Natalie.
The gala was crawling with men. The atmosphere in the air: excitement mixed with expectation mixed with insanely high testosterone levels.
They stepped in through entrance A. The arena opened up below them. A dark sea of people and, in the middle, a thirty-foot high metal frame with spotlights in different colors. The spectators, the TV cameras, the spotlights—all with the same focus: the ring. On one side, where the stage was usually built when they had concerts here, giant flags from the competing countries were suspended from the wall. Sweden, USA, the Netherlands, Russia, Japan, Romania, Germany, Morocco, Serbia. On the other side hung a huge banderol, the official flag: Extreme Affliction Heroes.
Stefanovic shook hands right and left. Greeted acquaintances who threw themselves in his path, shook his hand, were given a gentle nod.
Farthest down: the ring, covered in netting, just thirty feet ahead of her. Natalie fixed her gaze on something far away in the distance anddid not make eye contact with anyone. Did not look around. Rocked a completely disinterested expression.
She glimpsed a group of silicone chicks with bleached-blond hair, vulgar cleavage, and skirts that were too short. They were supposed to hold up the match signs and stuff like that during breaks. She took note of shaved gym guys with cauliflower ears. She saw suit-clad men who sat calmly, almost pissed-off looking, just staring straight ahead. Dad was probably sitting there somewhere. They looked like his people.
She made her way around the edge of the ring.
Someone beside her rose.
It was Dad.
“
Dragi
, how wonderful that you came!”
There was an empty seat next to him. Natalie sat down. Goran was sitting on her other side.
The spotlights caught every new fighter who entered. The speakers called out the guys’ names, their clubs, and nationality. Electric guitars screeched on max volume between the matches. The silicone chicks put on tight T-shirts with ads on them and held up signs with the number of the next round. Natalie thought:
So, this is how they make their living when dreams of magazine centerfolds don’t pan out
.
True, Louise’d had her tits done last year, but she hadn’t gotten all exaggerated like that.
Dad chatted with Natalie between the rounds. Talked about the fights and that she had to enroll at the university as soon as possible. He thought she should study law or economics.
Natalie thought about that morning. Viktor’d come over to her house while she was still in bed, even though it was eleven-thirty.
She heard him exchange a few words with Mom. Then he came into her room with a breakfast tray in his hands. Tropicana orange juice California style, espresso coffee, a boiled egg, and bread from the Kringlan bakery on Linnégatan. Even if she didn’t eat bread because of her diet: he was a nice guy, after all.
Viktor sat down on the edge of her bed and set the breakfast tray down carefully on the comforter. She sipped the coffee. Cracked the egg’s shell.
After breakfast, they downloaded a flick with Adam Sandler in the lead—they always watched rom-coms when they were together.
“There’s something I want to talk about,” Viktor said.
“Okay.”
“You know what I do for work, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Cars and boats and stuff.”
“But you know, things’re pretty shitty right now. First that nasty fucking recession made people stop buying cars and Jet Skis like they used to. So I took on some loans to keep the business afloat during the tough months. And now I’ve got problems.”
He continued to talk about how his competitors sold shit at lower prices. That his landlord’d raised the rent. Natalie was only half-listening—deep down, she was interested in business, but Viktor’s stuff felt banal somehow.
And anyway, she was beginning to sense where he was going with this.
“I have to pay off the loans. It’s not exactly an ordinary bank that I owe the money to. And
The gala was crawling with men. The atmosphere in the air: excitement mixed with expectation mixed with insanely high testosterone levels.
They stepped in through entrance A. The arena opened up below them. A dark sea of people and, in the middle, a thirty-foot high metal frame with spotlights in different colors. The spectators, the TV cameras, the spotlights—all with the same focus: the ring. On one side, where the stage was usually built when they had concerts here, giant flags from the competing countries were suspended from the wall. Sweden, USA, the Netherlands, Russia, Japan, Romania, Germany, Morocco, Serbia. On the other side hung a huge banderol, the official flag: Extreme Affliction Heroes.
Stefanovic shook hands right and left. Greeted acquaintances who threw themselves in his path, shook his hand, were given a gentle nod.
Farthest down: the ring, covered in netting, just thirty feet ahead of her. Natalie fixed her gaze on something far away in the distance anddid not make eye contact with anyone. Did not look around. Rocked a completely disinterested expression.
She glimpsed a group of silicone chicks with bleached-blond hair, vulgar cleavage, and skirts that were too short. They were supposed to hold up the match signs and stuff like that during breaks. She took note of shaved gym guys with cauliflower ears. She saw suit-clad men who sat calmly, almost pissed-off looking, just staring straight ahead. Dad was probably sitting there somewhere. They looked like his people.
She made her way around the edge of the ring.
Someone beside her rose.
It was Dad.
“
Dragi
, how wonderful that you came!”
There was an empty seat next to him. Natalie sat down. Goran was sitting on her other side.
The spotlights caught every new fighter who entered. The speakers called out the guys’ names, their clubs, and nationality. Electric guitars screeched on max volume between the matches. The silicone chicks put on tight T-shirts with ads on them and held up signs with the number of the next round. Natalie thought:
So, this is how they make their living when dreams of magazine centerfolds don’t pan out
.
True, Louise’d had her tits done last year, but she hadn’t gotten all exaggerated like that.
Dad chatted with Natalie between the rounds. Talked about the fights and that she had to enroll at the university as soon as possible. He thought she should study law or economics.
Natalie thought about that morning. Viktor’d come over to her house while she was still in bed, even though it was eleven-thirty.
She heard him exchange a few words with Mom. Then he came into her room with a breakfast tray in his hands. Tropicana orange juice California style, espresso coffee, a boiled egg, and bread from the Kringlan bakery on Linnégatan. Even if she didn’t eat bread because of her diet: he was a nice guy, after all.
Viktor sat down on the edge of her bed and set the breakfast tray down carefully on the comforter. She sipped the coffee. Cracked the egg’s shell.
After breakfast, they downloaded a flick with Adam Sandler in the lead—they always watched rom-coms when they were together.
“There’s something I want to talk about,” Viktor said.
“Okay.”
“You know what I do for work, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Cars and boats and stuff.”
“But you know, things’re pretty shitty right now. First that nasty fucking recession made people stop buying cars and Jet Skis like they used to. So I took on some loans to keep the business afloat during the tough months. And now I’ve got problems.”
He continued to talk about how his competitors sold shit at lower prices. That his landlord’d raised the rent. Natalie was only half-listening—deep down, she was interested in business, but Viktor’s stuff felt banal somehow.
And anyway, she was beginning to sense where he was going with this.
“I have to pay off the loans. It’s not exactly an ordinary bank that I owe the money to. And
Similar Books
