Audio: Han Ong reads.
Did you check his phone?
I told you, I’m not gonna do that!
But it’s so easy.
They are not talking about Martin. Toby pronounces it Mahr-teen. Because that’s how Martin himself pronounced it, being from Chile. It was only last year that Martin stayed with them, and Toby’s father was crazy about the young tennis player. Since then, disillusionment has spoiled his father’s gaze, and every tennis player after Martin can only be a reminder of him, and an object of suspicion.
I don’t think I could live through that again, Toby’s father says, and switches back to the subject of the new guy: How difficult could it be? Just ask to borrow his phone. Say you want to play a game. Say I don’t allow you to on your own phone. Then take a look at his messages for anything iffy. Head things off at the pass.
He’ll know I went through his messages!
Tell him you touched it by accident! Do I have to feed you everything?
Toby has only his father, and his father has only Toby. Plus their palatial estate in La Jolla. Many months out of the year, Toby is left alone with a groundskeeper and a companion—all right, a nanny—while his father is in Macao tending to his casinos and his other businesses. But this is the part of the year that they always spend together—roughly from the beginning of March to late April.
For as far back as Toby can remember—since he was six or so—his father has signed them up to host a visiting player at the local event, the Diamond Club Challenger, in which Toby’s father is an investor, of sorts. Toby is now eighteen and taking a year off before deciding on college, maybe longer. Of course, he’ll go—he’s Chinese, and whoever heard of a Chinese without a college degree? And, besides, he does not have the option of becoming a tennis player. He simply is not good enough.
There’s been, let’s see, Pratesh, Liam, Manolo, Manuel, that Indian guy (the one after Pratesh, with the complicated name that you couldn’t shorten), the Moroccan guy who wanted to be left alone because he was in a mid-divorce funk (though that didn’t stop him from trying to get into the pants of one of the event sponsors), Apichat, Albert from Canada (which was how Toby’s father, riffing on the way the young man had introduced himself, referred to him behind his back), the three Chinese guys in a row—Wuyang, Zuhan, and Louie—or, technically, four, since Albert was Chinese-Canadian, and, of course, most eventfully (though not at the time), Martin, just last year.
It was Apichat who taught Toby to drive when he was thirteen. Apichat, with electric-blue hair that he claimed nobody in the streets of Bangkok gave a second glance to, was originally going to drive Toby to the mall, as a distraction from his second-round loss, but instead they circled the family compound over and over again, Toby in the driver’s seat being instructed by Apichat. They wound up sitting on the beach, people-watching, commiserating over the unfairness of life, Apichat sharing a joint. Two firsts on that day: his first drive and the first of many tokes.
Although the tournament administrators told him that they couldn’t accommodate the request, his father had insisted on hosting any Asian players in the tournament, on the no-need-to-speak-it assumption that Toby would benefit from exposure to an older-brother figure, to make up for his lack of a mother. Though, to be honest, it was also to compensate for his having a ghost as a father, since Toby’s father, even when in residence at the family manse, is always out making his deals, driving from meeting to meeting, and, when he’s home, holing up in the game room in front of his wide-screen TV, on which he can monitor the floor action at his Macao casinos, as well as his cashiers’ booths, his office with the two safes, and, most important, his general managers’ quarters.
Besides, Toby’s father is an alcoholic, and by noon on most days, if he notices Toby at all, he does so through a scrim of wooze, on wobbly feet. When operatic-drunk, his father likes to quote a line he says comes from his favorite movie star, Steve McQueen: “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place.”
One way that Toby bonds with the visiting players is by betraying his father—as when, with Pratesh, he spied on his father, dressed in nothing but boxers, making circuits around the perimeter of the pool, a full tumbler of Scotch attached to his hand. His father would take a sip, walk a few steps, then stop and say, to no one, to the air, to an antagonist in the air, If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place. He repeated this routine for nearly half an hour, until there was nothing left in the tumbler and he let his hand drop. He’d forgotten that he’d had the entire place, including the pool area, fitted with cameras—or maybe he didn’t care—and Toby and Pratesh sat in Toby’s bedroom cackling over the sad-comic spectacle on Toby’s laptop.
