by Alan Chin
J.D. smiled as wide as Kansas. “Am I good or what?” He looked at me and Jared. His smile faded. “What? Trust me, no one can get you a better deal than this. You’re set, we all are.”
“J.D.,” I said, “this is overwhelming. We appreciate what you’ve done, but Jared and I need time to think this over.”
“What’s to think? This is what it’s all about, the golden egg, the bottom line, right?”
“J.D.,” Jared began. “Daniel is right, this is overwhelming. We owe you so much. You saved our lives, for Christ’s sake, so we want to give this deal careful consideration. Daniel and I just need time to talk. I don’t want to commit to anything until after the French.”
“Sure, Jared. Whatever you say. There’s plenty of time. Just tell me one thing. Are you guys talking to other agents behind my back? Be honest with me, I can take it.”
I wheeled over and held J.D.’s hand. “Like Jared said, we owe you our lives. You’re family. When we sign a deal, it will be with you.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and they sparkled golden in the afternoon light.
The Baroness sent Alma to fetch a bottle of Dom Perignon and a tin of Beluga Caviar.
Roy grasped my hand with his stubby fingers, saying, “I know we’ve locked horns in the past, and I’ve not given you the support you needed, but that stops here. This deal would never have happened without you. I don’t have what it takes, and you do. I’m so damned grateful, I could kiss you myself. From here on, no matter what, I’m behind you all the way.”
For a split second I thought he would kiss me, but he merely shook my hand. Funny what money does to people, I thought.
As the champagne poured, we all toasted our good fortune. Jared and I sipped just enough to be polite, then Jared carried me to our room and laid me on the bed. We peeled off our clothes. I had lost count of how many times we had made love in this special place by the sea, but this time we only held each other. I felt his skin against mine, noticed how his breath tingled across my neck, listened to his heartbeat thumping the same cadence as mine.
I knew we were experiencing the same fears: that if we signed the contracts, our lives would change dramatically in ways that we could not foresee.
The main issue was that we would be required to attend all the major tournaments, which would mean globetrotting for ten months out of the year, just when we had started to nurture our little dream of moving to Spain, getting married, and living in a house by the sea. I could feel that dream disintegrating into a fantasy that would remain just that.
We held each other until we heard the dinner bell.
Jared had food brought to our room, and we ate on the balcony by lamplight. The town lights glimmered in the distance like candle flames dancing on the wind. After dinner, Jared sat me on the railing, holding me close to him as we gazed out over the dark sea.
I wanted to tell him that we could have our dream, that we didn’t need the money, but I knew it was not about money. In the world of professional tennis, there is much more to proving who is top dog than winning titles. I sat there wondering how to reel him back to our little dream.
And if I succeeded, could he truly be happy with only that?
AFTER my morning therapy session with Connor and before Jared and Spencer returned from their run, I sat on the balcony eating our last breakfast at the villa. Glancing into the garden, I saw Alma sitting on the kitchen stoop smoking his hookah. The sweet tobacco smell drifted on the breeze and into every room of the villa. He smoked with an expressionless face, as if his whole being was intent on listening to the sounds that the wind carried off the Mediterranean.
Forty minutes later, Jared whisked me downstairs, and I sat in my chair while Alma loaded our luggage into the van that would take us to the train station. While I waited to be lifted into my seat, the Baroness glided down the stone steps like an apparition. She knelt before my chair, and I saw that her eyes were red. I wasn’t sure if she hadn’t slept, or if she had been crying, or if she had just taken her own comfort shot, and I didn’t dare ask. I took her frail brown hand in mine, and she pressed a white box into my palm.
“A gift,” she said, tilting her head to one side, “to remember us by.”
I lifted the cover to find the smoky green figurine that was her favorite: Sebastian.
“I can’t accept this. You’re being outrageously generous.”
She turned on me with an unblemished candor in her gaze. She glanced up at Alma, who stood waiting to help me into the van, before saying, “Nonsense. I know it was you who returned something to me of much greater value.”
