Authors: Sebastian Faulks
ends. Such technology was rare, Bond knew, outside a television studio and it must have cost the club –
or, at any rate, the members – a hefty amount. In addition to these games, there were indoor facilities in a basement complex immediately below the outside courts. Progress of these matches could be monitored from the indoor gallery that encircled them.
A minute later, Bond heard footsteps approach him. It was the man in the kepi.
‘Excuse me,’ he said in English. ‘Mr Bond? My name is Chagrin.’
Bond turned to face him. He had yellowish skin, narrow eyes with the epicanthic lids of the Orient, and flat, inert features. There was something half dead, or at least not fully alive, about him, Bond thought. He had seen that lifeless flesh once before, in a stroke victim. It sat oddly with the man’s otherwise active demeanour.
‘I think you play Dr Gorner.’ Chagrin’s accent sounded Chinese or Thai.
‘If he’s looking for a game,’ said Bond, casually.
‘Oh, yes. He looking. I introduce you.’
Chagrin led the way past the spiral staircase that wound up to the extensive viewing area, bars and restaurant.
Gorner was staring through the plate-glass window at the nearer courts.
He turned and looked Bond in the eye. He held out his right, ungloved hand.
‘What an enormous pleasure to meet you, Mr Bond. Now, shall we play?’
.
5. Not Cricket
The changing room was on the lower ground floor, and included a large steam room, four saunas and enough colognes and aftershaves to have stocked Trumper’s of Mayfair for a year. Bond, who was used to the club in Barbados (single shower stall, wooden bar with cold beer) or the shabby back rooms of Queen’s Club in London, noticed that no amount of expensive scents had quite concealed a rancid under-smell of socks.
Gorner changed in a secluded cubicle, and emerged in new white Lacoste shorts that showed off muscular, tanned legs. He had retained the long-sleeved flannel shirt and the white glove on his large left hand. Over his right shoulder, he carried a bag with half a dozen new Wilson racquets.
Without speaking, as though he merely expected
Bond to follow, Gorner led the way upstairs and out into the playing area, which consisted of a dozen immaculate grass courts and the same number again of beaten earth with a powdery red dirt dressing. The club was proud of the surface, said to give a fast but exceptionally regular bounce and to be kind to the joints of knee and ankle. At each court there was a raised umpire’s chair, four smaller wooden seats for the players, a supply of fresh white towels and a fridge, which contained cold drinks and new boxes of white Slazenger tennis balls. Marshals in the club’s striped green and chocolate colours moved busily between the courts to make sure the members were happy with their arrangements.
‘Court Four is free, Dr Gorner,’ said one of them, as he ran to meet them. He spoke in English. ‘Or Number Sixteen if you would prefer grass this morning.’
‘No, I shall take Court Two.’
‘Your usual court?’ The man appeared anxious.
‘It’s occupied at the moment, Monsieur.’
Gorner looked at the marshal as a vet might inspect a spavined old horse to whom he is about to administer a lethal injection. He repeated, very slowly, ‘I shall take Court Two.’
The bass-baritone voice retained a slight Baltic
thickening of the vowels in the otherwise cultured English pronunciation.
‘Er . . . Yes, yes. But of course. I shall ask the gentlemen to move to Court Four straight away.’
‘You will find Court Two a better surface,’ said Gorner to Bond. ‘And one isn’t troubled by the sun.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bond. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was already high. Gorner took a fresh box of tennis balls from the fridge, threw three to Bond and took three for himself. Without consultation, he selected the far end, though there was no obvious advantage that Bond could see. They knocked up for a few minutes and Bond concentrated on trying to find a nice, easy rhythm, hitting the forehand well in front of him with a good long swing, and slicing the backhand with a proper follow-through. He also kept an eye on Gorner’s game to see if there were obvious weaknesses. Most players concealed their backhands in the knock-up, but Bond hit several wide to that side to give Gorner no chance. He chipped each one back to Bond’s baseline without difficulty. His forehand, however, was not really a tennis stroke at all. He slashed downwards at it with heavy slice, so that it fizzed flat over the net. Either he could not play a
regular forehand drive with topspin, thought Bond, or he was keeping it in reserve. In the meantime, Bond knew he must not let the awkward slice unsettle him.
