All the Lights (8 page)

‘Copper Rose coming up behind the leading trio, Copper Rose one head behind, challenging now, half a head, behind her Lonely Affair with Ahab picking up. And Shadow Queen coming into the picture now. At the rear still Elvis’s Love Song. They’re coming into the last turn.’

‘Be right back,’ says Schäfer. He puts his cocktail down and walks over to an old man standing right by the hedge on the edge of the track, who’s waved to him a couple of times now. Rolf finishes his mojito, then takes Schäfer’s. He drinks and closes his eyes. He hears and sees the starting gate leaping open again and the horses galloping off. ‘No human eye can make out the movement when they gallop.’ But it seems to him as if he can see the nine horses’ front legs thrusting into the air almost in sync. And then they ran, disappeared from his view, galloped around the track, the fifth race, a hundred and twenty euros down, sixty euros in the pot, a trifecta, a triple combination, and he hears the commentator’s voice again: ‘Dancing Mo two lengths in the lead,’ hears Schäfer’s voice next to him again: ‘Don’t worry, he’ll fall back, they’ll get him,’ and Horses Schäfer is right, he’s only third on the final straight, ‘Dancing Mo a short head in front of Tulipe, Tulipe neck-and-neck now, no changes at the front, Quadriga and Saxon Storm a length and a half ahead of Dancing Mo and Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe, Dancing Mo or Tulipe … looks like the photo will have to decide. Quadriga first before Saxon Storm, then Dancing Mo or Tulipe. This’ll be interesting, the decision’s just coming up, don’t throw away your betting slips, ladies and gentlemen.’ And he hears the voice of Horses Schäfer next to him again: ‘We’ll get it, we’ve got it, Tulipe in third place, we’re really gonna rake it in, your dog’s gonna live for years and years.’

‘Got a couple of damn good tips for the last race but one,’ Schäfer whispers next to him, ‘the old guy over there’s an ex-jockey, used to win me a lot of money. Trust me, Rolf, we’re gonna clean up now. And if the worst comes to the worst we’ve always got the last race, but we don’t even need it, the guy’s worth his weight in gold, and I’ve got two horses in the last race that no one’s reckoning with. We’re on damn good form, Rolf. Pretty close, you know, pretty close …’ He lights up another. Rolf takes one too, reaching for the pack so hastily that a couple of cigarettes fall on the ground, and puts the pack in his pocket. ‘Fill it out,’ he says, ‘fill it out,’ and he gives Schäfer the money. Schäfer leans over the betting slip, Rolf drinks his mojito, then he walks to the men’s room. He walks past all the people, hears them talking and laughing, sees them filling out their slips at the canopied tables that look like mangers, takes a quick look at the horses in the paddock and the grandstand on the other side of the track, walks past the long lines at the betting counters and feels like he’s going to piss his pants any minute now, before he reaches the toilets. A man is standing by the sink, looking in the mirror. ‘Copper Rose,’ he whispers over and over, ‘Copper Rose,’ and his body sways to and fro.

‘Oh no,’ whispered Rolf, crossing the road, walking along the middle of the street, but the street was deserted, ‘no Copper Rose for you, my friend.’ He reeled back onto the sidewalk, and now he knew where he was. Ahead of him he saw the main street with all the kebab shops and bars. It had to be after twelve, and he looked at all the lights, people were hungry and thirsty at night too. He walked towards the lights, saw the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. He walked faster, almost running, he coughed, he felt like he was going to vomit, and his cough reverberated around the street almost like a slight echo. Then he was standing in front of the store window, looking at the picture of the galloping horse. A couple of men came out of the door, waving little slips of paper; not money, he could tell.

‘Poppy Flower, Belonia and Lonely Affair coming up behind Planet Pony. Ahab and Shadow Queen closing in on the outside … Poppy Flower and Belonia … Poppy Flower on the inside, on the outside Belonia with Ahab and Shadow Queen … and Elvis’s Love Song racing full-out by the rail … Elvis’s Love Song making good ground now … there’s no stopping Elvis’s Love Song … Elvis’s Love Song, followed by Poppy Flower and Shadow Queen … Shadow Queen’s taking out Poppy Flower, Ahab pushing ahead of Poppy Flower, Shadow Queen leading Ahab and Poppy Flower now … Elvis’s Love Song still in the lead … Elvis’s Love Song takes the race, ahead of Shadow Queen and Ahab, Elvis’s Love Song wins the City Utilities Prize, who’d have thought it, Elvis’s Love Song followed by Shadow Queen and Ahab.’