I continued to protest weakly, “This is your favorite. Please, some other.”
“I may be wrong about you. You may be too young to appreciate Sebastian. Most men treasure defiance in the face of adversity. I believe it is only with considerable age that one sees that triumph can only be achieved through virtue: convinced of his righteousness, the youth clenches his jaw against the arrows ripping at his flesh and piercing his heart. Dignity under fire is the only true achievement. That is why I want you to have Sebastian. He reminds me so much of you.”
A sparkle of joy tinged her laugh before she said, “Besides, my dear, you will be doing me a great favor. You see, I must limit myself to only twenty pieces. Otherwise I would spend my entire life acquiring more and more of these little gems. It becomes a cruel obsession. But by taking this one, you grant me the enormous joy of finding a replacement. Please, do not rob me of this pleasure. I look forward to it so.”
“I don’t know how….”
She cut me off. “Thank me only if you have the willpower to cherish this one, the one given, and not crave more. If the bug bites and you become a collector, you should spit in my eye, because I have placed a terrible curse on your head.”
Chapter 30
THE train swept us from Barcelona to Paris, passing through ancient towns built of stone, olive groves climbing the hills in orderly rows, and vineyards speckled with field hands in straw hats. The French farms and pastures all had that immaculate look that made me think that they just popped into existence the moment I saw them, pristine and perfect Monets, one after another, not a blade of grass out of place. Each time a postcard scene emerged, I wanted to stop time so I could etch each detail of it into my brain, but the train sped on, leaving me with a sense of loss until a new scene emerged.
I was right to come to Europe, if only to once more experience the wonder: how this landscape seamlessly bridged past with modern, blending castles and legends and traditions with bullet trains and businessmen in Italian suits chatting on cell phones about the political situation in the Middle East. Crossing and re-crossing this time bridge brought me a sense of amazement.
As the train drew closer to Paris, I watched the sky, assuming that before we actually reached the city it would cloud over and begin to mist, if not outright rain. It didn’t even occur to me that it wouldn’t happen, because this city had always greeted me while swathed in a lead-colored shroud. But the sky remained liquid blue, and I finally yielded to the notion of arriving at a city I had never experienced before.
Paris is a myth, a dream one experiences while one is there: the low, beautifully carved buildings, lovers strolling down the Champs Elysees, the sidewalk cafés, street artists, tourist boats lazing down the Seine, and ooh la la, the cabarets. It was like drifting in a balloon high above and removed from reality. They say Paris is the city for lovers, and if that means, as I assume, that it is a beautiful fantasy, then I heartily agree.
For almost a year, in the tones of worshipers before a shrine, we had talked of playing the French Open. At last, we were only hours away from stepping onto the red dirt of Roland Garros.
Several hundred gay men had gathered at the train platform. How they knew we would arrive on that train is anybody’s guess. I suspected the Nike representatives were responsible, an attempt to drum up some free publicity before announcing we were signing with them. Whoever tipped them o
ff, we were caught unaware. Several people in the crowd held signs in English that said “We love Jared” and “Go Jared and Connor.”
Jared took me in his arms and carried me from the train. A cheer went up, and we were mobbed, literally crushed, by the fans pushing to get an autograph. A dozen police muscled their way through the mass of shrieking fans and escorted us to a line of taxis.
We were whisked across town to a charming family-owned hotel, Le Fleurie, on the left bank, a half-block off Blvd. Saint Germain. I halfway expected a crowd to greet us at the hotel, but when our convoy pulled around the corner, the street stood empty. I glanced at Jared and returned the same relieved grin that he flashed me.
The lobby and dining room were tiny but comfortable. There were several excellent restaurants within a two-block radius, the Latin Quarter was a leisurely ten minutes away, and the Marais was just across the river.
