Danny opens his eyes and focuses. The crash barrier has gone. There’s a strip of grass running along the hard shoulder, with a blackened, scorched-looking edge. In the distance, beyond the ploughed fields lying marshy and heavy in the sunlight, he sees some huge sheds with lorries parked in front. Music is playing very quietly inside the car, French music. He notices a blanket tucked between his left shoulder and the seat. He’s been tucked in like a child. He pulls off the blanket and tosses it onto the back seat. The seatbelt’s wrapped around his wrist. It hangs loosely across his chest.
Police, says Robert.
Danny’s eyes flash. He looks out of the window. Nothing but cars with French number plates.
Where are we?
Just outside Paris.
Danny shakes off the seatbelt. He stretches, turns his head a few times. His neck clicks. He rubs his face and his forehead with the flat of his hand. Paris, he thinks. He asks Robert if he has a map.
I know the route I’m taking.
It’s just for me, so I can see where we are.
Robert points at the glove compartment. Danny pulls the pile of roadmaps from beneath the Dinky toy and looks at them one by one. He opens up a map of France, folds it out onto his lap. The map covers half of the windscreen. Paris is a multicoloured patch with Lens above it, in roughly the area where they must be. There’s Lille. And right at the bottom, beside the Atlantic, there’s Bordeaux, with the Spanish border beneath it. Pamplona comes after that. It’s not on the map. He stares at the coloured paper for a long time, at the wide red-and-yellow line crossing the whole of France, which they’ll follow all the way to Bayonne, before falling off the map.
Danny folds the map so that he can look at northern France. He reads the names of the French towns on the road signs and looks for the same names on the map. Slowly Paris comes closer.
Is the music disturbing you?
He listens to the radio for a moment, to a woman’s voice. Says no.
Sleep well?
Yes.
Nice dreams?
What?
Look at that blanket.
What about the blanket?
You were drooling all over it.
Danny looks at the map, holds his finger to the paper and tries to concentrate on the place names. His finger is fixed on the middle of Paris, where red lines and yellow lines intersect.
You weren’t dreaming about boxing, says Robert.
The map rustles in his hands. Robert overtakes a lorry and blocks of flats appear on the right, bedecked with satellite dishes. It’s still a long way to the city centre, but the buildings are already starting to crowd together. They’re driving into the sun. He shades his eyes with his hand and scans the uneven horizon, sees nothing but high-rise blocks stretching into the distance.
And you weren’t dreaming about your mother either.
Leave my mother out of it.
They carry on driving. After a while, Robert says: I always used to dream about Kim Wilde.
Who?
Kim Wilde. Whenever Kim popped round to visit, my mum had to change the sheets the next morning. It’d either be her or those three girls from Bananarama.
Never heard of them either.
But you were dreaming about someone like that, weren’t you? Hair a bit wild, those eyes. You know what I mean.
New cars join the traffic while others disappear into the maze of exits. Robert concentrates on the road. There’s a six-storey building beside the motorway. The top two floors on the corner are gutted, the walls are scorched, the window frames charred. On the corner of the building, a melted drainpipe curls away from the wall. Danny folds up the map. He’s thinking about her.
He says: Yes, she was certainly wild.
But she isn’t wild now?
Danny looks at the map, then back outside.
You said: She was wild.
That’s right.
Danny feels a muscle twitch in his back. He shifts position, puts one hand on the small of his back and loudly exhales.
Or did she dump you?
None of your business.
She dumped you, didn’t she?
Danny doesn’t reply.
Is that why you’re running away? Or doesn’t it have anything to do with that?
You fucking heard what I said, didn’t you? Danny says, hitting the dashboard with the map.
Robert blinks a few times and says: No need to take it out on the map.
Danny runs his finger around the edge of the map, smoothes out a crease.
That Kim Wilde, says Robert, she’s still wild. She doesn’t have a choice really, does she? He laughs. Not with that name.
If the map had still been open on his lap, Danny could have buried his face in it. All he can do is shove it into the pocket in the passenger door, close his eyes and hope that Ragna will disappear from his thoughts. But then he pictures her black hair and the contours of her face. And the cold tiled floor.
