Читать книгу Paradise - Greg Fried - Страница 6

She was sick, her body ached all over, she had a headache, and what she really wanted was to leave the changing room at the Good Hope Centre, walk out to the parking lot – air, freedom – and go home. But there was nothing to do but fight. To pull herself together, she thought of the words of the great Yamashita, undefeated in more than two hundred battles, who said that before each match he asked himself what he was doing there, and wanted only to give up. You feel the fear, yes, but then you conquer it.

She had some supporters here – her teammates and her coach, Daylin, would be in the audience – but in a fight, Surita didn’t think of anyone off the mat. She kept her gaze on her opponent, not at the eyes but just below the neck, and relied on her fingers to gauge the other’s uncertainty, imbalance. Surita’s own weakness, she’d been told, was that she moved fast but didn’t have quite enough power. (“Like a squirrel,” Daylin said.) This, in a sport that required not just speed but explosive strength to take advantage of minuscule shifts in balance, was a handicap. She worked at her strength with gym drills, often at night; she went to the Sports Institute gym, near the dojo, which had given her a reduced membership rate because of her achievements, and raged through the weight circuit. (“Don’t lose more weight – you’re too small already,” Daylin told her. “You’re at the bottom of the lightweights, 48 kilograms.”) Finally she would spend half an hour stretching, nearly alone in the gym, looking through the plate glass at the dark trees outside. Walking home afterwards, she would watch pedestrians, testing her throwing intuition. Now, she would think, looking at a passing businessman, a shopper, a strolling car guard, his front foot about to touch the ground. Now.

Surita unzipped her bag. The sound of the zip caused her heartbeat to speed up, and she took a number of deep breaths to calm herself down. She took out a canister of talcum and shook a little of the white powder onto her hands, rubbing it in, palms and outer hands, clapping softly, quickly, until her palms were dry and covered with a fine layer. She was ready to grip. Surita stood in front of the change-room mirror, this place familiar to her from competitions since childhood, and looked at her gi and obi – her judo suit and belt. Neat and tight. No, she was not sick. She had no headache. She was powerful and calm.

Daylin entered the room, a sudden big presence in his green SA Judo Coach tracksuit. He must have watched some of the women’s matches already. “Ready?”

“Focused.”

“You’ll go right through them.” He sliced his hand through the air. Daylin had gelled his hair for the occasion; it caught the fluorescent light, shiny and black like a seal. Surita had known him since she was eleven and was aware there was no shortage of women in his life. Somehow, with at least two cellphones, he managed to keep them oblivious of each other. But with his fighters he was impeccably professional, never a hint of flirtation – or Surita would not have trained with him.

“Right through them,” said Surita. She had not put on enough talcum powder; already her hands were slightly warm and not perfectly dry.

“Hey,” said Daylin. “Look at me.”

She looked at him.

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“Trust yourself.”

“I will. Thanks.”

He nodded firmly, clapped her on the shoulder. “Come on. You’ve got a bit of time, but you may as well go out now.”

She bounced on her toes a few times, experimentally. Strong. Like a rubber ball – she always liked to imagine this. Rebounding, rolling over her opponents. “Fuck it,” she said aloud, surprising herself. “Here we go.”

She strode out of the changing room into the cacophony: a milling crowd of spectators, some watching the matches intently, some looking on idly; and fighters, their matches over, swigging energy drinks from plastic bottles, stretching and chatting. She passed a mother and father consoling their crying son, a red-faced junior of maybe nine. The father was big and thick-necked but gone to seed, with a jutting stomach. He looked embarrassed, as if he wanted to hide his son’s tears. The boy needs to learn, Surita thought. Shouldn’t behave like that at a judo match. Tough inside, tough outside.

The kids she taught at Daylin’s dojo often found judo too difficult and wandered off, promising to return next term or when their schedule of extramurals slackened. They seldom did. Judo was arduous, she understood that well; she’d never found it smooth going. If you were dedicated, fighting would take everything from you. But there was something clean and pure in giving all.

She arrived at the official, just off the mat. “How many matches ahead of me?” she asked. The official held up her index and middle fingers. There were two women already waiting on her side of the mat. She didn’t know either of them – neither was South African, and she hadn’t faced them in tournaments before. She spent some time looking them over. Then, and only then – no need to show too much interest – did she glance over to the women standing on the other side of the fighting area. Her opponent was third in line. From Egypt, she knew, a serious judo country. Powerful build, firm and calm, not bouncing or stretching, not staring back; just ready. Okay. Surita was ready too. This would be a battle. African Championships: worth fighting for.

