With a brief hand gesture he orders more of his men to attack Liam. I want to jump in to help Liam, but Head Tattoo gets me in a powerful bear hug and holds me in place. I try to break his grip, but fail. I make an attempt to bend forward and sort of throw him over me—absolutely to no avail. I then dig my heel into a pressure point on the top of his foot. This pressure point is extremely powerful and the pain must be excruciating. Head Tattoo issues a loud agonizing growl but does not release his iron bear hug. “Stay still. You don’t want to mix in that fight,” he says to me.
For a while Liam puts on an excellent defense, causing serious damage to a number of the attackers, but, several men against one, they manage to overpower him in the end. He receives a few brutal punches and then they bring him down to the floor and continue landing him punches and kicks to his body and head.
I make another desperate attempt to get out of Head Tattoo’s hold and, when that fails, shout to Sergey. He glances at me, deliberates for a moment, and then orders his men to stop and to stand Liam up. They obey the command and pick Liam up from the floor. Blood is streaming from a cut over his eyebrow and from his mouth. He still tries to resist but they have him in a tight lock, twisting his arms behind his back. Liam spits the blood to the floor.
“Sasha, come back to the dojo with me!” he calls and spits the blood out again.
“Get him out of here,” Sergey orders, and his men start dragging Liam toward the exit.
“Sasha, you don’t belong here. Come with me,” Liam calls again.
I finally manage to break Head Tattoo’s grip and get his arm in a standing kimura lock. All his strength and weight can do nothing against this painful arm lock. I then throw him and take a few hurried steps after Liam.
“Sasha, stop!” Sergey shouts. “Where are you going? Back to the dojo? They kicked you out. They don’t want you. You stopped being an uchi-deshi the moment you stepped into the cage for the first time. There is no way back for you.”
I pause, uncertain of what to do. I want to follow Liam, but Sergey's words have a sudden and incredibly strong impact on me. There is no way back for you rings in my ears again and again. I can’t help but succumb to the demoralizing effect of this phrase. I think of how I broke all the rules, went against the code of honor, and disobeyed Sensei. There is no place in the dojo for me anymore, for I am not a martial artist but just a fighter now. I feel strange, as if contaminated with something I cannot purify myself of, and so must not bring this contagion into the dojo. I remain standing in one spot, as if my feet are glued to the floor. No, I can’t go back with Liam.
*****
I ask the driver not to take me straight to 2 Gild Street, but to ride around the city for a bit. My thoughts are in complete disarray and, as the car glides through the nighttime streets of Manhattan, a question emerges out of that chaos. What is my place now? Where do I belong? The answer is too painful to admit even to myself.
I thought I was an uchi-deshi and my life was at the dojo, but I lost that. I then thought that my present and my future were with Drago, but that was all shattered too. I pass my hand across my lips and stare at the dark-red streak of lipstick. I rub my lips in silent desperation and then smear the dark-red color onto my dress. I hunch over and wrap my arms tight around myself, trying to suppress the tears. Ahhh, a shout issues from deep inside me and I hit the seat with my fist several times.
By the time the car takes me to 2 Gild Street, the pain has mixed with a strange sort of cold bitterness and disillusionment that I haven’t experienced before. Upstairs I pace around the apartment, not knowing what to do with myself and with my utterly gloomy and poisonous thoughts. I’ve heard that sometimes people just bang their heads against the wall, for no apparent reason. I guess, those people feel utterly lost and can’t come up with a better outlet for their anguish.
At one point I find myself standing near a window wondering what it would feel like to drive my fist through the glass.
Later that night Head Tattoo comes up to the apartment with a box of blini and caviar from the party. He opens his mouth to say something but I interrupt him.
“Get changed and meet me in the gym,” I tell him. “Oh, and bring some more of those drugs.”
