The Perfect Life

[rebeccathestrange]

Hello to all,

I recently came across the "Game Set Love" story and had a good time reading it. It's painful that it had to be censored and deleted from this forum. Anyhow, I couldn't resist trying to write a sequel...

Ok - now bear with me as I figure out how to post the story!

[rebeccathestrange]

December 25th, 2008 -------------------------------------


I hate Christmas. The memories, obviously. Four years ago, the kiss, bravely revealing subconscious desires. Three years ago, childish sensual plays disguised as friendship, by the pool in Switzerland. Two years ago, the clinical stab – not a word of explanation, just the signature disappearance, and Thérèse kicked me out of her life, leaving our friends and families to witness and pick up the leftover pieces. Also, no pride, no dignity left. I'm the kind of guy that you can cast aside that easily.

I wasn't going to admit anything. At the beginning of 2007, I started running and didn't look back. I wouldn't mention her. I lived and fought as if she had never existed. I was going to prove that the pain was beneath me. I skipped Christmas, escaped to an island in the Indian Ocean with a girl, made sure the word would go around that I was doing just that.

It took more than a year for the first stains to catch up with me. Then I derailed, and 2008 turned out as an atrocious year, for I kept feeling like an outcast on and off the court. The positive is that it can't go much lower, or so people tell me. Forget and move on, 2009 will be a blast, three Wimbledon semis each month, five Nottingham, and my best ever Roland Garros. For girls, the saying is: one lost, ten found. Give it time.

Last night was intentionally dull. My parents could not have stood much more Christmas drama either. Thérèse is persona non grata in my mother's book. Apparently the naughty girl is in town, and so my parents decided that they could use a Christmas Eve without the company of their close friends, Thérèse's parents as they happen to be. We reverted back to a more traditional gathering, family only, cousins, aunts and uncles, grandparents. There was too much food, and presents in abundance. I offered pricey items and realized too late that I had forgotten all of the art of making a nice gift, from much time spent in a microcosm where the value is the price tag. I felt vain, and thankful for the presents I received myself, proof that some people in the world did not scale their love of me based on my participation at the Paris Masters.

I went asleep mildly drunk and dreamed. In the dream the banter with Thérèse was back and it all ended up with a kiss, old time. I was still struck by my disastrous year on the tour but I was the boy of an earlier year, naive, confident. I danced with Thérèse in the center of her parents' living room, kissed her and dared her to admit her feelings. It felt as the first kiss, a prelude to endless possibilities, a beginning rather than a chapter thirty nine. I woke up disgusted with myself.

Why do you keep going back there? Did you ever learn anything? The point of your life is not to dream that Thérèse will be back somehow, it's to face the unknown, the other things that will happen to you if you only let them.


December 27th, 2008 -------------------------------------

Enough of the family time, I'm calling Khal, full name Khaled but he doesn't like it. Old classmate from elementary school. Became an absolute bad boy, the kind of company I need at the moment, the big f**k you. We stroll through the night, Khal cares for nothing. So confident.

Three AM in a club in Montpellier, drunk, run into Thérèse. Her look at me is blank. I think I tell her to get lost before she has anything to say. Khal is already up to something else. We're moving.


December 28th, 2008 -------------------------------------

Won't go running. Can't.

My parents went to Daniel and Claudine's place last night. Thérèse was there, on her way out with another girl we went to school with, Agathe. My mother tipped them about where I would likely be – why did she have to do that? And her, this girl is unbelievable. She's hitting a new low.


December 29th, 2008 -------------------------------------

Got a call from my coach, Guillaume, I thought he had forgotten about me. Now there is no choice, I have to go running. I have to check out my new rackets, see how they feel. In two days I'm off to Australia. There is a compound close to Brisbane where Lagardère wants me to train in the last days before the season kicks off. This is just like me; they want me to jump, I jump. I have to do this.


January 2009 -------------------------------------

Australia was not bad, but never good enough, for I carry the hopes of a nation and embody its disappointments. More of the latter lately. The official word is that my warrior spirit is pathetic enough that I can't manage a win from a two set lead. In an age of fierce GOAT debate, I'm the undisputed GDOAT – Greatest Disappointment Of All Times. Ernest Gulbis isn't even close to my #1 ranking. And by the way, my backhand is overrated.

For two sets I was in this state where tennis is the most natural thing. Just flick a backhand, it's so easy to do, he goes left, you go right and finish the point with a volley. That one doesn't even need to be hit so hard. I'm looking at Gonzales on the other side of the net, he who is an approved member of the ATP army of warriors, and I wonder to myself, why can't he do the same? Then I get bored. Then I get tired. Then I get slashed by the press.

Aside from the French who are always quite comprehensive in their eulogies, the world journalists throw their knives just in passing those days, as the important battles are not fought under my name. They just insert a line in a recap and move on to check out what Rafa is doing.

