The Complex

by Michael Walters

  ‘My phone didn’t charge last night,’ Leo said.

  Art was already halfway up the steps. ‘Do you really need it?’ he said, looking back.

  ‘I didn’t know we’d be cut off.’ Art’s socks had red flecks on them, and his shoes had a thick, crimson crust. ‘Clay? Really?’

  ‘A continental touch,’ Art said, continuing up. Leo followed, curious to see the surface. ‘And you can’t beat the crowds over there.’ Art glance at Leo’s creased white t-shirt. ‘Très chic.’

  ‘Whose place is this?’ Leo said. ‘Yours?’

  ‘Alas, no. A friend of mine’s. It is beautiful though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Does your friend live here?’

  ‘Leo, will you just enjoy it?’ Art opened his arms. ‘Look at this court!’

  It really was perfect red clay. Art must have gone over the court with a mat while Leo was having breakfast because the mat marks were fresh, and the lines were a clean white.

  ‘You brushed it,’ Leo said.

  ‘I like to start right.’

  Leo gave a twist with his feet as he crossed the court, seeing if his shoes were going to be a problem. He would have to be careful. The clay was the real deal, though, and he had to smile at that.

  ‘I’m not dressed for this,’ Leo said. ‘But it’s only a knock, right?’

  Art’s racquet bag was already in place, squatting at the left end of a long green bench, like a malign Buddha. Leo took the right side, putting his plate and racquet down on the smooth wood. There was a referee’s chair and a scoreboard tied to the fence.

  Leo watched Art go through his bag, which was stuffed with towels, tins of tennis balls and other things he couldn’t make out. Art picked out a black racquet with a black grip and black strings.

  ‘Expensive,’ Leo said, recognising the brand.

  ‘I call him Vader,’ Art said.

  ‘Did you say you had been playing a year?’

  ‘Or two,’ Art said, popping the lid on a new tin of balls. The hiss was faintly malevolent.

  ‘Right.’

  The sun was higher, and the air was warming up. The court was above the house and Leo could see over the bedroom wing, down the valley, back towards the Areas. The other way, up the hill, was a neat little clubhouse, modest at first glance, at the top of more steps. But it was bigger than it looked, camouflaged a little by its dark green paint. There was a balcony and a covered porch in front of two large windows that the architect of this place obviously had a thing for. One of the double doors between the large windows was open.

  Art zipped his bag shut and let the new balls fall out of the tube at his feet.

  ‘I’m warmed up,’ Art said. ‘Do you want to hit a few?’

  Leo swished Stefan’s racquet a few times as he walked to the clubhouse end. It was warm enough that his shoulders didn’t feel too stiff. Facing Art, he was also facing the sun. He squinted.

  ‘Here we go,’ Art said and fed a ball to Leo’s backhand. Between the sun in his eyes and the pace, Leo missed, and the ball zipped past. Art fed another, this time to Leo’s forehand, and Leo stepped to meet it. His foot slipped on the surface, so the ball hit the frame and rolled harmlessly towards the bench.

  ‘Can we start a bit slower, Art?’

  Art didn’t reply, but his next feed was better. They played a couple of forehands until the ball kicked up in the clay and Leo sent his shot well over the baseline.

  ‘Slower again?’ Art said, not hiding his amusement.

  Art had clearly been coached well, but there was a mechanical edge to his strokes. Leo couldn’t tell if Art was deliberately hitting the balls into the corners or if he wasn’t as good as he looked. Leo certainly wasn’t getting much of a practice. His hairline was already damp.

  ‘You’ve been playing all morning,’ Leo complained. ‘I haven’t played in six months.’

  Art gave him an enigmatic smile. ‘A couple of serves?’

  Leo stretched his arms over his head while Art knocked some balls down to him. Leo hit a couple of gentle, flat serves from the right court and they dropped pleasingly in. Art returned both down the line for winners. Leo tried a topspin serve and that too went in, kicking high on the clay. Art sliced that one into the net and tapped his racquet hard on his shoe in frustration.