Surita stood watching the fight taking place in front of her. Her side – though of course they weren’t her team, they just happened to be fighting from the same side of the mat – seemed to be winning, to be more active. A lesson of judo: keep attacking, get your opponent off balance, and you’ll be rewarded. Victory comes to those who don’t relent. But then there was a struggle, some footwork that was hard to track, and Surita’s fighter went over the other woman’s hip – not cleanly, but she couldn’t get up again. She was being held down beautifully and there was no way her bucking could help her. She struggled for twenty seconds and then it was over, both of them standing and adjusting their gis, expressionless, bowing at the end.

One match before Surita went on. As the woman in front of her bowed, Surita felt suddenly scattered; she dismissed the panicky feeling that she was unprepared, should scratch the match because of illness, would be a mess on the floor. She began to breathe deeply, slowly, putting herself together again – then, bam! The match in front of her was over with a foot sweep. It had lasted five seconds, a losing competitor’s nightmare. Too quick – but now she was moving onto the mat, her body ahead of her thoughts, the soles of her feet padding across the cold canvas.

She stood at the outer line, bowed to her opponent, stood at the inner line, bowed again, and went forward. They plucked at the air for a few seconds, each trying to get at the other’s gi, until Surita found a grip on her opponent’s collar. She twisted her fist to hold more tightly, then spun and dropped, trying to throw the Egyptian over her shoulder – but the woman was too fast, stepping over her. Surita sprang back to her feet. The Egyptian was quick and unfazed by Surita’s left-handed style – maybe she’d done her homework. For a minute or so they scuffled, trying to sweep each other or get in close for a shoulder throw. Then, moving forward to make a wide sweep of Surita’s leg, the Egyptian let Surita react by stepping back and immediately went in for osoto-gari, hooking her right foot around Surita’s ankle. Falling, Surita managed to twist in the air, onto her hands and knees – only a yuko, a minor point. Crouching, she defended herself from the strangle, her crisscrossed hands tight on her collar to block the hard fingers trying to slide around her neck, until the referee stopped play and got them on their feet again. Surita took her time standing up. Her heart was beating much too fast; her shoulder hurt. Upright, she felt vulnerable. Defensive positions come more naturally: the body understands the necessity of avoiding harm. But she pushed away the weariness. You have to keep dominating until the opponent welcomes defeat as a respite.

Surita was suddenly dropped by a kosoti-gari, like a mugging, and again she was fighting to get up. The Egyptian was on top of her, heavy, bearing down, but there was a small escape gap to the left. Surita went for it, turning, grunting with the effort. The woman got hold of her hand, pulled it between their two bodies where the referee couldn’t see, and bent Surita’s small finger backwards. The pain was excruciating. Surita looked towards the ref, about to shout out what was happening in the churning white material. Sudden relief as the woman let go of her finger – and whispered in her low voice into Surita’s ear: “Mother’s cunt.”

It was such a mad thing to say that Surita lost focus. Of course previous opponents had whispered violent things to her, tried to intimidate her, but these crazy words took her by surprise. She lost quickly after that. When they stood up again, the Egyptian tried a series of aggressive throws, countering each defence with a new attempt, a fresh angle, and finally won with a hip toss.

Off the mat, when Daylin asked her what had happened, Surita told him that her injury was plaguing her. It was true that she’d hurt her shoulder five years before, age seventeen. Despite an operation, frequent cortisone injections and ongoing physiotherapy, the injury seemed permanent. But she often trained through the pain and always fought through it. She was embarrassed to tell Daylin that this time she’d given up. For what? An insult, an Egyptian curse, a reference to her mother, a woman she’d never met? Although she was also coming down with something – her throat ached and a headache still tugged at her temples – she didn’t mention this. Blaming her loss on the shoulder was weakness enough.

Her progress in judo was over for another year, then. No medal in the African Championship, no points towards the World Championship.

Daylin touched her on the arm, a gesture of kindness: he knew how she’d needed this win.

