The Tournament

by John Clarke

  Luxemburg was wrong about that. Most of the press carried the story and it received wide coverage on television. There were two major versions of what had happened. One was headlined PARANOID POLISH WHORE ACCUSES GERMAN AUTHORITIES OF MURDERING WORTHLESS SHIT and the other was DANGEROUS CRIMINAL SHOT TRYING TO ESCAPE.

  Of the massive German contingent which arrived in Paris, only Mann and Einstein remain in the draw and both are openly critical of current German tennis officialdom. Nike president Friedrich Nietzsche has initiated legal proceedings against German organisers for attributing to him remarks expressing the idea that German players were supermen. ‘What I said in fact,’ he claimed, ‘was exactly the opposite.’

  At 10 am Thomas Mann called a press conference and attempted to say something but the sound system went dead, a hotdog stand blew up and the press tent caught fire. Matches were delayed for two hours while power was restored and officers checked the concourse for suspicious persons or other ‘devices’.

  When the tennis started there was a concerted attempt to pretend that nothing had happened. It was obvious to everyone at the stadium, however, that the atmosphere was full of menace.

  Thomas Mann’s previous matches were on outside courts but he was in the lion’s den this morning against the subtlety and placement of Eric Satie, who worked out what Mann was doing and began to steam his mail open. Every time Mann tried something different, Satie was on to it. Mann stopped booming his serve in and concentrated on accuracy; Satie boomed his returns in, crowded the net and forced the error. When Mann got the trainer out to look at a problem with one of his feet, Satie got his uncle out to look at some photographs. Satie and coach Jim Nopidies had worked on their rhythm and it was nearly the German’s undoing.

  ‘Satie is a tricky opponent,’ said Mann later, ‘because it’s hard to know what he’s going to do until he works out what you’re trying to do.’

  Satie said Mann played ‘superbly’ and predicts big things for him ‘if he can get past Magritte’.

  The French turned out in droves for the next match between the empress Simone de Beauvoir and little-known American Ruth Draper. A sensation was quickly on the cards here as de Beauvoir, playing as if the result were a formality, was put on notice that every point would be contested and that Draper had studied her game in detail. Draper was quick and efficient and the crowd watched in quiet dismay as she punched hole after hole in one of the great defences in modern tennis. The American was on the wrong end of some very dubious line calls to lose the second but she then raced out to 3–0 in the final set before the dame set off after her. Draper then became distracted by a small wooden aircraft flying low overhead. This was enough for de Beauvoir to clamber back in for a win. But she did not look like a champion today and she certainly didn’t feel like one.

  ‘Simone is a great player,’ said Draper. ‘And she’s not easy to play. One thing about German tennis, incidentally, is the influence it’s having on Italian tennis. If they go the same way I fear for many of my friends.’

  In a statement released tonight it was revealed that Draper’s friend Lauro de Bosis, an Italian opposed to the current administration of German tennis and to its influence on Italian tennis, had this afternoon appeared over Rome in a wooden plane, throwing out leaflets encouraging Italian players ‘not to allow the game in Italy to be run by Germany’. His plane has not been found. Ms Draper is said to be ‘inconsolable’.

  The crowd knew nothing of this, and was then presented with the more edifying sight of André Malraux carrying French hopes against Louis MacNeice. Auden, who was there to watch his friend MacNeice, said after the match that both players had performed brilliantly. He added that ‘the German tennis authorities have started rounding up Jews and dissident players in Germany. The head of the German Tennis Academy set the press tent on fire while Mann was talking. Mann and his family cannot return to Germany and are not permitted to leave France. I would like to announce that his daughter Erika and I were married half an hour ago and that as a result she will be able to remain in England, whither she has now departed.’

  The next unit in the French line on Centre Court was the self-styled Parisian ‘wild beast’ André Derain. He was up against Big Bill Yeats, who sometimes plays as if he’s in a dream and sometimes as if he’s starring in a movie about his own life. Today he settled into his work well before spotting Maud Gonne and her daughter Iseult high up in the northern stand, at which point he lost four games, broke his racquet and came out in a prickly rash. Covered in creams and soothing unguents he then lost the next three games and sat in the mist, moaning like a wounded stag. Gonne quietly made her way down from her eyrie and left.

