The Weeping Women Hotel (30 page)

He
supposed she would have to be disciplined but he had no idea how to go about
it. A wave of bitterness swept over him at the unfairness of it all: he
practised all the time and had dedicated his life to living as the sifu said
he had to, he had given up everything, practised and trained and thought about
Li Kuan Yu every single minute, did not spill his fluids, didn’t mix with
anyone outside the dojo and yet Harriet’s behaviour didn’t seem to be affecting
her development as a fighter in any way. Even if she was leading a dissolute
life, went to places like the pub and all-night parties where she did God knows
what with those people, her fitness, speed, flexibility and determination just seemed
to keep on getting better — in some ways he was forced to admit she was
becoming his equal. There were times when they fought that she moved faster and
punched and kicked with more ferocity and accuracy than him and managed to land
some quite hard blows to the side of his head. One day he’d have to sort it all
out but not right now, there was another matter he wanted to talk to her about
first.

The usual routine was for
Harriet to put on her martial arts pyjamas at home as there were no changing
rooms in the community centre but for the big demonstration she instead chose
to cross to the park in jeans and a T-shirt. Once there, undressing in the
small office set aside on this one day for women to change in, she recalled all
the times when she’d been fat, how at all times she’d hidden her body away from
other women. Now she slipped out of her pants and, naked, put them into her
sports bag, then sorted through it to bring out her fighting gear. All the time
as she was bent over the desk she was aware of other women looking at her body,
admiring and envying it and wishing it was theirs.

One
night back when she’d been fat, Harriet remembered watching the evening show on
ITN when they did one of those features they have on most weeks when there’s
not much news, about the rising tide of obesity that threatens to kill us all.
As usual there was a clip of enormous fat people waddling about the street but
shot only from the neck down so they wouldn’t feel humiliated and sue. Suddenly
she got a horrible sick feeling on seeing a gigantic blobby gut that she was
almost certain was hers slithering past the camera in slow motion. Even that
didn’t stop her eating. Harriet felt so bad about her weight being shown on
television that she ate a whole bag of chocolate-covered mini muffins.

All
around her while she was changing she could hear women moaning about different
parts of their bodies that appeared absolutely fine to her: tits, arse, leg,
neck, ankles, parts that she didn’t even think of as separate like the back of
the forearm. Harriet congratulated herself that this body dysmorphic disorder
was one female characteristic she didn’t possess. She thought, perhaps because
her body had once been so absolutely out of control, that these days every
single bit of it was a pure delight, a pure delight that she was happy to share
with others of her sex.

Once
dressed, Harriet made her way to the backstage area of the open-air platform
where they were due to give their display. The others were already there,
fidgeting and stretching nervously while she just stood still, calm and
composed. That little shit Jack came up to her and said, ‘With all your gadding
about you’re not too tired for this then, Harriet?’

‘Not
too short and bald for this then, Jack?’ was her reply.

The
steel band clanked to a ragged halt and took so long trooping off stage that by
the time the dojo got into the light and lined up behind Patrick whatever
atmosphere that might have existed had long dissipated into the warm air.
Patrick tried ineffectually to corral the attention of the crowd over the
howling, railway station-standard PA. As he haltingly and confusingly attempted
to explain the basics of Li Kuan Yu, a gang of twelve-year-old boys began to
laugh and jeer at him until Harriet saw Toby stalk across the grass and tell
them to shut up. She tensed, seeing the boys considering whether to make
something of it, but his bulk and demented expression caused them to think better
of it. Harriet wasn’t certain but to her Toby seemed drunk.

Patrick
had told them the night before at the dojo that he’d sent out invitations
printed on his home computer to leading journalists on all the major
newspapers, important magazines, radio and TV stations, but staring out from
the stage at the few people scattered on the grass Harriet guessed that about a
fifth of the audience were her friends and family and none of the rest looked
like columnists on the
Daily Telegraph
or reporters from Sky News. From
the stage she made a surreptitious little ‘calm down’ gesture to Rose and Lulu
who were openly sniggering at poor Patrick as he stumbled through his opening
remarks. Her sister and Toby sat way on the other side of the compound from her
two friends and her eyes were drawn to a thin, shabby-looking man of sixty or
so standing behind them who stared at the stage almost as intently as Toby.

