"That's great!" I exclaimed. "You are spreading a good knowledge."
"We like to think so," he agreed, inclining his head in a little gesture of appreciation for the compliment. There is something about the grave, automatic courtesy of the true martial artist that always touches me.
"Well, you certainly helped me," I said. "I got in trouble and lost my money, and now I have won back enough to get home again. Without this tournament I don't know what I would have done."
"But surely you are not leaving now!" he protested. "You have won three matches in fine style. Two more will bring you to the finals. Already the spectators have taken note of you, this strange North American who makes the huge wrestlers whimper! You are generating excitement, attracting people, and bringing us profit. Please, I must insist that you continue in the tournament!"
I could not very well turn down this sincere plea of my huge friend. I approved what he was doing, and I really was in no hurry, now that I had my money. I did not need to bet any more—I never gamble voluntarily anyway—and could finish out the competition for the fun of it. "I'll stay," I said.
"But you must be hungry!" he exclaimed jovially. "You are hardly more than a skeleton." Compared to him, I was, since I had no fat on me. "Come, we shall prepare you for the remainder." And he urged me forward into one of the smaller tents. The main tent had no sides, just a top to keep the weather away, but the smaller tents were complete.
As a matter of fact, I was hungry. I did not want to eat a large amount right before the vigorous exercise of a match, but something would be very good right now. So I joined him in a lovely Island repast of raw fish, fried rice balls, a bowl of black bean paste and noodles, and plenty of Japanese tea with no sugar.
Now it was time for the next match. Apparently Kiyokuni had delayed the proceedings so as not to rush me. I knew this one was going to be tougher, for my opponent treated me exactly like a professional sumotori. I could not afford to grapple him in the conventional sumo fashion, for he was much stronger and heavier than I. I had to win fast, or lose, and I rather expected to lose. The plain fact was that I was not a match for a good sumotori in his specialty.
He grabbed my belt. I cut suddenly to the side, whipping my hip sidewise and back in a taisabaki motion used in judo to counter a forward throw. Because I was nervous, and recharged by the good food Kiyokuni had shared, my action was extraordinarily powerful. The sumotori's wrist jerked violently.
He gave a cry of pain and let go. The judge called a halt, coming in to examine the man's hand.
Oh, no! I saw it now. The thumb was bent backward out of its socket, wrenched or broken by my thrust.
"Here, let me—" I said automatically. The judge held the sumotori's arm, and I took hold of the dislocated thumb and pulled hard. The victim grimaced with pain, but in a moment the digit settled back into its proper place. But that hand would be useless for some time.
The judge indicated the victory for me, but I didn't care about that. "I'm sorry," I told the sumotori, not certain he even understood my language. "I did not mean to hurt you."
He controlled his pain like the man he was. "That hand was weak from prior injury," he told me in English. "I was careless, and you did not know." And he made a little bow.
There was nothing else I could say. I turned away, chagrined. These things do happen; I have been injured many times in judo. But that did not make me feel much better. How would that man be able to make his way, now?
But my next match was upon me. Now I would be happy to lose, and get out of this before I caused any more trouble. Yet I had to do my best; never in my life have I thrown a match, for any reason.
The sumotori grabbed me around the waist, trying to lift me so that he could carry me out of the ring. I resisted, levering against his own mass so that he could not get me up. So he used all his strength and bulk to squeeze me and bend me backwards, literally crushing me in his embrace. Let me tell you, the press of a sumotori is no trifle; I could hardly gasp in enough breath to maintain consciousness.
Then I remembered a trick little Hiroshi had employed against a huge wrestler at the Martial Open. No doubt it was the mention of Hiroshi the Aikidoist in my discourse with Kiyokuni so recently that brought this to mind. I tried that trick now. I put one arm at the small (really a misnomer, on this monstrous man!) of his back, and the other under his nose. I pressed upward and back on his face while hauling him in from the back. The upper lip is sensitive; he had to draw back to alleviate my pressure, but could not. I kept pushing with all my might, forcing him to bend, and at last he capitulated. The match was mine.
