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!”
I understood that. But I also understood that I still had to kill Dekker. But now my shoulder was dislocated, and it would only get worse if I continued to wrestle. The naadam, for me, was over.
Chapter Twenty-one
Verbaclass="underline" A man can convince anyone he’s somebody else, but never himself.
– THE USUAL SUSPECTS
I watched from the edge of the arena as Zolbin won his second match. The thrill was bittersweet. I knew I shouldn’t be pissed. I had done what I’d come here to do and succeeded. But it was over. It had to be.
Dr. Baatar managed to pop my joint back into place, and I managed not to scream during the process. It was a minor victory, if a hollow one. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. How many men got to do something like this? And I’d managed to win with multiple injuries. In the past, I would’ve considered this a perfect experience.
So why didn’t I consider it that now? The boys were advancing and I was happy for them. Zerleg was up in the stands, flirting with Opia. I could only guess that they were talking about poetry by the way she looked at him. Good for him. Zolbin was off with his friends. Yalta made him swear off the beer, but I knew his buddies would be celebrating for him tonight.
Back at the ger, the three of us sat on our cots dissecting the boys’ matches as I helped them plot their moves for the next day. I promised to cheer for them, and Yalta convinced me to be on the field to help him coach. That made me feel good. It also made me realize that I was no longer twenty-one. Hell, I’d be forty soon.
Yalta had accepted the passage of time and moved gracefully from athlete into his role as coach. When would I do the same thing? Was Veronica right? How long was I going to travel around the world, fighting men younger and better trained than me?
Whoa. This idea shook me to my core. I was aging. Me. In fact, I was considered old in most of the countries I trained in. And while my experience had helped me win today, my body had given out on me. Granted, the concussion was not an age thing, but the shoulder was. I listened to the boys as they fell asleep, oblivious to all but victory and glory. They weren’t even twenty, but here in Mongolia they were men. Back in the United States they would still be mostly pampered by their parents.
I remembered that age. I was invincible. Bulletproof. And while forty wasn’t old back home, men my age usually settled for softball and golf, not fullcontact sports. Here, people were more philosophical about aging. They embraced it as the next stage in life…one to be respected and revered.
When would I have respect for my own age? Was that what Veronica was trying to tell me? Hell, she was in her late twenties. Why would she worry about my age?
I hadn’t seen her since she left the stands after Zerleg defeated Dekker. That worried me, but I didn’t check up on her, because I assumed Odgerel was in contact. I wanted Ronnie to come to me. I wanted her to say she trusted my judgment and that this was my life to do as I wished. But she hadn’t. There wasn’t so much as one word from her.
Oh, well. I had pretty much decided it was over anyway, right? There was no way I could reconcile our divergent lives. No, it was better this way. After tomorrow, she’d hop back on a plane to her little ivory tower, thinking of this as just an adventure before settling down in a classroom somewhere.
It saddened me to think this was the only living she would actually do, but it was her decision to make. Just as I owned my life, she owned hers. It was no longer fair for me to judge her or tell her what to do. There. That was mature. Yay, me.
Exhaustion pressed on my chest like a weight. I’d been awake since before dawn. I had wrestled and been broken in both body and soul. The pain I felt emotionally had outstripped the physical pain. Sleep wasn’t going to be defeated, and I gave in willingly.
I woke up early the next morning, feeling sore and stiff, but excited by the boys’ spirits. Today was the last day of the naadam, and it was possible they could win, returning to their families in victory and impressing a girl or two.
I gave them the last of my protein bars and, after several cups of tea, I started warming them up with exercises. I put on a pair of khaki pants, my gutals, a T-shirt and my deel, and coached them until Yalta arrived. I saw Ronnie leave with the others to head to the stands. She did not look at me.
We arrived in the stadium, and the boys translated for Yalta and me as we watched the other matches, sizing up the competition. I felt honored that Yalta considered me his assistant. I tried to be helpful and respectful. Zolbin was up soon, and we were watching his opponent warm up.