Slowly, he opens his eyes and focuses on the bustle of Paris. The houses along the motorway have small balconies. He sees a bearded man in a long white robe, leaning on a railing. On another balcony, a moped is standing upside down.
The car’s boxed in. Robert stays in the right-hand lane.
That your wife?
Robert fiddles with his earring and gives it a tug. Then he points at the photo on the dashboard and says: Yeah. That’s Manuela.
Manuela?
Yes.
And does Manuela look a bit like her?
Like who?
Kim Wilde.
Manuela’s my wife, says Robert.
So she doesn’t look like her?
At least I got to give my woman a proper goodbye this morning.
Danny snorts. Then he explodes: Like that’s my fucking fault.
Robert apologizes.
It’s okay, says Danny. He looks at the photo.
Were they already up when you left?
The little ones?
Yes.
I kissed them both and they waved me off. I blew my horn as I was driving away and then gave it another blast when I went round the corner.
His eyes seemed to have calmed down, but then the tic starts again. Danny thinks about the bulls and says: They’re sure you’ll be coming back?
They wouldn’t let me go otherwise.
So Pamplona can’t be that dangerous then.
It’s not about danger. It’s about the way it makes you feel. Inside. Robert bangs his chest with his fist. It’s a feeling. Do you understand?
Danny understands. A feeling that rages in his body and his head, a feeling he wants to control.
The Eiffel Tower suddenly appears, off to one side. Danny leans forward to get a better view. It seems to be swaying in the wind. Then the tower disappears behind tall buildings. Danny peers along the road to see where it’s going to pop up again, but it doesn’t reappear.
He looks at the photo on the dashboard, at the hand on the girl’s shoulder. He swears to himself. She’s not just his wife. She’s a mother.
It takes them a long time to get out of Paris, but eventually the buildings become smaller and the kilometres of anonymous industrial estates give way to fields.
He hears Robert’s voice again. You known her a long time?
A while, he growls.
Robert is silent. Even the car seems silent. Danny puts his hands in his pockets. They drive in silence down the toll road to the south.
*
The motorway splits at Saint-Arnoult. Robert takes the exit for the first service area and asks Danny if he’d like something to eat. He pulls into a space at the edge of the car park. There are a few lorries at the other end and a man who’s checking the straps on his tarpaulin. Then he disappears behind his lorry. They get out of the car. The air’s warm and dry. Danny feels the heat of the ground rising up through his shoes, caressing his legs.
Beside the restaurant is a hoarding with a huge advertisement for cigarettes. Danny thinks about cigarettes as they walk to the entrance. Smoking cigarettes. That’s what she does in bed at night. She lies on her stomach with her elbows on the pillows. The ashtray in front of her on the edge of the bed. The smoke drifting up into the top of the attic. She stubs out her cigarette and pushes the ashtray away. He remembers the way her eyes looked as she threw the sheet back for him. That wild look.
Robert heads inside, into the smell of coffee.
Danny stops. Just stretch my legs, he says.
He walks around the building until he sees the motorway again, with the car park on the right. The lorries are lined up in one corner. A row of conifers stands between the last lorry and the motorway. Cars thunder past beyond the trees. The air smells of bulls. He crouches down and stares at the ground, at the fine moss growing in the cracks.
You look for something?
Danny turns around. A man is smoking a roll-up beside the cabin of the last lorry.
He shakes his head.
You need a ride?
Already got one.
Danny stands up and when he sees the number plate he says in Dutch: You’re from the Netherlands.
Yeah, says the man. And so are you. Where are you heading?
Spain.
Same here, says the man. He slaps the side of the lorry, takes a last drag of his roll-up and stubs it out with his shoe. He nods at the trailer. Danny realizes that the lorry is a cattle transporter. Now he knows where the smell’s coming from. Red-and-white cows huddle together behind the planks. He can see a wet nostril through one of the gaps, with a tongue licking away at it.
I’m taking them to be slaughtered.