  ‘What did we say last night?’ Art said. ‘A set? Rough or smooth?’

  A set would be plenty. There was no fun to be had here. Leo wished he had brought a big bottle of water instead of the small glass.

  ‘Smooth,’ Leo said. Art spun the racquet and let it fall on the net. He ran his thick fingers along the inside of the frame. Leo tried to see which it was, but Art was too quick.

  ‘It’s rough,’ Art said. ‘I’ll serve.’

  Leo had to smile. Did it matter who won when Art was so clearly stacking the odds? They were on holiday after all. It was a friendly. The match didn’t mean anything.

  Leo went back to the baseline, flicked up each ball between his shoe and racquet and hit them down to Art. He looked up at the clubhouse, impressively framed with trees in full leaf. It was completely quiet. Art bounced a ball and Leo enjoyed the sound of it, a heavier clump than he expected. Simple pleasures. The court was still mostly brushed and clean, the lines from the mat running from front to back. The sky was a deep blue above him. He felt boyish. Anything was possible.

  Art bounced the ball twice and made eye contact across the net. Leo nodded. Art threw the ball up high and Leo immediately lost it in the sun. He blinked and half-looked away, then heard the fizz of the ball and contact on the ground, before it hit the back fence, which gave a chain-like rattle.

  ‘Fifteen-love,’ Art said.

  Art hadn’t shown him his serve in the warmup. A knot of anger formed in his stomach. He really was being screwed over. He moved over to the left court. The angle was different enough that the sun wasn’t so bad. Art again threw the ball up and it seemed to hang there, his racquet back over his shoulder like a cocked pistol, until it began its fall and Art’s whole body snapped into it. This was another flat serve down the middle. Leo saw it this time, but he was too close to the service line and the ball passed him before he could get his arm out.

  ‘Two aces,’ Leo said, gritting his teeth. ‘Nice.’

  ‘Thirty-love.’

  He got his racquet on the next one, and the one after, but both returns went into the bottom of the net.

  They changed ends. Art jogged past him, collecting the balls on the way. His shoulders were up, and he didn’t look at Leo as he passed. Leo stopped by his bench and took a sip of water, then drank the whole glass in one long swallow. There was no breeze but there was a strange, white-noise quality to the air, like static. He cocked his head but couldn’t pinpoint it. He went to the baseline and looked down at the lawn and the swimming pool. The crystals were still dull, the line of the sun not quite on them. He looked along the fence but couldn’t see any balls. Art was looking up at the clubhouse, all the balls on the floor against the fence in front of him.

  ‘Thanks for two,’ Leo called, his voice dampened somehow on this side of the court.

  ‘Yeah,’ Art said, picking up two balls, still looking up.

  ‘See something?’

  ‘No.’

  Art hit the two balls down, then got the other two and hit those down too. He came back to the baseline. Leo chose the cleanest-looking one and bounced it several times, fast, with his racquet. He needed to get his eye in to have any chance. Each bounce left a little mark. He placed his foot just behind the baseline, bounced the ball again, and listened to his own breath. Looking at where Art was, he noticed how clear everything looked from this end of the court. The sun was behind him. The clay was a vibrant rouge carpet, the white lines clean and true. The trees were tucked into the hillside so that the court felt protected somehow and the sun highlighted dif
ferent colours in the leaves. Above the court the clubhouse stood watching, like an umpire, and he could imagine people laughing up there in pale green uniforms and white dresses, chatting amiably, sipping glasses of champagne.

  He twitched out of his serve position, shaking his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. Art adjusted his position too and sighed loudly.

  Leo served flat and half-paced to Art’s forehand. It wasn’t deliberately soft, but a kind of self-preservation. The last thing he wanted was to pull a muscle or tweak something. He wanted his first serve in play. Art played a neat, forceful return down the line. It was in.

  ‘Love-fifteen,’ Art said, and walked quickly to the backhand court.

  Leo’s next serve was flat to Art’s backhand, and this time Art sliced the ball short and cross court. Leo started to move towards it, but his shoes didn’t have grip and he pulled up.