Jared and I checked in, and I wheeled into the only elevator, a tiny coffin-like interior of mirrors that started at about the level of my neck and reached to the ceiling. My chair barely squeezed in, and I had to reach around to push the top button, marked 5. The elevator door sighed and closed, but nothing happened. I sat there staring at my distorted face in the mirror. I hit the button again and again until, after a nervous hesitation, the elevator rattled and began to rise with a rather loud hum. I was instantly afraid that that damned box would get stuck between floors and no one would intervene to help because they didn’t understand English, but the box jerked to a halt on my floor, and the door rattled open.
Our room was only slightly larger than the elevator, truly one of the smallest hotel rooms on the planet, even smaller than the rooms in Tokyo. But even though there was no room to maneuver my chair and only one person at a time could squeeze into the bathroom, the room had a certain charm: modern furniture, original oil paintings, and when Jared lifted me in his arms, I could look out the windows and see the tip of the Eiffel tower climbing above the rooftops.
Jared suggested that we demand a larger room, but I said no, it didn’t matter. I didn’t plan to spend much time in the room, and when we were there, I wanted to wrap Jared around me like a blanket. As far as I was concerned, it was perfect.
Jared changed into tennis gear, and I maneuvered into the elevator again. We met the others in the lobby. We had planned to have lunch at a nearby café before catching the subway to Roland Garros for a few hours of practice, but after being mobbed at the train station, we were all afraid of being recognized on the streets. Roy suggested we hail a couple of cabs and drive directly to the courts. Harman volunteered to stop for sandwiches so we could eat at the courts.
At the tennis complex, we saw a mob of protesters assaulting the front gates. Oh no, I thought. I can’t face another scene like the one in Florida. I glanced into Jared’s watery eyes, and he took my hand, pulling me closer.
There must have been two thousand people carrying signs and punching the air with their fists. The signs were all in French, so we had no idea what they said, but the angry shouts clearly broadcast the mob’s outrage.
But something didn’t quite gel. Sprinkled through the crowd were a sizable number of gay men. In fact, the entire gathering looked like something I would expect to see in the Marais, which didn’t make sense. Why would gay men be protesting? Perhaps it has nothing to do with us, I thought, somewhat hopefully.
Our taxis whisked around the corner and sped to the players’ entrance. At the gate, we flashed our credentials, and the guards waved us through, but two other guards blocked the road just inside the gates. The driver leaped out and retrieved my chair from the trunk. Jared helped me into it while Spencer grabbed the tennis bags.
Karl Diefenbach strolled up. He resembled an undertaker in his signature black Brioni suit, black silk shirt, and black tie. The only color besides his pasty face and hands was a flash of a purple handkerchief in his breast pocket.
“Jared,” Diefenbach said. “I’m afraid you won’t need your tennis gear. In fact, I’m here to confiscate your ID badge.”
Connor, Roy, and J.D. crowded around us.
“We made the cut,” I said. “You can’t keep us from playing.” Although I spat out the statement, my voice went up at the last word, making it a question. I suddenly felt as if the ground shook under me.
Diefenbach smirked once, then again. “I take it you haven’t read today’s newspapers?”
“We don’t read French.”
“Well make a fucking effort to keep up with the latest developments.”
So, I thought, Diefenbach is angry. Good, now we’re all angry and we’re all trying to hide it.
Diefenbach pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Jared, have you been taking any medication?”
“None, why?”
“No cold medicine, pain medication, muscle relaxers?”
“Zero to everything, why?”
Diefenbach’s eyes narrowed on Jared as he mused aloud, “So your blood’s as clean as a whistle? You’re sure?” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.
“Why don’t you cut the crap and tell us why you’re here?” I said. My growing concern began feeding my anger.