I would prefer that they ignore me altogether, treat me as a scoreline not even worth mentioning. I would love for just a few months of my life to be perfectly invisible. A good injury would do that. Unfortunately if I've come a long way into the self-loathing, self-destructing department, I haven't managed self-mutilation yet.

Sometimes I wonder, what more does it take to get to the point where you actually want to kill yourself?


March 2009 -------------------------------------

Khal is thrilled that I'm going to L.A. and wants to tag along. I buy him the ticket. Over there, I loose quickly. Back in the locker room I tell Guillaume that my shoulder hurts. We keep a moment of grave silence then decide to see how things evolve through the doubles tournament that I'm in with Stan Wawrinka.

The rigor of tournament life and the sane company of Stan does me some good for a few days. Against all expectations I can feel at times that I'm a tennis player at heart. Or is it the life-long conditioning?

Meanwhile Khal keeps himself busy and comes and goes at strange hours, by all means incompatible with my disciplined schedule. We barely see each other, except when he makes an appearance in the player box to see Stan and me go down in the semifinals. By then my shoulder is screaming. Guillaume knows this can't be good. He calls for a coach-player truth talk, in which he tells me that I screwed up Indian Wells and hurt myself, that I'd better do good on the clay, because I'm nowhere near my potential.

I know he's getting calls from Lagardère, people watching their investments. This reminds me of another coach-player talk from sometime last year, when the public opinion was furiously advocating that I needed a change of coach as the relationship with Eric had become too comfortable for me. I think the French Federation was behind that, really.

Eric had asked me:

“What is your opinion, Richard? Do you want another coach?”

“I'm good with you, you're like a second father to me.”

“But maybe what you need is a coach, not a father. Richard, I'll always be there for you if you need me. But this... I am too close to you to get you to focus on the tennis and get over Thérèse. I don't even feel like forcing you to train when I see you so down.”

“Duh. Her name is Claire and we're fine, thank you. I'm fine.”

“Sure... I guess you're right.”

“Exactly, I know who I'm... Never mind.”

“Richard?”

“Yes?”

“You need to work with someone that isn't privy to your personal life, that helps you make the cut between the private and the professional.”

“I could stop telling you their names.”

“They're written on your forehead in the morning.”

“This is the kind of conversation that I will never be able to have with another coach. Why do I need to let you go?”

“The public eye is asking for my head. The people at Lagardère too. Give it to them and save yourself, son. You need these people on your side. You don't know how many good things are still ahead of you.”

This day in California I'm waiting for Guillaume to be over with his speech. I'm looking down at my shoes, posturing as the repentant child. Meanwhile I'm thinking that I could use a drink.

I like Guillaume, he is fun enough and pleasant to work with, but when he uses his coach authority I always feel like he doesn't have a clue.

Which brings me back to Khal. There are plenty of things you can do without a shoulder when you're looking for ways to stop thinking and Khal knows them all. One week in L.A. - that's where he spent most of his time – and his address book is fatter than mine will ever be. We leave the rest of the team behind and hit the clubs, two Béziers boys in the big city. When the night has only a few minutes left to it, we find ourselves in the beach flat of two actresses, wannabees. I'm kissing the brunette. There is this other guy who is serving a round of cocaine. I'm wasted, wondering what I'm doing here. The melancholy just doesn't leave.

Khal exposes his point that it's wicked that I get to make that much money and hang out with the rich and otherwise privileged of this world but am still denied the right to sniff their cocaine. He thinks that I sort of miss the point of being rich.

I feel stupid as the strangers in the room all look at me in silence. I have nothing to say. Suddenly as the sun rises outside, the brunette whose name I never asked looks vulgar. Her overabundant make-up has dried up on her tired skin. I call a cab.

I'm due to make my way towards Miami that day. Khal gets back to the hotel in the last minute and we almost miss the plane. The team is pissed with him. At the airport Guillaume lets him know that he's changing his plane ticket and taking a flight straight back to Paris. Khal understands that I have to let the coach have his way on this one. He's not coming to Miami.

In Florida a doctor advises me to pull the plug on the tournament and take a few weeks of rest. So this is definitely another injury time out, hoping to be fit for the clay. I'm relieved as somehow I never felt comfortable in the USA. It always made me feel like I was ever the small town awkward kid. I still need to clear things up with the authorities of the tournament and then I can catch a plane back to France.

That's when my team decides to show me that they're just as cool as Khal. We catch a party train with the girl who would become the most equivocal celebrity of the tennis world, Pamela.

Sorry, Pamela.

The next day the doping control guys walk me though the routine. Whatever, I'm clean, I've always been.

After they leave I spend a moment imagining what could have been if I had taken the coke in L.A. I picture my fall and get to thinking that I should treasure what I have and take better care of myself and my career. I take this as an informal warning and a new chance to rediscover myself as a training junkie.

