AFTER THE INITIAL impact, Eiji’s feet slide backwards, carving tracks through the salted clay until his toes grip the straw bales at the edge of the ring. Everything stops, as if he has thrown out an anchor. His skin is wet with sweat. Cameras flash at the edge of his vision, and the air shudders with the cheers of ten thousand people.

The two wrestlers pause. Their bellies jam against each other and their chests heave. Fat undulates across the muscles in their backs and thighs. Their cauliflower ears are mashed together. The sweet stink of his opponent’s perfumed hair fills Eiji’s nostrils. He cannot see very much, just flashes of colour. He concentrates on the position of his hands. One grips his opponent’s belt behind the man’s kidney but the other is flailing in space, trying to grab hold of something.