"Cuba was a pioneer in Central America," she said warmly. "Kolychkine brought it here from Belgium. We were host to the first Pan American Games, and also the second, and we organized the Pan American Judo Union. Cuban senseis organized and introduced judo to Guatamala, Puerto Rico, and Costa Rica. With our new government, run by the people, it is even more popular. We have courses in judo at the University, with graduates and tenured judo teachers."
"Say, you must be a real judo fan!" I exclaimed. "Who are you?"
She was, it turned out, a University student, studying pedagogia—that is, to become a teacher. (Her students, I thought, had better be below the age of ten, or they would never be able to concentrate on the subject. Such jiggles!) She was making a study of judo her graduate thesis. She was not terrifically proficient in it herself, being a green belt, but she knew a great deal about the subject.
I realized that she had been on the prowl for foreign judo team members. An American could hardly have been her first or second choice.
"I'd like to see that University," I said wistfully.
"I will show it to you," she said. "When do you go to Havana?"
"Tomorrow," I said.
"I will pick you up tomorrow," she said.
I nodded gratefully. So she was willing to settle for the lowly American after all. She left me then, and walked on down the beach. Her buttocks jiggled from side to side.
Dulce was as good her word. The Havana Libre was only two blocks from the University, so we walked over. She wore an ample ruffled skirt reaching down to her knees; no more covert glances at her remarkable legs and thighs. Her dark brown hair hung in waves to her shoulders, and her breasts seemed incredibly large, her waist miraculously small, and her hips amazingly broad. Everything was accentuated today. I'd always thought of Cubans as dark-skinned, but her skin was creamy white.
We moved uphill to the foot of a broad staircase leading up to the University. The buildings were all in Greek style, with granite Doric columns topped by relief carvings. There was a park in the middle. We dallied there briefly, then passed the library and the huge stadium and finally made it to the monstrous indoor dojo where the Cuban judo team was training. A man came up as we entered the judo hail. He was forty-five or fifty, a big man about six feet tall, beefy but strong, with wide bones, black curly hair, a small scar on his check, and a slightly cauliflower ear. He did not look too bright, but I knew this was an illusion. "¿Buenas, los puedo ayudar en algo?" he inquired, big white teeth flashing in a friendly smile. His voice was deep.
"This is a visitor from the American team," Dulce said.
"The American team! We shall plow you under! Welcome! I am Rolando Rubio, coach of the Cuban team."
"Jason Striker—American coach," I said. We shook hands, and I felt the extreme musculature of his body. This was a powerful, trained man.
There were a number of judokas training in the hall. I could not help sneaking a peek, for these were what my boys would have to compete against. I saw one man on his back, running the line. Student after student attacked him, only to be overturned and held down, or strangled efficiently. What a demonstration of skill!
"Jason Striker? I know of you! How glad I am to meet you! I saw you beat the karateka last year, on television."
"Actually it was a draw," I demurred. It was amazing how news of that martial-arts tournament had spread. I kept running into people who remembered it.
"Luis!" Rolando shouted, his voice booming in the hall. The man on the mat disengaged from practice and approached. "This is Jason Striker, American fifth dan." He turned to me. "Sensei Luis Guardia, fifth dan, who works with me on the mat."
Luis was about fifty, with curly brown, hair and blue eyes odd in a Cuban. I noticed that be limped somewhat; his knees had been badly injured in the past, so that he could no longer walk easily. He stood only about five feet five inches tall-but there was no doubt he was a devil on the tatami.
"I was just admiring your style," I told him.
"And I have admired yours!" he said, with an infectious smile.
He had a scar on his forehead, as though he had not been quite quick enough against a swordsman. "Come, friend. Let's work out on the mat."
I hesitated; I really hadn't come for this. But these people inspired me with an instant feeling of camaraderie; they were real judokas, my type of company. Where was the harm in a friendly match? "Okay," I said.
I changed into one of their judogis, donned my black belt, and joined Luis. A number of the students stopped to watch. No matter.
Luis lay on his back. "Attack me," he invited.