The sound of the motorway is drowned out by a cow’s hoof banging against the side of the lorry. A cow bellows. Between the planks, he sees one big, dark eye with another eye right beside it, belonging to another cow. He senses that the cows aren’t standing so close together because the trailer is too small, but because they know what’s going to happen to them. And all they have is one another.
The man takes out his tobacco pouch and rolls another cigarette. He says: That abattoir down there, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s an entire village. They ride bikes to the canteen when they have their break. If they walked, they’d have to leave again as soon as they got there.
He’s silent for a moment. The cow bellows again.
Don’t I know you from somewhere?
Danny doesn’t answer.
From TV or something. We always watch the boxing round at my mate’s place.
That’s not me.
No, I’m sure I’ve seen you before.
Got to go, says Danny. He walks towards the motorway, before changing his mind and heading back to the restaurant.
The lorry’s engine starts and it begins to move, shuddering and shaking, and lumbers towards the motorway.
Some children are playing by the restaurant entrance. They’re climbing on the fence between the pavement and the bushes that surround the building. They take it in turns to jump off the fence and play chicken with the sliding doors, running up to the entrance and then shrieking and darting back to the bushes when the doors open. Then they wait for the doors to swish shut again. As Danny approaches, they sit there on the fence, looking the other way.
Robert’s at a table just inside the door, talking to someone on the payphone. Danny goes to the toilets. There’s a lorry driver in there, washing his hands. He’s younger than Danny and has a pockmarked face. A roll-up hangs from the corner of his mouth. As he holds his hands under the drier, he looks over at Danny. The machine comes to life and starts blowing and whining. Danny disappears behind the door of the cubicle in the far corner. He locks it and waits for the drier to stop. He leans against the tiled wall, tilts his head back. There are damp patches on the ceiling. He sees the tiles of the changing room. He puts the seat down and sits there, his elbows on his knees and his head heavy in his hands. He presses his hands against his temples. It feels as though his head is in a vice that’s slowly tightening. His head starts to crack, but the thoughts don’t go away.
He stands up, undoes his trousers, clasps his penis in his left hand. He feels small and, as that feeling sinks in, he feels himself shrink even more.
He pisses in the toilet, over the seat. It splashes onto the tiled floor. He takes a few sheets of toilet paper from the holder, wipes the seat, throws the paper into the toilet and flushes. He washes his hands and looks in the mirror. The wall above the mirror is a dingy white. He looks down, holds his hands under the stream of lukewarm water and stares at the mirror, at his hard blue eyes. He shuts them and waits for the water to get colder so he can let it run over his wrists. But the water stays lukewarm.
*
Richard was standing behind the bar in the canteen at the boxing school, his hands resting on the wood. Aaron and three dark-skinned guys, one of them from Cuba, were sitting on the other side of the bar. Ron was propping up the bar beside the Cuban. Rich said the Cuban had been amateur world champion. Ron stood there for a long time, watching the Cuban, listening to him complain about the cold. Then he said in English: You trained in Havana?
Yes, said the Cuban.
With Sanchez? That tall guy?
The Cuban nodded.
The one with the long, thin arms?
Yes. I trained with Sanchez.
Sanchez with the gold earrings? He grabbed hold of his earlobes. In both ears?
Yes, man.
Ron smiled at his brother and said in Dutch: Brother, give me another coffee. And give him something a bit less strong this time. The Sanchez I’m talking about was the porter at our hotel.
The Cuban didn’t understand everything Ron said, but he saw the smiling faces of the two brothers and he smiled too. Everyone in Havana is called Sanchez, he said.
Yeah, yeah, said Ron, and we’re all called De Vries.
They laughed.
And my brother’s supposed to be the stupid one, said Richard. How about that?
He poured out the coffee. As he passed Danny his glass of water, he said: I’m glad you’ve done it.
Danny looked up. There was a calendar on the wall behind Richard, with a photo of Ron and Richard’s dad beneath it, surrounded by a crowd of boxers. A black-and-white photo from the newspaper. Boxers Conquer Los Angeles.
Danny said: He didn’t seem very friendly.
But you’ve made an appointment?
Yes.