They scream and hug each other, Rolf landing on the ground for a moment, but he jumps up again and throws his arms around Horses Schäfer and laughs and shouts. But Horses Schäfer is suddenly all calm and says: ‘We’ve got it, Rolf, you’ve got it, let’s wait for the payoffs, but I reckon we’ll rake it in, Elvis and Shadow Queen and Captain Ahab made it, I told you they would. And Elvis was well back, but I told you, you can’t tell the winner at the start.’

Rolf turned around, the red letters of ‘Sports Bets’ a good way behind him now. He dug into his pockets, so confused he didn’t know where he’d put the money. For a good while as he staggered through the streets – he must have had a drink somewhere after the race – he’d thought he’d dreamt it all, ‘this is the dream gallop phase,’ had lost everything when he risked everything. But now he felt the big bundle of notes in the lining of his jacket. Four and a half thousand; Piet would live for years and years.

‘How much d’you want, Schäfer?’

‘It’s yours, Rolf, for your dog. Gimme two hundred for the last race.’

And Rolf pictured Horses Schäfer winning a couple of thousand in the last race. And then he thought of Piet and walked on towards the edge of town, to the east where he lived, and he didn’t see the three men walking behind him.

There were three numbers that meant a whole lot in his life. Not everything – there were other things apart from boxing: his wife, their child – even though it wasn’t born yet, not even in his wife’s belly – a few good friends. But boxing was how he earned part of his living. The rest he earned between fights, sometimes as a removal man, sometimes on building sites, sometimes as a bouncer. Some of the clubs in Rotterdam wouldn’t let black men work on the door, but he had a good reputation as a boxer.

His wife worked too, twelve hours every day in a pet food factory down by the harbour, but when they had their child, like they’d been dreaming of for years now – they were waiting until they had a bit more money – she’d have to stop working there. He wanted to do less boxing then, less travelling; he didn’t want his child to see his freshly mashed-up face after the fights. A couple of people had offered him a chance to come in on a small boxing club, if he put a bit of money into it. He had a pretty good reputation as a boxer, despite the three numbers.

18 – 32 – 3. Eighteen victories, thirty-two defeats, three draws. He was what they called a ‘journeyman’ – they brought him in so that he’d lose. It wasn’t as if he lost on purpose; he did his best, at least most of the time, but they put him up against boxers who were simply better than him, faster, more talented and perhaps on the brink of a promising career in the ring. But right now they had to get more experience and perhaps later on they’d fight for a title just like he’d dreamed of too, years back. He’d boxed in a good few countries: Germany, England, Italy, France, Austria, Spain, Belgium. He’d won his last fight at home in Rotterdam, almost two years ago now. His eighteenth victory. He’d knocked out a red-headed Irishman with skin as white as snow. He still knew the man’s three numbers off by heart: 2 – 5 – 0. Not an up-and-coming talent and pretty slow, and he’d got him in the fourth of six rounds. He was glad he’d been able to fight that Irishman; he’d wanted to win again at last, with his wife sat in the small hall, only half-full, at home in Rotterdam.

Ever since then only the middle number had got bigger and bigger.

26, 27, 28 … Germany, Italy, France … 29, 30, 31 … Copenhagen, Brussels, Madrid. He’d lost his last fight in Amsterdam, but just like in the fights before that he’d known he was going to lose. His opponent had once been the Dutch champion, one fight away from the European championship, but then he’d been badly knocked out and needed a few easy victories to get his confidence back. ‘If you let him have a bit of a go at you,’ the ex-champion’s people had said to him before the fight, ‘if you show him his punches really hurt … there’ll be a bit extra in it for you. Show him he’s really good, if you get what I mean …’ And he’d got it.

Now he was in Germany and everything had been arranged, as usual.

He pressed the beer glass to his swollen cheekbone, catching sight of his face in the mirror behind the bar. Although it was pretty dark and a whole load of bottles blocked his view, he could see the welts and bruises. Sometimes white boxers envied him his dark skin; their faces were black and blue and green when they’d taken a beating. His top lip arched slightly towards his nose, where his opponent’s lead fist had hit him over and over again. He drained his glass and pushed it across the bar. ‘
Noch ein
s?’ asked the woman behind the bar, and he saw her looking at his beaten-up face, and he gave a quiet laugh. A black Dutchman from Rotterdam with a mashed-up face in some bar in a town in the east of Germany. ‘
Ja,
’ he said, ‘
noch eins.
’

He spoke a bit of German from his couple of fights in Germany. He’d had a contact man in Berlin, he used to get him a fight now and then, but he hardly got in touch now. The former Eastern Bloc had taken over the market. Tomato cans from the Czech Republic, Poland and Russia were cheaper than him and pushed the prices down; they were usually brought in two for the price of one. He was on his own. A discontinued model, he thought, an old timer but still in pretty good condition. He laughed, reached into his pocket and felt the notes he’d rolled up, and then he looked in the mirror behind the bar again. A couple more fights, one or two thousand, a couple more welts and bruises, and then he’d take all his savings and put them into the boxing club. He’d be in charge of training, a bit of sparring now and then, getting the lads ready for the fights. He looked in the mirror; his wife, his child, the boxing club; he saw himself standing in the ring, the big focus mitts on his hands, a lad ducking and diving in front of him, and whenever he called out ‘left’ or ‘right’ or ‘left – right – left,’ the boy punched the mitts with a whistle of expelled air.