  ‘Love-thirty.’

  He managed to not let the frustration get to him too much. He was four games down before he got into any sort of rhythm. They had changed ends again and he was back facing the sun, but he finally held his serve. His tennis brain was coming back. Art was struggling with Leo’s topspin on the clay, the ball kicking up in unfamiliar ways. His backhand returns started hitting the net. Leo started to add more spin to his groundstrokes. Art struggled more in the rallies and began smacking the bottom of his shoes with his racquet, sending dull thumps around the court. The surface became scuffed and swirled.

  Art started grunting when he hit the ball. Every ball. It was distracting for a few points, but then Leo filtered it out. Art questioned some line calls and they replayed a few points. The morning stretched on. Leo’s legs were heavy and his arms ached.

  Leo held serve one last time to make it six games all.

  ‘Tie break,’ Leo said.

  ‘A long set,’ Art countered.

  ‘I’m knackered. A tie break is enough.’

  Art raised his eyebrows. ‘You do look like death. My serve then.’

  The rallies became longer and Art’s grunting louder. At five-all in the tie-break Art served an ace out wide, catching Leo by surprise. It hit the line and skipped into the side fence.

  ‘Come on!’ Art shouted gleefully at the ground and shook his racquet in joyous fury. It looked a little fake to Leo, another distraction. Did the game mean that much to him?

  ‘Match point,’ Art said, and wiped his mouth with his arm. He took two balls out of his pocket and knocked them down to Leo. ‘Your serve.’

  The sun was much higher, and Leo had lost track of how long they had been playing. He felt dizzy and his stomach ached. He had an urge to double fault just so he could get off court. He had the sensation of static again mingled with distant laughter. The sun was behind him and he was facing the clubhouse. He saw three figures on the porch, each holding a champagne glass, watching the game. A tall figure in a green military uniform wearing a peaked hat and two women in white dresses, arms linked. His eyes stung with sweat and he blinked twice, rubbing them with his fingers. He looked again. They were gone.

  ‘Come on, Leo. Time.’

  He served for position and ran to the net, determined to end the point quickly, one way or the other. His head was buzzing and the racquet was slipping in his grip. Art hesitated and put up a lob. It was short and it gave Leo an easy smash. He moved back to take it, but he was so tired his feet got tangled. He took his eye off the ball. He hit the smash, but the ball came off the top of his racquet. He fell and landed on his backside. He twisted to push himself back up and a bolt of agony pierced his stomach.

  ‘Ah!’ he shouted and sat back down hard.

  The ball was still in the air. Art looked up at it, then looked down at Leo, his face a mask. He stepped back and waited for the ball to bounce. The ball hit the clay. Art had a hard smile on his face, his racquet up for a smash. Leo looked on helplessly. But the mishit ball spun violently away from Art towards the umpire’s chair. Shocked, Art scrambled to reach it and snapped his arm at the ball, the racquet making good contact, but the ball cracked into the net cord and rolled back on Art’s side.

  ‘No!’ Art’s cry was primal. He stepped back and slapped the ball on the floor with his racquet, catching it on the frame so it flew hard and low towards Leo, who heard it whizz past his head. Art stalked to the umpire’s chair and hammered the edge of the racquet on the top step. There was a loud crack and the step buckled. Art turned, face crimson, the head of his racquet misshapen. With another furious shout, he threw the stricken racquet like a discus over the fence, high into the trees. Leo watched it twist and fall like an arrowed bird. Art tipped Leo’s bench over with the sole of his foot.

  Leo started to giggle.

  ‘Jesus, Art. What the hell are you doing?’

  Art was looking at the tree line where his racquet had gone. His bull-like shoulders were going up and down fast. It took him several breaths before he could turn around. He turned and looked at Leo, who was still sitting in the clay.

  ‘Can you still play?’

  ‘You haven’t got a racquet.’

  ‘I’ve got four more racquets.’

