Sudden Death

First Set, Second Game

Before the start of the second game, the Spaniard approached his linesman. He’s a strong player and he knows the court, said the duke; you won the first game because he didn’t expect anything of you. I’m younger, replied the poet; I can match him for strength. But you have a lame leg. The surprise factor, and I’ll play twice as hard; should I move in? He’ll break you with those drives of his. I’ll bring him short. Then you’d be putting everything in the hands of fate; better to wear him down, it’s clear he won’t last; take it point by point: backward, forward, play the corners. The poet snorted and wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking down with his hands on his hips, as if waiting for clearer instructions. If he hadn’t been in the grips of a hangover, the prospect of such a match might’ve seemed less insurmountable. It’ll be close, he said. Concession is the other option, said the duke, but the duel was your idea. The poet stared at the ground: We could turn to swords, finish up quick. The duke shook his head: Not another scandal, and he’s a wild man with the blade. The poet grunted: I haven’t lost yet. Precisely. Very well, I’ll take it point by point. Before he returned to the court, he said: Have you noticed they don’t speak to each other? Who? He and his second. The duke didn’t see that it mattered: What of it? Last night they didn’t speak either, they don’t even seem to be friends, look at them. His opponent hadn’t gone near the gallery. The mathematician languished, gazing at the specks of dust floating in the air.

The scrutiny of both men turned naturally on the artist, the poet’s rival. The seriousness of his manner did nothing to lighten their mood. He was less cocksure than before, but even more determined. Now, rather than a matter of life or death, it was a matter of victory or defeat — a much more complex affair, and harder to bear because the loser of a duel by sword isn’t obliged to live with the consequences.

The poet continued to study his opponent. He was a pallid man, with unruly jet-black hair sticking up all over his head. He had bushy eyebrows and a thick, untidy beard circling a mouth dark red like a cunt. The poet squinted to see him better. He was strong, sturdy as a soldier despite his generally unwholesome air: a member of the Neapolitan corps returned from the dead to play a last game of tennis in order to prove who-knows-what to the living. Does he always look so unwell, or is it just the hangover, he asked the duke. Who? The painter. I don’t know, I was watching his linesman. The mathematician, sitting on his own in the gallery, was scanning the court, scrutinizing it with disturbing intensity. His lips moved. What is there to see? He’s a professor. So? He’s no fool, the whoreson is counting something. The poet hawked up phlegm and shrugged. He spat: Let’s go.

He picked up the ball and called: Tenez? The monster stared at him, as if from the far bank of the river of the dead, and nodded, unsmiling. He blew at the hair falling over his left eye. His forehead was beaded not with sweat but with oil. From the line of service, the Spaniard noted that his opponent and the professor were in fact communicating: the linesman produced sequences of numbers with his fingers, sometimes pointing up, sometimes down, sometimes toward his own body. The poet indicated this to his linesman, pointing his racket at the Italians. The duke clenched his jaw, uneasy. The poet bounced the ball on the line, tossed it in the air: Tenez!

It was a mediocre serve and the return was savage. The artist met the ball in the air and sent it with brute strength straight into the poet’s face. Though he tried to protect himself, he took the blow between neck and cheek. Quindici — amore, cried the professor clinically, in the harsh voice of a market vendor but without a hint of irony.

The poet ducked his head, stung by the blow. He looked up carefully, for fear of swooning, and rubbed his jaw, seeking out his opponent in search of an explanation: he had never seen anything like this. The artist folded his hands over the handle of his racket, as if in prayer. It was a gesture of apology, an acknowledgment of a lack of sportsmanship. The duke raised the skin on his face that occupied the place where anyone else would have eyebrows. The poet pressed thumb and forefinger to his temples, then picked up the ball and, without further ado, returned to the line of service. The duke could tell his player was shaken by the way he readied himself for the new serve: he was taking deep breaths. He noticed, too, that he spat on the ball with perhaps less discretion than might be advised in a game like this. No one said anything.

Tenez! He put the ball on the edge of the roof, nearly straight above the cord. The saliva made it bounce queerly. The Lombard didn’t give chase, though he plainly could have reached it. He waited for the ball to stop rolling, picked it up, and dried it on his breeches before returning it, signaling that the Spaniard had cheated, though not protesting. The gesture was effective: it was one thing to break the rules of chivalry in an outburst of manly rage, and another to cheat furtively, like a nun. The poet felt disgust at himself. The duke didn’t call the point. Do over, he cried.

The poet bounced the ball on the line, tossed it in the air. Tenez! The artist waited for it to drop from the roof and with 360 degrees of force, he pounded it with his racket as if it were a nail in Christ’s wrist. The ball flew straight at the poet’s face again, but this time he took it in the crown, managing to duck a little. Trenta — amore, called the professor.

The Spaniard got up with tears in his eyes, his head bent. When he picked up the ball he felt dizzy. He kneeled and rubbed his scalp. He couldn’t even glance at the other side of the court: a smile from any of the louts in his opponent’s entourage and he would go for his sword. What is this, he asked the duke in a tight voice as he got up. You’re winning the game, macho; onward. What do I do? Nothing. Keep serving and victory will be your revenge.

The poet picked up the ball reluctantly; he was not at all convinced by his boss’s strategy. There were less painful ways of winning a game. Just keep serving, the duke insisted.

Tenez! The ball dropped on the artist’s side like a gift: it had bounced twice on the roof of the gallery and fallen in the middle of the court, floating like a feather. The poet felt the return when it hammered like a stone straight into his balls. He never even saw it. He fell solidly to the ground like a quarry block. From a world in ruins, he heard the mathematician crying: Amore, amore, amore, amore; vittoria rabbiosa per lo spagnolo.

Even the duke was doubled over, quaking with laughter, when the poet raised his head. Not to mention his opponent, Saint Matthew, the mathematician, and all the other wastrels, who were hugging their stomachs and wiping away tears of mirth.