Sudden Death

Third Set, Fourth Game

In his expansive moments, the Italian ruled the court; he was stronger and much more seasoned and resourceful, but he was also a volatile player. He was easily distracted, hampered by an excess of pride, and the nine years that he had on his opponent made his hangover infinitely more destructive than the poet’s — the effect of hangovers is directly proportional to the age of the sufferer, and the increase in discomfort isn’t linear, it’s exponential.

Cowed as he was, morally shattered at having been caught out the night before, the Spaniard had been focusing on the match not as an outlet for hubris but as a way to redeem himself in the duke’s eyes and recover his dignity. Victory would come off the court, but he had to win the match to gain it. He was confident that he could win, because it had been hard for the Lombard to beat him in the third game. He even swaggered a little, something he hadn’t done since the start of the match. Put some real money on me now, won’t you, he asked in a rather shrill voice, glancing toward the side of the gallery where his patron and the escorts were sitting.

Fortunately for him, there had been no witnesses except the duke to the spectacle the night before. As soon as he had heard the duke’s cry, he’d pulled his hand out of the Lombard’s codpiece and pushed him off, escaping easily from his embrace. The capo, as drunk as or drunker than the Spaniards, hadn’t understood what was happening until he saw the poet standing over him, challenging him with his sword — of steel, not flesh — unsheathed. To me, Duke, to me, shouted the poet like a man possessed; I’m being robbed. The capo, trapped, raised his hands with a wolfish smile. He lifted his face toward the nobleman and said in Italian: The only thing I was robbing this man of is his virginity, sir; he’s the kind who likes to take it up the ass and it’s no trouble to me to give satisfaction. The poet lunged, brandishing his sword. The Italian rolled down two flights of steps and leaped up in a flash, sword and dagger out. He was still smiling. The duke understood at once that his friend’s well-bred flourishes would hardly be enough to beat someone who could extricate himself from an awkward situation with such grace and good humor. The poet feinted again and the capo shook him off without even raising his sword. Let it go, said the duke; this is a man of war, not some salon fencer. Without lowering the blade he was pointing at the Italian, the poet asked: And my honor? The capo looked up: Now it seems even sodomites have honor. The Spaniard made a third feint. He felt in his heels the shuddering blow with which it was parried. Drop your sword, ordered the nobleman.

I’ll crush him, you’ll see, I’m going to crush him, said the poet with his eyes on the duke. He was spinning the racket in circles, trying to relax his wrist. I don’t doubt it, the duke replied, but stay focused.

The mathematician shed his idiot savant’s mutism for a moment and got up from his seat. He reminded the spectators that the only thing in play from now on was the match. And with a glance at the Spanish linesman: Are we in agreement that any further bets will be placed only on the final result? The nobleman, without entirely understanding the rule but stung all the same, said: Of course. The mathematician shouted at the top of his lungs that the last round of betting was now open.

Barral hesitated slightly before putting the small fortune he had collected on the line: the coins his master had given him, the coins he had won, and the coins he had grudgingly volunteered. The poet turned to look at him, offended: It’s in the bag, Otero. Bet your next month’s salaries, cried the duke. What salaries? The duke gave them more money. What if we lose? I’ll pay you double. Double the bet? Double the salary, idiot. Barral collected it all and returned to the line to set a second stack of coins on the Spaniard’s side, coming face-to-face with Saint Matthew, who snarled at him.

The night before, the capo had made exactly the same face when the Spaniard lowered his sword at last. A catlike gesture, shaking his head a little and showing his teeth with mocking ferocity. The poet had backed up the stairs, the point of his sword keeping watch over his enemy. The Lombard made no move.