He looks at me, a silent question written all over his face. I nod emphatically. I’ve decided. I’ve made the choice. I am not quite sure if it somehow has been made for me or not, but right now this distinction doesn’t seem to matter. I don’t want to think about it too much, if at all. “Just bring them,” I say again as I start putting on my training clothes—not a traditional martial arts gi, which I have not worn in ages, but a fighter’s gear.
*****
Soon after Sergey’s birthday party I do another Dark Fight. And after that one more, and then I do not want to stop. Sergey has doubled my prize purse for each win, but it’s not of much importance to me at this stage.
I train endless hours at the gym at 2 Gild Street, which is now at my disposal twenty four-seven, get massages and cryotherapy to help my body recover after the overly intense training, and then the Dark Fights nights, the stepping into the cage, the putting everything I’ve got into each bout, and the ever-growing indifference to physical pain—mine or my opponents’.
With the intense training, my body returns to perfect fighting condition and keeps getting stronger. I also take whatever drugs Sergey’s physician gives me and for the duration of a bout I abandon myself to the chemically enhanced exertion and violence. I now crave this feeling of emptying myself out completely. It seems to help rid me of the burden of sadness and anguish I carry inside. Afterward the crashing comes. The disillusionment, the desolation, and the bitterness return and weigh heavy on me, and I get the urge to get into the cage again and again. There does not seem to be a way out of it for me anymore. The circle closes, and with each spin I get colder and more brutal and have fewer and fewer qualms about inflicting severe injuries. In one of the fights, my opponent’s arm gets broken in three places, but I do not dwell on things like this much, if at all. These days I try not to think about anything.
After the fights there are always parties, and if I am not too badly injured I always go. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I prefer the noise, loud music, crowds of people around, and meaningless inconsequential conversations. If I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror, I see huge shadows under my eyes, lips dry and cracked, and protruding cheekbones. I apply tons of powder and a bright lipstick to make myself look less like a living corpse. And when I get back to my apartment in the early morning hours, I take a sleeping pill or two and fall into the dark oblivion, until Head Tattoo wakes me up to go training. The trek round the circle goes on and on, and the whole routine is carried out to the accompaniment of various drugs—the ones that boost my energy levels to the maximum and augment my power, strength, and speed, the ones that relieve the symptoms of the crashing afterward, the ones that help recover the sore muscles faster, and some other drugs that I don’t even know or want to know what they are for. I don’t ask any questions anymore except for one.
I keep hearing rumors about an upcoming event, a really big Dark Fights night, but every time I ask Sergey he avoids a direct answer. Perhaps he thinks I am not ready. The doctor is still experimenting with the optimum dosage of the drugs I take. Sergey says he wants to see the Samurai Princess “turn into a beast in the cage.”
Strange, but I think I am actually looking forward to this important Dark Fights night. I guess there is nothing else in my life to look forward to.
In my lucid moments, it occurs to me that I am like a greyhound racing around a track, and Sergey is dangling the mysterious Dark Fights event in front of my nose as if it were a mechanical rabbit. I chase the unpleasant image away.
In these rare intervals when my mind works more or less clearly, I also think of Liam and wonder if perhaps I made a huge mistake of not going with him. These are not happ
y thoughts, and I prefer not to dwell on things and to have as few of these “lucid moments” as possible.
Chapter 22
They crave something absolutely spectacular and big, these people gathered here tonight. Something they have not seen before. You must deliver. A lot is at stake.
It is the night of the big Dark Fights event and Sergey’s warning pops up in my head at the very height of the fight, when the crowd’s clamor has become almost deafening. My opponent attempts a flying knee—a knee to the head blow, but I move too fast for the strike to connect. I plant my foot in her stomach and bring her down in a tomoe nage throw, slam her into the floor, get on top, and strike with my elbows and fists. For a few moments it seems to me that everything grows absolutely quiet and all I can hear are the thumping sounds of the blows.