That’s the main thing, said Richard. Yeah, I’m glad you’ve done it. He ran his hands over the bar.
He didn’t say anything else?
He said there’ll be time for all that later.
Good, good, Richard said.
Danny looked over at the Cuban and Aaron’s mates. They were drinking tea. He turned back to Richard. Will you come with me?
Me? He wanted to talk to you, didn’t he?
But it might be about stuff I don’t understand.
Richard rubbed his palm across his cheek. Then he clasped both hands over his stomach. So keep your mouth shut and listen. I think he just wants to meet you. To see what you’re like.
If it’s about money, tell him to talk to me.
Danny spun round on his stool. The sun was shining on the fronts of the houses over the road. What kind of man is he, this Varon? he asked.
He’s a good bloke, said Richard. When he gets an idea in his head, he makes it work. He’s that kind of guy. Not a time-waster.
What’s wrong with him?
His legs? I don’t know. All I know is he’s in a wheelchair.
Danny sat in silence for a while.
You’ve just got to go for it, said Richard. He put his right hand on the bar and wiped the wood. What could go wrong?
*
Danny sits down across from Robert, who still has his ear to the telephone.
Let me speak to the little guy, he says. He waits for a moment, someone says something to him, and then Robert says: Hi, big boy.
A pause.
Or are you a little boy?
Another pause.
Okay then, little boy. Have you read your book?
And another pause.
The book about the cow. That’s the one you wanted to read, isn’t it? Robert laughs. Daddy’s going to see the moo-cows too.
Danny looks over his shoulder at the other tables and at the bar, where two lorry drivers are sitting. There’s a group of men drinking coffee and smoking at the long table in the centre of the room.
Robert holds the phone to his chest. Shall we order? he asks, waving in the direction of the bar. A girl standing by the coffee machine sees his signal. She’s wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt and her hair is pinned up. Her arms are dark, like Ragna’s. She produces a cigarette from beneath the bar, takes a quick drag, turns her face away from the coffee machine and puffs out a powerful plume of smoke.
The same way Ragna smokes, in bed.
Danny doesn’t want a cigarette though. He just wants the smoke that hangs around the bed.
He listens to Robert, who’s quietly explaining that he’s giving someone a lift. A boxer.
Danny turns away. There’s a map of the area on the wall, with castles and wells and churches marked on it. And photos of woods and fields and a campsite by the water.
Qu’est-ce que vous prenez?
The waitress is at their table.
What did she say?
She looks at Danny. Vous désirez un café?
What do we want to drink? says Robert. He covers the receiver with his hand and says: Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît. Vous pourriez nous montrer le menu?
The girl goes over to the bar and comes back with two menus. She gives him one and puts the other one on the table for Robert.
There’s lots of meat on the menu, a few things with fish.
Lasagna. Spaghetti with tomato sauce. T-bone steak.
Robert stands up, inserts a few coins into the slot and carries on talking. Danny stares at the tabletop, at the artificial wood grain. Robert ends his call and says: What do you want to eat?
I don’t have any money.
I didn’t ask if you had money. I asked what you want to eat.
Whatever. Anything.
Spaghetti?
Danny nods.
I’ll go and see if that little sweetheart will sort us out then, says Robert. He walks over to the bar, orders and comes back. No problem, he says. They wait. A while later, the girl brings over two plates of spaghetti and puts a bowl of grated cheese on the table with a spoon in it. Robert unrolls his cutlery from the serviette, looks up at the girl and says: Well, don’t you look fine today?
Pardon?
I said: Merci beaucoup.
As the girl walks away, Robert leans out from the table and watches her swaying hips. Bon appétit, he says. He twirls strands of spaghetti around his fork. A man comes into the restaurant with a briefcase in his hand. He stops just inside the door, holding it open for two women. A long-haired woman of around thirty and a woman in a skirt, with dark curly hair. Black tights. Painted nails. While the women are choosing a table, the man turns to Robert and Danny and says: Bon appétit.
Merci, Robert replies.
The man walks between the tables, nods at the women, says hello to the men at the long table and stops at a seat by the window. Danny watches him.