When the Spaniard reached street level, the grandee drew his own sword to wait at the ready for the Italian to come up. The capo rolled his eyes: What are you defending yourself for; you’re no faggot like us. He put away his sword and dagger. Move aside, he said, and let me pass. It’s all slander, the poet whispered to his patron. The capo offered his hand as he went by. When they ignored the gesture, he belched gloriously and paused to pull out his wineskin. His clumsy effort to uncork it told the Spaniards that he was still completely drunk. Now’s our chance, said the duke, and they both fell on him. He shook them off, rolling on the ground. When they went after him again he had dagger and sword in hand and was waiting for them, smiling. Shall we settle this or not, said the capo; I’d rather go home now than spend the rest of the night with the bailiff, and you gentlemen are wanted in Spain. They lowered their swords. The duke sheathed his. We can’t leave it like this, wailed the poet. You can’t defend yourself in this state, said the duke; you don’t know how to fight drunk. The Italian, his mind already elsewhere, was looking for his wineskin on the ground.

Discipline on the Roman side of the court seemed to have lapsed with the announcement of the closing of bets, because the painter was now drinking from a flask of wine that Mary Magdalene tipped voluptuously into his mouth. If he starts to drink too much, you’ll have him where you want him once and for all, said the duke; keep playing as you have been. The Lombard had now turned and his tart was massaging his shoulders. The last spectators put down their bets. Don’t you find it a little worrisome that absolutely no one else has put money on our side? said Barral.

The poet made a final attempt to redeem his honor at sword’s point. The Italian toppled him, planting the tip of his own sword on the Spaniard’s neck. Your friend will never learn, he said, with a glance at the duke. And addressing himself to the poet: Actually, why don’t you turn over and I’ll shove it up your ass? He grabbed his balls. Just then they heard the nearly monastic little footsteps of the mathematician. What are you doing? he called. Leave that boy alone and come home. The Italian put his sword away again. Can I go to bed now? he asked, fixing the poet with his gaze. He’s a killer, the duke put in, trying to make his friend see reason. The artist made a reverence: Thanks. The professor put an arm around him to lead him away. Why does everything always have to end like this, he said, and addressing the Spaniards: Please forgive him, gentlemen, he’s drunk; tomorrow he won’t remember a thing. Their backs were turned when the poet howled: I challenge him to a duel. They were all quiet for a second. The duke said: Shit, fuck, and piss.

Let’s do it now, yelled the poet with all he had. The artist — his head resting on Mary Magdalene’s bosom, his eyes closed — tossed him the ball disdainfully, not even turning to look at him. The poet caught it firmly in the air. I wager you can’t guess whose hair the ball in your hand is stuffed with, cried the artist, still smiling. The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders. He genuinely didn’t care. He bounced the ball on the ground and walked to the line of service. The scapular, said the duke; touch the scapular. The poet waited until the artist was settled on his side of the court to yell Tenez!

The mathematician and the capo turned to stare at the poet. Do you have any idea what you’re saying, bugger boy, said the capo; I’ll kill you and then I’ll be beheaded for it. The duke put his hand to his forehead. Brother, he said; take back what you said this instant, I beseech you. Well? asked the capo. At noon, said the poet; in Piazza Navona; you choose the weapons. The mathematician and the artist shook their heads in disbelief; the duke ran both hands through his hair, puffed out his cheeks, exhaled. What weapons, then? he asked. The professor cut in before his friend could answer. Rackets, he said; the weapons will be rackets and the duel will be in three sets, with betting; whoever takes two is the winner. The capo was shaking with laughter when, to the fury of the poet, the duke confirmed: Piazza Navona, noon, pallacorda. How do we know you’ll be there? asked the poet, deflated. Everybody knows me, said the Italian; I’m Caravaggio. Francisco de Quevedo, replied the Spaniard, his eyes starting from his head. And who is this? he asked, jerking his nose at the professor. Galilei; I’m lodged at the Palazzo Madama. The nobleman introduced himself: Pedro Téllez Girón, Duke of Osuna.

The poet put all the force he could into the serve. The ball hit the roof of the gallery. The artist waited for the rebound. He took it, hitting a hair-raising drive that went straight into the dedans. Cacce per il lombardo, cried the professor; due, equali.