Now, to my surprise, I had made the finals. Only one wrestler remained, and I would have to vie with him for the grand purse of ten thousand cruzeiros, or about one thousand three hundred dollars, that I didn't really want now. And—my opponent was my friend Kiyokuni, naturally a competitor himself. No doubt he saved his venture some money by winning many of the purses himself, and this was legitimate, so long as he won fairly, as I was sure he did.
I looked out over the crowd, seeing how huge it had grown, inflated like the ponderous belly of a sumotori. There was a lot of support for Japanese martial art here in Rio. Many of the spectators were of Japanese descent, but many were not. It was a credit to Kiyokuni's promotional ability.
Then I spied a too-familiar face at the fringe. It was Laureano, head torturer for Mirabal. What was he doing here? What else but searching for me? The same excitement that had attracted the swelling crowd had brought him to investigate. I had in effect blown my cover, and I had to get out fast. "I have changed my mind,' I said to Kiyokuni. "I can not participate further."
He was shocked. "Jason, you can not do this! It is the final match!"
"I—I am indisposed," I said, not wanting to get him involved in my Death Squad problems. "I shall yield the match and purse to you. Please use some of it to help the man whose hand I injured."
"Indisposed?" he repeated, and I realized I had made an unfortunate choice of vocabulary. He thought I was pleading addiction to some drug. Then he shook his head, refusing to credit that. "But you have done so well! Everyone is waiting for this encounter! It is a record crowd." Then he paused. "Ah, you worry about Toshida! That is all right; we do not throw our injured troupe members into the street to die! All of on this tour have problems; all contribute to a common fund to assist those whom misfortune befalls. Do not be concerned."
"You are my friend," I said. "I cannot fight you."
He smiled with understanding. "Ah, you seek to avoid embarrassing me before this throng! I appreciate the thought, but I am a warrior. I can take my losses as well as my victories, and I would be privileged to lose to you, my friend. Come, I insist—the match must continue."
Laureano was looking my way, and I was sure he had spotted me. His eyes seemed to glitter insanely behind rimless glasses. There were four or five men with him with their shirts hanging out, covering their belts, surely concealing their weapons. Among them was the big ugly football player/thug. Trouble galore! "You misunderstand, friend. I can't hope to defeat you. It would be a mismatch."
"Now you sound like a coward, and I know you are not!" he answered. "Come, it is a fair match, and it would look strange if you suddenly withdrew now. People would think I had bribed you to forfeit, and my reputation would suffer." And he looked at me with such a pleading sincerity that it was painful.
What could I say? He was honest, well-meaning, and correct. He did not know about my problem with the Death Squad, and I did not want him to know. I had to go through with it, and made a good show for the spectators, many of whom I knew had placed sizable wagers on the outcome. All I could do now was hope to finish it quickly, one way or the other, and get out before Laureano and his hoods reached me.
Kiyokuni and I approached each other slowly. I had not been fooling when I pondered the strength of the sumotori; he might consider himself over the hill in Japan, but he had been one of the mightiest sumo wrestlers of all tim
e, and was still a formidable opponent. In a straight judo match I think I could have taken him, for that was my specialty; no doubt I had better endurance, and could nail him when he tired. But I was quite unlikely to beat him in sumo, and was much more likely to lose rapidly than to win slowly. He would not fall for the tricks I had used on the lesser combatants. Furthermore, he knew me from Japan, and had seen me fight there; he was wise to my techniques.
We grappled and pushed at each other, not trying for an immediate win so much as a minor advantage that could be parlayed into a winning combination. Yet I felt the tremendous musculature under Kiyokuni's fat; he could bull me out of the circle any time and knew it, but the showman in him wanted to make it look tougher for the betting spectators, and the friend in him wanted to spare me the ignominy of too-ready defeat. He would not throw the match, of course, any more than I would, but there are kind and unkind ways to prevail. Damn his kind heart; if he beat me in five seconds and let me go, I could avoid murder or capture by Mirabal's torturer!
I heard a cry. Now the Death Squad was right up to the platform. Laureano's burning half-mad eyes were fixed on mine, his right hand stroking the bump below his hanging shirt; he had a gun there, all right. I didn't think he'd shoot me right there on stage, in full view of the crowd, but seeing the lurking insanity and lust for blood in his face, I wasn't sure. He'd probably do it rather than let me slip away again. And if he tried, he very well might hit my friend Kiyokuni. I had to break this off right now—but how?
