Sudden Death

Changeover

As it happened, the Lombard really didn’t remember anything about the night before. Very likely he couldn’t even remember each serve as he returned it, once the ball was in play. Maybe this was why he was enjoying himself so much during the break in a match where he had already lost the first set. The spectators had scattered about the gallery to stretch their legs, and some had gone to piss in the canal, so the painter, Mary Magdalene, and Matthew had a bit of welcome privacy.

Leaning on the gallery railing, he wasn’t sure at all how he had come to be playing a Spaniard at tennis, nor why the Spaniard had an escort of soldiers, nor how he could possibly be losing when his opponent was a lame lordling with a face that drooped to the sides, like a pair of buttocks. Not that it mattered much: he was very happy breathing in the powerful scent of Mary Magdalene’s tits as she asked him why the Spaniards could bear arms and his friends couldn’t. They must be noblemen, said the Lombard, and he lowered his head, as if by sinking his nose into the whore’s cleavage he could remove himself from a world that pressed on his temples and parched his throat. He inhaled. And those ugly soldiers, said the woman. The artist turned to look at them. He gave them a distant stare, his eyes nearly shut. They’re green people, he said; except for their master, who’s worse: pink as a pig. And he turned his attention back to her cleavage.

Matthew, who had been in a sulk for a while over the artist’s disinclination to rapidly crush his opponent, noted that they were probably from the Naples regiment, but not soldiers. He added: They must be mercenaries, capo mio—as if he were morally superior somehow to a soldier, a mercenary, or anyone else. He was standing with his back to the court, next to his capo, who was now nuzzling Mary Magdalene’s left clavicle.

If anyone associated with one of the families who ruled the city rabble had heard Saint Matthew refer to the tennis player as capo, he would have died laughing. The artist had the right to carry a sword because he was in service to a cardinal, which meant that he could make extra money by taking part in debt collection and street fights, but that was all. The flock of lowlifes who followed him everywhere wasn’t a gang, though when bodies were needed they brought sticks and stones to the battle for control of a corner or a piazza. The famiglia that the artist belonged to took him seriously because of the lunatic ferocity with which he fought and because of his close ties to the cardinal, who protected him — he never had to spend more than a few hours in jail — but they didn’t consider him trustworthy.

Saint Matthew scratched his ribs. Finally he said: Why don’t we just give him a good beating? The artist sighed and sank his nose between Mary Magdalene’s breasts again. They’re Spaniards, she said; imagine the scandal. She said it in a dreamy way, her smile almost gentle, as if this imagined world weren’t a feast of stabbings and throat-slittings, toward which it made no sense to hurl oneself. There would be war in the streets, she concluded, running her crooked finger across the artist’s neck. If they’re playing tennis with us they can’t be very important, grunted the beggar. I tell you they’re noblemen, it’s risky enough to be playing tennis with them, Mary insisted. Win the match and put an end to it, capo, said Matthew. The artist shook himself a little, exhaled the rather stale air from his lungs into the tart’s cleavage, and lifted his face. Shouting Eccola! as harshly as he might have called for a tavern to be opened at dawn, he went to get his racket and the ball he’d left lying on the pavement. Onlookers, gamblers, and friends found new seats in the gallery as the players changed sides.

Heavily and lazily, the Lombard went through the motions of crossing the court: dragging his feet, his eyes on the ground. Before he had settled himself on the defender’s side, his second rose from his seat under the gallery roof, where everyone thought he had been sleeping, shook out his academic robes, and came to whisper something in his ear. The artist listened, his eyes cast down. For the first time that afternoon, his linesman appeared almost animated: he gestured as he talked. Finally, both of them kneeled on the ground and the mathematician drew lines, crossing some over others; he clapped once. The artist shrugged and the professor returned to his place in the stands to count beams.

The Lombard stopped behind the line, scraped the ground a little, and raised his face, in which a new demonic spirit shone. He half closed his eyes before crying Eccola! once again, this time from the depths where all the rage and violence of which he was capable was accumulated.