“I’m afraid it’s completely out of my hands. You see, the drug testing at the Rome tournament revealed high levels of testosterone and also traces of a performance-enhancing drug in your blood called”—he pulled his reading glasses from an inner coat pocket, slipped them onto his face, and read something toward the bottom of the page—“androstenedione, which elevates the body’s production of testosterone. I’m afraid Jared has been suspended from professional tennis pending a hearing to determine the validity of the testing. I should tell you, if they rule against you, they’ll disqualify your win at the Italian Open and slap you with a two-year suspension.”
Oh God, I thought. Because of our fight, I hadn’t gone with Jared in Rome to ensure that nobody could tamper with his blood and urine samples before he handed them to the independent testing agency. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck me and my stupid pride. That’s why the gay men at the front gate were protesting. They must have already heard the announcement.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Jared said, his voice seething.
Diefenbach shook his head in amused disbelief. “What I know is irrelevant,” he said, and his smirk widened into a smile. “Perhaps you’re forgetting something. Perhaps you went to the doctor’s for back pain and he prescribed some medications, or you had a cold and you took some over-the-counter supplements to keep your energy level high, not knowing what was in it? I can live with a story like that. The inquiry board might go easy on you.”
“I did nothing of the kind, and you know it. You framed me, you bastard.”
“So you’re sticking to that story? Oh well, I’m afraid I must ask you for your players’ badges.” Diefenbach held out his hand, but he couldn’t resist adding, “I told you not to fuck with me. I would have let you have a small piece of the pie, but you got greedy.”
“You can’t take our badges,” I said. “I’m Connor Lin’s coach, and Jared is his hitting partner. I assume Connor’s drug test wasn’t tampered with as well? That would be too suspicious, now, wouldn’t it?”
Diefenbach lowered his hand as his double smirk turned downward. “There comes a time, after all the fucking around and whining, when you’re reduced to accepting the inevitable. You were outgunned from the beginning. I’m a jackal. I let the young lions roar and swagger about and take down the buffalo, and while they’re still strutting about, I sneak in and steal the prize. You might as well leave now with your dignity intact and save me the effort of pounding the last nail into your coffin.”
“The game is not over,” I said. “We’re just starting the fifth set. Becker said, ‘The fifth set is not about tennis, it’s about heart’.”
“Very well. Enjoy your workout. Connor, I wish you the best of luck in this tournament, and if you still wish to play doubles, I can arrange for a new partner.
And by the way, if you’d like a coach that can help your career instead of hinder it, I can arrange that too.”
Connor set his lips in a firm line. Roy stepped toward Diefenbach and said in a calm voice, “We’ll pass on that offer, Mr. Diefenbach. And I think you’re overestimating yourself with that jackal comparison. From my point of view, you look more like a weasel, and I don’t think you have a clue what the real prize is. Good day, sir!”
Diefenbach clasped his hands in front of his chest, as if he were granting absolution. He turned and walked back toward the administration building.
“Thanks,” I said, turning toward Roy.
A fire blazed in Roy’s eyes. He had a kind of quiet rage that made him look dangerous. “I told you we would go to the French as a team, and that’s what we are, to the bitter end.” He narrowed his angry gaze directly on me and said, “You’ve been dicking around with that bastard long enough. It’s time to squish him like a bug.”
“He’s the most powerful man in pro tennis,” I said, not bothering to hide my anger. “And in case you weren’t paying attention, he just squished us.”
“There are more powerful men than that two-bit pimp,” J.D. Lambert said.
“Who?” I snapped.
“Old business wisdom: you need a dirty job done, go to the money. Roy, didn’t you tell me your relatives in China were big wheels at the Nike clothing plant?”
Roy nodded.
“I have an idea,” J.D. said. “Let’s all meet up in Chinatown at seven for dinner.” He grabbed Roy’s arm, and they both jumped back into the cab.
There was nothing to do but perform our practice and pray that J.D. could pull a rabbit out of his hat, or in this case, an elephant out of his ass. By the time we were assigned a practice court, Uncle Harman had arrived with chicken sandwiches made with crusty French bread and cartons of potato salad. We all gobbled down the meal before getting down to business.