It was worse when they had the swans, who, for two years, owned the pool. His father would taunt the birds, pitching ice cubes into their habitat, making them honk and flutter their insane wings, goading them to come after him, which they did less and less as time passed. They were supposed to mate, but, when a guy from the zoo came to collect them, it was discovered that Toby’s father had been harboring two males—imagine his peeve. Faggots, he told Toby. All this time! Which is among the reasons that Toby has not told—and probably will never tell—his father about his own possibly irreversible gay tendencies.
It was Apichat who, intuiting those tendencies, had jacked him off by the pool very late at night, before flying to Florida to compete at another Challenger event. Where was his father then, that Toby could be so brazen? Probably knocked out in his bedroom, on the other side of the property. Or indulging one of his club jaunts. Toby remembers being so wrapped up in 420 and lust, it was as if he were swaddled in blankets even when he was naked. The lights were off, and he was being pleasured by a ghost made of white eyeballs and electric-blue hair. Thinking of that night now never fails to give Toby an erection. Apichat rested his wireless speakers on a lounger, and the same song kept playing over and over: “Abracadabra,” by the Steve Miller Band, a tune that haunts Toby still; when he wants to get into a mood, he puts it on repeat on his iPod.
That evening, he brings the fruits of his research to his father as they eat one of the cook’s fancy, unappreciated creations—chicken done with many extra touches—but it’s the plain rice that is actually finished by both father and son.
There’s this app called Viber. People can text each other and it disappears without a trace. So even if I check his phone—
You don’t even try!
Not everyone is like Martin, O.K.? Also, this guy’s been climbing the rankings—he’s not going to risk everything.
You don’t know that!
Maybe we should stop hosting them, then, Toby says.
Is that what you want?
Not me. But it seems like you don’t want to anymore.
I do this for you. Everything I do is for you. Toby’s father punctures the space between them with a fork—each you a thrust, as if he means to dig the tines into his son’s flesh.
Stop saying that!
Doesn’t matter if you don’t want to hear—is still true.
Let’s stop hosting them, then, Toby repeats. After Pavel—goodbye to everything.
After a moment, Toby’s father says, again, Is that what you want?
No! Of course not! But that’s what you’re forcing me to say!
Frankly, Toby doesn’t like this year’s visitor, the Czech Pavel, who is either being served his own meal in the visitors’ wing of the house or is outside, returning balls from one or both of their ball machines on the hard court, to train for his first-round match. Tough to get away from the stereotypes that are a by-product of being a United Nations over the years: the Eastern Europeans are prickly, moody; the Canadians are super friendly; the Indians are open, a smile in their speaking voices; the Africans and South Americans are full of swagger, and they tend to stand far behind the baseline when playing. The Chinese who came up in the national academies—they are traditionalists, counterpunchers, while the one who sought training abroad, away from the government minders, styled his game on Laver, Sampras, aiming to be part of the new-old wave resurrecting a serve-and-volley M.O.
You wait and see, Toby’s father says.
See what?
This guy? He will disappoint us, too.
Toby doesn’t say, He already has. Because, as soon as Toby picked Pavel up at the airport, he knew there would be no late-night toking sessions, no drives around town, no practice games, and, most disappointing of all, no extended discussions about the meaning of life.
Pavel wins his first round, as Toby and his father watch from the stands. It’s an uncomplicated affair, two straight sets, a break of serve in each. The opponent, from Colombia, is a three-stroke guy; getting him into a rally, Pavel consistently earns an error on the fourth or fifth shot.
Toby is pretty subdued with his applause. But Pavel, meeting them afterward, acts as if he hadn’t noticed. He envelops each of them in a hug, asking if it’s all right that he wants a hamburger and a milkshake to celebrate, and do they know where to go? Afterward, he adds, he would be happy to practice with Toby on the family hard court—to assess the boy’s game and offer adjustments and tips. Sorry he has waited till now, but he’s been too nervous; part of his pre-tournament superstition involves keeping himself to himself.
Toby tells Pavel about the swans, about spoiling them with gourmet croutons.
What are croutons?
Toby tries to explain a few times before giving up.
Toby makes the universal sign for toking, and Pavel says that he does not understand. It takes Toby several beats to realize that Pavel is entirely serious, and then he gives up on that, too.
