feel repulsion—I felt absolutely nothing, as if it were a brick wall touching my lips. And now looking at all these men, I do not see them as men, they might as well be lamp posts to me. There is only one man in the world and he has betrayed me.
This damn heavy sadness inside me. How do I get rid of it? I drink two more glasses of champagne, but do not feel any more cheerful. The only effect is that now I really have to pee. As I make my way slowly through the crowd toward the elevator, the first, weighty and fat drops of rain f
all. When I exit the rooftop, it really starts raining and all the masses of people rush toward the elevators.
The party has moved inside, into the huge apartment. It takes me a while to find a bathroom and there is a long line of men and women in elegant and already crumpled clothes waiting to get in. So I go looking for a different one and walk into a bedroom. On the bed there is the German guy with two girls. The girls are completely naked except for a pair of stockings and a garter belt. I can’t help but notice that the garter belt seems too tight and very uncomfortable for one of the girls, cutting into her flesh. Strange how your mind picks out such details.
The German guy notices me, pauses his activity, which at the moment consists of pushing the girls’ breasts together and having them kiss each other, and asks if I would like to join them. “I am looking for a bathroom,” I tell him. “There is one over there.” He points to a door at the back wall and gets back to business with his two companions. Coming out of the bathroom, the scene on the bed has progressed. I now see the guy behind one of the girls who is on all fours, and he tells her to do the same things to the other girl that he is doing to her.
There are many rooms in the apartment and they are all filled with guests now. The lights are dimmed everywhere. Waiters glide around with an endless supply of drinks, and people are sitting on huge low couches and drinking and getting to know each other really well—well enough to get up from the couches and stroll together into one of the bedrooms and spend some time there and come out again and get to know other people really well.
I walk into a room, where several men and women are doing lines and they invite me, but I just stand there for a while observing them. I did not know cocaine was still in use these days, but I suppose this drug never goes out of style. The people in the room look contented and fulfilled, and there is a meaningful expression on their faces. I suppose they have found their own piece of truth for tonight.
I open doors to several bedrooms and the people inside either do not notice the intrusion or do not mind being watched. All possible sex variations are on display here. The one that perplexes me somewhat involves the presence of a rooster on a leash in a bed.
Wandering around the party I have a few more glasses of champagne. My mind starts playing tricks on me. On more than one occasion it seems to me I see Drago. It is not him, of course. Damn it, am I drunk? I do not feel drunk, just disoriented and very gloomy. I try to imagine what his face really looks like. I can visualize perfectly well every separate feature of it—the nose that has been broken a number of times but reset quite skillfully, the light brown eyes that can go from being warm to cold in a mere moment, the mouth that often has that little smirk as if he knew something other people did not, but can also do a true and wonderful smile, the wrinkles that appear in the corners of his eyes when the smile is real—yet the separate features do not add up to a whole picture. Ah, damn it, what would it take for me to rip these fragments of his face out of my memory forever? I bet there is not enough alcohol and drugs at this party to achieve that.
I encounter the charming German once more. This time he has a video camera in his hand. I remember he said something about being in the movie business. “Hello, beautiful girl with the sad eyes. Talk to me. Not to me. Talk to the camera. Tell the camera what you think makes people happy.”
“A rooster on a leash in a bed makes some people happy,” I say.
“And that’s the ultimate philosophy.” He laughs.
“Cheers.” I raise my glass of champagne.
*****
I wander into the kitchen, and there, sitting at a table is Sergey with a few people. They are eating cheeseburgers and pickles and drinking vodka.
“Privet, Sasha, won’t you join us,” Sergey greets me.
Head Tattoo pulls up a chair for me and I sit down.
“Some vodka?”
“No, thank you.”
“A cheeseburger then?”
“Yes.” I suddenly feel very hungry and the cheeseburgers, on brioche buns with mayo and ketchup and pickles, look really good.
“Great. And how are you enjoying my party?”
I shrug my shoulders.
“I understand. This is not sufficiently exciting for you, is it? You crave something else, something that would get your blood really going, don’t you? I know you too well, beauty. So now, I have an important question for you.”
I am working on my cheeseburger at the moment and lift my eyes and look at him.
“Would you not like to do some more Dark Fights, Sasha?” he asks and holds my gaze for a few long moments.
I do not reply.
“My birthday is in two weeks,” he says. “Do one fight as a birthday present for me.”