I was puzzled. He was not even defending himself. What did he think I was—a novice, a—white-belt? I approached. He changed position slightly rolling on his side I slipped up and caught him in a kesa gatame, a scarf hold. I sat at his side, one arm around his neck, the other catching his arm against my armpit.
Correction: I intended to apply that hold, and thought for a moment I had. But at the last moment Luis moved aside, as slippery as an eel. His hand pushed against my arm, his head was out of the noose, and I was face down on the mat. He was at my back, both hands choking my neck in an okuri-eri jime or lapel strangle, using the lapels of my kimono to choke me.
I tried to resist, but his hands were in deep and the cloth was cutting my neck. His arms were strong as a bull, deceptive for so small a person. In a real fight I might have tried to hit him in a vital spot, before falling unconscious, but this was sport judo. I tapped with my leg, since I couldn't speak, surrendering. Luis released me, smiling. "Want to try again?"
Yes, I wanted to try again. I didn't like being so readily defeated. I knew I was not the best judoka in the world, and I was out of shape; having spent most of my time training others. But still, I was no patsy, and his rank was the same as mine, and he was older and smaller.
I grabbed his knees and pushed them to one side. I was to the rear of him now, holding him down kami shiho gatame, my body in a line with his, my head pressing down in his chest, my hips over his head, and both arms pressing his arms tightly against his side, with my hands holding his belt. Let's see him get out of this! I thought. This was the toughest of all hold-downs to break.
But again I was surprised by his speed and flexibility. He really was a master of mat work. His body arched back, back, back in a back-bend, while I held his upper torso. His legs bent back and hooked under my belt. Both his feet started pushing. It was impossible to hold him down, because the legs are so much stronger than the arms. Slowly he pushed himself back. But I was not going to let him get off so easily. I kept turning on the mat with him, till suddenly I was on his back, one forearm pressing against his throat and the other pushing down the back of his head: a modified hadaka jime, or bare strangle. My legs crossed over his abdomen to impede his escape. I also started a little bit of illegal pressing down with both legs to scissor his stomach, to help put force on his powerful neck. I squeezed with both arms and legs for all I was worth.
Suddenly his body arched back, one leg over mine; the other caught his own leg, trapping mine in a leg lock. The pain was unbearable and I had to shout "Maitta!" surrender. Luis laughed as he released me. "I know this is illegal—but so was your tightening on the leg scissor. I set you up for this hold." No wonder I had gotten my hold so easily. He had let me have it, so as to break it. I could not match him in mat work, his chosen specialty. He had suckered me.
"Kolychkine taught us such tricks," Luis said. "I like to surprise judokas with them."
I could not stay mad at him. He had taught me a valuable lesson in tactics. "Good match," I said.
Luis turned to Dulce, who had been watching avidly. "This Yankee you picked up," he remarked, "this beach derelict—he is a true judoka. He loses to an illegal hold, but he makes no excuses, though he has beaten the best in the world when the rules were suspended. That is the mark of a champion."
Rolando was soon called away to attend to his coaching duties, but Luis remained with
us. He introduced us to his beautiful, willowy Cuban Chinese wife. Seeing her gave me a pang, for I had once sought to marry a Chinese girl. But another Chinese, Kan-Sen, head Kill-13 Demon, had slit her throat. Might he burn forever in the hell to which I had dispatched him!
The four of us—Luis, his black-haired wife, Dulce, and I—at in the stadium, refreshed by the breeze, and talked all afternoon about judo the world over. The time passed like a shot. Then we went over to the bar on the top of the Havana Libre, tallest building in Cuba. All Havana lay like a jewel beneath us in the evening. The women departed briefly for the ladies' room. Luis leaned over to me confidentially. "Señor, I do not suggest anything. But there have been certain rumors—I do not credit them for a moment!—that you might have trouble."
"Oh, we'll have trouble, all right!" I agreed. "I saw how sharp your judokas were. And we have little hope of matching the teams of the other nations."
He made a littte gesture of negation. "That too, perhaps. But you—if you are ever in need—I cannot speak freely..."
I looked at him, realizing that this was not idle conversation. "I am not familiar with this country."