The shaking on the inside is worse than on all the previous occasions. I don’t know the drug dosage they gave me this time, but the feeling of wanting to jump out of my own skin does not abate with the intensity of the bout, and only grows stronger. The violent energy has fully taken over and I cannot stop striking. With my arms continuing to deliver the blows in an almost zombielike state, I glance around me. I see the white walls of the huge tent that has been set up on the rooftop of 2 Gild Street to prevent helicopters, drones, and people from other rooftops from looking in. I see countless figures crowding around the cage with their gaping mouths, whose shouts I cannot seem to hear.
All of a sudden an acute sense of danger shoots through me. Out of the corner of my eye I notice something sparkle in my opponent’s fingers. She makes one quick move aiming right at my forehead. In a split-second motion I deflect her hand, and she cuts my shoulder instead of my face.
At this moment the roar of the crowd bursts into my head again, mixing with what seems like the equally loud noise of my pulse pumping somewhere behind my ears.
She must have hidden the tiny razor in the band of her shorts or her sports bra. I bet she was trying to cut me above my eyes so that the gushing blood would blind me. She is damn fast, but I do not give her a chance for a second attempt. I grab her wrist and twist it so hard I hear the sound of a bone breaking. She drops the razor.
We are back on our feet and the blood is streaming down my arm. There is no cutman cage-side to treat wounds, and the referee will not pause the fight anyway. I get her in a clinch and press my shoulder tight against her body trying to stop the bleeding this way.
I dig my fingers hard under her ribs in that brutal move that Drago taught me. I then drive my elbow into her sternum. She staggers on her feet and holds onto me, spitting blood into my face. I am just about to throw her again, when suddenly the cage door opens and several persons, Head Tattoo among them, hurry in. I don’t understand what’s going on as I look around and see the heavily packed audience start to move about haphazardly. The commotion intensifies inside the big white tent, and Head Tattoo gets me out of the cage and rushes me through the crowd toward the exit.
“What just happened up there?” I shout as we are riding down in the elevator. I am breathing rapidly and it’s difficult for me to stand still. The shaking on the inside has still not gone away and I have not started to come down from the violent high the drugs produced. The dosage they gave me this time must have been huge.
“The police are in the building. Not because of the fight. Unrelated. But better to postpone the fight, just in case.”
“Fuck that. Why did she have a razor? Did you know she would have a razor?” I grab Head Tattoo by the lapels of his jacket.
He remains cool and hands me a cloth to press against the cut on my shoulder.
“The doctor will look at it in a minute,” he says.
“Fuck it.” I throw the cloth on the floor.
We ride down to the garage, Head Tattoo puts me in the back seat of a car and leaves me alone for what probably are only a few minutes but seem like interminable hours to me. Finally the doors open and Sergey and the doctor get in.
“You had it all planned, didn’t you? The razor? It was your idea, wasn’t it?” I grab Sergey’s shoulder and start shaking it, trying to shake the answer out of him. I don’t think I am fully aware of what I am doing.
“Take these.” The doctor hands me several pills. I hit his hand and the pills fly in different directions.
“She really needs to calm down,” Sergey says and steps out again. Head Tattoo appears in his stead and suddenly gets me in a tight hold, pressing me against the back of the seat. The doctor has a syringe out already, and at the first opportune moment gives me a shot. Within seconds I start sinking into soft pleasurable waves, unable to think or care about anything.
Chapter 23
Several days later Danilo and I are sitting at Wolf Flannigan’s. The bartender recommends salmon for dinner. Danny tries it and says it’s really fresh and delicious, but I cannot seem to taste what I am putting in my mouth. My head feels as if it weighs a ton and my thoughts are all hazy and slow. I bet it’s the drugs the doctor has been giving me since the last fight. The bartender brings me a mojito and I take a few sips. The summery concoction is not strong enough for my current condition, so I ask for vodka on the rocks instead. The vodka, however, also fails to revive me.
Danilo is drinking ginger ale and keeps glancing at my shoulder and shaking his head.
“That is a nasty cut,” he says and strokes my arm with his knuckles. “Will leave a scar.”