Pavel’s diagnosis of Toby’s game: the young man doesn’t have the legs. He needs a lower-body boost to funnel power into his weak serve, and he has to improve his speed if he wants to retrieve balls hit into the corners. Let’s do drills, Pavel says. After thirty minutes, Toby’s heart rate is out of this world, his face crazy. He has to lie down by the baseline, looking up at the sky, which takes a long time to resolve. Am I working you too hard? Pavel asks, not really interested in the answer. He apologizes, sits down by Toby. It’s O.K.—this is a good start, Pavel says. You want to be professional, right? It takes a moment for Pavel to realize that Toby has been outside his body for a while.
So the two are silent. They can hardly hear the cars on the road that skirts the beach. The din is absorbed by the trees and shrubs that shield the property from view. A row of giant green Q-tips.
Toby sits up to signal that he has reëntered this life. He blinks, smiles.
Sorry, Pavel repeats.
After a while, Toby says, I can’t be professional.
I thought your father said—
We tried, Toby says. He enrolled me at the Nick Bollettieri Academy.
Pavel whistles. That’s a lot of money, he declares. And then, all at once, he understands his stupidity. But, of course . . . His hands, gesturing at the court, at the La Jolla air, complete his sentence. This is how recent? he asks.
When I was fourteen. And fifteen.
So what happened?
Toby considers his reply. I couldn’t stand the instructors, he says, after some thought. And also the other students. And also Florida.
But Florida is like here, Pavel says. Same weather, same cars. And then he adds, I hate Florida, too. And then he tells Toby about his visits to the state: a handful of Challengers, and before that, when his rankings were “in the sewer,” a handful of Futures; the grind of chasing the sun at its height worldwide, scrambling for the meagre points on offer, for the small pots that the winners take home. Toby has heard the Indian, the Chinese, the Canadian, the Chilean, the Mozambiquan, the Moroccan, the Thai, and the Brazilian versions of this story, the proportions of joy and desperation and grit different in each. These tennis hopefuls have to rely on the largesse of people like Toby’s father, and often the plane tickets to the events cost more than they can hope to win. Plus there are the meals. Plus the expense of maintaining their equipment, their bodies. An injury? Forget about it—learn to play hobbled or go back home and sell insurance, daydreaming about a life of sturdier luck and televised glory. Because these events at the Challenger level—you rarely get many spectators, much less a broadcast camera.
You ready for more? Pavel asks. They do new drills. The goal is to not hit the ball the same way twice in a row: vary the spin, the speed, the strength. First, both men stand at the baseline, going back and forth, playing the plush metronome of the game. Good, Pavel judges. And then it’s Toby’s turn to move up to the service box, to get used to taking control at the net. Good, Pavel says again. Not bad. Toby asks if Pavel’s routine allows for drinks. He leads the Czech to the bar cart in the billiards room. Puts two tumblers down on the cart top and drops in ice from a mini-fridge by the sink. For Pavel, it’s whiskey. Toby makes himself a gin-and-tonic. Cheers, they say, clinking glasses.
Your dad, he makes his money from gambling? Pavel says, while staring at a limited-edition Damien Hirst print on the wall.
What? Toby’s shoulders go up.
He has casino, no?
Oh. Yes. Yes.
What do you think I mean?
I forget about the casinos sometimes, Toby says.
Shall we play? Pavel indicates the billiards table.
Pavel gets to break.
Who is your favorite player? he asks.
Toby turns the question back on Pavel. Who is yours?
Of course, Federer, Pavel replies. Don’t tell me yours. I can guess. Djokovic.
No! It’s Nadal. Why do you say, Federer, of course?
Are you shitting me? Federer is the greatest. Of all time. If you say Nadal is greatest, I beat you with this stick. It’s not clear whether or not Pavel is joking. He chases balls around the table until he misses.
But Nadal owns Federer! How can you be the greatest if someone has so many wins over you? And, besides, Nadal is the best competitor.
Pavel’s tone gets nasal; his words, though gibberish, are just clear enough for Toby to understand that his last statement is being mimicked satirically. Federer is once-in-lifetime event, Pavel says. Like Mozart. Like Beethoven. When he plays, there is music. Well, of course, there is big silence. Because no one wants to miss anything. But the ball—it waits for his racket. I wish I could play like that! And your body—your body is just an illusion. You are here on this part of the court, but is that really true, because how can you be in that other part of the court in the wink of the eye? All the time, anticipating, anticipating—what is going to be the next ball? Radar, sonar—so precise, so beautiful.
