The Devil's Opera(39)

Simon looked over at the other fighter. Sokolovsky was taller than Hans. His arms were longer, too. He looked soft, though; there was a bulge around his belly. Hans, by contrast, looked flat and hard. Stark Hans. The other fighter kept moving, picking his feet up and down, swinging his arms. Hans just stood there like a lump, waiting.

The two minutes passed quickly. Herr Pierpoint stepped to the center of the pit. “Are you ready?” The crowd packed around the pit roared as the two fighters nodded. Simon backed into the corner of the pit. “Begin!” Herr Pierpoint pointed up at the crowd and the bell rang.

Hans stepped forward, step, step, step, until he was close to the center of the pit. His opponent came forward at about the same pace. They started circling one another. Hans had his fists up in front of his face, Simon saw, elbows tucked in by his side. Sokolovsky was holding his fists in front of his chest with his elbows stuck out.

Simon started muttering, “Come on, Hans…come on, Hans…” over and over. The crowd was yelling and screaming.

The other fighter took a swing at Hans, a big wide looping swing of his right fist. Hans ducked the swing, stepped in while the other man was off-balance, and buried his own fist in Sokolovsky’s gut. Then Hans slammed his other hand to the other man’s ear. Sokolovsky was staggered, but manfully made a swing with his other fist. Hans ducked that one as well, then stepped back in to deliver another hammer blow to the gut.

The rest of the first round was like that. Sokolovsky would swing, Hans would evade the blows, then provide a punishing hit or two. By the end of the round, there were red marks and the beginnings of bruises on the body and face of the other fighter, but Hans stood untouched.

The bell rang. Herr Pierpoint stepped in between the two fighters and waved them to opposite ends of the pit. Hans came and stood by Simon.

“So, what do you think so far?” Hans asked.

Simon could barely hear him through the noise of the crowd. He was so excited he was bouncing on his toes. “You’re better. You’re beating him.”

“Yah. This guy’s no good. I will put him out next round, watch and see.”

The bell rang for the second round. Hans put his hands up and moved forward deliberately. This round he started the action by throwing a punch at the face of Sokolovsky. The other man tried to duck but wasn’t fast enough to evade it. It landed high on his left cheekbone.

Hans gave Sokolovsky no chance to recover. One punch followed another, body, body, head, body, head. His outclassed opponent tried to fight back, but Hans would either evade his swings or he’d brush them aside.

There was no retreat. The other fighter tried to step back and Hans stepped forward in pursuit. Always there was a punch coming, left, right, left. Simon could tell the other man was losing strength because his hands kept dropping lower and lower like he couldn’t hold them up.

The crowd was still yelling when Hans put a fist in Sokolovsky’s gut one last time, then put one to his jaw. His opponent’s arms dropped straight down. He wavered, took one step, then stretched his length on the floor of the pit.

The crowd went wild while Herr Pierpoint counted to ten. Simon didn’t understand why that was. But there was no mistaking the meaning when Herr Pierpoint lifted Hans’ hand above his head and pointed to him.

Hans made a bit of a bow to each side of the pit, then walked back over to the ladder. Simon met him there with a huge smile on his face and handed him his shirt. After pulling the shirt on, Hans grabbed his hat and tousled Simon’s hair. “I told you, you are my luck. With you around, I cannot lose.” Simon’s heart swelled with pride, a most unfamiliar emotion. “Come on.”

Simon followed Hans up the ladder, coping with the lack of a hand better going up than he had going down. He managed to step off the ladder without needing Hans’ offered hand.

Hans slung his coat over his shoulder, laid his arm on Simon’s shoulder, and started pushing their way through the crowd. It was slow progress, as it seemed that at least every third man they encountered wanted to congratulate Hans on his win, or on how easily he’d defeated his opponent. Simon heard more than one voice murmur around them, “Stark Hans…Stark Hans…” One man even pressed some silver on Hans, saying that since he’d won his bet for him, he should share in the winnings.

Simon noticed that Hans kept his eyes moving over the crowd. Just as he was about to ask him what he was looking for, Hans muttered, “There he is,” and steered them back toward the pit.

They reached a place where Hans could reach out an arm and grab a man by the shoulder. When he turned, it was Ferret-face. Simon had to swallow a laugh when he saw the man again.