"La Esperanza in Pinar del Rio," he said. "Find it on a map. Go there, ask for Tomas the fisherman. Tomas Cepero." Then the girls returned, and he was suddenly full of jovial inconsequentials again. We finished a pleasant evening. In fact, I enjoyed myself about as much as I ever had, for a competent judo sensei and good-looking girls make excellent company.
But why did Luis suppose I might get into such trouble that I would need an underground escape route? What could he know of my affairs that I did not? After all, I had never met him before.
Next day I went out with Dulce again. This time she took me to Copelin, the Castro Ice Cream Palace, on the corner opposite to the Havana Libre. It was a huge structure, filling a quarter of the block, with a surrounding park. It was an ice cream parlor.
"Cubans are crazy about ice cream." Dulce confided. "They sell fifty flavors here, made of real milk and eggs."
"Ice cream!" I have my own peculiarities, and chief among them is this: I love ice cream. I know it is mostly sugar, and is no fit training diet for a martial artist. But I was the coach, not a player, and I was sweating hot, and the very thought of cold, high-quality ice cream made me salivate like one of Pavlov's dogs. Fifty flavors? My willpower crumbled like hammered plaster. More appropriately, it melted.
We ate ice cream, cone after cone. I felt compelled to try all the exotic flavors: maranon (sour and astringent), mango, pina, purple caimito, anon, guanabana, papaya, fruit-a-bamba, melon, guava, zapote—God, what a capitalist pig I made of myself! But it sure was fun. I especially liked the coco glace, a half a coconut filled with delicious coconut ice cream.
Afterwards, we went swimming at Rio Crystal, the Crystal River with an artificial waterfall hear the Havana waterworks. I was embarrassed, because my gut was bulging with all that ice cream; I must have looked like a pot-bellied retiree. In the evening we went to the Tropicana nightclub. The government allowed no gambling, but it had a fabulous show. I could not keep my eyes off the remarkable array of chorus cuties. Dulce was quite piqued. We dined under the stars, the wonderful crystal roof moving back so we could enjoy the scenery. Chicken and rice—arroz con pollo—with de-boned chicken cut into small pieces, fried ripe plantains, Cuban bread, a salad of lettuce and tomatoes, and dulce de leche, or milk dessert.
All in all, I did not suffer unduly in my off hours. I think Dulce might have dropped me after the first day, having satisfied her curiosity, but when she saw how the University personnel welcomed me, she decided to stick around. I'm only conjecturing, of course; no man really knows what a girl sees in him. But Dulce was an intellectual, which I am not, and she could hardly have found my mind or knowledge stimulating.
At any rate, we necked a little bit, and she was amazingly passionate. But she was an old-fashioned girl, still a virgin, and she retained that status during our acquaintance. I think she really liked me, but my memory of my dead fiancée kept us apart.
Dulce was also in the Cuban FAR, the Fuerzes Armadas Revolucionarias, some kind of a paramilitary organization. I got the shock of my life when I first saw her in her working clothes, instead of bathing suit or evening dress. She wore a dark green military uniform with a pistol on her side, and I was sure she knew how to use it. Black boots, plus a jaunty black beret on top of her hair. Her job had something to do with military talks, indoctrination, morale, and Marxist-Leninist Theory.
But we had a judo meet to compete in, and as it approached all else was blotted from my attention. I wanted to overlook nothing that could give our team a chance; no technique, no discipline, no frame of mind. We were entering as underdogs; no one expected us to do well. I didn't either, but I sure as hell was going to try my best to surprise them.
In sport judo the object is to win without hurting your opponent. A full point is called an ippon, and that immediately terminates the match. Normally an ippon is scored by throwing your opponent cleanly on his back. In a real life situation, that would shake him up considerably, probably putting him out of commission, for few untrained people know how to take a fall.
There are other ways: holddowns, locks, strangles, or simply a superior performance within the time limit of six to ten minutes. But an ippon is like a knockout in boxing: fast and sure, no matter what has gone before.