And then in all honesty to myself, I realize that I don't really care. It could feel good to have everything blow up.

Except it won't. Nothing will change.


June 18th, 2009 -------------------------------------

Happy birthday, pariah. Did you ever realize before how many people hate you?

Really, when you finally grow up, it's fast and brutal. I remember myself at age 20, I thought I had a pretty good understanding of the world. At age 23 there is a lot to reconsider. The dark and fear follow everywhere like a shadow. Gone, innocence, carelessness.

Ironically, today is also the anniversary of the June 18th Call, when Général de Gaulle spoke to his countrymen on the BBC and urged them to join the Résistance, calling the French dismay a battle lost rather than a war lost. The day is a tribute to... the champions France was waiting for.

I try a jog to shake off the gloom and kick start my day but I have to stop after twenty minutes when I can't breathe anymore. I walk back home under gray clouds announcing poor weather in Switzerland for the week-end when an old lady on the walkway stops and talks to me. I didn't get her.

“Excuse-me?”

“Don't look so sad”, she repeats, smiling genuinely.

I have to crack a smile. Somehow it's the kindness and generosity of random people that keeps your faith in humanity going. She probably has no idea who I am and what kind of mess I'm in.

“Thank you. Have a great day”, I say, and then I leave, keeping the smile on for another while.


August 2009 -------------------------------------

I'm back with Eric. I just lost to Rafa Nadal in the first round of the US Open – the ideal draw for a successful come back. That's when Eric feels appropriate to drop some news of Thérèse, but anyway, someone had to let me know sooner or later. So apparently she's been living in London for a while, the art school in Paris having quickly confirmed itself as a doomed enterprise. Recently she's been taking up writing and was hired as a consultant by an English newspaper to report on tennis. She also has her own blog about life on the tour.

How sweet? Now she's a journalist, the category of people most popular by me. And come on, the cliché new life.

I check out the blog in question and find out that she just spent two thousand words trashing me without the slightest illusion of mercy.

This is just great.


Christmas 2009 -------------------------------------

And finally the sword over my head is removed. Before it came to this happy ending, I was ridiculed to unprecedented levels. As one of my peers once said, “there is actually no cool way to recover from that”.

On to Australia.

[rebeccathestrange]

Australia 2010 -------------------------------------


My worst nightmare becomes real after the defeat to Youzhny in the first round of the AO. There I am, sitting in the press conference room, and on a chair facing me is Thérèse. She is the one firing the first shot.

“So, how is life after Pamela?”

“Much better than during Pamela, thank you”.

I regret it as soon as I say it, as the words taken out of context are less than gracious towards Pamela. The journalist from L'Equipe gives a hard look to Thérèse, making it clear that he thinks she is beyond appropriateness, as if he was not dying to ask the exact same question. She doesn't even see him. He takes the lead away from her.

“Richard, once again you lost after having held a two set advantage. Is this a concentration issue or a physical condition issue?”

“I did well in Sydney last week, my physical condition is fine. I have to credit my opponent for the comeback. From the third set on he really elevated his level of play. For me there is not much choice but to take the loss and go back to training.”

“What went through your mind as you lost the tie-break of the third set?”

“How is your relationship with Guy Forget at the time? Will you be on the Davis Cup squad?”

Let's leave the conference room at this time before I'm tempted to give a full account of my generic answers.


The next day -------------------------------------


I'm at the hotel packing my stuff when reception calls to say that I have a friend waiting for me in the lobby bar. Either intrigued or masochistic – I have an idea about who the friend might be – , I go down and find myself sitting at a remote table with Thérèse. The bar is almost empty. She is wearing a flower dress and her hair down. Thérèse Chauvet, star tennis writer.

“Thank you, Richard. You gave me a great quote yesterday on Pamela.”

There it goes.

“Good afternoon, Thérèse. So I take it the journalism gig is doing wonders on you.”

“It's quite nice. I also have a blog.”

“I know. Not so surprising though, every loser on this planet starts a blog.”

“Right. Well, there is more. Actually, I'm not here to interview you or anything today. This conversation is off the record. I came as a friend. There is something I need to tell you.”

I give her a shocked look when she mentions the possibility of our friendship having survived but I don't interrupt her.

“You know my life has been hard. I had hit rock bottom when I left for London. I'm recovering now but nevertheless, one has to survive in this harsh world. There is not much I'm gifted for, and I don't even have a degree in anything.”

“Don't undermine yourself, you're gifted at cruelty, world class, that's one thing. And well, I'm sorry I didn't realize your life had been so tough.”

She smiles sarcastically at me.

“Get over it.”

“I think I did.”

“Good. Now please let me finish. What I'm trying to say here is that I'm still in need of a real plan for my future. Tennis journalism in the UK will only last as long as Andy Murray, and to be honest I think I might overdose on the topic before his expiration date. This is what I want to be clear: what I'm going to tell you is not about loyalty, it's about survival and how you need money to do that. There are no feelings involved.”

