Chapter Twenty

“Cy?” I could hear Chudruk’s voice from the doorway. How long had I been thinking about all of this?

“Come in.” There were other things I needed to be concentrating on.

“Pop got you a match for the end of the day.” Chud sat on Zerleg’s cot. “Veronica is watching the opening ceremony with the others.”

I sat up. “Thanks. I think I really pissed her off.”

He laughed. “Women, eh?” Chudruk scratched his chin. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you with a woman for more than two hours.”

I tossed my hat at him. He ducked. “When do the boys fight?” I didn’t want to talk about Veronica.

“Zerleg fights in the first round. Zolbin later.” He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Did Zerleg talk to you?”

I nodded. “About the girl? Yes.” I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into this conversation. It was a family affair, and I was the outsider. But it did give me something else to talk about than my problems at the moment.

“He’s a good kid,” Chudruk replied. He seemed to be talking to himself more than me. “I want to see him go to school in the States. He’s smart. He should go to school.”

“Well, you know how I feel about education.” If I gave too much of an opinion, I might insult the family’s stance.

“He said you encouraged him. I’m happy about that.”

“What does Yalta want?” I was going for noncommittal here.

“He thinks he should go. He thinks Sasug, the girlfriend, has the face of a camel.”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I guess some problems are universal.”

“Well, it will work out. My brother and his wife will come around.” He stood up and smiled. “You should get some rest. I’ll come back for you about an hour before your match.”

Chudruk left and I lay there in the muffled quiet. Then I reached for my cell phone and made a call.

“I heard you did well!” I slapped Zerleg on the back a few hours later as I stood in the arena with him and his brother. My head still hurt, but I had been energized at hearing how the boy won two matches that afternoon. Zolbin and I would fight later.

“Thanks, Cy!” Zerleg’s face was glowing with glee. I couldn’t help noticing he kept looking over at a small group of girls in the crowd. One of the girls was dressed in Western clothing, wearing a miniskirt, a black T-shirt and large sunglasses. She was a lovely Mongolian girl, probably from the city.

“Who is that?” I asked him.

“Oh!” His face turned red. “That is Opia! She is a university student here.”

“I see.”

Veronica was in the stands with the others. Only athletes and their zazuls were allowed on the field. Zolbin was jumping up and down. He was up next. I spotted Chudruk waving from the bleachers. Ronnie ignored me. I was grateful for that.

Yalta nodded at Zolbin and the two of them walked toward the field. Zerleg dragged his attention away from the giggling Opia. We watched anxiously as Zolbin did his eagle dance around his grandfather, then slapped his thighs and approached his opponent.

To my shock, it was Arje Dekker he was to fight. Looking quickly into the stands, for reasons I had yet to comprehend, I saw Veronica give the son of a bitch a little wave. Dekker nodded at her and my gut twisted.

Zolbin attacked aggressively, his usual modus operandi. Dekker did the same, refusing to take a defensive stance. This could go bad for the kid. Dekker had a lot of experience in offensive measures.

While the boy was younger and stronger, Dekker had presence of mind. Again and again I watched as Zolbin attacked, looking for cracks in Dekker’s facade. Arje countered every movement. He struggled to hold on, but maintained his stance. Zolbin was trying to wear him down. The two locked arms several times, holding still for agonizing minutes on end. My head pounded. I desperately wanted to see Dekker beaten. Zolbin pulled back, then charged again, nearly knocking his opponent off of his feet. The crowd was silent. No one seemed to know where this was going.

The boy reached for Dekker’s thigh, lifting his leg from the ground, and threw him. I watched with great satisfaction as the Dutchman fell to the dirt with a thud.

“You did it!” Zerleg bounced into his brother’s arms and the two embraced.

I didn’t take my eyes off the field. Dekker rose slowly to his feet and dusted off his knees. He slowly looked up into the stands and smiled and nodded. I traced his gaze to Veronica, who smiled back, concern playing across her face. Concern that had recently been on that face for me.

I watched as he made a signal, pointing off the field. Then, to my anger, she nodded, stood up and walked away. Perfect.

It was especially galling because Arje Dekker was the primary suspect in my attack. The last person I wanted Ronnie going off with was someone who had sneaked up behind me and hit me over the head, leaving me to bleed out, unconscious, in the dark.

Then again, Dekker had no reason to attack me. He barely knew me. He certainly had no idea I was going to kill him. The Bombays were pretty good about things like that. Maybe he wanted Ronnie for himself? It seemed hardly likely he’d resort to a cavemanlike approach to knock me out of the competition.

And what about the weapon? Men like Arje didn’t travel unarmed. If he wanted me gone, he would’ve stabbed me. It would be more effective and easier to make it look like some drunk tried to roll me for a few tögrög or even American dollars. Why use a tree limb? No, that didn’t seem very likely.

So maybe it was just a chance mugging. A Westerner would be a prime target in any country. Even though I’d been at a few local naadams, there were many people here who didn’t know I had Mongolian connections and would see me as an easy mark. It was late and dark when I had slipped from my tent. There were more than five hundred contestants and thousands of visitors here. Too many suspects to make it easy for someone to pursue.

“It is time, Cy.” Chudruk clapped me on my back, snapping me back to the present. I glanced at the stands. Veronica wasn’t there. She would not see me wrestle. Fine. It was going to be over after this anyway. So why did I feel so bad?

Making my way to the field, I tried to focus on the match. My opponent faced me and we slapped our thighs to begin. My mind fought to keep focused on what would happen.

He was a very large man, and in his eyes I could see he was ready. I had been careful to wipe away the dried blood from my wound. It would have stood out too much against my blond hair. My sore shoulder was red, but maybe he wouldn’t notice. If he grabbed too hard, I would wince and it would all be over.

Unfortunately, the first thing he did was grab both shoulders. Pain shot through the injured one into my arm. I stood as still as I could in an attempt to show no pain. My arms were beneath him, so I brought them together, up and through his hold to break it. Sweat poured down my face as I struggled with the agony of using that shoulder. As the hold broke, I reached for his knee and pulled it up as hard as I could. He fell. It was a miracle. I stared in disbelief as he sat on the ground. Instinctively I reached down to help him up. My opponent took my hand and yanked in an attempt to right himself. Unfortunately I had offered him the wrong hand and my shoulder screamed. He patted me on the back and I walked toward Yalta, my features placid, not betraying the twisting pain beneath.

“I cannot fight again today,” I said to Chudruk in short, gasping breaths.

“Is it your head?” he asked, his face dark with concern.

“No.” I laughed bitterly. “No, it’s the damned shoulder.”

“But you must fight again, Cy!” Zolbin cried out. “You have to win again to qualify for tomorrow!”