“No big deal. Doc said they’d be able to remove it with a laser later on.”
“But it is a big deal, Sash. It is! She could have cut you much worse, on your face or something. Anything can happen in that cage. With no rules, who knows what your next opponent might try to pull. It’s such a dirty business.”
I try to find within me disgust, fear, apprehension, something, but I don’t seem to be able to care. I am just numb. I do not feel like myself at all, as if I had been hollowed out and stuffed with some new material. Damn, what has the doctor been giving me?
“And what if the next time you are in the cage you can’t control yourself and just kill your opponent? Have you thought of that?”
I remember what Hiroji once told me about the horror of killing someone. I don’t want to dwell on any such possibility, though, and don’t reply anything to my brother’s urgent question.
“Listen,” Danilo pronounces with great determination. “You must quit the Dark Fights. Let’s just chuck everything here, tomorrow, and fly off to Amsterdam.”
“Ah, again with your Amsterdam.”
“Well, why not? Listen. We could live in Amsterdam, or we could also go and explore the Dutch countryside, all the small towns and villages and stuff. I don’t care about casinos and all that anymore. We’d go to Delft. That’s where that guy Vermeer, who painted Girl with the Pearl Earring, lived. We’ll eat mussels and pannekoeken.”
“What?”
“Pannekoeken. That’s Dutch pancakes. They are super thin and can be sweet or savory.”
Vermeer and pannekoeken. My brother has done quite a bit of research on the Netherlands. The idea of moving there has clearly gotten ahold of him pretty tightly. Hmm, but why shouldn’t we go, if that is what he really wants? It’s good to really want something. I wish I were able to really want something, but I seem to have lost that ability. Well, I’ll do this for Danny. And the money shouldn’t be a problem now either. I’ve made quite a bit of it winning in the cage fight after fight.
Perhaps I should stick around for the rescheduled big night Dark Fight though. It’s worth the risk—the money from that one night would give Danny and me an additional year or two of quiet life in some small town in his beloved Netherlands. The new date for the event has not been set yet but it is to take place sometime soon and, if I win, Sergey has promised a really significant reward—fifty grand. He’s a lying and manipulating bastard, but he has never cheated me out of prize money. And this time I wi
ll be on high alert for any tricks my opponent might pull. She won’t be able to surprise me with her razor stunts or such.
“Well, Sash?” Danilo asks and strokes my arm with his knuckles again. There is almost a pleading expression in his eyes.
“You know what, we might just do it.”
At this he smiles such a wonderful, happy smile that his face looks like a little boy’s.
“Yay! So you will definitely quit the Dark Fights? And we’ll move to Amsterdam together? Yay!”
I take a long drink of my vodka and finally start feeling a bit more alive. I cannot quite tell if it is the vodka or Danilo’s earnest enthusiasm that has revived me somewhat.
The bartender comes over from the other end of the counter where he’s been serving side cars to a group of regulars, and all of a sudden he just freezes with an empty tray in his hands, looking somewhere behind me. His face gains a tense and grave expression. I glance in the mirror on the back wall, and, among the rows of bottles see the reflection of Sergey standing a few feet back of us. Fuck. How long has he been standing there? Did he hear us? I bet he did. Danilo and I were not exactly whispering.
*****
Sergey comes up and leans on the bar counter and looks at me and my brother for some time without saying anything.
“Privet.” He slaps my brother on the back. “Why don’t you and I go and sit at that table over there and have a drink together and talk some things over. Your sister wouldn’t mind waiting here for a bit, would she? Our friend the bartender will keep her company.” And he motions to the bartender to get me another drink.
Danilo looks at me, doubt and apprehension in his eyes. I put my hand on his arm.
“No, Sergey. Danilo will stay right here. Anything you want to say to him, say it in front of me.”
Sergey is quiet again for a while, observing us, his eyes shifting from my face to my brother’s.
The Dark Fights Page 24