Finally, once Patrick had
ensured that almost nobody was watching, the demonstration began. The whole
dojo did the opening form, then, with Patrick giving a commentary over the
screaming microphone, they stepped forward to perform in pairs: when Harriet’s
turn came she faultlessly exchanged elbow strikes and blocks with Jack. Holding
her fists in front of her face, elbows akimbo, she blocked while he attempted
to hit her cheekbones with his elbows, then they reversed and she struck out at
the little man, rocking him back on his heels with the speed and violence of
her blows. As Harriet did this Toby, Lulu and Rose whooped and hollered
encouragement and the noise began to bring others towards the stage.

They
all did Roll Eyes Fall on Enemy, with the whole dojo staggering around
pretending to be drunk before falling on top of their imaginary enemies;
Patrick couldn’t understand why the crowd all laughed at this but at least they
were watching now. They only stopped when a little while later Harriet again
came forward to demonstrate Passing Swoop Knee Grab, her speciality Broom Staff
Pike Stance and Split Fingers Cobra Eyeball Strike. As she twisted and turned,
even though it was on this stupid little stage doing this silly dance, she
suddenly knew she was experiencing what great dancers feel when every move they
make is exactly the right move and people stand and stare open-mouthed to see
your body do these things.

Once
Harriet had gone to an air show with a guy who was disturbingly keen on these
things and had seen a fighter jet take off. Once the plane was airborne the
pilot had gone to ‘re-heat’, injecting raw aviation fuel into the flaming
red-hot exhaust stream so that the fighter had shot straight up into the air
with an unimaginable scream of power and was gone from sight in seconds. That
was Harriet right then — a woman on re-heat.

The
show ended with a mass demonstration of Anaconda Tree Jump Vine Strike, half
the class pouncing from their wobbling stepladders on to the shoulders of the
other half. The watching crowd had grown to over a hundred people by this time
and the climax of the demonstration was greeted with enthusiastic clapping and
whistling, though Harriet thought it was clear to all of them that this
applause was mostly for her.

Lulu and Rose were sitting
at a bench table: they had bought paper plates of food from every nationality
and bottles of beer illegally sold by a stall of Kurdish separatists. ‘At these
prices we can’t afford
not
to be sick and drunk,’ said Lulu.

Now
changed back into her street clothes, Harriet skipped over the grass to them,
glowing and happy.

‘Hey,
look at you,’ Rose said, stroking her arm as she sat down.

‘Christ!
You were incredible up there,’ Lulu added.

‘Oh
well …‘

‘No,
you got that quality, girl, people can’t take their eyes off you.

‘That
is my feeling exactly.’ This last statement came from Mr Iqubal Fitzherbert De
Castro who had silently appeared behind them.

‘Why
thank you,’ Harriet said, smiling up at her new friend. ‘Mr Iqubal Fitzherbert
De Castro, let me introduce you, these are my dear friends Lulu and Rose.’

‘Delighted
to meet you.’ He took their hands in both of his and pressed down as if making
hamburger but still he spoke of Harriet. ‘Isn’t she lovely? And now I know she
can fight too, what a marvellous modern woman.’

‘Blimey,
he’s even scarier than you let on,’ Rose said after Mr Iqubal Fitzherbert De
Castro and his following pack of young men had left.

‘I
never said he was scary.’

‘Ah,
must have been a warning voice whispering in my ear.’

‘Don’t
be like that, he’s … they’re exciting.’

‘Hello,
Patrick,’ said Lulu, looking up from her plate of black beans.

‘Hello,
Patrick,’ said Rose.

