Sudden Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

gravity, the poet reached the ball as it bounced just inside the cord. His stroke was sound, but not forceful enough to win the point. He ran back, imagining that the artist would aim for the dedans; his guess was right. Then he covered the corners as if it were no work at all, his opponent peppering him with bullets, each harder, straighter, and deadlier than the last. At the end of the point the artist did something to the ball that killed it just as it cleared the cord. The linesmen exchanged glances: this might be a decent game after all. There was applause from Saint Matthew and the hangers-on, the two seconds, and the four or five people who had come to sit in the stands.
Quindici–trenta,
cried the mathematician;
primo vantaggio per il milanese
.
    The poet noticed that the people still standing—maybe othertennis players who would size one another up and take their measure against the poet’s challenger when the professional gamblers began to arrive—were now finding seats in the gallery. The rapt interest with which the recent arrivals watched the movement of the ball gave him a tiny taste of glory, which, beleaguered as he was, he felt he definitely deserved.
    It had been a difficult morning. He’d woken early with a parched throat and a headache hard and hot as a flatiron, and he hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, confused, guilt-ridden, and mortified as he was.
    What in Christ’s name happened last night, he’d asked when the duke finally came down for breakfast at the Tavern of the Bear, where they were staying. The poet had been punishing himself for a while, sitting without a bite to eat on the plank floor of the courtyard, waiting for someone to come down and accompany him to Piazza Navona.
    The duke’s face was puffy and marked with pillow creases, but he was impeccably dressed in black: belt, cloak, and hat hung from his arm. Upon being asked what had happened, the grandee shrugged and called for a beer and some bread spread with lard.
Tiepida o calda,
asked the innkeeper’s wife. Hot lard, warm beer—and put an egg in it. After his first swallow he opened his eyes a little more. His friend was still full of gloom. Nothing happened, he said, but we have to go and defend your honor, and mine too—the usual. The poet was conscious of his generosity in not even touching on the events of the night before. And Spain’s, Duke, and Spain’s. The other man smiled: Spain’s indeed, when she’s proved herself worthy. He finished the bread, gulped down the beer, and, rising, put on his gloves;he fastened his sword belt around his waist and wrapped himself in his cloak. Let’s go, he said, we can’t be late.
    Since it was nearly midday, the back gate to the courtyard was open and only the double doors separated them from the street. The duke put on his hat, opened one door, and looked to see who was passing before he set foot on the cobblestones—the hilt of his sword at hand, his fingers hovering nervously over it. He stepped out. Once on the pavement, he checked the street corners again and said: Clean and clear. But as he waited for the poet—who scarcely had the presence of mind to strap on his own belt—he kept his hand on his sword.
    Tenez!
Despite the complications of a serve set to rolling on the roof, the Lombard lifted the ball high enough to clear the cord, though with no sting. A survival stroke, one that left him off balance. The Spaniard hammered it back. Thirty–thirty. The next two points were long and exciting: many onlookers gathered. Deuce, cried the mathematician when they tied at forty.
    A close, hard-fought game would be to the poet’s advantage. To wear down the artist, he had to keep the score even. A tortuous and symmetrical match for an inclement day on which everything came in pairs. That morning the poet and the duke had walked to the piazza like Siamese-twin bailiffs. The two of them in cloaks and