“Thank God for that.”

“So... I met this French editor who thinks my angle on you, because I've known you so long and so intimately, is good material for a book. I wanted to give you the heads up that I'm going to write this book.”

Silence falls on us as she is weighting the effect of her words and I am swallowing my rage, breathless, unable at first to come up with a dignified come back.

“Now I can see how this has nothing to do with loyalty.”

“There are things in the past that I'm sorry for, but not this. I won't have this kind of opportunity twice. I can't afford the chivalrous feelings.”

I stand up.

“I'm glad your conscience is so clear. Good bye, Thérèse. I think our next conversation will happen through lawyers.”

I go back to my room, ready to crash the furniture but that valve doesn't go off. Instead, inexplicably, I start crying. I cry for a good hour, sitting by the window on the fourteenth floor with a view of the petulant Melbourne. Then I stay motionless, in shock, until the night falls on the city. When I wake up, I call my parents. It's the morning in France. When I get them on the line, I suddenly avoid talking about Thérèse. I let them cheer me up for the loss to Youzhny and we discuss plans to pick me up at the airport.

I couldn't tell them. They despise her enough already. Like many in my entourage they think she was the start of things going awry.


Béziers, March 2010 -------------------------------------


The clay season is upon us. I have a few days off left, running errands for my mother, presently on my way to the dry cleaner. My personal goal is to be in and out of there as fast as possible and at all cost avoid tennis related small talks with the clerk. I find a parking space right in front of the shop, and that at least minimizes my chances to run into human beings before I reach the door knob.

But then, as much as I race and keep my head down, a girl catches my attention on the far side. I know her, that's Khal's younger sister. I can't seem to recall her name. She's standing in front of a window on the other side of the street. I breathe, raise my collar, put my hood on and cross the street.

It's awkward to catch up with her because I don't have a name to call, but finally I'm able to touch her shoulder and startle her. She looks at me partially horrified, which is not a good sign.

“Hey. Do you remember me?”

“Yeah. Everybody knows who you are.”

“Yes, sure, but what I mean is, I'm a friend of Khal.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry, I don't remember your name. You were a few years behind us at school.”

“Yasmina.”

“Ok, Yasmina, hi. I just wanted to ask if all is fine with Khal. I left him a couple of messages around the New Year and I never got anything back.”

She sighs and looks at me like I'm insulting her.

“No. Not all is fine with Khal.”

“What's going on? Is this something you can tell me?”

“I'm not sure.”

And it starts to rain, which doesn't make this conversation any easier. She retreats under a canopy and I end up asking her whether she would have a coffee with me and take some time to explain what happened to Khal. She seems really defiant but accepts. I let her wait while I get my mother's clothes and then we enter a nearby café. I'm half fearing she's going to tell me that Khal is dead.

“So, what's with Khal?”

“You're the one that got him into drugs.”

“No... Really, no. Your brother does what he wants.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last year, when he came with me to California.”

“Right, that's when you got busted for taking cocaine.”

“Yes, but I didn't take cocaine. It was this girl... Never mind. What happened to him?”

“He took too many drugs, that's what happened to him. You got him to do that.”

“No, honestly, I swear, I didn't push him to do anything. He did that by himself. I saw him take things, but I didn't join. I'm a professional athlete, I wouldn't be able to compete.”

“All the rich guys like you, the football players, they all take drugs.”

“I don't. And when we got back from the States and I got into so much trouble with the positive test, I had to stop seeing him for a while. I was into enough shit to have journalists find out about him and use him as a proof that I was an addict myself.”


May 2009 -------------------------------------


Guillaume and Nicolas, my agent, have their crisis faces.

“One thing, you have to absolutely stay away from your friend, Khaled.”

“Khal has nothing to do with what's happening.”

“That's not the point.”

“How do you even know about him?”

Stupid question. Of course they discussed together before they came to see me. They've been in contact. They think it's Khal, and that I did take cocaine.

“Look, guys. I didn't take any cocaine. With or without Khal. That night in Miami or another night before that. I don't f**king understand what happened.”

“But you have to stay away from him. We can't have someone look him up and find out that he has a reputation. We're trying to salvage your career here. It's going to be enough of a pain to get people to believe that you're a victim in this. Your only option is to behave like a saint until we're through this. No bad associations. No associations that a greedy journalist could turn into a proof of guilt.”

“Shit... He's a good friend.”

“I don't care. From now on you hang out with your mom, your dad, your friends from the Rotary club if you have any. But not with that guy. If he's such a good friend, you give him a call, you tell him to stay away and he will understand. You guys can catch up and get high together when you retire with your three Slams and a shitload of money.”

“What's the plan? What's my chance of surviving this?”



Béziers, March 2010 -------------------------------------


“What are you saying? Khal got you into drugs?”