  Yeats regrouped and won two games before noticing Iseult trying to scramble down behind the stand onto the back of a truck. He lost the next five games and scratched the skin off part of his face. As the fifth set began his brother Jack, a great friend of Beckett and a handy player himself, encouraged him to get a grip.

  Big Bill went to the back of the court, did a number of deep knee-bends and stood with his eyes closed for some time. He then served with greater power, moved like a panther and his fortunes changed. Changed utterly. Derain tried everything, but Yeats had his mind back on the job and was in full sail.

  In an interesting afternoon, Plum Wodehouse, who appears tomorrow with partner Chris Isherwood as one half of the celebrated ‘Woodies’ doubles team, took on the resourceful Herbie Wells in the singles. Plum ran everything down and by the third set he was chairman of the board, putting his passing shots exactly where he wanted them. He was thrilled that George and Ira Gershwin, and the injured Cole Porter, were present at the match.

  Wodehouse was in hot water later over comments he made during an interview with German radio. Asked what he thought of the state of German tennis he said, ‘Yes, very good. Can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’m a great admirer of German tennis and of your Teuton generally.’

  Albert Einstein made short work of his match with John Steinbeck this afternoon, clearing the decks with his service game and cleaning up where necessary from the net. Steinbeck likes to have a real swing at the ball and several times he saw the return pass him before he completed his shot. ‘This guy’s the business,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t much I could do today.’

  The Russian Anna Akhmatova might have wilted in the heat against Josephine Baker but was resolute and said afterwards, ‘I am opposed to everything that is going on in Russia at the moment except its Russianness.’

  Keynes’ fitness was always going to be a concern in his tussle with Kafka. A demanding five-setter in the first round and a huge second-round win over Paderewski had taken a heavy toll, especially for a man with a history of shin-splints. These were problems compounded by the angular Czech, who even ran to where balls would have landed if they hadn’t gone into the net.

  ‘There is no need to get to those,’ called Keynes.

  ‘How do we know that?’ said Kafka. He won the first two sets to love and as the players changed ends Keynes proposed that, since he hadn’t won a game and his position was ‘frankly hopeless’, the tournament ‘lend’ him a set, to get him going. Kafka had no objection and the scoreboard was altered to read: F. Kafka (Czech) two sets, J. M. Keynes (Eng) one set.

  This changed the Englishman’s approach. With a set up his sleeve he had a real go at his first serve and Kafka stood so far back to receive he became distracted by the attention of a young woman sitting in front of him and seemed to lose concentration. Keynes won 6–4 and set sail in the fifth (fourth) before Kafka, sensing a disaster, began to regain his composure. From this point Kafka didn’t do much wrong and, although Keynes’ revolutionary suggestion helped make a match of it, the little Czech won it in five (four). The full score was F. Kafka d. J. M. Keynes 6–0, 6–0, (6–7*), 4–6, 6–4.

  * Set advanced to Keynes and carried as a debit against the fourth, which becomes 2–1 to Kafka with an interest related debt of one (1) set secured over Keynes’ hol
dings in the fifth. Kafka wins four sets to minus one.

  Signed:

  Witnessed:

  Dated:

  Day 22

  * * *

  Chekhov v. Muir • Magritte v. Hecht • Beckett v. Munch • Russell v. Spock • Proust v. Puccini • Bierce v. van Gogh • Dali v. Jung

  * * *

  Tony Chekhov cruised into the fourth round today, though his opponent, the Orkney-born qualifier Edwin Muir, put together ‘the best set and a half of tennis I think I’ve ever played’. When Muir took the second set to a tie-break Chekhov applauded him and then simply got on with the job. He said afterwards that he could not comment on his play. ‘I was not in the audience. I did not see my play. I have reports that it went well. That is good. I must go to Moscow.’