‘Ready,’ said Gorner. It was less a question than a statement.
He marched up to the net and began to measure it carefully with the metal yardstick that hung from the end. ‘You think I am wasting my time with this, Mr Bond, but I invite you to consider. At our level, almost every shot passes only a few inches over the net, and perhaps once each game the ball will actually strike the netcord. Add in the ‘‘lets’’ from services and the figure is higher. In a close match there are perhaps two hundred points and a typical winning margin of less than ten. Yet of those two hundred points perhaps thirty, including services, are affected by the net – more than three times enough to win the match! One should therefore leave nothing to chance.’
‘I’m impressed by your logic,’ said Bond. He swung his racquet a few times to loosen his shoulder. Gorner adjusted the net by slightly tightening the chain that was attached to the central vertical tape and hooked to a bar in a hole in the ground. He then slapped the netcord three times with his racquet.
There was no handle, Bond noticed, to raise or lower the net from the post. The netcord itself ran down the post and disappeared beneath a small metal plate into the ground – presumably on to a wheel where it was pre-tensioned by the staff. This left the central tape and chain for fine-tuning purposes.
‘Good,’ said Gorner. ‘Will you spin?’
Bond twirled the racquet in his hand. ‘Rough or smooth?’ he said.
‘Skin,’ said Gorner. He leaned over and inspected Bond’s racquet. ‘Skin it is. I’ll serve.’
Bond walked back to the receiving position, wondering what a ‘skin’ was, unable to suppress the thought that the slang term might apply equally to rough or smooth.
Although they had taken a few practice serves, this was the first chance Bond had had to see Gorner’s action properly. ‘Watch the ball,’ he muttered to himself.
This was easier said than done. Gorner bounced the tennis ball in front of him with his racquet once, twice, three times, then started to turn round, like a dog when it makes its bed. When he’d completed a 360-degree circle, he threw the ball high with his left hand and kept the arm, with its large white glove, extended until the last second – when the racquet
smashed through and sent the ball thudding down the centre line. So put out was Bond by the whole procedure that he had barely moved.
‘Fifteen,’ said Gorner, and moved swiftly to the advantage court.
Forcing himself to concentrate and not to watch the circling rigmarole, Bond dug his toes into the beaten earth. His backhand return was cut off by Gorner, who had moved swiftly to the net and slammed his volley into the far corner. ‘ Thirty.’
Bond won only one point in the first game. Gorner opened a bottle of Evian from the fridge and poured some into a glass, from which he took a single sip. He made a gesture with his left hand towards the fridge, as though inviting Bond to do likewise. As he did so, the buttoned cuff of his shirt separated for a moment from the white glove. When he moved off
again, Gorner playfully smacked the net twice more, as though for good luck.
Trying to put out of his mind what he had seen of Gorner’s hair-covered wrist, Bond walked back to serve. One’s first service game is always important in setting the tone for a match. Bond, who had a strong first service, decided to throttle back a little and concentrate on accuracy. He pushed Gorner wide on both sides, but whenever he came in for the volley
found himself adroitly lobbed. At 30–40 down, he twice served into the top of the net and saw the ball rebound on to his own side. Double fault: a craven way to lose one’s service.
It was difficult for Bond to find a way to break up Gorner’s rhythm. He remembered with Wayland in Barbados that he could sometimes slow the game down, mix it up and make the young man overhit in his desire to attack. Gorner made no such mistakes. His slashed forehand was hard for Bond to volley: he had to get his racquet right out ahead and punch through it to nullify the spin – not that Gorner gave him much chance to volley, since as soon as he saw Bond advance, he unleashed another lob that fell, with irritating regularity, just inside the baseline, leaving a clear mark in the reddish surface. When Bond served, Gorner would swiftly call
‘Out’ and make no attempt to play the ball, which would hit the back netting and rebound. Just as Bond was about to hit his second serve, Gorner would shout ‘Hold on’ and trot back to push the rogue ball out of the way. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he explained.
‘I saw a man break his ankle by standing on a ball only last week. Carry on.’ By then, Bond’s rhythm was disrupted and he was glad just to get his second serve in play.