Toby won’t say so, but this Czech guy is paying back his free room and board in spades. Conversation like this raises Toby’s temperature. Even if Pavel is a bully. For the first time since Toby picked him up from the airport, he is evincing passion: Mozart, Beethoven, radar, beautiful. Not even winning earlier in the day hastened his pace to the net to shake hands with his opponent. The requested hamburger and milkshake did not produce a smile. But now? Through talk of Federer, he’s revealing his heart: he loves tennis; it’s the only way of life for him. It is not enough to tire your body with play; away from the court, the discipline has to be kept alive through ardent discussion. But most of the time Pavel won’t cop to it. Complaint comes easier, is more sporting. By listing his grievances, he is participating in the general fellowship of those who toil in the Challenger levels. If tennis were a cosmology, the regular tour would be heaven, and Futures, the lowest level, its hell, where all matches are one endless slog of energy and spiritual depletion, an exquisite torture you must pay to be allowed to suffer. In between, with the higher level perpetually out of reach and the lower far too close for comfort, is where the La Jolla event and hundreds of others like it sit: Challengers. And when you play in the Challenger ranks—schlepping yourself economy, relying on local aficionados to provide housing in exchange for proximity to the tennis “life style” or checking into cheapo lodgings on the far outskirts of the competition locations and splitting the cost of food and cars with other players—what is challenged most is your continuing devotion to the game.
Six months ago, men Toby did not know came to the front gate and wouldn’t leave the buzzer alone. He delayed them for as long as he could, but the family lawyer’s phone was going to voice mail, and the nanny, a Portuguese woman who’d been lured Stateside by Toby’s father with the promise of an independent life she did not have the temperament to indulge, was even more frightened than he was. Most of all, he was intimidated by the I.D.s and badges that he couldn’t—on the tiny security screen—read.
He took a deep breath before meeting the men at the top of the driveway. He was prepared to bar entry into the house. It helped that he was a head taller than all but one of them. My father isn’t home, he told them. He’s in Macao. He has businesses there.
We need to speak to him, they said. To a man, none of them had eyes, only dark glasses.
Three weeks later, they got their wish. By then, his father was lawyered up, and it was the suited representative who answered all the questions, his father contributing only whispered curses in Cantonese.
Yes, he makes his living from gamblers and gambling, but he has nothing to do with any of these accusations. No, actually, he would have more respect for them if they came right out with accusations, instead of confronting him with—what are these, hints? Hints and implications. Yes, he understands how it could appear that he and the guest player would have had plenty of time to collude, seeing as his home was open to the guest. But had they taken a look inside, and would it be so far-fetched to assume, given the size of the property, that he and the player had barely seen each other the entire time? And, most important, didn’t the guest, Mahr-teen Lemebel, of Chile, ranked three-hundred-and-fifty-eighth in the world, have a prior history? Why else would they have been keeping an eye on him, flagging in particular his poor performance at the Diamond Club?
Don’t think that Toby’s father is unaware of the industry’s need to save face: tennis bigwigs, under pressure to confront the sport’s slack oversight of illegal gambling, had finally rounded up culprits—and, of course, the names named, the athletes sacrificed, would come from the lower rungs, easy scapegoats, and the disgraceful authorities would get to grandstand in front of an assembled gallery, pretending that the problem had been adequately addressed.
And where was the digital trail that linked Lemebel to his hapless La Jolla host, who even wrote checks to his guests to help them cover the costly overhead of the profession and keep a struggling dream alive for another half year or so?
So he admits to having written Mr. Lemebel a check?
He admits to having written each of his tennis players a check, going back ten-plus years! Could they produce the texts from him to Lemebel asking the player to throw a set, or the whole match, with a corresponding dollar payment for each lousy eventuality? Of course they couldn’t! Because no such communication existed!