“I’ve been hearing about some important event coming up. A big Dark Fights night. Is that what you are asking me to do?”
“What? No! What big Dark Fights night?” Sergey and the others exchange quick glances. “I have no idea what you mean. It’s nothing like that. I am talking about my birthday and a small fighting bout for a select group of friends to watch and enjoy. What do you say?”
I finish the cheeseburger and get up from the table without answering the question.
“Come on, beauty. If you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself. You know you want to get back into the cage. You miss it. You enjoyed your last few fights, didn’t you? I’ll make sure you have even more fun in the cage this time around. I have something for you that will give you the best high of your life . . .”
What is he talking about now? What is it that he has for me? I want to ask, but he does not give me a chance to put in a word.
“You crave that amazing high, the adrenaline rush from stepping into the cage, don’t you?” he goes on quickly. You know you want it again. What else have you got after all? Think about it, what else have you got?”
Is he right? He might just be. I really don’t have anything else in my life anymore.
“So, beauty, how about it? Will you do the Birthday Fight?”
As I start walking away, I turn my head and give him a brief nod. I leave the kitchen hearing behind me Sergey’s expressions of delight.
I go up to the rooftop again. It is pouring and there is no one here. I lean against the parapet and look at the walls of rain coming down hard onto the city. Within a few seconds I am completely drenched. My wet dress is clinging to my body, the water is cascading down my hair. I stand like this for a long time.
Chapter 20
Head Tattoo and I are sitting in the back seat of the BMW on our way to Sergey’s birthday fight. Am I imagining it or is my usually calm and cool companion feeling rather nervous today? He is fidgeting, cracking his knuckles, starting to whistle and then breaking off suddenly, and throwing me strange looks every once in a while. What is up with him? At several moments I even catch him open his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out, and he just coughs into his fist and then remains silent. I have half a mind to ask him straight-out what is going on, but finally decide to just ignore him. I have a lot to worry about as is.
I have agreed to do the Birthday Fight, yet now am not sure if I’ll be able to go through with it. I feel extremely weak and sluggish. Since that one training session two weeks ago I haven’t really stepped into the gym, not having any energy or will to train yet not wishing to take those drugs that made me feel like wanting to jump out of my own skin. Instead of training I have been going to all types of parties Sergey invited me to, trying to dissolve my gloomy thoughts in drinks, music, and crowds of strangers, but never succeeding.
My muscles have lost their conditioning. My hamstring has not quite healed either. And worst of all, my body and my mind both simply refuse to shake off the half-lethargic state and wake up. Damn it, I really doubt that inside the cage I’ll be able to perform at decent speed and energy levels. My opponent will be able to do what sh
e wants with me.
The car drives up to the entrance of the nightclub in midtown that Sergey owns, and Head Tattoo walks me through the security. The main birthday celebration is taking place on the first floor, and there is a steady stream of people going in, but we take the stairs to the basement, where Baldy and Buzz Cut are manning the doors. I realize I am starting to feel somewhat nervous. I don’t know what is waiting for me inside. I guess I never believed it when Sergey said tonight’s fight was going to be a small low-key affair. As I am stepping in, I half expect to see something grandiose, a huge chamber filled to the brim with the usual bloodthirsty crowd.
To my surprise, the space is not large at all, with soft lighting, paintings on the walls, and wooden paneling. There are only a handful of couches and coffee tables, with no more than twenty or so people at them. It would look just like a comfortable and elegant living room if . . . well, if it were not for a fighting cage right in the middle of it.
Hmm, just as Sergey has promised, tonight’s fight seems to be a small and intimate show for only a few of his friends. So, this is definitely not the big Dark Fights event that I have been hearing about. Still, I can’t help but feel anxious. I know by now that nothing is ever exactly what it seems when it comes to the Russian and his schemes.
“The boss wants you to take these before the fight.” Head Tattoo suddenly places a small plastic bag with two pills into my hand. “He says, you’ll need them. You haven’t been training much, if at all.”
I shake my head. I don’t want the drugs.
“Sorry,” Head Tattoo says, an uncomfortable look on his face. “This is not a suggestion. It’s an order. I am to make sure you take them.”
So, there it is. I just knew that Sergey was up to something.
“Why? What the fuck is going on here?”
He does not reply, but I’ve already guessed that tonight is supposed to be a trial bout for me. This little show Sergey has arranged is to see how I fight on drugs.
The Dark Fights Page 22