  Leo pushed himself up slowly, waiting for the next stab of pain. It didn’t come. He winced anyway, so Art could see.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘You take the match if you want.’

  A mixture of confusion and disgust filled Art’s face. Leo held his side protectively.

  ‘Is it a stitch?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sit down for a bit.’ Art went over to the bench and righted it, picking Leo’s plate and glass off the floor. Leo went around the net and peeled the toast off the clay. He held it by the crust between finger and thumb. The banana was clotted with clumps of red. The shouting, red face of the submarine commander in his dream came back to him and the relentless engine thumping. The toast became a gangrenous, pounded face. He dropped it on the plate.

  ‘Is there a sink in the clubhouse?’ Leo asked.

  Art nodded.

  ‘Let me clean myself up. Maybe I can walk it off.’

  He had no intention of walking it off. His throat was dry, and he took the glass with him. He reflexively went to ask if Art wanted his bottle filling but stopped himself. Art could go fuck himself. He walked gingerly around the court and up the clubhouse steps.

  The inside of the clubhouse was sparse. The walls were plastered smooth and painted with several different shades of green in vertical stripes. It felt like being in the woods. The floor was polished oak, like the main house. All very classy. There was a black leather sofa against the back wall on the right. On the left were four heavy-looking oak armchairs, expensively upholstered, around a coffee table. The kitchen was through a doorway to the left. He went through and filled his glass with cold water. Through the side window was a concrete yard bordered by the trees on the hill that rose above the house. Somewhere out there was a very expensive tennis racquet, soon to be a nest for wood pigeons. He took a long drink of water, filled the glass again and drank that too.

  Sensing someone behind him, he turned.

  ‘Hello?’

  He had left red, clay footprints on the clean floor. He would find a brush later.

  He filled the glass again, this time to take down to the court. It pleased him to imagine Art’s frustration at not being able to claim victory. He went back into the main room and watched Art open something before turning away. He put something in his mouth. A tablet, Leo guessed.

  There was a sound from the direction of the kitchen. He went back to the sink. The concrete yard was still empty. A fox or bird, probably. There was a circular maintenance cover in the yard floor, not quite in place. He wondered what was under the clubhouse. Water treatment, perhaps.

  He felt a little dizzy. Perhaps he was still dehydrated. The room
tilted and he put his hands on the edge of the sink, closing his eyes. He heard laughter, people’s voices, like a radio was being turned up. A group of men were talking loudly. At the same time a woman moaned, as if in pain. The moan increased in volume, drowning out all the other sounds and filling his head. It was a sound of utter misery and despair. His head pounded with it and he lowered himself to his knees. His head was by the door of the cupboard under the sink. The moan was coming through the door, with quick, soft gasps for air. It took on a gurgling quality, like it was in the pipes. He covered his ears and put his forehead on the cold tiles. He couldn’t think straight.

  ‘Leo?’ A call from the balcony.

  The moan cut off. He stood up, lifted by a surge of energy. It was like being stabbed in the heart with adrenaline. He spun around. Art came through the clubhouse doors.

  ‘You’ve made a right mess of the floor,’ Art said.

  ‘I’ll clean it up later.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? That was a quick turnaround. You acted like you were dying down there.’

  For a second Leo wondered if Art had seen him on the floor. Then, he couldn’t remember why he had been on the floor at all. He went to the side window. Nothing.

  ‘Perhaps it was cramp,’ Leo said.

  They went out to the balcony. It was a glorious day.

  ‘Shall we finish the game, then?’ Art said.

  ‘Why not?’

  Leo returned to the far baseline. The house was spread below him, and the crystals were glistening. He felt connected to the court, the crystals, the house. Potent. He picked up two balls.

  ‘Six-all,’ Leo said. ‘We need to change ends.’

  Art nodded, and they crossed each other on opposite sides of the net. Art was jogging, a new racquet in his hand, pumping himself up.

  Leo took his time. He kicked some particles of clay from the white baseline, looked up at the sun which was higher now and much less of a problem. Three bounces. A look where Art was standing. A hard serve down the middle.