The two
women knew they discomfited her teacher and liked to play on it.

‘Erm …
yes, hello, erm …‘ He gave up trying to remember their names and instead
asked, ‘Harriet, can I have a word with you?’

‘Sure.’

He led
her away from the music and the press of people. They walked together in
silence across the rolling grass until they stood hidden by clumps of pampas
grass planted by the council when small but now grown tall and wild; the
jangling noise of the fair seemed distant and muted. Harriet stiffened herself
for praise concerning her performance on the stage, a small smile on her face,
but Patrick never referred to it. Instead he said, ‘Why have you never asked me
what happened to Martin Po?’

Even at
the height of her belief in Li Kuan Yu she’d always had the most trouble with
Martin Po, choosing in the end to see him as some sort of distant, possibly
safely dead, saint-like figure who without being susceptible to human failings
embodied all good things people should aspire to — sort of like Gandhi, Che
Guevara or Freddy Mercury.

‘I kind
of assumed you’d tell me when the time was right, when I was ready for the
knowledge.’

‘Well,
I can’t tell you where he is.’

‘Er …
right, you can’t tell me where he is but …’

‘I can
only say this. A few years ago we had many discussions. Martin had come to
feel that he’d reached the end of what he could do in
Britain
. He had developed all these fighting skills but couldn’t use them
outside the dojo unless he debased himself doing security work or something
equally demeaning; he couldn’t kill anybody without risking getting locked up,
no matter how much they deserved it. So he finally decided to go abroad, to
find a wild place where he could teach fighting skills, the code of Bushido — the
way of the warrior — to people who could put them into practice. Where people
could use Li Kuan Yu in a real conflict situation.

‘Now I
can’t say where he’s gone but we’re still in touch. There is a problem though:
the problem is there’s things he needs that he can’t get where he is. Some of
these things I know you can get here, others I’m pretty sure they’re illegal
but if you know the right people …‘

‘Right,
so …?‘

‘You’re
more wordly than me, Harriet, you know more about life outside the dojo. Can I
show you the list of things and ask what you think?’

‘Sure,
I guess.’

He
handed over a long list of items which he’d printed off from his computer.
Studying it, she thought Martin Po might as well have been asking for winged
unicorns and a magical goose. If she hadn’t been angry at him for ignoring how
brilliant her performance had been she might not have said, ‘Well, I know some
people might be able to fix you up with some of this stuff, at a price.’

‘Good,
perhaps you can contact them for a meeting?’ he said. ‘I’ll see you on Monday
for practice then.’ And pushing through the pampas grass he disappeared.

As she
was sitting back down at the wooden bench table with her friends, Lulu said,
‘Here comes Toby and your sister. Christ! He looks pissed and she looks … I
dunno, sort of weird.’

Julio Spuciek was at the
fair! Helen had caught sight of him amongst a bumbling little group of junkies
and petty thieves, all of them she supposed under community service orders, who
shuffled narcoleptically around picking up litter and emptying the bins like a
Southern chain gang but without the gospel singing. It was a shock to see him;
since their dinner at the Chinese all-you-can eat place she’d had to force
herself not to go down to the café daily, she’d fought the urge to stand for an
hour or so outside the Watney Flats hoping to see him leave or to take food or
hot soup, swoop, loop de loop round to his apartment.

Though
she knew she shouldn’t she still couldn’t prevent herself from going looking
for him and finally tracked him down beside the football pitch where he was
idly poking at a discarded crisp packet with a pointed stick.

‘Hi,
Julio,’ she said. ‘Have you been all right?’ She noticed he seemed to have a
silly smile on his face.

He
looked up with a start. ‘My goodness your sister, what a woman! So beautiful,’
was the first thing Julio said to her. ‘I started looking at her on the stage
because I see this woman and there was a strong resemblance to you. How can
this be? I thought. Then when she started to move I fell in love with her
beauty just like that! I thought I was finished with such things but there you
are, it’s happened.’