Forced to alter his routine and to spend even more time with a son he knew to be a dud, Toby’s father upped his rages. The drinking became a twenty-four-hour phenomenon. On the plus side: the Steve McQueen line, being a little too close to home, was retired. Instead, it was Martin-this and Martin-that. Faggot Chilean, fucking cheat. I knew there was something fishy about that third-round loss. Martin had been in total control (up by a set and on the verge of converting a break point in the second, pivotal set) and Toby’s father was supposed to swallow the Chilean’s sudden inability to serve, believe that his swinging arm mistimed the hairbreadth difference between in and out, over and over again? Of course, it’s so clear now: for a privately negotiated fee, Martin had agreed to cede the match to his lesser-ranked opponent, thereby enriching bettors who’d placed money, hundreds upon thousands, on the greater odds that the man across the net from Martin, so inexperienced in victory, would be the one to move on to the next round. And to think that the support check Toby’s father had given him was ten thousand more than usual—because Martin had moved him with his tales of growing up on the wrong side of the Chilean economic divide! No other boy of Martin’s class had even thought to pick up the game, having no access to private courts or coaching fees. How many years had he persisted with a racket held together with tape? Days spent skulking around the public courts and even some of the exclusive ones, hoping for turned backs so that he could make away with rogue tennis balls. Playing either in the early mornings or late at night, when everyone else was gone, hitting ceaselessly into the void.
This was probably all true—a way for Martin to deflect judgment for what he was later caught doing, a way of laying the groundwork for cause, as well as affecting a soulfulness that loosened his sponsor’s check-writing hand. As they say in Chinese business circles: win-win.
Toby’s father had boasted to the Chilean of his son’s tennis glory, the private coaches, in addition to the first-rank instruction he was receiving from the taskmasters at Bollettieri. And Toby had even won a score of matches, getting to the semifinals of a far-flung juniors and to the finals of another—nothing was a fluke and now everything was wasted. Don’t think Toby’s father can’t smell the marijuana wafting from Toby’s part of the house—don’t think he doesn’t know all about marijuana!
And Toby’s reply, always: I could never be Nadal.
Who’s asking you to be Rafael Nadal! His father’s voice was booming, his manner full of threat. He’d even put his tumbler of Scotch down on the dining table.
You don’t understand! If I can’t play as beautiful, I’d rather not play at all!
Stupid high ideas! All my fault, because I raise you in this environment. Give you everything I don’t have when I was growing up. Only son, raised like a prince, don’t know how to cope with hardship. One setback and immediately want to quit. Should have sent you to the old country, live with my father and mother—see if they let you sleep all day with that marijuana-marijuana!
You don’t have to worry—I’m going to college, and you won’t have to see me for years!
What college will take you, tell me that!
With your money? Every one of them!
Hey! Where you going! Don’t turn your back on me. You think you can pay your way for everything, and everything will be all right?
Why not? Toby said. It’s the lesson you taught me.
O.K. From now on—no allowance!
Of course Toby had had to slink back, like a wet cat. Licking his paws and blinking, before finally rubbing himself against the old man. Sorry, Dad. I’ll try again with tennis, if that’s what you want.
Toby’s father tender, too. Not important what I want—what do you want?
You don’t want to hear it, but I will never be good enough. It’s not about laziness. Talk to the physio: my quick-twitch muscles, there aren’t enough of them. And my hand-eye coördination: you can’t teach stuff like that.
Toby’s father ignored the information. What’s wrong with your body? Is much better than mine. You skinny, I am fat. You still young, I am old-old. He waited a moment before repeating, with great disgust: Old.
Pavel wins the next round, and the round after that. He also claims the quarter-finals, where he reveals himself to be a nascent serve-and-volleyer. Finicky, though—having to hit more than one approach shot before he finally gets to net, as if never trusting that it’s the right time to come in. Each of these is a mere two-set fight, and, finally, Toby’s father is again the gregarious host of old. No more talk of cheating, of Martin the Sequel.
After the second-round match, Toby’s father took them to the Empire Dragon at the mall, inaugurating a custom: a hearty Chinese banquet to celebrate victory. With many courses and much talk of tennis. Tennis dreams. Luckily, Pavel loves Chinese. The grease and the salt—who cares? He’ll wake up with heavy legs, but they will burn for only the first ten minutes of his five-mile run to and along the beach and back. Then it’s drills with Toby on the family hard court, a near-exact replica of the surface at the Diamond Club. And, for the hour before the day’s match, it’s Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” over and over, then, once the match has started, nothing but his head inside a towel between games, though there is not much of a crowd to block out—Toby and Toby’s father, the other La Jolla grandees who are hosting his opponents, plus scattered club members and loitering U.C.S.D. students. If he wins the tournament, there are a hundred points on offer. Rise and rise and rise through the ranks. The dream of qualifying for one of the big-time tournaments known as a Grand Slam is never far away. Even to qualify for the pre-tournament qualifying, where a field of a hundred and twenty-eight is narrowed down to sixteen lucky entrants, who, having already made it through three rounds before the main Grand Slam began, are expected simply to be chum for the fresher, seeded players.
