I tell myself that it’s probably important information for my father — who Aleksandr is fighting, why, who attends, whether there’s illegal gambling going on. All of it could be used against him.
Deep down, I’m curious to see him fight.
Living with Aleksandr, having him tell me off about my attempts to wash the dishes, and him cooking me breakfast every morning, have all made me start to doubt that he really is the brutal killer that my father thinks he is.
I’m sure the sight of him fighting will snap me back to reality.I need to see the monster that I know I married.For peace of mind.
I want to blend in, so I raid Aleksandr’s closet, throwing on a black t-shirt which hangs to the length of a dress and a hooded jacket. I sweep my hair into a low bun, hoping that with the hood up it won’t draw attention. My one pair of black pants are made of latex, but I hope that in low light they’ll be acceptable.
I keep the block platform heels, because otherwise my height is going to look laughable in comparison with the men who I assume are the audience for this kind of violence. Besides, Aleksandr’s shoes are so large that I doubt they would even stay on my feet.
I feel a rush of excitement as I head out into the night. A cool breeze is coming off the sea today, making the port district less smoggy than usual.
Sneaking around isn’t something I have experience with.I’ve never had this much freedom in my life. At anymoment, I’m expecting someone to appear out of thin air and demand to know where I’m going.
I shouldn’t have worried. When I reach the abandoned warehouse at the edge of the port, which has the same ramshackle look as Aleksandr’s loft, there’s already a sense of anticipation.
I shove a man the $50 entrance fee and he barely looks at me. The crowd is raucous, already drunk, and no one looks at me twice.
A genuine cheer fills the place, though the crowd can’t be bigger than a hundred — someone winning a fight?
I push my way forward to the front where I can actually see the fight between the heads and shoulders of the men in front of me.
I catch a glimpse of skin slicked with sweat.I’m reminded of the way Aleksandr looked when he came in that night, the sweat drenching him so thoroughly it must have been soaking into his skin.
It’s him. The flex of his tattooed skin, the stories that he won’t share with me, is too distinctive for it to be anyone else.
He pushes his dark hair out of his eyes.The set of his jaw is determined, and he’s laser-focused on the man advancing towards him.
The crowd roars at him, but he barely looks at them. It’s like this is just exercise for him, not the performance that they’re clearly here to see.
Taking a swig of water before throwing the bottle aside, he turns to face a new fighter.
There’s blood on his face, and his knuckles are swollen and split. He must have been doing this for an hour already.
I want to tell him to stop, to take a break, but his face stretches into a lazy grin as his opponent advances again. Almost too fast to see it happening, he meets Aleksandr’s fist in a series of rapid blows.
His eyes spark with energy. The harder he has to work, the more he seems to enjoy it.
The next fight is hard to watch, but it’s impossible to look away.Aleksandr is faster, but this guy is stronger, his muscles impossibly thick. I wince whenever he lands a punch, but it doesn’t happen often. He swears loudly in Italian whenever Aleksandr blocks his hits.
The thud of flesh hitting flesh becomes something of a thrill, once I realize Aleksandr is comfortably going to win. I join in with the cheers, lowering the pitch of my voice to blend in with the crowd.
I understand why people are here, why people would pay to watch this. His violence is hypnotic to watch.I can’t understand why anyone would bet against him when he’s on a roll like this.
It’s not ballet, it’s not a movie, it’s more visceral and real than any performance. Blood, sweat and pure survival roll off Aleksandr’s glistening, inked body as he takes on a string of challengers. He barely acknowledges the audience, tilting his chin after each win, as the losses rack up for the other guys.
I can’t look away even when a crack rings through the warehouse.
Pop.
The sound undercuts the cheers of the crowd, cools everything down to a deafening silence.
The crowd freezes with alarming speed, heads turningwildly to identify the source of the gunshot. One thing’s clear, it was aimed at Aleksandr.
His opponent’s shoulder is gushing blood.
Pop.