That’s a different class of woman altogether, says Robert. Real ladies. But you know what? I still prefer a tasty young bit of stuff.
The man takes some papers from his briefcase and puts them on the table.
Either that or Kim Wilde, says Robert. She must be about fifty now, but that doesn’t matter when you’re Kim Wilde.
Danny doesn’t say anything.
Why are you staring at that guy?
He reminds me of someone.
*
He walked from the tram stop down a road with wide pavements. Past tall buildings. The street ended at a canal. He could see his breath in the cold air. Some men were standing on the opposite pavement outside a building with a tiled facade. They all had beards. Down the road, two girls were sitting together in a doorway, huddled into their coats, sharing a cigarette. He was getting closer to the right house number. When he reached it, he saw a gold plate on the wall with the promoter’s name on it. He rang the bell. A few moments later, someone pulled the cord, the lock clicked and the door slowly opened. Varon’s voice called down from upstairs. Come on up.
A big hallway and a wide staircase with a chairlift. Danny climbed the stairs to the first floor. He looked at the hat stand. Her coat wasn’t there. He went through the open door, walked into the office and found Varon sitting at a long table set at right angles to the wall. He went over and shook his hand.
Hello, Mr Varon.
Please call me Gerard.
Gerard.
Sit down. You’re lucky I’m still here. Haven’t legged it to Germany yet. He smiled. Get it? Legged it. He slapped his leg and laughed again.
Danny took off his coat, hung it over the back of the chair and sat down opposite Varon. On the other end of the table, there was a telephone with piles of paper beside it. Framed photos hung on the wall. Boxers with their arms in the air. A black guy holding up a huge championship belt. A colour photograph of a giant of a man punching another boxer on the cheekbone. There was no other desk in the office and nothing to indicate that she worked there.
What would you like to drink?
Whatever you’ve got.
Tea, he said.
Fine.
Gerard rolled his wheelchair to the kitchen. Danny heard the tap running. There was a sound of rattling cups and he called through to Danny: So you want to go for it?
Danny looked over his shoulder at the glistening canal outside. The sun was shining through the balcony doors. It was so hot in the room. A bunch of keys and a shoulder bag lay on a low table. They must be hers.
Gerard came back with a tray on his lap. I’ve already spoken to one of the Rosenbergers, he said.
Ron?
No, the other one.
Richard. He’s not a trainer.
Doesn’t matter, Gerard replied. He said you were good. But I already knew that.
Gerard poured the tea. It was steaming hot. He slid one cup across the table, picked up the other and said: I’ll keep it brief. I want you on board.
Yes, Mr Varon.
Gerard.
Okay.
In Germany, he continued. I’m working on a new series of fights, at a bigger location, in Leipzig. I need good people. People with commitment. People like you.
He sipped his tea and looked Danny in the eyes. Then he gave him a tight smile that Danny would often remember later. He thought Varon would go on to say something about boxing, but he didn’t. He just pointed at the teacups. You want something to go with the tea?
No, thank you.
He drank some tea. It was hot. It burned his mouth, but he didn’t let it show.
I think you’ve got it. Commitment. You’re willing to go for it.
I like training.
Yeah, Rosenberger said you did.
When’s the fight?
It’s a series.
When’s the first one?
In the summer. It runs through the autumn, until the end of November. Crowd of twelve thousand. If it’s a full house.
Right.
Interested?
And the opponents?
Strong. Are you still in the same weight class?
Yes.
You’re not a light heavyweight?
No, I’m well beneath that.
Good. Will you keep up the training until then? I mean, maintain your condition, don’t get too heavy.
Yes.
There’s still about five months to go. We’ve got time.
Can I still train with the brothers?
I don’t interfere with training. I assume you know what you need to do. You got good people at the Rosenbergers?
Yes.
Then we’re done, I think.
Danny nodded. Gerard turned his chair a little, leafed through the papers, took out two sheets, glanced at them and passed them to Danny. It’s all in there. Take your time to look through everything. If you leave the papers at the boxing school, I’ll send Ragna round to pick them up.
Fine, he said quietly.