“No, he didn't. I never took anything. But... your brother was unstoppable. He had to live, he had to do every stupid thing. Sometimes I realized he knew people, you know, night creatures. But I'm not going to criticize, it's fun to go out with him. It's like everything is possible and nothing bad will happen to you.”

“Except he got out too much. He slept during the day. He stole money from my mum. My father sent him to Algeria for the summer, hoping he would calm down. It didn't work. He did the same over there. He got my aunt and my uncle into a lot of trouble. The friends he made in Oran were even worse than the ones he had here.”

She pauses. It's not a pleasant story to tell.

“What then?”

“He had... something, an accident. He got crazy. He fought with my dad. They put him in the hospital, psychiatric emergencies. Then he spent two months in lock-up. The drugs have destroyed something in his brain. Now it's like he's either depressed or schizophrenic. He has to take medication. He's not the same as he was, he will never be. He put on fifteen kilos. He's too stupid to work or study.”

“Is he staying with your parents now?”

“No, he's back at the hospital. At some point he went to see his friends again and they got him to take more stuff. It didn't work with his medication. He's better off at the hospital.”

“Is it possible to visit him there?”

“I wouldn't advise you to go. It's too... He's not the same anymore, you don't realize.”

“What about when he gets out? Will he get out soon?”

“Pff... God knows. It's better that he stays there. My parents can't deal.”

“I'm sorry, Yasmina. I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing to say. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Sure. Say hi to him if it's possible.”

“It's better if he doesn't think that he'll go back to the States with you.”

“I... I guess.”

“Take care.”

“You too.”


Monte Carlo, April 2010 -------------------------------------

Thérèse is sitting on a bench in the sun, expressionless behind her large dark glasses. Something is obviously wrong. People walk by her as if she has left the world already. I haven't seen her since Australia. I would gather my weapons in preparation for the encounter, but her attitude is odd, a beautiful heroin caught in the middle of an unforgiving plot. I tell Gabriel, my new coach, that I'll meet him back at the hotel and walk toward her.

“You missed my presser.”

“Yeah, I did.”

That's it, that's all she says. Behind the shades I can't even tell whether she's looking at me. Suddenly, she resumes talking:

“I just lost the job. I'm fired after this tournament. It's too much to pay someone year round when people really only care about Wimbledon. And you know, the crisis.”

I can't have a go at hurting her, taking my well deserved revenge. She looks so beaten up already. It strikes me that my empathy for her never left, it just hid under the surface. It feels so natural to have it back.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's fine. I'll survive.”

“You still have the book.”

“No, that won't happen anymore. In the end the guy just wanted to shag me. There's no book.”

I drop my tennis bag to the floor, sit next to her and take her hand. People start looking at us, some take pictures with their cell phones. This is really uncomfortable. Monte-Carlo is the one place in the world where the only thing people remember about me is how I defeated Federer back in 2005. I cross my fingers that no one is close enough to overhear our conversation.

“I hope you didn't let him. Shag you.”

“I did.”

Another minute and she will start crying.

“Look. I just took an atrocious loss to Berdych. I didn't score a game in the second set.”

“I know, I was in the stands. You were miserable.”

“You seem to beat me in the misery department right now. Do you want to go somewhere else and get a drink?”

“No, I might not stop until I'm totally wasted, then I'll find you sweet and will let you shag me, then we'll be back to places we've both been willing to forget.”

“Let's just get out of here. At least let's be somewhere else when we start shouting at each other. I haven't been photographed that much since my stardom days.”

And there she looks at me straight and says:

“Richard, come on. People silently adore you. They go and watch you even when you suck.”

Which is, as unbelievable as it might seem, the nicest compliment that was addressed to me in a long time. But then it gets embarrassing as she keeps going on, lecturing to whoever, getting me to consider that she might already have abused the champagne in the VIP quarters.

“People are desperate for it, you know, the art rather than the blunt force and brainwashed winner attitude. You're like Robin Hood. One day you will go back to Nottingham and kick the ass of all those fakes. People have faith in that.”

As my face is getting seriously red, people giving me stares, the situation showing all signs of getting out of hand, I stand up and lead her toward the players' exit.

She follows me like a zombie and by lack of another plan we regroup in my hotel room. In an hour or so my team will want to pick me up for dinner. My parents are also in town and in all likelihood expect to spend the evening with me. Really there won't be no getting wasted nor any shagging of any kind. She locks herself in the bathroom for a while and then I make some tea from the tea set by my bed. We sit on the unique sofa, silent and perfectly stupid.

“I'm going to have dinner with my parents and my team later. Do you want to join?”

“Don't they hate me by now?”

“Sure. Lots. Does it matter? I mean, you're here, so the evening will be weird anyhow.”

“I should leave right away.”

“It's fine. You can stay. I don't mind.”

“No, I'm leaving.”

“Can I walk you back to your hotel? You're still shaken obviously.”