Pavel does win the Diamond Club. It’s a first for Toby and his father: nobody they’ve ever hosted has won; the closest they came was a semifinalist, Pratesh, who had to retire with a hobbled ankle. They have sushi in honor of the triumph. While they’re waiting for their green-tea ice cream at the end of dinner, Toby’s father slides an envelope to Pavel’s side of the table. A well-worn ritual. What is this? Pavel asks. Toby’s father just raises his chin, meaning, Go on, open it. He smiles.
Discovering the check—as always, made out to Cash—Pavel looks at Toby, then at Toby’s father. I don’t understand. This is also the prize?
This is extra, Toby’s father says.
I don’t understand.
Consider it a gift. For your travels. Your equipment. If you’re holding back from hiring a coach, now you can. Go up even higher in the rankings!
No, no. Pavel puts the check back in the envelope and hands it to Toby’s father, whose mouth is open. Who has to make a concerted effort to put his face back in place. I don’t need this, Pavel says. Between his first and second utterances, Pavel has switched tones. He’s become conciliatory, polite, taking into account Toby’s father’s hurt feelings. And then he offers this explanation: Thank you, but my father, he works in Paris in a pharmaceutical company. I would not be doing this without him. He gives me everything I need, and we have an agreement that I try my very best. I am lucky that I have this father: his dream and mine are the same.
This is the complete opposite of Martin, with his patched-together racket and that hangdog look. Pavel is someone, if not of Toby’s and Toby’s father’s class then very close to it. Toby has a cousin in the pharmaceutical industry, who lives in New York and London and owns a place in each city. The cousin’s Instagram is a wet dream of exotic locations: Abu Dhabi, Phuket, Capri—all with the same sunset, the same tedious vista of jewelled water and pristine beach. I mean, why not just save yourself the hassle and stand in front of a revolving painted backdrop, with an ever-replenishing blunt between your fingers? Toby thinks.
No wonder Pavel loves Federer. His love for Federer, in light of this revelation, is pure class allegiance. Federer, the silky Swiss spokesman for Moët & Chandon, for Rolex.
If that is true, then how does Toby account for his own Nadal mania? It’s not for the off-court Nadal, who is a millionaire many times over, but for the player who has the press writing about the tennis court as a bullring in which he’s not a minimalist matador of a few decisive moves but the lowliest of the low—the bull, with his grunts and his flexed eyebrows. For Nadal, as for no other player, victory is hard work. How does lazy Toby explain his fervent admiration for somebody who, as the press notes, “fights for every point”? But isn’t that the essence of dreaming—wanting to be somebody you’re not?
The following morning, Toby drops Pavel off at the airport, from where he is flying to Florida, for the next event. The Czech is as much of a stranger as he was on the day that Toby picked him up. Toby notices that Pavel is headed directly to the boarding gate, with a pre-screened ticket. Also, when the plane boards, he’ll have priority over other passengers, which costs extra.
Pavel didn’t need the tournament-winner check the way Martin did. He would never have conspired, as the Chilean had, to earn the equivalent—or maybe more—through extracurricular wranglings, which have cost Martin far more than he anticipated or is capable of paying. How unfair life is.
Another unfair fact of life: although he nabbed the champion’s trophy at the Diamond Club, Pavel is not even half as talented as Martin, who, if he had not hooked up with criminal colleagues, might have gone all the way in La Jolla.
One shot in particular to illustrate Martin’s skill, something he hit over and over during his two rounds of genuine play: he is in the service box by this point, having sent a shot deep, barely allowing his opponent to get the ball over the net, and the ball meets his racket not at the center, where the logo is, but on the outer rim, the racket held nearly vertically, as if he were using it to shield himself, and with the softest—the softest—grip, so soft that the handle is nearly unclasped, tapping, kissing the ball, which obliges by swooning just onto the other side, where, once it greets the court, it falls away with the slightest postcoital shiver. No opponent, regardless how speedy his legs, can do anything but gesture at a return, with a cry of futility that masks the admiration he must certainly feel for having been dispatched with such subdued poetry.
