“You want to look inside?”
“Yes? Don’t you?” Amanda replied. “I think we deserve to know what this is about.”
Elise got excited. “Perhaps it’s a Samurai sword.”
Amanda tried for several minutes but the tape was too strong.
“Take this,” Elise suggested, handing Amanda the plastic Killer Kurry knife. With a brisk cut Amanda swung the knife through the tape and opened the box.
Elise blinked her eyes. “Oh.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, there you go. Almost a Samurai sword.”
They both stared in amazement at the shiny, hand-crafted treasure inside the box.
“Isn’t it a bit long?” Elise asked.
“I don’t think you would actually use it,” Amanda said, nonplussed. “It’s probably something that you put on a shelf. It looks antique.”
The commentators on the TV suddenly began babbling and Amanda and Elise looked up. First Tamara came out of the tunnel and entered the court, then Natsumi was greeted by the spectators that had filled Rod Laver Arena. She looked perfectly content, focused and ready to go.
She and Elise looked at the close-up of Natsumi on the TV screen warming up for the match, then at each other. Then they stared down at the open Japanese box revealing a huge wooden phallus while their Killer Kurry Chicken Masala was growing cold.
***
“Advantage, Takashima,” Lynn Pebblestone announced.
Having the advantage meant a player was one point away from winning a game, but the opportunity itself never indicated the importance of a game. It could be the first game of the match – or the last. It could mean a player had a chance to get a break of serve or get back on serve, or take the lead, or simply hold serve.
Lynn’s eyes followed Natsumi who was heading to the AD court. She’d probably place the serve into Parova’s backhand corner, as this was the weaker side and could easily result in a mishit backhand return. Or she would serve into the Russian’s body so that Tamara would have to step around to hit the ball back. Or just go for the big bomb down the middle. There were many options, and it didn’t make the decision any easier that the Japanese player was one point away from winning the first set.
Sometimes a decision was impossible to make, Lynn reflected. She herself was struggling with some important decision-making at the moment. Tomorrow was the last day she could submit her predictions for the Love Game. Which of the players would become couples? Who would embark on a relationship? In the last four weeks, Lynn had kept her eyes and ears open for information about what had happened in the off-season, but she had come up with nothing so far. Most of the gay players were already in relationships and the few younger players she had heard of didn’t seem to have any connections to each other.
Every year the Love Game allowed each umpire four guesses. Last year, Lynn had correctly predicted the liaison of Martina Rodriguez and Antonia Sapore. But others had gotten that one right, too. It wasn’t a big surprise as word about them had spread after they had attended Monica Jordan’s New Year’s Eve party. Lynn had nevertheless won the Love Game, as she was the only one who had predicted the relationship between Elise Renard and Amanda Auster.
Usually she was one of the first to submit her predictions, and with a little laugh she had noticed during the pre-Australian Open staff party that the other umpires considered her reluctance to place her bets as a sure sign that Lynn was waiting for confirmation on a top-secret couple. She wished it was true and that she really had this information. But there was none. This year she was at a loss for the first time in her career. Moreover, she had to defend her title as Queen of the Love Game.
Yes, she knew what pressure was.
Sitting high on her umpire chair, Lynn observed Natsumi Takashima bounce the ball. Then she tossed it high and the ball went a little above her head. Natsumi had opted for the wide serve to Parova’s backhand which kicked up after the bounce – but not high enough to trouble Tamara. It was a timid serve and this time the Russian was prepared. She smashed it back right at Takashima’s feet and the Japanese player was only able to slice it in return. It fell short on Parova’s side of the court and the Russian dispatched it with a textbook dropshot winner.
“Deuce,” Lynn said into the microphone.
Predictable, she thought. Going for the safe serve instead of trying to hit an ace down the T-line. Nowadays everybody was playing it safe, it seemed. Even off-court the girls were stuck in long-term relationships. How boring! And a real predicament for the umpires who played Love Game. Only a couple of years ago everybody was having secret affairs. Playing Love Game was a gamble and predicting a couple who made it through the year a real achievement. And lamenting the good old times was a sure sign that Lynn was getting old, she scolded herself. With a little sigh the umpire turned her concentration back to the match and watched Natsumi toss up another ball. This time she hit a hard serve, adding a little slice, so that the ball bent towards Tamara Parova. Moving awkwardly, the Russian player got her racquet onto the ball which went high into the air and plummeted into the middle of Natsumi’s side of the court. The Japanese player rushed forward, about to smash the ball, but had misjudged the bounce. It went higher than expected and Natsumi had to jump into the air to hit the ball. The smash went right over the line, giving Tamara a break point.
“Advantage, Parova,” Lynn said, but her announcement was drowned out by the collective moan of the spectators as the airborne Japanese girl had fallen hard onto the ground, clutching her ankle.
***
“Have you packed?” Bernadette asked when she entered the cluttered room.
“Almost,” Polly answered. She knew Bernadette was just being nice and trying to take her under her wing a bit, but her motherly tone bothered Polly. Only her mom was allowed to talk to her like that and she didn’t like the thought that someone else was taking her place. Nobody would ever take her mother’s place, no matter what happened. Polly dedicated herself again to getting a grip on the chaos in her room. A week ago her mother had been released from the hospital and Polly had pushed the frightening thought of her mom’s heart condition far away again. Until the next time.