“I don't have an hotel... anymore. Long story. I just broke up with... never mind. I'll try the station, see if I can catch a train to Béziers.”

“Will you be there long? When do you have to go back to England? I have a week off after Barcelona.”

“Actually, I guess I don't have a place in London anymore either.”

“I'm sorry, Thérèse.”

“Don't be. You want to kiss Pamela, you deal with the consequences. I made choices I have to live with.”

Now what are we talking about? I don't know what to say. So she stands up and makes her way toward the door, saying without looking:

“Call me?”

“I think you've changed your phone number ten times since I last used it.”

“And you, did you?”

“No, I just turned it off.”

“Turn it back on, I'll see if I remember it.”

And she leaves, avoiding the most straightforward, down to earth technique that consists in two people taking pieces of paper to write down their numbers, then ritually exchanging said pieces of paper as an offer of good will, possibly eternal friendship and passionate love.


Bordeaux 2010 -------------------------------------


“Where are you? I can't see your name in the Madrid draw.”

“In Bordeaux. There's a Challenger.”

“Oh my God, you're seeking redemption the Agassi way.”

I laugh, “I need some wins. I wouldn't get them in Madrid. Didn't you notice that I suck lately?”

“Richard Gasquet, you can do better than that.” She's laughing too. A bright and sunny day. I feel good, people are being extremely nice to me in Bordeaux.

“What about you? Are you still in Béziers?”

“I never went. I'm in London, looking for a new flat. More like a cheap studio.”

“How do you spend your days now?”

“I'm looking at scoreboards with desperation. Yeah, you suck. And I have a shitty job that I don't even want to describe. It might pay the rent if I find a compassionate landlord.”

“Any plans of coming back to France?”

“Rewind, Richard: I'm broke.”

“I'm not sure I want to wait for the grass to corner you in person and make sure we have a full and honest talk.”

“No chance of that ever happening. And now that I'm warned, I'm not going anywhere alone with you, ever again.”

“Even in a place where we're surrounded by other people and we sort of have to behave, like a restaurant for example?”

“What? A date? You're delusional.”

“Then fine, let's talk on the phone.”

“Well, it looks like I used up the credit. I'm calling you from a payphone. Got to say bye now.”

“Bye, exasperating one.”

“Richard?”

“Yes?”

“You'll get a date if you win a tournament.”

“A date with you, we agree?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a deal.”

“Good luck, loser.”

“That trophy is mine.”

On Sunday night, I get a text message: “Challengers don't count”. To which I reply: “Don't start cheating now”.

Payphones don't send text messages.


Nice 2010 -------------------------------------


Down in a deep pit of a third set, I know that I can't let the opportunity pass me by. I need that tournament. It's mine. She's mine. I'm delusional.

Incoming text: “You win.”

Text back: “See you in London.”


June 2010 -------------------------------------


You don't get from loser to Mr Wins-All just overnight. I had to pay a price – fatigue. I loose in the first round in Roland Garros and then start biting my nails in anticipation. Too weeks to London. And finally it's time. I drop my bags in the hotel room and grab my phone: “I'm here. Where are you? “. My message is greeted by the silence of the big city. Somewhere in the metropolis, she's hiding amongst the ants and I can't find her. I should call her parents and ask for her address, but they would block me.

The reply comes in as Queen's is well underway: “Damn, are you ok for Wimbledon?” I just gave my opponent a walkover. My back is shot and Wimbledon doesn't look good. I wanted Nice so much.

“Come check for yourself. You know the hotel.”

“I don't sleep on the first date.”

“Yes you do. But no intention to take advantage. Let's try the bar, or advise otherwise.”

At 8:30 PM I'm alone on my stool and reliving extremely distasteful memories. Then she actually shows up, looking tired from her day, wearing casual clothes.

“Hi, Richard. Sorry, just out from work. I hope you don't have anything fancy planned.”

“Hi you. So you didn't stand me up.”

“I don't know if I'm capable of revisiting the past tonight. I'm just spent.”

“Don't worry. Let's sit somewhere quiet. Then you can relax.”

A few fellow players walk past and I suggest to go anywhere else as long as we can pretend that we know nobody. We take a cab to a neutral neighborhood and get into a semi-noisy pub. Some coziness in a booth in the back, and total anonymity. Two pints.

“So how is your back?”

“Don't buy your Wimbledon tickets just yet.”

“I can't afford them anyway.”

“Would you sit in my box if I make it?”

“I've often preferred to hide in the common stands.”

“Did you... ? When? Where?”

“Nice”, she says with a simple smile. “I almost hit my neighbor from the anxiety. Other places too, but that's my secret life. You can't know.”

“There is not much about you that is not a secret. There is nothing I know for sure. I can never guess what you think, unless you show it to me. Most of the time you just play me.”

“So how come... How come you haven't replaced me with a nice girl yet? She's overdue. It's nonsense that you don't have an ever present woman by your side.”

