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…the breeze of the North embraced him one more time. He had done his bit. He might as well go back home…
Awakening. He never expected it to be so hard. He tried to put his thoughts in order. It had been a terrible blow. A knockdown. He was George Ryan, a 33-year-old boxer. Welter Weights’ European Champion. He made an effort to get up. He didn’t know how long he’d slept. His head ached terribly when he rose on his elbows. He immediately let himself down on the mattress. Only now he realized he was in a hospital room. Nobody was with him. He turned around to check the time. It was 2 p.m. The match had taken place the previous night at eleven. It had lasted three rounds. His opponent was six years his junior. He never took the initiative, as the challenger stayed always locked in his ward. When he got struck at the jaw, he fell down like a heavy rock. He still remembered his legs twisting and sight blurring. After that, only darkness. Until now.
A famous pop song was going on the radio. The sound seemed to come from outside. It was a sunny day, as he could see through the closed curtains. Smell of clean things emanated from the sheets and blankets. A TV-set was placed on a small table. He could draw the nylon string above his head, if he needed help. But for now he felt OK. He looked for the remote control. It was on the side-table. He grabbed it and turned the TV on. Ads. Children screaming. He didn’t like children. A movie. A couple kissing. News. They were talking about the 50th anniversary of the Queen’s coronation. He waited for more interesting subjects. Sport. That was good. Boxing. What… They were talking about the Welter Weights’ European title match. His match. He turned up the volume.
…Last night an unprecedented event occurred. George Ryan, the Welsh Welter Weights’ European Champion, lost the title in London against the French challenger Michel Arnaud. The match came to an end after a terrible knockdown in the third round. Ryan didn’t recover consciousness for an hour, and was transported to the Royal Infirmary. Our correspondent, though, couldn’t obtain any information there. Apparently, the boxer couldn’t be found anywhere. His manager, Tom Robbins, declared he didn’t know his exact location. Are we dealing with a banal mistake or with a kidnapping case?
George thought it was a joke. How were they possibly referring to him? Disappeared? Or even kidnapped? The news went on to other topics, but he wasn’t listening anymore. He turned the TV off. Maybe Tom had lied to the press to avoid pressure on him. Anyway, that wouldn’t be hard to know. He pulled the nylon string and waited.
To his great surprise, after ten minutes nobody had yet come in. He resolved to get up and go to the window to see. He didn’t recall the events after he’d fainted. He walked slowly. His head hurt too much. He took few steps and opened the curtains. What he saw caught his breath.
Someone knocked on the door. He turned around: “Yes?” he heard his voice ask. Two men entered. The first wore a doctor’s uniform. The second was someone he already knew: his opponent, Michel Arnaud. The doctor spoke first. He had a heavy French accent:
“Good Morning, Mr Ryan. I’m doctor Ferrier. Mr Arnaud is with me.”
George tried to say something, but the doctor stopped him. “You mustn’t get nervous, or you won’t readily recover. Would you please go back to your bed and lie down? I’ve got to visit you.”
George did as he was told. After he sat down, he asked: “What’s going on?”
The doctor hit his eyes with the subtle flash of a pocket-lamp. “I can only take care of your health, Mr Ryan. For any other question, you should address Mr Arnaud.”
George turned to the French boxer. He was staring at him with an empty expression, but a strange light shone in his eyes. George wondered if it was due to his satisfaction. The new European Champion didn’t wait for his questions, anyway. He exchanged a quick look with the doctor and then he said:
“Ryan, first of all my congratulations. You fought like a warrior last night.”
“Cut it short, Arnaud”, George interrupted him, feeling his headache anew. “I just want to know why I’ve just seen the Eiffel Tower outside the window!”
Arnaud made an understanding expression. It didn’t fit well on his rascal’s face. Then he said: “Not by chance I wanted to fight against you.”
“Of course it isn’t! I was the champion.”
“Please, Mr Ryan, don’t get upset, I repeat you. You can’t stand it, in your present state,” the doctor stopped him. George obeyed, and Arnaud could complete his explanation. “Ryan, if I say that I wanted to fight against you, it’s because my organization counts more than you do.”
George turned to the doctor, but the man shrugged.
“I’m not talking about me and doctor Ferrier, Ryan,” Arnaud continued. “I’m talking about the organization.”
“Which organization?” George asked, now rather worried.
“A very powerful entity, indeed, ” the French boxer concluded.