As before, Toby takes the precaution of closing the curtains, and he sits facing the door, in case his father should decide to walk in, though how could he, since Toby has locked himself in?
Martin looks terrible. Well, it’s 4 a.m. in Santiago. He has stayed up to be able to make this assignation.
How are you? Martin says. You look good. Becoming more of a man every day.
Toby asks him about Pavel. Does Martin know the Czech player?
I don’t think I ever played that guy. His ranking sounds way higher than mine.
He won.
If I had a beer I would be making a toast.
How is your case going? Toby asks. He would not normally go straight into business, but he doesn’t know what else to say. This is his third and, he hopes, last encounter with Martin, though he’s sure that Martin wants their sessions to drag on.
Martin is appealing his lifetime suspension from the game. He tells Toby his lawyer is confident that they can get the ban down to two years—maybe one year with community service, which would involve being the South American face of an advertorial about the ills of tennis gambling and match-fixing. The Chilean has already given up his underworld contacts to the tennis authorities, so he has to produce other bargaining chips. Not so smart, but this is retrospective wisdom.
How is the weather there? A dead conversational gambit that Toby hopes will signal to Martin that he has fallen out of love.
The only good thing about being stuck here is the weather, Martin says. It’s hot. I don’t like the cold. I don’t think I can live in a cold place. Martin smiles. It’s hot where I am, and it’s hot where you are. Why don’t we make it the same hot?
Toby should not have blabbed about being in love with Nadal. Both the stellar athlete and Nadal the Torso. Should not have given the Chilean another item in the drop-down menu of disadvantages to capitalize on. He sighs. I already told you. My father doesn’t want you here.
But after he goes back to Macao. He doesn’t have to know. Just you and me.
He’s staying put this year.
You are lying to me, Toby. I thought we were friends.
I’m not lying.
O.K., O.K. Martin is nodding. I will keep apologizing until your father accepts. You are telling him my apologies, right?
Yes.
Are you sure?
Whenever I can, I’m repeating what you say.
I don’t want to keep trying and he hangs up on me. So it has to be through you. Are you trying?
I already told you.
O.K., it’s late, and I do not want to be a drag. You say you’re telling, and I have to believe you.
Behind Martin, Toby can’t make out much of anything. Is that a bed frame? Are there windows, or could that be a trick of the video grain? Did Martin turn out all the lights to save on electricity? Or so as not to spoil the fiction of his poverty?
I swear, I’m not lying, Toby says.
You are no longer my friend. I understand. I disappoint you. This is my life: I disappoint so many people. But you have to understand—
I do, Martin.
—you have to believe me, I would not do that thing if I do not have to. I need the money. So I was blinded because the money is quick. Who wouldn’t be, in my situation? This is as much as Martin has talked about his cheating. Frankly, Toby does not have the heart to press him on the details. He has the most important part: the impossibility of Martin’s making a living from the thing he loves most.
Did I tell you I had to sell my guitar to be able to buy a new racket? Martin asks. When I was sixteen, seventeen?
Yes.
I can tell from your voice—you are tired of my stories. You think they are bullshit.
That’s not true. I’m here, aren’t I? Just as I promised. Have I ever not shown up?
It’s O.K. I deserve it. I exaggerate many things, but this I do not exaggerate: my life here is poor. Do you know how much they are paying me at the club to teach the rich people tennis? Only a little more than the waiters. I can pay for my apartment and food, and that’s it. At least when I’m competing I am travelling—I am outside my life and outside my head. They say that my life—my former life—is like being a machine: you just keep hitting the ball, over and over. I mean, I used to agree. But now I realize: yes, it is like being a machine, but a machine with soul. You are always fighting to keep the ball alive. To never let the ball die on your side—that is the spirit. Always this fighting, sweating, the breathing of your mouth, like you are singing a song of air. And the two, three people watching—in my imagination, it is two thousand, one half of them cheering my name: Mahr-teen! Mahr-teen! Mahr-teen! So that my name isn’t even my name anymore, but like the title on a poster. Like “Evita.” Or “Paddington.” And everyone—the people watching and myself—we all want the same result: not just that I win but that I deserve to win because if I play so beautiful how is it possible that I don’t win? Every day I wait for the decision of those motherfucker officers. That they will say, You make a mistake, but we give you another chance. Everyone deserves a second chance. That is all I am asking. And then it doesn’t matter if I am poor. I can stand to be poor then, so long as I am doing the thing I love.