Suddenly there was a piercing scream. My gaze turned involuntarily that way. It was Oba, right before Laureano, who was trying to push past her to regain a clear shot at me. She screamed again, with marvelous volume. All heads turned. She gesticulated wildly, a torrent of Portuguese emerging from her pretty little mouth. She pointed at Laureano in a gesture very similar to the one the boy Filho had used on me in prison. Nearby faces scowled.
Then I knew what she was doing. She was accusing the Death Squadders of attacking her, and the crowd believed her. In truth, Laureano was innocent of this particular charge, but I wasn't going to raise my voice on his behalf. Let him have a taste of his own medicine, the false accusation and frame-up. Serve him right! Now I had leeway. I freed my right arm, got clearance between us, and let go with a mighty uppercut to Kiyokuni's chin. It was a knockout blow—and an obvious foul.
There was an instant roar of outrage from the crowd as the judge signaled the penalty. They could not know that I might have saved Kiyokuni's life from a misplaced assassin's shot. The sumotori fell back, losing consciousness, a surprised look on his face; he had never suspected I would be capable of such a dastardly deed. The judge, too, was shocked; he was yelling something at me, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd.
Half a dozen sumotoris scrambled into the ring, furious. Instead of freeing myself from a match, I had gotten myself into a brawl! Why hadn't I simply confided in Kiyokuni and let him help hide me from the Death Squad? Sometimes I'm not very bright, sad to say. Kiyokuni was not only a fine fighter and the employer of these men, he was their friend and benefactor. I could well understand their anger and sympathize with their intent, but could not afford to wait for it! They would beat me to jelly in an instant, and if they didn't, the Death Squad would finish me off instead. My own folly!
They converged. Surrounded by the dancing whales, I prepared my escape. Fortunately they got in each other's way, being so eager to get at me. I leaped up and delivered a flying kick to the side of the face of the nearest, knocking him down. But another grabbed me from behind with both arms. I jumped, using him as leverage, and shoved with both legs at the chest of the one in front. He fell back like a monstrous tenpin, bowling over the others. Then I bent forward and gathered in the knee of the man holding me, who was staggering backward from the recoil of my shove; I encouraged that stagger with a backward kick to his abdomen that incapacitated him without injury. I was not trying to hurt these people.
What a melee it was! Oba was still screaming, the crowd was closing in on the Death Squad and on me simultaneously, the judge was appalled, sumotoris were sprawled all across the ring, angry spectators further out were starting to throw stink bombs, and one wrestler remained on his feet coming at me. Laureano's gun was now in his hand, and the other Death Squadders were reaching for theirs. I had generated a riot that might soon cost the lives of a number of people—but had I saved my own life? Laureano's gun came up, the muzzle centering on me as the last sumotori charged me. The other wrestlers were getting up; after all, they were used to taking falls. It was now or never. I ducked down to meet the wrestler. Fortunately he was a light one, a scant 300 pounds. I put my bowed shoulders into his midsection, caught his right leg with my right arm, braced my legs and lifted him in an unsteady kata-guruma shoulder whirl. When I had him up, I turned around in the "airplane spin" of the television wrestlers, letting his legs fly out to bash down the others. Then I heaved him off the platform, directly into the Death Squad, crushing them down beneath that awful weight.
I jumped off the platform, grabbed Oba's hand, and ran for it. I had no time to pick up my money or even to recover my clothes. I only hoped Kiyokuni would understand, once he thought it out. Then I spied Laureano. The man was extricating himself from the pileup, apparently having been on the fringe. He was bent over, trying to rise despite part of the Football Player sprawled on one of his arms, and his posterior was facing me. It was an opportunity I could not resist. I broke away from Oba, jumped toward the torturer, closed my fist, and smacked him at the base of the spine right between the buttocks with an Ippon-Ken strike. It was an atemi blow, outlawed in karate competition because it could injure the spinal nerve, interfering with the function of the legs and the urinary system.
