Cockroaches(43)

“As I thought,” she said. “We haven’t missed anything. If you want to see really good fights you have to go on Tuesdays. Or Thursdays at Lumphini. Otherwise there are lots of … well, you know.”

“Bouillon matches.”

“What?”

“Bouillon matches. That’s what we call them in Norwegian. When two bad skaters are racing against each other.”

“Bouillon?”

“Hot soup. That’s when you go and get some.”

Liz’s eyes became two sparkling narrow slits when she laughed. Harry had discovered he liked to see and hear her laugh.

The two boxers had removed their headbands, walked around the ring and performed a kind of ritual by resting their heads against the corner posts, kneeling and then doing some simple dance steps.

“It’s called ran muay,” Liz said. “He’s dancing in honor of his personal kru, guru and guardian angel of Thai boxing.”

The music stopped and Ivan went to his corner, where he and the trainer leaned toward each other and put their palms together.

“They’re praying,” Liz said.

“Does he need to?” Harry asked, worried. He’d had quite a bundle of notes in his pocket.

“Not if he lives up to his name.”

“Ivan?”

“All boxers get to choose their names. Ivan called himself after Ivan Hippolyte, a Dutchman who won a fight at Lumphini Stadium in 1995.”

“Only one?”

“He’s the only foreigner to win at Lumphini. Ever.”

Harry turned to see if her expression came with a wink, but at that moment the gong sounded and the fight started.

The boxers approached each other with caution, keeping a healthy distance and circling. One swing was easily parried and a counter-kick met thin air. The music increased in volume, as did the cheers from the crowd.

“They’re just cranking up the temperature,” Liz shouted.

Then they were at each other. Lightning speed, a whirl of legs and arms. Things happened so fast that Harry didn’t see much, but Liz groaned. Ivan was already bleeding from the nose.

“He got an elbow chop,” she said.

“Elbow? Didn’t the ref see?”

Liz smiled. “It’s not illegal to use your elbows. More like the opposite. Hits with your hands and feet get you points, but it’s generally elbows and knees that get you a knockout.”

“So their kicking techniques aren’t up to karate standards.”

“I’d be careful there, Harry. A few years ago Hong Kong sent its five best kung-fu champions to Bangkok to see which style was more effective. The warm-up and the ceremonies took more than an hour, but the five bouts lasted only six and a half minutes. There were five ambulances on the way to the hospital. Guess who was in them?”

“Well, no danger of that this evening.” Harry yawned demonstratively. “This is— Bloody hell!”

Ivan had grabbed his opponent by the neck and in one swift movement brought the man’s head down while his right knee catapulted up. The opponent fell backward, but managed to wind his arms around the ropes so that he was hanging directly in front of Liz and Harry. Blood was spurting out and splashing the canvas as if a pipe had sprung a leak somewhere. Harry heard people behind him shouting in protest and discovered it was because he had stood up. Liz pulled him back down.

“Wow!” she shouted. “Did you see how fast Ivan was? I said he was fun, didn’t I.”

The boxer in the red shorts had turned his head to one side, so Harry took in his profile. He could see the skin around his eye move as it filled with blood from inside. It was like watching an air bed being pumped up.

Harry had a strange, nauseous déjà vu feeling as Ivan moved toward his helpless adversary who was no longer aware he was in a boxing ring. Ivan took his time, studied his opponent a bit like a gourmand wondering whether to start by tearing off a chicken wing or a thigh. In the background, between the boxers, Harry could see the referee. He was watching with his head angled and his arms by his sides. Harry could tell he wasn’t going to do anything, and he felt his heart beating against his ribs. The three-man band no longer sounded like a Norwegian Independence Day procession, it was out of control and blowing and banging in ecstasy.

Stop, Harry thought, and at that moment heard his own voice: “Hit him!”

Ivan hit him.

Harry didn’t follow the countdown. He didn’t see the referee raise Ivan’s hand in the air or the victor’s wai to all four corners of the ring. He was staring at the cracked, wet cement floor in front of his feet where a little insect was struggling to flee from a drop of blood. Caught in a series of events and coincidences, wading in blood up to the knees. He was back in another country, another time, and only came to when a hand hit him between the shoulder blades.