As usual, Martin is saying all the right things. Either he has his act down or he is genuine. Most likely both.
I can promise you this, Martin says. If I was in La Jolla, it would be the summer of your life!
Toby’s face and shoulders suddenly start to itch. His nails find the spot, only for the spot to move.
What is wrong with you? Martin moves closer to the camera, all eyeball.
Nothing.
I can put lotion on it if I was there!
Toby has dreams that he won’t confess to Martin. Because to talk about dreams is to pour dousing sunlight on them. He and Martin go to the zoo and kidnap the swans: that is one dream. Although he understands that, in this instance, Martin is a proxy for Apichat and for Albert from Canada, although Toby and Albert never fooled around, just flirted. At least, Toby thinks they flirted. Also, and most wincingly, Martin could never be more than a pale stand-in for Romiro, the only boy Toby got close to at Bollettieri. He and Romiro would often wander off the trails in one of the local parks. Amid trees and nature, they would take turns going down on each other, hesitantly at first, and then with studious lasciviousness.
I have to go, Toby says.
So soon? What you have to do?
I have to let you go.
You are my only friend, Martin says.
Thank you.
Maybe tomorrow we can talk again?
Maybe. What he doesn’t say: Let me go.
Wait. Don’t say goodbye yet. I have one request.
What.
Don’t think I am taking advantage, Martin says. Because you are the only one I can ask. Can you PayPal me five hundred?
O.K. Toby doesn’t even ask about his father’s check. The lawyer gobbling it all up. He feels his resolve to be done with Martin growing smaller—a dot on the horizon.
You’ll do it? You’re the best.
This is the last time. My dad is cutting me off.
Wait. One thousand, then.
I don’t have that much! What he’d really like to say: How much for you never to contact me again? He pictures the check that Pavel rejected, which his father ripped up in disgust.
You have everything! Martin says. O.K. Seven hundred. And fifty. Seven-fifty. Please. Please?
O.K. But that’s it. Yet again, he understands that this will not be the last of Martin. And not just because of the Chilean’s persistence but also, and mostly, because of Toby, who is girding himself for a slate of future houseguests who skew more Pavel than otherwise: Pavels Two through Ten. Not so much in their wealth but in their diffidence. An irritating self-sufficiency. Martin is all Toby has. Martin is the proverbial bird in the hand.
The money—it is all for the dream, Martin says. To play again. To be on the court. Befitting the subject, his voice is dreamy, far away. A 4 a.m. tone. Do you know what they are telling me? If I come back? I will have to start at the very bottom. That’s right—Futures. Tashkent—do you know where that is? Do you know they have an event in Tashkent? Camels and yaks watching you sweat for points. It’s like a joke to call it Futures when you are going into the past. My previous ranking I will give up and I have to start at zero. I will do it, too. Happy for me that day. I lie alone, and I can’t wait for the next day to come, and the next. Time will move. And soon my problem will be fixed. Everyone in Santiago—my father, my brothers and sisters, the people at the club—they tell me to give up. Martin, you are twenty-five, it is time to grow up. Maybe this cheating is actually a blessing. It is right at the center of the “X” that is your life: in one direction, growing up; in the other, staying the same. What will you choose? That is my father. Also my older brother. Sometimes I get so lonely I talk to people waiting for the bus. I tell them my situation—not everything but close to it. They are quiet, but I can see in their eyes: this is all a dream, and it is time to grow up. Everywhere I turn, there are the same words: grow up. I never answer them, because I am humbled. It is my own fault that I cannot defend myself, because after what I have done who will listen to me? But if I could answer them I would say, Not yet to grow up. I need more time. Please. More time. The dream is not dead. There is still hope. Only after hope dies, then I will agree: yes, I can grow up. But not before. Only till then. Please. And, once more, he plays the word for the most forlorn—and to Toby—heartsore beat: Please. ♦
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