“Well, I had a good feeling about Pamela...”

“Gasquet, be serious!”

“Do you know Pamela isn't even her real name?”

“You're changing the subject.”

“I guess the answer to your question is that I'm not attracted to perfect girls. I'm dull enough for two. And did you notice how much a flat electrocardiogram doesn't help my tennis?”

“Passion will kill you faster than it will make you win Roland Garros. You need to find the drive from within you.”

“I can't, Yoda. I'm not like that. I guess it's a flaw of personality.”

“Would you have won it if I had told you that Nice wasn't enough?”

“The truth is my physical condition is poor at the time. The incentives could only achieve so much. And you know, there are other details, like Rafa Nadal.”

“Yeah, that guy is a fun-killer.”

“And back to you. I think I have answered your question with honesty. Will you let me in on a few secrets?”

“Maybe one at a time.”

“Meaning multiple dates? I'm ok with that.”

“Gasquet... This isn't really a date.”

“Yeah, it's catch-up time. The things left untold a long time ago.”

And just by saying this and seeing my words answered by a reflex of retreat from her part, I start thinking maybe that the untold won't be revealed just yet. And still, her lips open up and she finally speaks.

“For what it's worth, I hated inflicting the pain.”

Insufficient, Thérèse. This talk will be slow and hurtful and every word will be marked.

“Well, you didn't have to.”

“Obviously I thought I did. There was no way to make it easier on you.”

“Or there was. I would have preferred the version where I was at least worth a word of excuse. The phone call to tell me to stop waiting.”

“Come on, you could take this.”

“Yeah... Do you know how it felt exactly? Really? It was like... winning the first two sets and still loosing the match. You know, the ultimate place where no level of confidence can help you. You can't win. Because you've already been there in the past, about to win it all and then things dissolved pathetically in front of your very eyes. No possible explanation. It's a fate. You can't do anything but let it happen.”

“Well, I came, you know.”

I raise my eyes back to her.

“I came, yes. I stayed outside that restaurant for maybe forty minutes. It was cold.”

She really looks tired. She wipes away a single invisible tear with the back of her hand and reworks her composure as I'm about to reach for her hand and forgive every wrong ever done to me.

“I was looking at you through the windows. You couldn't see me because I was in the shadow and I think you expected me to come from another direction. I saw you call me. You were so cute and so pissed off. You had made an effort to look good for me. I can still tell you exactly what you were wearing.”

“And you didn't come in.”

“I had cried, I was sure to look like shit. I knew my jacket had a tear.”

“What had happened?”

“A silly story, really. On my way to the restaurant I was stopped by the father of..., you know, my daughter. That dumb idiot had concocted a plan in which he was going to blackmail us over the existence of the child. You know, it was ridiculous, like he had seen a bad movie and thought he was smart enough to pull something like that and get away with it. I laughed in his face. Bad idea - this guy has a temper. He pulled my jacket and I fell.”

“What??!! Did he hurt you?”

“Richard, please, don't shout.”

“Sorry. What happened?”

“Nothing, really, that was it. I told him to f**k off and left.”

“Why did you cry?”

She buries her face in her hands, pushes back her hair again and looks sideways. She's not answering that one. I feel like hell too, like that guy again that thought life was colorful and hadn't seen anything coming. This is Christmas 2006, relived.

“Could you not have called me to tell me to meet you outside?”

“No.”

Ok, that's perfectly clear if not entirely obscure. What now? She sighs.

“It's enough sadness for one night. You shouldn't hang out with me.”

“Nobody is forcing me, really.”

“Anyhow... I'm exhausted. We'll have to leave things to another time.”

“I guess.”

“What are your plans now? I mean, for your life, the tennis, the weeks to come.”

“Medical check-ups. If I can't play Wimbledon, I should go back to Neufchâtel and rest, but if you like I can stay.”

“No, go. I can't have a discussion like this every two days. I need to digest it. I don't know how to explain, really.”

“You don't have to. It's pretty harsh on me to, I can relate.”

“Yeah. Let's go then.”

She drops me off at the hotel and the taxi takes her away to her mysterious hiding place. I go to bed half stunned. It takes a while to loose consciousness.


Back to Switzerland -------------------------------------


Email from Yasmina. I had asked her to keep me posted when we said good-bye, that day in Béziers. She had looked reluctant. But here is the email.

“Khaled was diagnosed with Hepatitis C. Don't write. Yasmina.”

Five minutes of research on the internet teach me that Khaled most probably used needles at some point. Somber thoughts fill up my mind. Needles, medication, long treatments, a lifetime of malfunctions. A shorter life.


A few weeks later -------------------------------------


I haven't seen the handwriting in years but remember it immediately like the blast from the past it is. Nobody writes anymore. And there it is, in my daily mail, an anomaly: a real, old-fashioned letter from Thérèse. And a quite long one.