Laureano screamed and collapsed, and I knew my blow had done the trick. It would be a long time before he walked normally again, and he might lose control of his bladder. He would suffer horribly—just the way he had made countless prisoners suffer. Now Oba and I merged with the crowd. I felt naked in my scanty Fundoshi, and no wonder, for it was really no more than a tough jock strap. But the milling throng didn't seem to notice; probably they assumed it was just a carnival costume. They didn't know I was the cause of the riot.
Oba took the lead, smiling sunnily. And I realized that this little goddess had indeed saved me from betrayal by a friend, voiding Exu's curse. Kiyokuni had meant only well, but he had nearly been the death of me; only Oba's timely distraction had foiled that.
There was a cry. I looked back, and there was the big Football Player, towering over the heads of the crowd, forging through like a tank. He was waving his fist at me; he wanted me to know he was back on my trail. He must have shown his badge or whatever and freed himself, and resumed the chase, heedless of the plight of Laureano. I certainly hadn't given him the slip long; he was like a damned bloodhound. There seemed to be more Squadders with him than before, too, seven or eight now. And they obviously had caught on to Oba's connection to me; that particular ploy would not work again.
"Vir," Oba said, tugging me on.
"I hope you know an escape hatch," I muttered, following her. "Those bastards mean business." And how!
She led me to a door, and we ducked in. I hoped Football hadn't seen us do it, but had no real confidence. It was some kind of an exercise hall, with students working out. Not judo or karate or Aikido; I couldn't place it at first glance, but it certainly had the aspect of a martial arts dojo. For one thing, the pupils were in armor. Did the Society for Creative Anachronisms have a Chapter here?
The Master came up. He was at least sixty years old, stood five foot six, with a substantial pot belly that brought his weight up to perhaps 180 pounds. His eyes were watery, his beard wispy, and I could see the somewhat trembly nature of his pulse. There were big dark liver spots on his hands, a sure sign of advancing age. Taken all in all, not impressive. Perhaps he had been a sharp martial artist once, but no longer. He wore a samurai sword, and now I recognize his mar
tial art. This was kendo or iado, the science of swordsmanship.
Oba spoke quickly in Portuguese. The Master smiled and turned to me. "Jason Striker!" he exclaimed, though Oba had not named me.
Uh-oh. If he knew me, would he give me away to the Death Squad? No, I had to trust him; evidently Oba knew him, and anyway I had no choice.
"Fuji, kendo," the Master introduced himself simply, so I could understand. We exchanged bows.
Now I had to admire his school, for it would have been bad form to allow minor matters like a Death Squad hot on my heels to distract me from common courtesy. Chafing inside, I did so.
Most of the students were still working out. They were not actually in armor, at least not the conventional kind; that had been my error of a too-hasty glance. They wore cotton blouses and ankle-length divided skirts, with bare feet. They had helmets similar to baseball catcher's masks, with iron face grills and padded leather side flaps, the whole cushioned by a towel underneath. The breastplates consisted of bamboo slats, extended by a short leather plate to protect the crotch. Shell gauntlets covered the arms from the backs of the hands to the elbows.
Their "swords" were made of bamboo, with sixteen inches of handle and thirty of blade—and that blade was split, tied together by an interior cord. The result was to deprive it of its striking power. But it could make a sound, and the judge could estimate the power and cleanness of the blow by that crack. More advanced students fenced without armor, and used more substantial wooden swords.
It is foolish to judge by appearances, especially in martial art. I knew that, but this time I forgot. I'm afraid my border-line contempt must have been evident to Master Fuji, and in retrospect I am keenly embarrassed. I had a lesson coming.
There was a sudden loud pounding on the door. We knew what that was. Oba spoke again, urgently. The Master gestured me to a curtain, and we hastened to hide behind it. The curtain was semi-transparent, with a coarse weave, so it was possible to see through it by putting my face up close. Now the men of the Death Squad charged in, a brutish crew. Laureano was not among them, thanks to my knock on his posterior; the Football Linesman led them. Despite the danger I was in, my glance passed by them to the wall beyond, attracted to the display of wooden swords.