Cavalier, binoculars slung around his neck, took a taxi the five kilometres to the fight stadium. He met Dr Na at the front entrance, where a few thousand people lingered, hoping for a ticket sale. Touts were prevalent. Some fans were prepared to pay up to sixteen-hundred US dollars for a ticket, which, for the average Thai, was a small fortune to spend on any form of entertainment.
It was 7.15 p.m. when Cavalier and Dr Na entered and found their seats, which were at the rear of the special ringside rows. The stadium was packed to the rafters with five thousand screaming fans. The Queen song ‘We Are the Champions’ boomed out from the sound system. The next song played was a drum-heavy Thai rock anthem, which fitted the thumping powerhouse brawl that was the warm-up fight before the main bout. Multicoloured strobe lights flashed over the enclosed amphitheatre as if it were a disco, and two red-carpeted ramps running from the dressing-rooms up to the ring. A video screen showed the warm-up fight. Another spruiked the coming event between ‘the Russian Bear’ and ‘the Flying Angel’.
In the warm-up contest, the nineteen-year-old Thai girl who Jacinta had named the next big thing was thumping a lad of the same age. He was no match for the muscular female known as Haley the Comet, who, while under a hundred and eighty centimetres, had axe-handle shoulders. Haley was a classic example of power trumping technique. No sooner had Cavalier and Dr Na sat down than the wiry, courageous lad’s back hit the canvas from a swinging left hook to the side of his bony head. He did not move. Doctors rushed into the ring and wrenched out his mouth guard. Dr Na stood, concerned, ready to enter the ring to assist. After water was poured on the stricken fighter, he stirred. As he was carried from the ring, Haley did a jig, to clapping and cheering.
‘What’s it all coming to?’ Dr Na said. ‘She is inflating herself with drugs to be like a man, even though she technically is still a woman.’ He shook his head more in sadness than in disgust. ‘I am told her clitoris is three inches long.’
‘Freak show,’ Cavalier said softly.
‘Bionic freak show,’ Dr Na corrected him. ‘I am afraid we are heading into a crazy era. And some of my colleagues are at the forefront of experimentation.’ He leaned close to Cavalier. ‘I can’t tell you how many fighters have died from attempts to find the undetectable advantage. Everything from blood transfusions to heart transplants.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Bigger hearts and lungs for athletes.’
Cavalier winced, before being distracted by the entrance of Police Chief Azelaporn. ‘Of course, he would be here,’ he said, as he watched the top cop take his seat on the other side of the ring. Many people went over to him and did exaggerated wais.
‘Anyone would think the king himself had arrived,’ Dr Na whispered.
But Cavalier wasn’t listening. He was watching a group of bodyguards in Stetsons and high boots escorting someone to a seat not far from Azelaporn. Now it was the top cop’s turn to bend the knee. He even removed his dark glasses to wai, and then shake hands with, the new arrival.
Cavalier manoeuvred in his seat and could make out the cruel feline features of Mendez. So far, neither he nor Azelaporn had noticed him, and, from their prime ringside positions, they would have to stand on their seats and examine the audience on the other side of the ring in order to spot him.
The warm-up bout had finished early. Now, Thai dancers were in the ring, performing a beautiful routine that mimicked the boxers’ moves and high kicks, with as much athleticism but more grace. Their ten-minute show had the audience clapping politely. A moment after they had slipped out of the ring, a huge mixed roar, of more catcalls than cheers, had all heads turning to one of the dressing-rooms.
Out marched the Russian, wearing a fur hat and a long black funereal gown—Mr No Frills. He meant business and he was in the business of winning. He’d had sixty-one fights, both official and unofficial, and no one had gone anywhere near the distance with him. An Australian with the theatrical name Geoff ‘The Shark’ Lord had gone six rounds of a scheduled twelve with the Russian. He had been so crushed that he never fought again.