She stayed until the end to support her teammates, of course. They expressed surprise and sympathy at her defeat – they’d seen how hard she’d trained. Adeline won a silver medal in the middleweights, and a group wanted to go to a bar at the bottom of Darling Street to celebrate. Surita begged off, saying she was getting flu, and eventually, past eight o’clock, was free to sling her tog bag over her shoulder and leave the battlefield. She took a taxi along Main Road to Rondebosch, then walked back to her flat next to the railway line. She felt shivery, but the night air would shake off some tension. Then aspirin, a bath, perhaps dinner.

Walking up St Andrew’s Road, close to her block, Surita saw a figure moving towards her. “Hey sweetie,” said the man. Her feeling was bad – his movement was wrong, too much swagger. A woman alone on a dark empty street: the guy probably couldn’t believe his luck. He came up right in front of her, grinning. She stopped.

“Want to get a drink?” He was maybe in his early thirties, ten years older than her, smart dresser, wearing a belt with a metallic buckle.

“I don’t think so,” she said and started to walk around him.

“Don’t be rude, cherry.”

“What did you say?”

He raised his hands mockingly, palms facing her. “Got your period? Or you always a bitch?”

A heartbeat of a pause, and then she came up close, grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward. As he pulled back she went into a kosoto-gari, that same mugging move the Egyptian girl had performed: hooking her right leg behind his left knee, pushing, landing hard on him as he hit the ground. When she got up, he was still lying on the tar, groaning and curling up like a worm. This guy had no idea how to fall. Fuck him and whoever made him.

She jogged home, ignoring the nausea. She could have walked away from that guy instead of reacting, or run if she’d needed to. But she wasn’t going to run from anyone. That weird loss today – her opponent was strong, quick, but not invincible – was a defeat of the mind, not the body. Her mind would just have to get stronger.

Back in her flat, she poured a can of tomato soup into a pot and watched it come to the boil. She felt the agitated energy of the bubbles forming and bursting. At one point, purposefully and calmly, she stuck the tip of her finger into the liquid. The burn dissipated her appetite. It was as if she could fill herself up on heat and pain. She held her finger under the cold tap, keeping it there until the cool water numbed it. Then she ran a scalding bath and got in: no bubbles, no soap, only water. Tonight, she told herself, she’d let herself look at the document.

She’d received it two days before, but had not yet examined the pages closely: the experience was too intense. Soon she would do it, but first – a mental challenge – she would stay in the bath for at least half an hour. No rushing. She would take her time, train herself. She gave herself a choice: think back over the fight, list her flaws, or let her mind empty and become open to passing sensations – the throbbing of her shoulder, the strained muscle fibres in the hot water.

She stayed submerged for almost an hour, reheating the bath water four times, until at last she got out, wrinkled but clean. Surita laid the two pages on her unmade bed and sat cross-legged, reading them.

ST NICHOLAS ORPHANAGE

DATE: 15 November 2013

NAME OF APPLICANT: Surita Adams

ID NUMBER: 9103060766035

CURRENT ADDRESS: 12 Van Riebeeck Flats, Rondebosch, Cape Town

NAMES OF ADOPTIVE PARENTS: Michael and Betty Adams

REASON FOR VISIT: Surita Adams made contact with Sister Deborah on 11 August 2013. She had been in the care of St Nicholas from birth on 6 March 1991 until 10 April 1995. In keeping with current legislation, specifically the Children’s Act (No 38 of 2005), Surita Adams requested that the St Nicholas Orphanage approach the Registrar of Adoptions, Department of Social Development, on her behalf in order to disclose information contained in the adoption register. This application was successful. The biological parents of Surita Adams are:

MOTHER: CAMILLE JOSEPHS – deceased

FATHER: Unknown

MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER: MARCIA JOSEPHS (Contact number: 021 461 8883 / 077 4456782)

The second page said:

Please bear in mind that there are many good reasons not to contact your family of origin without prior reflection, counselling and prayer. It is possible that:

• The biological parent has now remarried and has not told either her spouse or her children about the adoption.

• The parent might not want to meet you. Unfortunately, this is a frequent problem.

• Your birth might be the result of a bad relationship, or a coercive act, and your biological mother might not wish to deal with this.

Finally, remember, there is always a reason that a baby is given up for adoption. The adopted child might find it difficult to accept this reason. Good luck with your search. May God find His way into your heart and guide you with all decisions henceforth.

Surita folded the paper and placed it in the drawer of her bedside table. God had offered her little guidance this far. As always, it was in her hands. She reached for her cellphone, her shoulder aching, and began dialling.