Bernadette strolled through the room, checking on Polly’s wardrobe, her racquet bag and her laptop which was still lying on the desk. It was the last item Polly would pack. It was the lifeline to home and to a world which – unlike herself – didn’t seem to move at all.
Sitting down on the bed, Bernadette grabbed the book that Polly was about to pack into her hand luggage. It was Tennis Nurse and The Eighth Player.
“So, you are reading this trash, too?” Bernadette said. She sounded disappointed.
“I don’t think it’s bad,” Polly replied. “It’s entertaining.”
“It’s cheap,” Bernadette spat out. She flipped through the pages, stopping at one point. She opened the book and took a closer look. Leaning over her shoulder to see what Bernadette was doing, Polly realized that the older player had spotted the annotations Morgana had left all over the book.
“Did you write this?” the older player asked.
“I actually don’t speak French,” Polly replied while she continued to pack.
“I do,” Bernadette said without looking up. “Whose book is this?”
“I borrowed the book from Morgana. She has the best collection as she studies the novels for her PhD,” Polly explained.
“I don’t understand what’s there to study,” Bernadette grunted, but then turned the page. “Let alone for a university paper.”
For the next twenty minutes, Polly finished piling clothes into her suitcases while Bernadette had settled back on the bed and was reading the Tennis Nurse novel. When Polly closed the lid of the last hard-top case, Bernadette looked up.
“Now you got me hooked,” she said with a wry smile, tapping her finger on the book.
Polly chuckled. She wanted to remark that Bernadette had not even started reading from the beginning but Bernadette ha
d already bent over again, skipping through the pages. Indeed, she wasn’t reading the novel, Polly realized. She was only reading Morgana’s notes.
“What did Morgana write down?” Polly inquired.
Bernadette shrugged. “Nothing interesting. Just her usual ramassis de foutaise.”
Polly shook her head, not understanding a word. She zipped her last bag up and grinned. “Ready!”
“Good,” Bernadette jumped up. “Let’s have dinner!”
They left the hotel room and walked down the hallway. When they had come back from Melbourne Park in the afternoon, planning the last night out on the town, Polly had insisted on taking Bernadette out and paying for the dinner. Not only was she feeling much better since her mother had been released from the hospital, but the new Canadian doubles dream team had reached the quarterfinal in the doubles competition, where they had beaten the Dutch team of Marieke and Michelle. Even though Bernadette and Polly had fallen short in the semifinal the good run meant that she had made a good deal of money at the Australian Open. The first time in her career that she had earned that much.
When they turned the corner they almost bumped into a couple of people filling up the area in front of the elevator. A small woman was directing a couple of hotel boys who were maneuvering trolleys with bags through the hallway into the elevator, causing a traffic jam.
“What’s going on?” Bernadette asked.
Heads turned toward the Canadians, among them the familiar faces of Amanda Auster and the Germans, Angela Porovski and Elise Renard. They all looked distraught.
“Natsumi had to retire with an injury,” Angela explained. “Looks like she has torn some ligaments in her left leg.”
“Oh god,” Polly moaned. An injury this grave would cost a player months and months of time spent in rehabilitation. “Is she in the hospital?”
“Yes, but her mother is taking her back to Japan for surgery,” Amanda remarked. “Natsumi’s dad is a well-known doctor.”
“It’s probably for the best to go home right away,” Elise said. Polly nodded but from the corner of her eye she saw Amanda pouting and shooting Elise a knowing side glance, but saying nothing.
***
Sasha sat down on the chair and tried to steady her breath. The last rally had been over ten strokes long, and in the end Antonia Sapore had played a great dropshot. Sasha had run to the net but hesitated for a split second too long, and even though she had reached the ball, she had hit it into the net.
She cursed into the towel and pulled it over her head. All her opponents knew that she felt uneasy coming to the net. That she would rather dictate play from the baseline. The crafty Italian was hitting short dropshots all the time, forcing Sasha to leave her comfort zone in the back. But since the season had started, Sasha’s inadequate abilities in the front of the court were no longer the main reason she made way too many errors at the net.
The closer she was to the net the closer she also was to the photographer’s pit. There they were, sweaty and expressionless, crouching together, with their cameras hiding their faces and waiting for her to come closer. The snapping of cameras. It seemed impossible to her now that she once used to love the rattling sound of it.
These days, every time she heard the continuous sound of a camera shutter, she wanted to grab her visor and pull it down further. How could she play tennis with these idiots slobbing around? Sasha took a deep breath. It had already been unbearable in the other matches but today it was worse. The photographers were lining up and waiting for her next error. They could smell the upset of an aging champion by an upcoming, good-looking Italian.
Sasha clenched her teeth. No longer did she hold her head up high. She walked with her eyes staring at the ground. She really couldn’t remember the last time she had posed confidently in front of a camera.
