William Vollmann - The Atlas

* Hello.

But every day she took the bus into town, searched the prisons, paid out bribes, until at last they let her sister go.

She put on a faded yellow dress, picked up the clothes her sister had thrown about in drunkenness, took off her shoes and scrubbed the concrete floor. The room smelled like the sister's unwashed body. There was a single bed where the two of them slept with the baby, a roof of corrugated metal held in place by two crossed two-by-fours from which a bare bulb hung. Every wall was in touching distance of the bed. The view outside was a concrete wall. She opened the door, and knelt outside on the sunny concrete, leaning in to scrub the floor. So strong she was, so able in this world of pain. The police had shot her father; her two mothers could not help her; she rented her body to live, and she lived. She nourished her baby and her sister. Nothing could crush her until death. She was pure and her name was Rose.

There she was, tall and brown, sweeping.

There were two boxers on that square platform covered with red, white and blue, and one of them was going to lose. The hometown boy got all the cheers. The other boy was from Mexico. They'd brought him in to lose. The crowd booed when he was announced.

The hometown boy's manager had a fresh towel on his shoulder. He took it and rubbed down the hometown boy. He patted his back and shook his hand. To look at him, the hometown boy could have been the Mexican boy's brother. He gazed at the Mexican as brothers gaze at each other, the look of people who've known each other a long time.

The Mexican boy's manager was already gone.

They pranced like horses waiting, each boy in his corner staring at the other.

As soon as the first round started, they began to look even more like each other. They were both skinny and quick. Their puffy pouting lips and wooden faces stylized them like the eyebrows they raised to stare at each other through their sweat.

Carlos, Carlos! Knock 'im out! called the hometown boy's manager. Kill! Do it! Use your right!

Use your jab! shouted the Mexican's manager.

They danced lightly like art mannequins.

The first punch landed on the Mexican's face with a sharp and puffy slapping sound.

I could already see in the Mexican's face that he was beaten. I don't know if he knew it yet, but I did. He was not trying to win anymore. He was only trying to survive. It was heartrending to see him backing away, never landing a punch, retreating behind his own sweat, no longer seeing the hometown boy's gloves coming. Later on the hometown boy, soaked and panting, would say to the press: Yeah, I feel good. I was hitting him where I wanted. I just kept going 'till he didn't want to throw no more. — The way he said it, anyone could see that it was nothing personal. He just had to win, that was all.

The hometown boy's manager felt the same way. — A right, Carlos! he shouted. In the face! Hit 'im in the face! Yes!

At the end of the first round, each of the two boxers sat limp on his stool. Their managers poured cool water on them, took their mouthguards out, poured bottles down their throats, put their mouth-guards back in.

The bell sounded. The fighters came together, embracing in a tender stranglehold.

The Mexican's manager was in agony. — Don't wait, baby, don't wait! he called out. Go for it! Come on, Ernesto, move it!

They flailed, and drops of sweat exploded upward from them with each punch.

The hometown boy punched and punched the Mexican in the face while the Mexican sagged against the ropes. The ref didn't stop it quickly enough. Finally the Mexican fell. Everyone leaped and cheered and beamed. They leaned back, nodded tightly, smiling and pointing, making thumbs up.

He got back to his feet before the count. He was better off than the boxer in the previous match who'd taken a kidney punch and lay paralyzed with pain, a bubble forming between his lips while everyone clapped for the winner. He was better off than the boxer in the next match whose blood would run into his eye while the ref shook his head and the opponent paced and the crowd shouted: He's all right!

Let 'im fight! — The Mexican was better off because he fought on. He and the hometown boy were both hinged skeletons, sweaty and veined, their shorts darkening with sweat. He was trying to punch now. His punches met the hometown boy's like hands applauding.

Hunching, dodging, dancing, they hissed their breaths like snakes as their faces gorged purple. Amidst the crowd's raw shouts, their open mouths proclaimed a mystic silence. A fat girl put her hand to her mouth yelling: Whoo-hee! and the Mexican's manager was calling: You gotta win this round, Ernesto! You gotta fight! Get down, come on! You gotta fight! and the hometown boy's manager shouted: Hit 'im upstairs! and the ref crabwalked carefully round, wearing his quizzical look, and the smell of musk came and the Mexican flailed bewilderedly as the hometown boy punched him and the hometown boy's manager shouted: That's it, Carlos! Jab 'im! and the Mexican would not quit. Any second now I expected to see him go down with his lips shaping a mindless square. The hometown boy's blows slapped into him with a sound like a bullwhip striking a cantaloupe, and somehow he took it. He and the hometown boy were each doing what they had to do. There was no malice, only sweat and pain. The hometown boy was tired, too. He needed to win, and the Mexican would not give up.

At the end of the second round, the ref bent over the Mexican as he sat panting on his stool, and he said something very quietly. The Mexican nodded quickly. They pulled his hands out of the gloves, powdered them, slid the gloves back on. In the other corner, a man was powdering the hometown boy's sweaty face and chest. Then the bell rang, and they were both up again, dancing. Their low brown masks of faces flickered between their upraised double fists.

Look how he steps right in to close with that Mexican, a reporter said. He's got no respect for him.

There was a crisp slapping sound, and then the Mexican fell. The crowd thrilled: Ohhhh! — The ref leaped in and counted. The Mexican got back up. His sweaty face was elongated in wild gasps between the flashes of blue-gloved fists. His neck-tendons strained.

Get on him, Ernesto! cried the manager despairingly. Ernesto, keep your head down!

Hit 'im right through his body! somebody called out.

A hit to the head! The Mexican fell down on his back and lay limp with his mouth open while the crowd screamed with joy. The referee knelt over him. The Mexican nodded brightly and got back up. The hometown boy rushed at him exultantly.

Hit 'im, hit 'im! a man shouted.

Another punch! The Mexican was whirled around by the force of it. He sank down against the ropes. His head dropped and his mouth-guard rolled out.

There was an old man sitting beside the press section. The old man said: This guy's a butcher. They should never have brought that Mexican in. That Mexican didn't have nothing. All that Mexican had was heart.

Montréal, Quebec, Canada (1993)

Cornwall, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Port Hope, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Pickering, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Guildwood, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Napoli, Campania, Italia (1993)

Orillia, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Washago, Ontario, Canada (1993)

Bangkok, Phrah Nakhon-Thonburi Province, Thailand (1993)

Cairo, Egypt (1993)

New South Wales, Australia (1994)

Mae Hong Song, Mae Hong Song Province, Thailand (1994)

Bangkok, Phrah Nakhon-Thonburi Province, Thailand (1993)