Shostakovich played to accompany his entrance. The music was so slow and heavy that it was as if a steamroller had entered the arena. Cavalier imagined Stalin would have swooned over it in the nineteen thirties.
Dr Na paled as the Russian clambered up into the ring. ‘I hope the doctors are quick in stopping this,’ he said. ‘I have lost my money. He may kill her.’
The Russian disrobed. He was all bulging muscle.
‘He’s not gym-pumped,’ Cavalier remarked. ‘Those limbs are purely genetic—out of the Russian steppes, a hundred generations ago.’
‘She can’t match it with him,’ Dr Na remarked.
‘Not necessarily,’ Cavalier said. ‘Fighting him will be life or death—I have seen her in that situation. She has the speed and stamina but it’s whether she can avoid those hammerfists.’
‘You are optimistic!’ Dr Na said.
‘I’m not alone,’ Cavalier said, pointing to a video screen advertising that fans could still bet until seconds before the first bell. The odds were even.
‘Someone has made a huge plunge,’ Dr Na said, ‘but this always happens with the Angel!’
Cavalier angled himself in his seat to observe Azelaporn, who had put on his glasses again and was on his phone. He was nodding and smiling. Very like an alligator, Cavalier noted. A further twist in his seat allowed him to see Mendez two seats from Azelaporn. He was chatting to a guard. He smiled, but again it was a furtive look, his eyes darting everywhere. Cavalier resumed his usual position and was out of their eyeline once more.
The Russian did some knee bends and then a few Cossack-dancer moves, but not enough to suggest he could manage that sort of exertion for long.
‘More show than substance there,’ Cavalier said in Dr Na’s ear. ‘Those knees are creaky.’ He scribbled a note on a pad. ‘I must let Jacinta know.’
‘What can she do?’ Dr Na said with a hopeless hand gesture.
‘A heel-kick on the top of the knee joint,’ Cavalier replied. ‘Look!’ They watched as the Russian made some shadow-boxing moves. ‘He drops that left shoulder back. He’ll jab in close with it. But he won’t swing with it.’
There was an eruption of sound, and all heads turned to Jacinta’s dressing-room. The cheering lifted the roof as she pranced down her red-carpeted runway to the sound of ‘Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)’. Two tall, stunning African women accompanied her. They all wore pink tops and tight miniskirts. Each had a holstered gun around their waists. Jacinta’s hair was piled high, giving the illusion of extra height.
Cavalier handed the note to Dr Na. ‘Could you give this to one of her girls? Tell them to give it to Jacinta before the first bell.’
Jacinta had the arena gasping as she made a running high-jump leap at the ring, lifting her long frame and arching her back. She cleared the top rope and landed on her feet like a cat. She danced to the music, and removed a pistol, gun-slinger style. As the words ‘Bang bang, he shot me down’ echoed, she aimed at the Russian. He stood still, apparently content with his meagre warm-up.
The music changed again, to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. Up on the screen were takes of Jacinta ending fights with her high-flying kicks, one of them her speciality of a jump, kick and somersault finish. The crowd was ecstatic. Cavalier trained his glasses on the Russian. For perhaps a second, his eyes flicked to the screen. Did he register a flash of fear? Cavalier wondered. The video screen then showed the Russian torturing opponents with neck holds, scissor holds, bear hugs and huge swinging punches, always with his right hand. Instead of avoiding these clips, Jacinta watched them. She looked back at the Russian, smiled cynically and tapped her left shoulder. She was letting him know what her target would be. It was brazen. The Russian glared back and spat into his corner bucket. When he looked up, she punched her left shoulder and leered.
‘She’s so damned gutsy!’ Cavalier murmured. Dr Na now delivered the note to one of the tall Africans, who passed it to Jacinta. She read the message, smiled slyly, stood, waved in Cavalier’s direction and blew a kiss. Those in the front rows turned to see who was receiving this attention. But Cavalier was planted in his seat, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Jacinta sat down in her corner, to allow a trainer to strap her left wrist and push on her gloves.