Tenaciously, Bond clung on to his service games until he found himself facing Gorner at 3–5 down. It was his last chance of breaking back before the set was over. He decided to stay back, work Gorner from side to side and hope to elicit a mistake. For the first time, Gorner began to look fallible. He twice hit his fizzing forehand long, and for the first time in the match Bond had a break point, at 30–40. Gorner served wide to the backhand, but Bond hit a solid cross-court return and got himself into the rally. He then hit deep to the base line and Gorner spooned up a half-court ball off the backhand. This was Bond’s chance. He closed in, kept his eye on the ball, and whipped a forehand topspin winner down the line.
‘Out,’ called Gorner. ‘Deuce.’
Gorner was into his service procedure again before Bond had time to protest. Gorner won the game and the set: 6–3. As they changed ends and Bond went back to serve for the first game of the second set, he went over to where he thought his forehand drive had bounced. There was a clear scuff mark three inches inside the sideline.
Bond gathered himself. As he went into his service action, Gorner was jumping around, twirling his racquet, feinting to come in, then rapidly retreating. It was an old tactic, Bond knew, but not an easy one
to counter. He forced himself to watch the ball and smacked a hard first service down the centre. ‘Out,’
called Gorner.
‘I think not,’ said Bond. ‘I can show you the mark where it landed.’ He walked up to the net and pointed.
‘An old mark,’ said Gorner.
‘No. I saw my service land there. I deliberately left a margin for error. It’s at least six inches inside.’
‘My dear Mr Bond, if your idea of English fair play is to question a man at his own club, then please be my guest and play the point again.’ Gorner smacked the sole of his shoe with his racquet to remove any loose particles of dirt. ‘Go on.’
Bond’s first re-taken serve was long. He hit the second crisply, with slice, and was disappointed to see it hit the netcord and skew off into the tramlines.
‘Double fault,’ said Gorner. ‘Poetic justice, don’t you think?’
Bond was beginning to feel enraged. From the advantage court, he fired his best, angled serve wide to his opponent’s backhand. ‘Out,’ came the prompt and confident call.
As he wound up for his second, Gorner called,
‘Careful! Behind you.’
‘What?’
‘I thought I saw a ball just behind you.’
‘I’d prefer it if you left me to look out for these things.’
‘I understand, Mr Bond. But I could never forgive myself if my guest were to come to some harm. Please do carry on. Second service.’
Tennis, more than most games, is played in the mind. Anger is useless unless it can be channelled and kept under control – as a key to concentration. Bond knew he had to change his game against Gorner. For a start, he seemed to be having no luck at all. He had hit an inordinate number of netcords on his service, few of which had rebounded into play, whereas Gorner, even with his rather flat service, had not once touched the net. Furthermore, there was no point in Bond’s hitting the ball close to the line. Every shot he played from now on had to bounce at least two feet inside the court. With this in mind, he began to play more and more drop-shots, since no one can dispute that a ball which lands only a few feet over the net is in play. The drop-shot itself seldom wins the point in club tennis, however, and the player who produces it must at once go on to a high state of alert. Bond had learned this lesson at a heavy price from the speedy Wayland. Gorner was not so quick, and Bond was ready for all his attempted lob and flick replies, even punching several successful
volleys past the man he had finally dragged out of position.
Gorner now circled not once but twice before serving. At the top of the ball toss, he held his whitegloved hand for as long as he dared in front of the white tennis ball before hitting it. He became a jack-in-the-box while waiting to receive. He interrupted almost every service point of Bond’s with a move to swat away a ball that had conveniently rebounded from the back netting, or ‘fallen’ from his pocket. But the distractions only succeeded in making Bond concentrate harder until, in the eighth game of the set, he finally and for the first time in the match, with a sliced forehand volley, hit straight down the middle of the court – far from any line – broke Gorner’s service.
Bond hit two unreturnable first serves to go 30–love up, then netted an easy backhand volley. On the fourth point he was lobbed. Thirty–all. Serving into the forehand court, he had the choice of swinging it out wide or hitting flat down the middle. He chose neither. He punched an 80-per-center straight at Gorner’s ribs, so as to give him no width. Gorner, surprised by the change of line, spooned up his return and Bond collected the winning volley with relish. It was 40–30: set point to Bond. As he began to