I’m going to have a cognac, said Gerard. Think it’s allowed, with this bloody cold weather. And there I was, thinking it was almost spring.
He took a bottle and a glass from the sideboard. He poured himself one and looked at Danny.
He handed Danny a bottle of sparkling water. They clinked. Gerard swirled the cognac around his glass before taking a swig and rolling it around his mouth. Then he looked at the papers and the telephone and said he had to get back to work. Danny stood up, drank some of the water, put on his coat, folded the papers in half, slipped them into his inside pocket and shook Varon’s hand.
I’ll find my own way out.
If you need anything or you want to talk again, just call.
Thanks.
Danny closed the door behind him and stood on the stairs for a moment. The hat stand was just the same as before. There wasn’t a sound to be heard in the house. He went down the stairs, stepped outside and started to walk over to the water, but then stopped on the pavement. There was a lamppost in front of the house and a big green American car in the parking space. A Dodge. He walked past the tall windows and saw himself reflected in the glass. He’d been planning to walk back to the tram stop but changed his mind. He followed the canal until he reached a bridge, which he crossed and then headed back along the other side of the water. He sat down on a yellow kerbstone opposite the Dodge and stared at the house for a long time.
*
Robert slurps up strands of spaghetti. When the plate’s empty, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pushes the plate away and leans back. I thought boxers ate loads, he said, nodding at Danny’s plate.
Not hungry.
Want me to get a doggy bag?
Robert waves at the bar and the girl comes over to their table. The smell of cigarettes follows in her wake, stronger than before. Robert asks her to pack up the food for them. He calls her ma chérie. She nods and asks if they want anything else. Robert says: Café pour moi. What about you?
Yeah, same for me.
Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît.
The girl leaves, taking the plates with her.
Robert says: We’ll just have our coffee and then we’ll be off. Or do you want to use the phone too?
Robert takes some money from his pocket and puts it on the table.
No need.
Robert taps the cord of the payphone. It curls up and twitches.
It’ll be a long time before I make another stop.
I told you I don’t need to use the phone.
The girl comes over with the coffee pot. As she pours, she looks at Danny. The black coffee swirls around the pot. She leaves. Robert drinks with quick, little sips. Danny presses the hot cup to his cheek.
Are you coming? Robert asks when they’ve finished their coffee.
Yes.
I’ll just get the doggy bag. Robert takes the cups over to the bar and comes back holding a bag. They walk out to the car park. The sun is beating down and a smell of diesel hangs in the air. They get into the car and drive over to the petrol station next to the restaurant. Robert fills the tank, goes inside to pay. When he gets back to the car, he checks the petrol cap, climbs in, starts the engine, turns on the radio and heads back onto the motorway. Danny allows himself to be carried away, deeper into France, to the Spanish border, to Pamplona.
They glide along beneath roads that hang above the motorway, high and narrow. A man is standing on one of the bridges. He leans over the parapet and Danny expects him to spit down on them, but nothing happens as they pass beneath. The clock on the dashboard changes, from minute to minute. He watches and waits for the hour to change.
Robert scratches his arm. He nods at the photo on the dashboard. We’ll have been married ten years next year.
The wing mirror glints. Danny looks at the photo, which is also gleaming. Ten years, he echoes.
Yeah, it’s a long time. A man can get up to all sorts in ten years, but what you have at home, that’s always the foundation. Your rock. That’s what you work for. Hey, I’m not making you feel uncomfortable, am I?
It could all change in a moment.
Yeah? Well, let’s just assume it won’t.
What if one of those bulls charges at you?
That’s not going to happen.
You could slip and fall, says Danny.
Maybe, Robert whispers.
A sports car overtakes them with a roar. The pitch changes, high to low, and the car rapidly disappears from sight.
What about you? Robert blinks.
What?
Do you want to go back?
Danny shrugs.
Is it all still too fresh?
Yes.
Too fresh to talk about?
Danny doesn’t react.
How did you meet?
Danny moves his left hand to the handbrake, wraps his fingers around it, puts his thumb on the button.
If you ask me one more question, I’m going to stop the car.