The meet itself seemed anti-climactic. I watched the great sports palace fill up, a huge crowd, unlike the usually deserted stands common to American judo meets. This was what I thought of as a football turnout. There were even reserved seats—empty in this crowded hall, but still guarded by militiamen—for Fidel Castro and his entourage. In this communist paradise of equality, some were more equal than others. There were constant exhibitions between the matches, breaking the presumed monotony. I understood that Mustapha the American boxer would participate in one of these. Maybe I'd get a chance to talk to him.
The Japanese did well, of course; they always do. They demonstrated their superiority, by cornering most of the first-place medals. The Russians followed through with many of the silver medals. I was surprised to learn that the Soviets had fewer than a hundred black-belt judokas in all their realm, compared to some nineteen thousand for France and similarly large numbers for other European nations. But Russia, going for quality rather than quantity, was first in European judo. Oh, the Europeans took some medals, too, and one Cuban lightweight surprised everybody by defeating the Japanese champion with a kesa gatame holddown.
The hope of our team was Tony, a young college student shodan, a collegiate champion in the 205-and-under division. He was Italian-Greek extraction, swarthy, with black hair. He wore glasses—but woe betide the bully who took him for Mister Milquetoast. His favorite throws were the uchi-mata and morote seio-nage. Tony's first match was against Mihaly Szabo of Hungary. Szabo came in with a full tight o-soto-gari and Tony shifted his weight backward and countered with a left o-soto, winning half a point, waza ari. Half a point was not enough to win, but it was a good start in fifteen seconds. Szabo came in again with the o-soto-gari; Tony blocked him and threw him with his own o-soto, making his second half point.
That brought him victory. I refrained with difficulty from doing an unsportsmanlike whoop of sheer joy; our entry was proving himself.
All of our other entries were eliminated in the first round, however.
Next, Tony went against Norberto Vasquez of Cuba. I saw Rolando and Luis watching, and I did not meet their gaze. One of our boys would have to win, and the other had to lose, and I knew exactly how the Cubans felt. They had said their team would annihilate ours. How sweet it would be to prove them wrong—but how sad, too, for I liked these people.
Norberto was a mat man—not surprising, with Luis as a trainer. But Tony could handle himself on the mat too, and I had warned him what to expect. In fact I had drilled him until we both were dizzy. He could win—he could!—but my hands were sweating as they lined
up. I remembered what Luis had done to me on the mat, and knew he had drilled Norberto too.
Tony tried a morote seoi-nage, lifting Norberto and spilling him on his side. It could have gone for a half a point, but there was no call from the judge. Then Norberto tried a left uki-waza sutemi and it was Tony's turn to sprawl on his face. I winced, but no call from the judges here, either. Norberto was on top of him, trying for a hold Tony managed to reverse him and grab him in a yokoshiho gatame side hold down. I held my breath, counting seconds; half a minute would mean the win.
Noberto struggled, but Tony hung on, as I had taught him to. Fifteen seconds, twenty, twenty-five, thirty! Victory! Now Luis caught my eye. He smiled, a gracious loser, and I felt both warm and cold inside. Would I have been so generous?
Then Tony came up against the Russian, Novokov. If he won this one, he would make it to the finals and be assured of at least a third-place medal. I was only a spectator at this point, but my heart was pounding like that of a first-time contestant. Russia was big-league judo; did Tony have a chance?
I watched Tony do a beautiful uchi-mata, throwing the Russian, and in that instant I knew he had won. My feet really did leave the floor! The Japanese referee raised his hand to signal IPPON, and it was the most beautiful sign I ever saw.
But the two judges—one Argentinian, the other Polish—stood up to disagree.
What? I was on my feet and over there, protesting. I had been in competition a dozen years, and I damn well knew an ippon when I saw one. The anti-American bias of certain regions is well known, but it should not extend to the judging of a judo match.
Well, what did I expect? Americans are not the best-liked people around the world, and I guess I'd feel the same if I were from a have-not nation, watching the conspicuous consumption of precious resources that the U.S.A. practices. And the Japanese suffered from similar discrimination in judo contests, but their superiority kept them winning in spite of it. The Americans lacked that level of skill, so the bias really hurt. Sometimes at decision time it looked as though there were a Japanese-American alliance against the rest of the world.