‘You had a good fight tonight.’ He saw a man behind him in the mirror. He turned around. There was another guy standing behind the man, but only the first one was talking. ‘
Verstehst du,
good fight, very good!’

He nodded. ‘
Ja,
’ he said, ‘
danke
.’ The men grinned. They were pretty tall and at least two categories above him in weight, and the one talking to him had almost no nose left; probably down to the light as well though. ‘Very good, Holland fighter, very good!’ The men were still grinning, and he leaned his back against the bar and put one hand down next to his beer glass.

‘You gave him a good seeing to,’ said the man with the broken nose, switching to German. ‘Raik’s in hospital now, needs a check-up to make sure his head’s all right.
Verstehst du
, Holland fighter?’

He did understand; not every word, but he’d understood. ‘Sorry, say “good luck” to Raik.
Guter Boxer, guter Kämpfer
, very good.’

‘
Ja,
’ said the other man, the one who hadn’t said anything yet. He didn’t seem to speak English; the conversation stayed in German. ‘Raik’s a good boxer, he could make it to European Champion, Raik’s champion material. We all believed in him, Holland fighter.’

The Holland fighter tried to smile and pointed at his burst top lip. ‘Good left hook.’

‘You lads want a drink?’ The barmaid was standing behind him; he felt her voice against the back of his neck. ‘No,’ said the man with the broken nose, and the other one shook his head. ‘I’ll have another one,’ said the Holland fighter, holding onto his empty glass when she wanted to take it away until she put a full glass down in front of him. ‘Thanks.’

‘You drinking to your victory, are you?’ They’d come closer to him now, the man with the broken nose leaning on the bar beside him.

‘Win, lose, doesn’t matter. Next fight, I lose. Today, I win. Lucky today, Raik is a good man but I win.’ He spoke very slowly to remember the right words in German, then he raised his glass. ‘To Raik, to boxing!’ He drank. He watched the two men as he drank.

‘You’re drinking to Raik, Holland fighter?’ The taciturn one was talking now; broken nose took a couple of loud breaths. ‘To our Raik, who you messed up?’

He put down his glass.
Kaputt gemacht
. He knew that word.
Kaputt
. How often had he lain kaput on the floor of the ring, how often had fast young talents beaten him across the ring, and he’d tried not to go down, had looked for a gap, had tried to counter their attacks, had hoped for that one punch to end the whole match. This time he’d found the gap and his punch had landed. Raik fell over, tipped over backwards as straight as a die, and his skull slammed against the wood. The referee didn’t need to count – Raik was out, out cold, and he’d seen his legs twitching as if he still wanted to take that one step back so the right hook didn’t reach him. He hadn’t hit a good right for so long, he’d put his whole body into that punch, he’d felt it hit home right up to his shoulder. He’d gone backwards into his corner, wiping the blood from his lip with his glove, he’d seen the referee spreading both arms wide above Raik, and then he’d thought over and over, not quite believing it: I’ve won, I’ve won, I’m still here!

But no one had cheered, no one took his arms and raised them up, the sign of the victor. I’ve won, he thought, but the hall was quiet; the local boxer, the local hero had lost, 14 - 0 - 0 was kaput now, and even his corner men, provided by the organisers in return for a dock in his pay, silently avoided his eyes. Raik was carried out of the ring, ambulance men waiting down below with a stretcher.

‘Right hand,’ he said, clenching his fist, ‘good right hand, Raik not careful.’ He’d got up from the bar stool, pushing his left leg forward slightly. Now he was standing so that the bar stool was between him and the broken nose, with the other man diagonally opposite.

‘What did he say about our Raik?’ The taciturn one turned to his friend for help.

‘That he didn’t take care,’ said the broken nose. ‘He said Raik didn’t take care. Right, Holland fighter?’

The Dutchman nodded and pointed to his nose. ‘You often in England? English boxers very hard, very good. English boxers good to nose, not careful, huh?’ He looked at the broken nose and tried to smile. He’d fought in England twice, he’d been to Italy, had stood in the ring in Barcelona, had taken the ferry to Copenhagen to box there. And soon he’d come in on a boxing club, and the banknotes he felt against his leg through his trouser pocket would be another step in that direction.

