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
‘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
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