The buildings on the rive gauche flew silently. George could see their reflections on his glasses. They were travelling on a car, bound to a place he ignored. The doctor had prescribed him a therapeutic collar. It made it hard for him to turn around. Arnaud had refused to reveal him their destination. They crossed a bridge and parked in a small square, near a bar called Le mouchoir. It was a sort of pub, apparently of the kind wealthy people like. They entered. At that early time it was almost empty, but a few attendants were drinking at the counter, offering them their backs. George cautiously walked after Arnaud. He though that one of those chaps looked pretty familiar. Arnaud spoke in French with the landlord. He invited them to sit at a table in the middle of the room. All the furniture was made of wood. Arnaud sat opposite him.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“An orange-juice, please,” George answered. He didn’t see the reason of all that kindness. The landlord arrived to take their orders. Arnaud said he’d have a coffee. He was speaking French, but Ryan understood anyway. He thought to hear another word after that, which sounded like “whisky”, but he must be wrong. They were just the two of them. Then he saw one of the men at the counter turn around and get close to their table. Now he grasped why he looked so familiar. After a couple of seconds his agent Tom Robbins was sitting down with them.
“Sometimes you have to accept oddities, George, don’t you?” he replied his mute question. Ryan was on the verge of exploding. He answered him rudely: “Why should I? My manager has a secret agreement with my opponent and I should shake hands with him?”
“Don’t take it in this way, Ryan,” Arnaud calmed him down. “Things are a little more complex than you think.”
“Michel is right,” Robbins said. “We were part of the organization even before you and I started working together.”
“What do you mean by the organization?” Ryan asked.
“Have you ever heard of the B.E.L.?” Arnaud inquired.
“What’s this? Another boxing federation?” George mocked. Quite oddly, his two interlocutors kept serious. Robbins went on:
“I guess you’ve got the point, George. B.E.L. just means Boxing Extra League.”
Arnaud lifted up his coffee. Also Robbins took a sip of whisky. Everything had been left untouched, until now. “Is this a sort of phantom-federation or what? I’ve never heard such a name,” George said.
“It’s not exactly so,” Arnaud replied. “It has always existed. But very few people know it.”
“What is it, exactly?” George asked.
Robbins motioned Arnaud to silence. He looked at George straight and said: “Ryan, before I tell you this, you must be aware your situation. Your career as a boxer is over. You are old, and you’ve lost. You could at most obtain a return match against Michel, but I wouldn’t bet a quid on you. This is the first side of the coin.”
George looked at him astonished. He had never talked to him so before. He felt offended, but he needed to know the second part of the truth: “Go on,” he said.
“The other side is what we propose you. Ex-champions are usually selected by the organization to fight against inexperienced opponents.”
“What sort of matches are these?” George interrupted him.
“Please, let me finish. If you are interested, you must promise us loyalty. If you fail to keep your promise… well, it won’t be pleasant for you to discover the consequences.”
George was shocked at this. “So you’re trying to involve me in a kind of Mafia game, aren’t you? I don’t want anything to do…”
“Don’t be stupid! Do you realize that you won’t have a better chance? You’ll just be able to open up a gym, and after a month you’ll go bankrupt. Instead, if you follow my advice, you’ll just fight once more and then you’ll be OK forever.”
George calmed down. “Whom should I face?” he asked.
“Boxers from another planet,” was Robbins’ answer.
George thought he was kidding: “This is a metaphor, isn’t it?” he said.
His manager didn’t reply. Ryan turned to Arnaud. The French boxer put his cup down. “This is why it’s called Extra-League,” he said.
The shift to the Eiffel Tower didn’t last long. It was 2 a.m., and the city lights shone in the distance. George didn’t know why he had accepted. Maybe it was the desire of new adventures, or just the need for money. If he fought against the alien, he would earn 20 million pounds. Impossible to refuse. The match would take place in a space ship floating around Earth’s atmosphere. They would reach it by a powerful alien device, invisible to all radars. The meeting point was on top of the Eiffel Tower. It was supposed to be closed at that nighttime, but the organization had its affiliates also within the Security Service. Ryan felt like the victim of a giant bluff. Not that he didn’t believe in alien life. But the B.E.L. thing sounded him absurd. While climbing up the last flight of stairs, he began feeling a slight nausea. He didn’t feel well, yet. The rest of the afternoon he had stayed in bed. Doctor Ferrier had repeatedly given him a special medicine against pain and mind-turbulence. Still, he couldn’t imagine how he would fight. He even ignored how tall the alien was. He had asked Robbins, but his answer had been vague. He’d said he shouldn’t worry: they would take care of everything. Now they were on the very top of the Tower. No strange means was flying in the air. Just a huge maze of illuminated avenues. After about five minutes, Robbins went to the parapet and got over it. Ryan almost screamed. He thought he’d gone completely crazy. But then he saw his manager disappear. That must be the entrance of an invisible drone. Arnaud immediately followed him, and eventually his turn came. He closed his eyes.
Once inside, he saw his two partners on comfortable armchairs. Everything had a taste of luxury and technology. Robbins invited him to take a seat, too. He didn’t refuse.
“So, George, now we are approaching the OMEGA orbiting station. This device is driven by a computer, since our counterparts don’t like to be directly involved. You won’t meet anyone until the match.”