She went into an elaborate warm-up routine, which was part martial arts, part dance, and part prayer to a human-sized golden Buddha that sat placidly on a high podium in one section of a stand. Cavalier focused his binoculars on her. She wore eyeliner and lipstick; the most make-up he’d ever seen her wear. In the middle of her warm-up, people everywhere began to stand. The three key junta generals had appeared, with an entourage of soldiers and guards. The music changed to a nationalistic martial dirge. People clapped in polite support for the generals. TV cameras turned to the junta leaders, and journalists prattled into microphones. No one in the media expected the generals to be there. They knew the coup leaders were fearful of assassination, especially with General Gaez making public promises to get rid of them.
The new arrivals and their soldiers and guards filled a block of two rows three quarters of the way up a stand. Then the screens were filled with shots of the king—the unsmiling and mysterious, yet popular, monarch who had ruled Thailand since 1946. The national anthem was played. When it finished, Jacinta had her African girls remove her wrist bands, a Buddha neck chain and her hip holster. She moved forward to hear the black-shirted podgy referee’s final words. She was a few centimetres taller than the Russian, but seemed so much smaller in body frame and muscle that no Jacinta supporter could feel other than fear for her wellbeing. She leaned forward to eyeball him. He sneered at her and displayed three glistening metallic teeth. Jacinta tapped her nose hard and pointed at his. It was another provocative gesture, which riled the Russian and caused the referee to caution her.
‘The Russian is as nervous as her,’ Cavalier declared in Dr Na’s ear. ‘He’s keen to finish it quickly. She wants him in a reckless mood.’
Dr Na executed a quick prayer ritual and wai’d the Buddha high above.
In the ring, Jacinta pointed to both the Russians’ knees and made a gesture as if she were snapping a twig. The Russian went puce and said something angrily to her but she was already turning away to take up her ready position. She did a cute disco dance, where she tapped her nose, her left shoulder and her knees. The crowd roared, as if it understood the message, which was unlikely. But the effect on the huge Russian was palpable. He was not a performer as such, and was not acting when he pointed at her and beckoned her to him. The referee pushed the Russian back, so eager was he to begin the combat.
The referee made a slicing vertical motion with his hand to signal the fight’s start. The bell sounded. The Russian rushed forward, fists ready. Jacinta circled backwards as if on a bike. She avoided his lunges and kept pedalling; back, then forward. The Russian looked irritated. He gesticulated, making it clear he wanted her to stand and trade blows. He followed her around the ring for another minute. The crowd waited, as if holding its collective breath. It sensed a flying kick was coming but when, how? Then she made her first aggressive move. She feigned a high kick; the Russian, well prepared, showed surprising agility and swayed his torso back, as though he were in The Matrix. But the second kick came low and smacked him hard on the top of his left knee. He stared in surprise and pain. Jacinta swirled around and feigned another high kick, but her heel slammed into the Russian’s other knee. He was in pain and mild shock at this unconventional attack on the weak spots in his iron-clad frame. As he stumbled, she swung to his left and let fly with two sharp elbow strikes on his left shoulder. He grabbed at this newly injured part of his body. The Russian was rattled. He stumbled at her, swinging and missing for the best part of another minute. He wanted to ease close to her body and grapple her. But she was so quick that she was often behind him.
One of her kicks slapped into the back of his head. He stumbled forward. She let go a flying kick. It was a blow that had everyone in the crowd gaping or cheering. The outside of her left foot clipped his nose. He grabbed at it. The bell sounded for round one and the Russian’s team moved fast to stem the flow of crimson liquid from both nostrils. His already well-broken nose may have incurred its worst dislocation.
‘Oh, Buddha, thank you!’ Na said with a heavenward wai. ‘I think she has got him!’
‘Not yet,’ Cavalier said, his binoculars on the Russian. ‘She’s in control; at least of herself. She took her chance to attack his weak spots. But he’ll come back.’
‘No! Why?!’