  René Magritte had all the answers against the American Ben Hecht in a virtually error-free exhibition. In the second set, in particular, he played complete games facing the other way, hitting the ball back through his legs while looking at Hecht’s image reflected in the sunglasses of a service lineswoman. It was a visual treat and a hint of what was to come.

  Samuel Beckett prefers playing on an outside court and took some time adjusting to the main arena this morning. There were other complications beforehand, said friends. His mother was present and he required some treatment for boils, Peggy Guggenheim was present, his wife Suzanne was present, Joyce’s daughter was present, someone called the Smeraldina was present and a very nice woman from the BBC was present.

  He toyed with the idea of not going on. ‘I can’t go on,’ he said. But, realising Eddie Munch’s problems were worse than his own, he changed his mind. ‘I’ll go on,’ he said.

  The self-absorbed Munch, who couldn’t even get a wildcard into the Norwegian Open, exhausted by two tough matches and a skein of family bereavements, makes Beckett look like Bing Crosby. During the warm-up Munch could barely hold his head up and when play started he dragged himself to the baseline and waited like a condemned man.

  If the first set had any bright moments the crowd couldn’t find them. Munch, paler than ever, played with little interest and Beckett spent the set looking at the ground in case he caught sight of anyone. Neither player deserved to win it and neither did, although after a very long time Munch did at least lose it. It was the only set he did lose.

  Beckett predicted that the Norwegian would go well. ‘He won’t win the tournament, doesn’t want to win it and doesn’t care who does. And yet he is here, playing his best, knowing things can only get worse.’

  Little Bertie Russell was looking good against the Spockster until his family turned up. One of the Russell children made a noise during a rally and at the conclusion of the point Little Bertie walked over to the players’ box, where they were sitting, and yelled, ‘Will you be quiet! Can’t you see I’m playing?’ At 4–0 in the second set one of the ballgirls fell over near the baseline and Russell rushed over and fell on top of her. Momentarily distracted by a muffled sobbing from one of his children, he stood up and smashed his racquet into the ground. ‘I’m not going to mention this again!’ he shouted at the child. ‘Shut the fuck up while Daddy’s working!’

  Spock approached Russell. ‘I don’t think you should be talking to a child like that. You, of all people, must know how important early childhood is.’

  Russell bristled. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t that rather depend on what we mean by “know”?’

  When this happened Russell was 6–0 and 4–0. He didn’t win another game. Spock was magnificent.

  Highly fancied indigenous phoenix Marcel Proust was back to his best today against the lyrical Puccini. What a comeback this was from the translucent Proust, a touch player whose accuracy has earned him the appellation ‘M. le Drop’, but whose health seems to operate along the lines of a raffle. Everything Puccini does, by contrast, is structured. He often plays three closely contested sets with the brightest sections reserved for the closing moments and the tie-breaks. Against a resurgent Proust he became frustrated and lost concentration. Had he been more adaptable he might have seized the third set but Proust did what a lot of players won’t do when they hit trouble. He took his medicine, learnt his lesson and moved on.

  Ambrose Bierce was leading Vincent van Gogh with a set in hand when van Gogh came out and served a game made up completely of double faults, destroying much of the net and removing a section of panelling in the back wall. The laser unit which measures service speed emitted a high-pitched wail, displayed the legend 722 kmh and has not operated since. Van Gogh was in despair.

  Bierce needed only to stay out of trouble to go through. Staying out of trouble, however, is not Ambrose Bierce’s long suit and he proposed to the umpire that van Gogh be allowed to serve with no line calls. ‘If the ball is a fault or a shot is out, don’t call it, just keep a record of it. Leave him alone.’ Bierce then sat down and refused to play ‘until you let him play without yelling at him’. No great advocate of the system, Bierce did not attend the opening ceremony, the official American team dinner, the press club luncheon or the sponsors’ banquet. When asked if he had deliberately avoided these functions he said he had no idea they were on. He was disappointed not to have been told, he said, particularly in the case of the sponsors’ banquet, which he would very much have enjoyed deliberately avoiding.