“Where are these creatures from?” Ryan asked.
“Does it matter, indeed?” Arnaud interrupted him.
“Don’t worry, Michel,” Robbins intervened, “there’s no problem if we reveal their origin.”
“Sure,” Arnaud assented. Robbins went on:
“These aliens come from Vega's system. The fact they don’t resemble us doesn’t mean they dislike sports. They observe other planets’ habits to learn new techniques. Boxing is one of their passions, but they aren’t very expert, yet. So they need some teaching.”
“Have you ever gone to their planet?” George asked.
“No. They are extremely cautious, and they would never let me see it… although I must admit I’d like to. They first contacted me via e-mail.”
“Incredible,” George muttered.
“Well,” Robbins went on, “I guess we are about to arrive. Unfortunately, these devices don’t have windows, but last time it didn’t take more than ten minutes… am I wrong, Michel?”
“Not at all,” the French boxer replied.
“When was last time?” George inquired.
“Do you know Patrick O’Malley?” Robbins asked him back.
“Yes, the ex Feather Weights’ World Champion. He’s from Dublin, isn’t he?”
“Right. He lost the title against Mike Hovers, the American giant, and then we recruited him.”
“So he fought against an alien, did he?”
“Yes, of course, and he won. But I can’t tell you more,” Robbins concluded.
“We are arriving,” Arnaud warned them.
The door opened. They got out of the drone and found themselves in a large room, lit up by light blue lamps all around. A strange machinery was placed in the middle, with a cask and two boxing gloves hanging. George got amazed at such a view. No one was around. Most of all, he didn’t see his opponent. Robbins urged him to walk: “Come on, Ryan, get ready. It’s your moment.”
“Why?” George asked.
“Because you are supposed to fight.”
“Now!?” George exclaimed. He thought they’d give him at least a couple of days to recover. OK, Dr. Ferrier’s medicine was proving excellent, but he didn’t expect such a close deadline. Arnaud reassured him: “Don’t worry, man. It’s not going to be exactly as you fear.”
Ryan was amazed, but he could do nothing to change things. He followed the French boxer. Robbins went to the only seat in the room. Arnaud helped him wear the boxing gloves. Only at this point Ryan noticed the subtle wires connecting them to the machinery. The same was true of the cask. Then he saw Arnaud extracting another pair of boxing gloves from a container. Arnaud returned near him, put the gloves on and touched a button. Suddenly, the hologram of a tall alien appeared in front of George. He got scared, but he soon realized that huge mass stood motionless.
“Get ready, Ryan,” Arnaud said. “The match is going to start.”
“What…” he had just the time to mutter, and already a blow reached him. He forced himself not to fall. He didn’t feel any pain. Evidently, it was just a magnetic effect, not a real stroke. Arnaud was simulating the movements and the alien, after a second, repeated them mechanically. The French pugilist was teaching the alien to fight. But the Vegan must be in a remote corner of universe. The match went on two rounds and a half. At a certain point, George experienced a sort of dejá vu. He found himself exactly in the same position of the match against Arnaud. He was keeping his ward high, and he glimpsed the opponent preparing a stroke to his stomach. Last night Arnaud had done so before the blow to the jaw, which had sent him down. So he avoided the struck with a feint and then smashed the alien under the chin. The Vegan fell down heavily, and the hologram disappeared.
…George Ryan turned around, as if to recover consciousness. The people on the stands were screaming to support him. Michel Arnaud, lay motionless on the ring’s ground, while the referee counted to ten. George heard the bell sound. The match was over. Tom Robbins hugged him, announcing he was still the Champion…
He waited more than an hour in the changing room, while Tom Robbins was dealing with the press. He couldn’t understand what had passed through his mind before the final blow. He had thought to see Arnaud strike him first in the stomach and then to the jaw. A confused numb of images had followed. He could guess its sense, but he was unable to define it. He doubted he might have dreamed. “Foolish ideas,” he whispered. He put on his jacket and went towards the door. Just before opening it, he remembered he’d better wear a cap, as a partial disguise. It was Tom Robbins’s advice to avoid the fans’ pressure. He put his hand in the pocket and touched something hard. It was a postcard, with a strange picture on. It looked like a hospital room, with a man in bed. Ryan couldn’t make out his features. Outside a window, a tall tower by the unmistakable shape. On the backside, only few words: “GREETINGS FROM PARIS”. He wondered who might have put it there. Maybe a fan of Arnaud’s, who meant to wish him to finish in hospital. Once outside, he realized Robbins had already left. He reached the palace’s exit and closed up his jacket. He took the first step outside. Evening was coming over London. Clouds spotted the sky, but it wouldn’t rain for tonight. He started walking.
The breeze of the North embraced him one more time. He had done his bit. He might as well go back home.