‘He’s never been beaten. No one that good rolls over after one round. Her blows have been sharp, accurate snipes, but not knockout ones.’
During the break, Jacinta didn’t sit on her stool. She dropped to her knees and wai’d the Buddha for the entire time. The bell sounded for round two and she bounced forward, surprising the Russian again. This time she managed to collect him with a flashing heel-kick hard on the sternum. The Russian, winded and hurt, stumbled and grabbed a rope to steady himself. Jacinta stood back even before the referee cautioned her. He stepped to the Russian and began to count. He reached three and stopped. The Russian was furious. He let go of the rope, stood up straight and protested that the referee had no right to start a count while he was still on his feet. But the referee was the sole judge. He argued that the blow was a technical knockdown.
If the Russian was angry before, he was now on fire. He wheeled at Jacinta, doing everything he could to corner her, but she slipped from under his bear hugs and lunging gropes and began her backward cycling. He had stalked her for thirty seconds before she let go her third flying kick. Jacinta lifted herself high and snapped her left leg in such a quick action that Cavalier and the rest of the audience glanced at the video screen to see the replay. Her leg extended so far that it seemed mechanical. The Russian’s jaw swung forty-five degrees, and blood and sweat sprayed onto the crowd metres beyond the ring. The kick, which would have broken the jaw of other fighters, stopped the Russian, who seemed out on his feet for a few seconds. Somehow he stayed upright.
Sheer will kept him bumbling after Jacinta. She led him a merry dance, often looking him in the eyes. Yet, at no point was she tempted to move close and out-punch him or hit him with a flurry of elbow blows. She relied on speed, evasion and that deadly horse kick. Her punches and elbow strikes only came when she had him on an angle and on her terms. She avoided his right arm. Whichever way he lumbered at Jacinta, she swung to his left, letting go the odd sharp punch or elbow snap at that weakened left shoulder. He winced every time. But the big man kept coming.
The second round ended.
‘She is stinging him,’ Dr Na observed. ‘But can she keep dancing away?’
‘I think so. She reminds me of Muhammad Ali. Her motto could be “Dance like ballerina, sting like a hornet”.’
Cavalier kept an eye on the other side of the ring. In the latest break, of two minutes, he was alert to Mendez standing, cigar in hand. The Mexican looked unhappy with what he was seeing. He was escorted out of the stadium for a smoke, and Cavalier trained his binoculars on him as he jammed the thick cigar into his mouth. A guard stepped forward to light it as Mendez pushed angrily through an exit.
Jacinta once more refused to rest. She wai’d the Buddha with more intensity than before. She again jumped to her feet before the bell and was ready to go. The Russian wandered to the ring’s centre, his right fist higher. He would have been frustrated by not landing even a minor blow on Jacinta with it. But he, and everyone who had followed his career, knew that he would keep wading into his opponent, waiting for that one small opening. Jacinta backed away, pedalling hard.
Halfway through the round, she landed a flying kick to his midriff that would have felled anyone else. The Russian was winded for a second time, but this time he did not look to the rope for support. He simply tripped forward. Suddenly he had her exit moves covered. He threw his body at her and gripped her torso. He threw her to the canvas so hard that she bounced.
Cavalier glanced up to see Mendez returning to his seat in excitement as the Russian fell forward to smother her. Jacinta just managed to wriggle away. They were both soon on their feet again, and she kicked hard at his ribcage, with a close short stab, rather than one of her fliers. The Russian flinched. He grabbed his side in pain and growled like a bear that had been shot. Jacinta circled away warily, so that he was almost stationary in the middle and spectators became giddy watching her wheeling tip-toe moves, reminiscent of an Irish dancer’s.
Mendez was on his feet again, urging the Russian on. The fighter wanted to trade blows. He stopped and appealed in frustration to his support team. He did this a second time, dropping his hands, and leaving his body and face exposed. Jacinta ran straight at him, with two ripping punches and an elbow to the face. The video screen showed, in slow motion, his face being pushed in. Blood again sprayed the ring, and Jacinta’s pink shorts.