  When play resumed, no line calls were made. Freed of the conventions of scoring, van Gogh moved faster, hit the ball with greater topspin and made much better use of the court. He played shots no one else would have attempted in what was a memorable display. Tennis authorities, who an hour and a half earlier had regarded him as a rogue bull, were all over him like cousins as he stood in the bright yellow light signing autographs. Bierce spoke to him briefly, shook him warmly by the hand and left the arena. He hasn’t been seen since. Friends think he may be in Bolivia.

  Two players more different in style and attitude than Salvador Dali and Carl Jung would be hard to imagine. Jung is often called upon by other players to help with a footwork problem, a crisis of confidence or a faulty service action. In Sam Beckett’s case, for example, Jung opened up his stance and allowed Beckett to ‘play properly’. He is even capable of analysing himself, or ‘myselves’ as he calls them: the Jung with the talent and the Jung with the brains. He was listed to play doubles with Freud but following a boat-trip during which the Doc accused Jung of resenting him because he was his father, Jung discreetly rearranged his schedule and is now playing doubles by himself.

  Dali, who appeared at the launch on a silver tray with an apple in his mouth, says he isn’t trying to work anything out at all and has never approached Jung for advice. As he says, ‘This artist was never a Jung man.’

  It was always going to be an absorbing contest and by midway through the second set commentators were sending out for new ways of describing what they were looking at. Jung, a great reader of other players, quickly reaches an understanding of what he’s up against. In Dali’s case he worked out that he was in a confined space with a player who sought a great deal of attention and was beating the pants off him. Dali didn’t work anything out, he just played spectacular tennis although there was debate as to whether the term ‘hat’ adequately covers what Dali had on his head. At some stages Dali himself was barely visible. There was just a ‘swish’ and the ball came flying over the net towards the various Jungs.

  Dali was spoken to by authorities following the press call which he attended dressed as Louis XIV. ‘Stand well back,’ he shouted. ‘I need room to masturbate.’

  Day 23

  * * *

  Seurat v. Waller • Lardner v. Chaplin • Wittgenstein v. Hasek • Shaw v. Eliot • Stein v. McCarthy • Tolstoy v. Mayakovsky

  * * *

  Georges Seurat’s challenge came unstuck today against Fats Waller, whose warm-up is desultory and who was using a borrowed racquet because he had forgotten his own. ‘Staying at home,’ he muttered. ‘Too tired.’ The minute he starts playing, however, there is nothing else
going on. Seurat is an experienced campaigner and is aware of the significance of every point but, even when he pulled Waller back in the second set, Waller took it in a tie-break and ran away again in the third like a kid at a Christmas party.

  ‘Charlie’s Army’ was out in force today; they wear bowler hats and slightly oversized shoes and many of them twirl little canes when things are going well. There was a good deal of cane-twirling today until Ring Lardner decided on a different tack. At the beginning of the second set he decided Lardner wasn’t going to play Chaplin; he was going to make Chaplin play Lardner.

  Lardner took the first game and then in the second he stood right up to the Chaplin service, hit it on the up and got in to the net. He lost the first three points but Chaplin put a forehand wide and was not happy. He then put two returns into the net and was very annoyed. He lost the game and threw his racquet on the ground. Lardner called ‘Sorry’ and the crowd laughed.

  Lardner held for 3–0 and broke again, this time by hitting the ball very late past Chaplin as he came in.

  The little tramp was furious. He lost his serve again at 4–4 in the third set, Lardner took it 6–4 and was 3–0 in the fourth before Chaplin got back on the board. By now the crowd knew they were watching something very unusual; a player who can take apart an opponent before the opponent realises it. Very little has been written about Ring Lardner, except by Henry Mencken, who has been practising with him, and by Damon Runyon, who revealed: ‘I have plenty of 80–1 on Mr Lardner before the matter commences as I believe him to be very handy indeed.’ But it was Mencken whose headline, above his syndicated column, best captured it: CHAPLIN STEPS INTO RING. RING STEPS INTO CHAPLIN.