Robert keeps his hands on the steering wheel. Danny holds his breath. He squeezes the button on the handbrake and Robert holds his breath too and everything is silent. They drive like that for a few hundred metres. There’s a buzzing in Danny’s head. He thinks about the night he first saw her, after he beat Hristov. He thinks about the glistening canal. He thinks about the time she came to see him at the boxing school. He waits for Robert to knock his hand away, but Robert’s hands stay on the steering wheel.
Without looking over at him, Robert says: You’re not going to do that.
They breathe again. Danny lets go of the handbrake and stares at the clock. The two dots are blinking. He waits for the numbers to change and says: She had someone else.
Another man?
He nods.
Danny clenches his jaw. There’s an enormous shed beside the motorway with loading bays for lorries, a number above every door. Danny counts. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
*
He walked into the gym, stopped for a moment outside the double doors and listened to the familiar sounds. Then he opened one of the doors and looked inside. He saw three boxers doing exercises in the far corner. The tallest one, a slim Moroccan, was jabbing at a punch bag, fast and strong. Another Moroccan and a stocky guy with narrow sideburns were watching. Aaron was sitting on a bench around the corner by the door. He was supposed to be giving fitness training to the juniors, but no one was there.
Where are they all?
Exams.
How long’s that for?
Just this week, I think, said Aaron. But you know who was just here?
Who?
Sando. He’s been in Curaçao. With one of those women of his.
Curaçao? Wow.
Been there since New Year. She paid for the whole thing.
He’s doing well for himself.
You reckon? He said he more or less had to run away from the old hag. She wanted to keep him there.
And he had to give her a good seeing-to every single bloody day. He looked wrecked.
Danny went to the changing room, put on his shorts and his boots, wrapped bandages around his hands and took the gloves out of his bag. He started with skipping. When the other seniors got there, the whole group played a kind of rugby game with the medicine ball. After that, they put on head protectors and gloves and trained in pairs. Every time the bell went between the training sessions, he looked out at the tiled corridor. As he skipped, he kept looking to see if she was coming. After half an hour of training, he heard a voice call his name.
Someone here for you.
He stopped, held the punch bag still. She was standing by the notice board. Aaron walked over and looked out into the corridor. Ah, I see, he said.
She was wearing jeans and a white blouse underneath a padded jacket. Her hair was up.
Back in a minute.
Me too, Aaron said and he spat out his mouth guard.
You’re staying here, said Danny.
Aaron picked up the mouth guard from the floor and said: Just need to rinse this off.
You can do that later. I know you and your old boxing tricks.
He headed up the steps and walked over to her. He wriggled his right hand out of his glove, ran his fingers through his hair, wiped his hand on his T-shirt and shook hers.
You here to see me?
I’ve come to pick up your contract.
It’s around here somewhere.
He pointed at the canteen, walked past her and, as he did so, inhaled her scent. The scent of peaches. He took off his other glove and walked over to the open door. Ragna followed him. Even though there was no one in the canteen, the television in the corner was on.
I just thought I’d pop in, see if it was ready, she said.
That’s fine, said Danny. It’s pretty quiet.
He walked around the bar, looked in one of the boxes above the coffee machine, took out a pile of papers, flicked through them and found his contract. It was in a yellow envelope, which had already been sealed and had the boxing promoter’s name and address written on it in blue ink.
See, it was all ready, he said, handing her the envelope.
Was everything okay?
Yes.
We don’t just work with professionals, she said. We’re professionals ourselves.
Danny nodded. Would you like something to drink?
If you have time.
Sure. Coffee or tea?
Tea, please.
Ragna sat down at a table. Danny made her a cup of tea and poured a large glass of water for himself.
Then he went to join her.
I’ve seen you fight, she said.
I know.
Have you always trained here?
Yeah, for years.
That’s what he said. Mr Varon, I mean. He’s told me a lot about you. How’s your eye now?
It bled a lot, didn’t it?
Looked worse than it was.
She picked up the envelope, turned it over, put it down again and looked at him. He was a head taller, so she had to lift her chin. She said: I don’t like watching, you know. Watching people fight. Or shouldn’t I be saying that to you?