The bell marked the end of round three. The crowd stood, cheered, clapped and chanted ‘Ja-cinta—Ja-cinta—Ja-cinta’, which echoed in the closed stadium, the walls throbbing with her name. Cavalier trained his binoculars on her. She was sweating, having ridden a few kilometres on her imaginary bike. He focused in on her face as she slumped on the stool for the first time. At that moment, Mendez strode out of the arena again, intent on another cigar. He yelled abuse at someone, possibly Kritov, as he departed.
After a minute, Jacinta demonstrated she had not forgotten the Buddha, by falling to her knees again and waiing him. The Russian, by contrast, was a mess. His seconds worked feverishly to stem the blood flow. The referee hovered close, inspecting their progress. He checked with the Russian’s team and then signalled the fourth round could proceed. Everyone, especially Jacinta, knew that if she collected him on the nose once more, the fight would be over.
Cavalier lowered his glasses, leaned across to an excited Dr Na, and said: ‘She’s got him. She’s facing him at the right end of his career. Ten years of that cage stuff ’s left him injured. But only someone with her speed and skill could exploit his weaknesses like this.’
The bell rang as Mendez returned to his seat. Goulov now really looked like a Russian bear on its hind legs. He stuttered into the fray, his knees unsteady, his left shoulder dropping out of sight, and his nose in the air to avoid more bleeding. But still the wily brute had a trick or two to play in his desperate bid to win. He aimed not at her head, but her breasts.
‘She’s had hormone treatment,’ Dr Na said. ‘Her breasts will be her tender spot. One of his trainers must have realised it.’
The Russian now punched at her chest, occasionally making contact and causing Jacinta to flinch. Hundreds in the crowd protested. Many, especially the women, jumped to their feet and hurled abuse at the big man. She kept backing away. He kept flaying, even with his left glove. He connected a few more times, and once she doubled up and backed away to recover. She countered with two more heel blows to his knees. He slipped once but climbed to his feet in a cumbersome manner, leaning his right elbow on his right thigh as he did so. This time, the referee let him up without a count.
The Russian tried a few kicks but what had been a weapon for him in earlier fights was now a liability. Jacinta eased away and crack! She crashed the side of his head with a spinning back kick. The Russian went down so hard that he shook the ring. The referee moved to count him out. Goulov’s team begged the referee to let him take the full count. He was on his feet at nine. Jacinta, pale-faced and in pain, delivered the coup de grâce—a running flying kick to the jaw. The Russian was unconscious before he hit the canvas. His team threw in the towel. A collective gasp from the spectators turned into the biggest roar of the night. The referee did not even bother with the count. The Russian was prone and motionless. His team, having never seen their man in this situation, jumped into the ring in a panic.
The referee took Jacinta to her corner, holding her glove as if he were a gentleman guiding a princess. The crowd was cheering so loudly that Cavalier couldn’t hear what Dr Na was yelling in his ear. In any case, he was concentrating on Mendez, who once more took out a cigar as he was escorted from the building by his twenty-man entourage of guards. Higher up in the stand, the junta generals were applauding, indicating they had backed Jacinta, before they too began to make their exit.
The Russian was soon propped on a stool. A bucket of water was thrown on him, a little unceremoniously. He was slapped. Smelling salts and something stronger were administered to him. The crowd stopped cheering and there was a strange lull as Jacinta waited and watched. Then she strode across the ring—no arrogant prancing now—and bent forward, waiing him. She found an unbloodied spot on the Russian’s cheek and kissed it. The crowd clapped and roared their approval. Fifty media cameras and a thousand phones recorded the moment. The Russian’s expression contorted into something between a smile and a grimace. Jacinta bowed and wai’d him again, in a sign of true sportsmanship and respect.
Then she turned and deeply wai’d the Buddha. The referee raised Jacinta’s right hand high, in official recognition of her victory.