Under the towel it was dark and Sasha closed her eyes. When she was a child her father used to tell her a fable about a boy who had been enchanted by a witch, after he insulted the ugly woman. He grew a big nose and stayed very small. His own family didn’t recognize him anymore, chased him away and the boy had to work as a cook. Sasha couldn’t remember how the story ended. The boy probably had to find a magic herb to break the spell. As it happens in fairy tales, he probably found a beautiful princess and lived happily ever after.
“Time,” Anastasia Stea said into the microphone.
Sasha swallowed hard. She raised the towel and got up. When she walked over to the baseline, she looked away from the photographers and down onto the ground. The heat coming from the blue concrete was unbearable. It crawled up Sasha’s legs and enwrapped her mercilessly. No magic herb would grow on these grounds. Nothing that could save the dwarf with the big nose.
LIVING IT UP,
GOING DOWN
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
Keep it safe, Natsumi had said. Don’t you lose it!
The telephone call had been hurried. Natsumi had called Amanda from the hospital in Melbourne just before her mother had picked her up to fly back to Japan. Her Japanese friend had sounded dead serious. Amanda’s suggestion to mail the box to Japan was vehemently dismissed by Natsumi.
Don’t you dare send it to me! Keep it! Keep it safe!
Amanda didn’t understand the reason behind Natsumi’s vehement instruction, but finally gave in. So here she was observing her bag with the wooden box inside slowly disappearing into the x-ray machine at the airport, while she removed her shoes with sweaty hands and placed it in a plastic tray. When she walked through the scanner it didn’t beep but the security guards eyed her suspiciously. The guy screening the bags suddenly stood up and leaned over to another guard. They were whispering. Then they nodded at a female officer. With a sign, the security officer ordered Amanda to come with her. Looking around for Elise and her parents, she saw another female officer grabbing her bag. Elise was nowhere to be seen. The two women accompanied her into a bleak room and placed the bag on a table.
“Open!”
But Amanda couldn’t move. Her feet seemed to be stuck to the floor.
“I, I can’t,” she croaked.
“Open!” they demanded again, but when Amanda didn’t step forward, one of the women put on a pair of rubber gloves, zipped open the bag and pulled out the wooden box. Amanda felt the sweat gather on her forehead. She needed to get away.
“It’s not mine,” she stammered while making a step backward. Then she took another step – and stopped. The other officer had grabbed Amanda by her shoulders.
“It’s not mine!” Amanda now screamed.
“Be quiet,” the officer behind her purred. “Be quiet.”
Amanda began to struggle to break free from the woman’s grip but to no avail.
“Open,” the woman said again. “Open your eyes!”
Open your eyes? Her eyes were wide open, Amanda thought. What was going on? The high-pitched sound of an airplane was piercing through her ears. Amanda blinked. There was Elise staring at her, shaking her shoulders lightly.
“We are almost there,” Elise said. “You need to put your backrest up.”
Amanda moaned, but was relieved. She shouldn’t have fallen asleep. The plane ride from Doha to Dubai wasn’t that long. “I just had a nightmare. I dreamt that I tried to take – ,” Amanda quickly looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. “I tried to take it with me in the hand luggage.”
Elise shook her head. “You’re a fool, even in your dreams,” she whispered with a smile. “But I do wonder how we will get it through customs here. Do you think they are strict?”
Walking through the baggage claim, Amanda found that the Emirati security officers looked very strict. Strict and not up for any fun with big penises. They picked up their bags and headed to the exit. A big, green sign showed them the way: Nothing to declare. But in the past their huge amount of bags had often attracted the custom officers’ attention and it was not unlikely that they would want to open every single bag.
“I
need to go to the bathroom,” Amanda blurted out. She tugged on Elise’s shouldered racquet bag to gesture her to come with her. With Amanda’s loaded trolley they entered the next washroom.
“I can’t go through,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s not a crime to carry a dildo with you,” Elise whispered, but she didn’t seem convinced herself.
“It’s bad enough with an ordinary sex toy, but this one is antique. There might be a law against importing antique goods into the Emirates,” Amanda mumbled. “I should have looked that up.”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea to split it up,” Elise suggested. “I take the box and you the dildo.”
“Stop calling it a dildo. It’s a mara, a ritual phallus. Not a dildo.”
“It’s not helping that you are being such a smartass,” Elise snapped. She opened the wooden box and took out the phallus. “Here, take it!”
“No, I’m not taking it. I smuggled it into Qatar last week,” Amanda said. “You take it this time.”
“What if I have to open my suitcase? My parents are here.”
“That’s actually an argument for you being the one to take it. They will take one look at you and your parents and wave you through,” Amanda said persuasively. “You look innocent.”
Elise gulped and looked at the huge phallus.
“I took it through customs in Doha,” Amanda reminded her again. “In my pants.”
“Okay, okay, give it to me,” Elise sighed, stashing the carved wood between her racquets.
Nervously, they approached the customs officers again. Elise’s parents were waiting with questioning looks.
“They just pulled Luella out of the line,” Robert Renard said. Amanda and Elise turned their heads and saw the Galloway twin in a small room next door, unzipping one bag after another while a group of smirking officers surrounded her.
Love Game - Season 2012 Page 9