You can say whatever you like.
She took her cup, stood up and looked at the photos on the wall.
Who’s that? she asked.
That’s Sando.
She nodded. Are you in the pictures too?
He pointed out a colour photo of himself, standing with ten or so black guys in front of the boxing school. It was a good picture of him. Ragna looked at the photos and sipped her tea.
The outside door rattled and Richard Rosenberger walked into his boxing school.
Danny said: Rich, this is Ragna.
They shook hands.
Our German connection, Richard said with a smile. That’s where the money is. But you know all about that. He turned to Danny. Who else is in today?
The Moroccans. And Aaron. And that kickboxer.
Okay, said Richard. He said goodbye to Ragna and headed out into the corridor.
She picked up the envelope, put her cup on the table and turned to Danny. When do you want to step up the training?
Couple of months. Going to build it up slowly.
Yeah, I’d like to.
During the day?
Yes, that’s fine.
With people from here?
He shook his head. They’re not here during the day.
Do you want to work with one of our guys?
Sounds good.
I’ll send someone round. I hope Pavel’s free. He’s good. And you’ll carry on training as usual in the evenings?
Yeah. I’ll ask Ron if he can come in a bit earlier.
Perfect.
They looked at each other for a moment. He tried to force himself not to look away, but his gaze moved to her lips, then down to the table.
I should get going.
I’ll come out with you, he said, and they headed outside. Ragna unlocked her bike, put the envelope in her inside pocket, smiled and shook hands with Danny. Then she waited for a man who was pushing his bike along the pavement to go past. There was a small child sitting in a seat attached to the handlebars and a slightly older boy balanced on the back. A ball was jammed under the saddle and the older boy was holding onto it with both hands. The man slowly pushed the bike past the gym and Ragna got on her bike and raised her hand. Danny watched her cycle off down the pavement and around the corner.
*
They are approaching a petrol station. Danny leans forward to read the sign that says how far the next petrol station is. A thought flashes through his mind: grab the wheel, take the exit, call her. So she can tell him everything’s okay and he can keep repeating that it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding. That he’s sorry. But the thought of her paralyses him. A road lined with trees runs parallel to the motorway. The trees slice the sunlight into fragments that dance over the fields. Danny closes his eyes. Her dark eyes appear in the blackness. They study him calmly, as though she too is apologizing.
He turns away, opens his eyes. Outside there’s nothing but fields. The sunlight tingles on his cheek. He rests his forehead on the window, which is surprisingly cool.
Can I ask you something? says Robert. When can you tell that you’re going to win?
Really early on.
Right at the beginning of a fight?
Yes.
And when you’re going to lose? Can you tell that just as quickly?
No, that’s not something you can feel, says Danny.
Robert’s silent for a moment, then says: I guess that’s something you can only feel when you’re standing out in the rain like a drowned rat.
The words hit him hard. His flight through the city streets flashes through his head. Just for a moment, he feels that power again, the power he’d had during the fight. His silent fury. His jabs hitting home. Hard and accurate.
Is that why you stopped for me?
That’s not what I mean.
Because you felt sorry for me?
I thought maybe I could help.
Danny doesn’t take the bait. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. A flock of starlings swirls over the cornfields, a dark patch against the sky, constantly changing shape, growing larger, then shrinking. The occasional starling splits off from the group. Danny tries to follow the bird with his eyes, even after the group swallows it up and it disappears, just like the stray thoughts that break away and whirl through the air before merging again with the darkness in his mind.
Tomorrow Pamplona, he hears Robert say. And, after a short silence, he adds: Don’t forget Pamplona.
Robert blinks. Danny looks down at his hands on his lap, large and flat, his thumbs between his thighs. He breathes in deeply and the T-shirt tightens around his chest. The white of the shirt hurts his eyes. I won’t forget Pamplona, he says.
In the west, the horizon turns red, stripes of colour fill the sky and small clouds dissolve in the last of the light. The cars in front have turned on their headlights. On the other side of the crash barrier, white and yellow lights are coming towards them.