Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [66]
Thank God the horns sound.
Everyone watches the doors and gates that open into the arena.
Uber reaches up to adjust his helmet, smiles to himself realizing there’s nothing there, and gets his sword and shield ready. He moves into the center of the arena and slowly pivots, his eyes tracking all the doors.
I have seen men fight in twos and threes and clusters. There were twenty-five at once one Christmas Eve down in Florida and I think that’s the biggest match I’ve personally witnessed and I hope I never have to see anything like that again, live or otherwise. That was the first time I told Allison I wouldn’t be coming to the arena as much. I’ve seen dwarfs engage dwarfs, two sets of conjoined twins fight each other, jungle and savannah cats, brown and black bears, pit bulls and roosters. The women’s leagues seldom fight to the death, but many would prefer death to the way the human body can be maimed and scarred under torchlight by incarnate Amazons. For some, perhaps too many now, Glad sport has become strictly entertainment, just so much adrenaline and blood, the fighters a cash crop. But Tommy said people like that don’t get it. They miss the larger mythology, the moments of Greek tragedy, the skill. He talked about repentance and loss and got me all the way to transformation. The way the psyche can know a match so that it becomes something beyond the physical. I wish I could weave it all together the way he did. I doubt it all added up—I tend to think it doesn’t anymore—but you could see his passion.
The door on the far eastern side opens.
This one I have never seen: an elderly man, he has to be about seventy-five, and his wife, maybe in her late fifties, step timidly into the bright light. The woman carries such a short blade it’s as if she’s looking for a loaf of bread to slice and butter. She’s five feet tall at most and her salt-and-pepper hair is wrapped in a bun at the back of her head. She wears a loose dress and an apron that covers her solid bosom and goes almost to her hem, and fuzzy shoes that make her feet look as if they’re wrapped in small mice. As I look at the monitor, I see how very blue her eyes are, like Uber’s.
Uber stands poised, ready to fight two blurred figures.
The man’s suit is a little rumpled, shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, no tie. He looks particularly feeble. He’s stooped and carries a shield that pulls him farther groundward. They’ve given him a pair of scissors instead of a sword. He goes through a complicated shuffle, trying to wedge the scissors into the same hand that holds his shield, and I feel concern for him, that he’s going to lose his balance and fall. But he frees that hand so he can place it around the woman’s shoulders, and they walk toward Uber. Finally the man, clearly overburdened by his shield, sets it on the ground.
The words SPECIAL GUESTS flash. Then: MEET UBER’S PARENTS.
Romulus Arena goes absolutely silent. There’s an audio announcement as well.
I type, He’s supposed to fight his parents? Or are they supposed to fight each other?
Mark doesn’t know what to say any more than I do and just types his favorite swear. There is a close-up of Uber’s face. His eyes express complete bewilderment at events.
—Mother? Father? Uber calls out, squinting. He looks incredulous as he starts walking toward them.
Suddenly the man begins to dance a little jig. His wife tries to get him to stop but he won’t. He calls to Uber, like a child asking to be picked for a turn at a party.
—Kill me! he says. —Kill me!
Tim Burton lives, Mark writes.
Uber rushes over to help his mother subdue his father. He places his sword and shield on the ground in front of them and puts a hand on his father’s shoulder. His father, who has started to tear up, stops his dance. Uber holds his hands out for the knife and shears and places them on the ground as well. He embraces his parents and you can see him whispering to them with great emotion.
Maybe this is the moment when my feelings toward Uber shift. Caesar’s wants us to kill everyone we love,