The man with the broken nose pounded his fist against the bar stool, so hard that it tipped over. His mouth was open and the Dutchman saw that he was missing a few teeth. And the Dutchman saw that the punch at the barstool had been pretty powerful, but not all that fast. He’d seen the twitch in his shoulder before the punch came. He stayed standing quite calmly, one fist held loosely at hip level. He knew he couldn’t evade every punch, one man in front of him, one man beside him, but he could take a few blows, he had a good chin.

‘No fighting, lads,’ said the barmaid behind them. ‘No fighting, please.’

‘Fight? Just because something gets knocked over, doesn’t mean there’s a fight.’ The man with the broken nose bent down and picked up the bar stool, not letting the Dutchman out of his sight, and slowly stood it up again at the bar. ‘Or are you looking for a fight?’

‘No,’ he said, lowering his fist.

‘There you go.’ The other man put a hand on his shoulder, and he instantly had his left hand on the man’s arm and pushed it away. The man with the broken nose laughed. ‘You’re fast, Holland fighter, you’ve got fast hands. You black boxers are usually pretty fast. Hey, bring him another beer on me, and a shot of something too, he could do with one.’

The man with the broken nose turned to the barmaid, then he sat down on the bar stool, making him a head taller than the Dutchman, still standing there perfectly calmly with his left foot forwards.

‘Money,’ the man with the broken nose said now, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together right in front of the Dutchman’s face, and then he started humming; it was meant to sound like that seventies song, ‘Money, Money, Money …’ The barmaid put a new beer and a schnapps down next to his half-full glass. He didn’t turn to her; all he could see was her hands. Pale blue fingernails.

‘Our Raik,’ said the other man, ‘he’s in hospital now, won’t be fighting for a long time, maybe never again. You’re a clever lad, Holland fighter … You are a clever lad, aren’t you?’

He didn’t answer. He knew now it was going to be a hard night and he took a deep breath in and out again. In and out again. He felt his legs trembling; he’d fought eight long rounds.

‘Raik’d be happy if you thought a little about him.’ The Dutchman looked at the guy with the broken nose, who was rubbing his thumb and forefinger together again. ‘You made good money tonight, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the hard way, with my face.’

‘Now you listen to me,’ said broken nose, ‘you, my Dutch friend, have put Raik on ice for a good long while. Who knows if he’ll ever … Raik’s got a wife and a little kid, they’d be really grateful for a little present.’

‘No,’ said the Dutchman. He picked up the schnapps glass, held it in his outstretched hand, tipped it and poured the liquid slowly on the floor at the man’s feet. He felt the roll of money in his pocket, he thought of Rotterdam, his wife and the child they were going to have, thought of the boxing club he was going to come in on.

He slammed the schnapps glass down on the bar, grabbed the beer glass with his left hand and said, ‘No.’

He was standing in the little room, right by the window; the curtains were closed. Behind him, he heard his wife in the bathroom; the door was open and he heard her using her make-up and cosmetics stuff, a clinking of small bottles, glass and plastic, running water.

She started humming to herself now and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he moved the curtain aside slightly. There was a car outside the house. The window on the driver’s side was wound down, an arm dangling out. ‘Are they still there?’ asked his wife, but it couldn’t be his wife, she was speaking German, and the voice sounded nothing like hers either. ‘Yes,’ he said, pulling the curtain closed again.

‘You can wait here till they’ve gone. But no cops – I don’t want any trouble,
verstehst du?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No cops.’ He went over to the table and sat down. He wasn’t in Rotterdam, only his wife was there, alone in their little flat.

He drank a swig of the whisky the barmaid had poured him.

‘I’ve got a room upstairs,’ she’d said to him down in the bar. ‘My shift’s over in a minute. You can come up and wait until those bastards have gone.’

He drank the whisky, feeling himself getting gradually drunk. His neck hurt, his arms and shoulders ached, and he could feel the swelling beneath his right eye pressing against his eyeball. He was tired; he didn’t want to fight any more. He drank another swig, saw the glass trembling, the ice cubes clinking quietly, and he put his other hand on his trouser pocket. Why hadn’t the bastards tried to see to him in the bar? But they’d left when he’d shown them he was ready to use the heavy beer glass in his left hand. ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ they’d said. Now he was sitting with her and waiting. He put the whisky glass down; he was so tired, his head drooped onto his chest; she was standing behind him. She said something but he couldn’t concentrate properly any more, all he could understand was ‘wait’ and ‘time’ and ‘bastards’. He was dizzy, he meant to hold onto the table but he knocked the whisky glass over, it was almost empty and it rolled across the table and then fell to the floor without breaking. ‘Sorry,’ he said, holding onto the table with one hand and turning round to her. She smiled. ‘No problem,’ she said. She squatted down and picked up the glass.