The Pugilist and the Poet

To the Angels of God

I send this prayer

Watch over my husband

Keep him safe

And keep the music

Of my love

Alive in his heart

Wherever the winds

Take him.

She practically purred like a kitten, as his hands explored her bare back. It is the after math of their lovemaking, they lay on the antique four poster bed in his apartment above the telegraph shop in this busy part of town.

She turned her head towards him and smiled, her eyes sleepy. She grabbed his wandering hand, twined her fingers in his, and kissed him squarely on the lips. The sheet that stood between her Rubenesque figure and modesty fell to the floor.

She marvelled at his beauty. His salt and pepper hair was soft to the touch, and his face reminded her of the marble statues of the Roman gods she once saw while on a school field trip to Italy. They have been married for barely three months and frankly, she told herself, it would be difficult to get tired of this visage, which she looks for first thing in the morning now, after she opens her eyes.

It was she who started this postprandial ritual, on a noontime when she felt so hot she just had to take off all her clothes to take her siesta. The fan was oscillating noisily in a corner of their bedroom, and he chanced upon her in her naked state when he came up from his shop to change his shirt. He felt love should be made only when the sun is down and the moon is up, but she had other ideas. In twenty minutes, the neighbours in the next door building could hear them screaming in their satiety. They have quite gotten used to the racket by now.

They quickly got dressed this afternoon, on the verge of another fight. She is a poet by education, but she runs a coffee shop down the street, which she hopes to buy from the ailing dowager who opened it a few years back to amuse herself. He is a merchant, he imports gourmet cheeses, for which the local population have a predilection, and exports wines from his great uncle's vineyard in the neighbouring province. He opened the telegraph shop after learning the Morse code from the retired general who is their godfather at their wedding. He bought the equipment from the septuagenarian who wanted to invest in telephony shortly after Graham Bell invented it.

"I really don't understand why you feel you have to fight professionally," her voice was calm, but her eyes were throwing daggers at him.

"I told you. I just need to know, okay? I want to know if I'm good enough. Everything I have has been passed down to me by my family. I have to know if I can make it under my own steam, and this is my chance to find out," he explained for what he felt was the millionth time today through clenched teeth.

"But what about me? Do you feel I'm a hand me down, too? Doesn't what I want matter?" she changed her tack, letting the tears drench her eyes.

His icy countenance melted, then he gathered her into his arms as tenderness for his flame haired wife washed over him, "Oh my baby, you know you're my angel. You know I don't feel that way about you." He was only eight years older than her, but he sometimes felt it was twenty, the way she could will him into submission like a wee babby.

"But if I win this fight, we'd easily have enough to finally go on that honeymoon on the Island," he said, cupping her chin between his forefinger and thumb, as he kissed her tears.

"Oh, alright, but let it be said that I give my acquiescence under duress," she smiled, but her heart fell to the floor. A feeling of foreboding enveloped her as she pretended cheer. "Hey, I'm testing a new cake recipe. I made a cheese cake, with all that leftover cheese from Christmas. Want a slice?" He nodded distractedly as he kissed her on the forehead. "Bring it downstairs, let's have tea, darling. I'll go ahead. We'll make it quick. You don't want to be late back for work."

They made more love that night, barely sleeping. She whispered all the sweet nothings she could think of as they satisfied each other's desires. When it was dawn, he fell into a deep slumber. She herself couldn't sleep, content to watch him as he drifted off to dreamland. "Arlie," he mumbled, reaching out to her side of the bed. "I'm here, love," she smiled sadly, climbing back under the covers to spoon with him.

The title holder for boxing in their town was Maurice O'Connor. He was ruthless and he played dirty, but nobody thought to stop him because it made for good entertainment. He doesn't believe in KOs and TKOs. The referees at the annual town fights were paper tigers, all afraid of the towering hulk. He didn't stop until his opponents were half-dead. Which is what they were after he was done in the ring with them, bar none. Some were crippled, worse, most suffered brain damage. She feared for her Santi.

The town celebrates its Patron Saint's feast day every year with a carnival, a food fair, and the big boxing fight. Santi was physically prepared for the fight, but Arlie doubted if he was mentally. His ripped body trembled as he sat in his corner in the ring, reciting a Hail Mary to ask for blessing. O'Connor always took his time coming out, the better to incite intimidation in his opponent's heart. He clearly was master of his game.

Arlie sat in the front row, invoking all the saints she could think of to protect her love. She kept praying, "We are still young, dear God, we have so much of life ahead of us. Please give my husband strength and courage. Please protect him."

The fight started after what seemed like an eternity to Santi. That he was landing blows did nothing to build up his self confidence. He was faster than O'Connor, younger and stronger, but his heart was afraid. O'Connor was raving mad. He'd lose by the point system if he did nothing to get the upper hand. He tripped the younger pugilist, who suffered a bad fall. Then he rained blows wherever it would land on Santi, as he tried to get up. Arlie anticipated the kick O'Connor was going to land on her husband's chest. Before he made contact, she went up to the ring screaming and covered her bloodied husband with her frail body. O'Connor's foot landed on the side of her stomach. She felt blood gush between her legs as she lost consciousness.

She came to in the hospital. Santi and their godfather, Gore were by her side. Her parents and two younger brothers were on the next boat on the way to the peninsular town in which they lived.

Santi  was crying. He took her pale hands in his. "Oh my stupid baby. I'm so sorry. I should have listened to you." Then he sobbed uncontrollably as he held her in his arms. Godfather Gore rubbed his godson's shoulders, making comforting noises.

"I think I should tell her. You're in no state to talk," the elder man said. Santi nodded sadly, unable to keep his emotions in check. "You were eight weeks pregnant, Arlie. We lost the baby. They had to take out your uterus. You'll never be able to bear children again." Gore relayed with saline soaked eyes.

Tears fell from Arlie's eyes. She clung to her husband. "How does this make you feel, my love?" she asked Santi. "I'm just so grateful you're alive. You'll be my only baby, my darling. I'll love you and take care of you for as long I live," he whispered into her shoulder. "Then, I'm okay. I'm okay as long as you're okay. Can we spoon? I've missed you,"  Arlie replied. Santi climbed into the narrow bed, to the consternation of the nun nursing his wife, sad but happier than he felt in a long time.

O'Connor was chased out of town after his "showing" in that year's fight. He miscalculated, underestimating their intolerance for cruelty to women. Boxing was outlawed, and in its place was instituted a children's fair in honour of the innocent life that was sacrificed to put an end to O'Connor's atrocities in the boxing ring. 

Arlie and Santi were the recipients of a miracle. Arlie decided to spend part of her savings to fill up their fund for their honeymoon to the Island after she was declared fit to travel by her doctor, in spite of Santi's vehement opposition.

Upon their return, she suffered from morning sickness. A visit to the doctor confirmed she was pregnant. Her uterus grew back unexplainably.

They named their firstborn Raphaela, after the archangel who helps people find true love.

"For if my love wasn't true, I'd probably have let O'Connor leave you half dead," Arlie argued to quiet her husband's objections, who wanted to call their daughter Arlie Junior.

They had two more sons after Fiel, as they call their daughter.

Arlie is now pregnant with twins. 

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