I sit down in the kitchen and rip out the envelope. Yes, it's a long letter, dated from a week ago. Written in London, where else? No Dear Richard, just Richard.



London, July …


Richard,


I will never find the courage to have that real hard honest conversation with you. I know it has to happen, we both need to move on, but even though I've played it a hundred times in my head, I know it won't happen. This is why I decided to write instead. With a little luck I'll manage to finish the letter and not think too much when dropping it in a mailbox. Then I will have done my part and things will be out of my hands.

It is really unpleasant to let someone see your thoughts.

But well, back to 2006. Everything was so accomplished, you and me. We were so young, and yet we had it all. Did you ever think that it was a strange life, that you had bypassed all the usual hardships? You were 20, most of the people we knew from school were still studying and trying to work out what they wanted to do with their life, and how long it would take them to score. You know, the usual recipe for happiness: good job, wife, kids, house, things that start to come together for people when they're forty. And you, 20, you had a house with a pool, a housekeeper, a girlfriend that you might as well marry, nice in-laws you were getting along with. You were paying taxes, you had a foundation, frequent flier status. Is this the life, or is it a premature death?

I was on my way to the restaurant and the big loser just showed up in front of me. I had found a parking place only 200 meters away and was on the sidewalk, so close to meeting you and getting drunk on overpriced wine. Two 20 year old in a restaurant that most people can't afford until they start to have gray hair.


Béziers, December 2006 -------------------------------------


“What the f**k. Look at you, hypocrite. The high life. You've arrived. You'll never have to do anything. You can just spend his money.”

“Hey, you don't know anything about me. For your information I still have my own plans and I am going to school in Paris.”

“Right. And you won't drop it to go sit in his player box in fancy clothes.”

“Why am I talking to you? Is my life your f**king business? Is it my fault you're such a loser?”

“Excuse-me girl, that's where you're completely off. You're a loser just like me. The only thing that saves you is that you're f**king a tennis player.”

“We have nothing in common.”

“Right. Remove Gasquet, and what's left? Last I saw you, you were totally screwing up your life. And then he shows up, how convenient. Then I guess you can forget all about us the poor schmucks who have to find a job and make it on our own.”

“Make it as in blackmail people?”

“Forget that, you disgust me. It didn't take you long to forget that you could have been the one doing stupid stuff. You're no better than me. Excuse-me: you're a total whore. You sleep with a guy and he pays for everything.”

“This is so far off from reality. Sorry, but get lost. I have a life to tend to.”

“Sure, go enjoy the love story. Bitch.”

“Stay away from me, asshole.”


Back to the letter -------------------------------------


We parted in the night and I walked in a fury. How did he dare? And when I got in sight of the restaurant it hit me. I knew this wasn't a normal life. I had taken a major shortcut. And just for a moment, I had to physically stop and get straight with my thoughts. The asshole had managed to materialize things that were hanging out in the back of my conscience. I had thought the same without ever voicing it. I was about to steal my life from myself.

Everybody comes to wonder one day, what happens after they lived happily ever after and had many kids? Is this bliss or a prison?

What had I experienced? What had I suffered? Nothing.

I pictured myself, sitting in your box, being there for your victories, choosing fabrics, dressing up for fancy restaurants, drinking the wine and avoiding the places where they serve the cheap stuff. A void of a life. A dress conceived for another figure. Numbness. Frustration and outbursts of hatred over random things. Being unable to complain because this is the Perfect Life. Being ungrateful. Making kids to find purpose. Drinking more wine. Never understanding what had happened to me. Blaming you for it.

My mother married young, and then she died, and did she have time to like her life? Or was she stuck with the toddler, surrounded by high walls? Scared?

All these thoughts, back there on the sidewalk, it was too much. I needed to think and I didn't have time. You were there waiting for me, I could see you. You were so confident that this was the way to go. How could you know?

That night, when I didn't show up, it was more an irrational decision, an instinct. But I never regretted. I've had all the time I needed to take a step back.

I don't want to live the life of other people. I don't want to be seduced by an expensive dinner and a bit of romantic play out of the Casanova book. I don't want to believe that my life has to look just like in the movies for it to be right. I don't want to feel like I'm an actress. I don't want to stick to my lines, no matter how rebellious, and still, in the end, follow the codes.

For the record, you should want to f**k me, not feed me.

I know, living is also about making mistakes, but I'm glad I never got to be the one who made love so superficial to you.

Now I'm living with the average. People in pubs, in buses. People with a job but not destined to crack any lottery. I'm paying rent and what a therapy it is to me. I'm so f**ked up. It's so far from obvious to manage myself. And sometimes I feel so alone and mortal, knowing I won't leave a thing behind when I depart, understanding how much of a joke the whole game is. Doing this or that, there is no point, but at least I'm square with my misery, I owe it all to myself. This is like wanting to know what I'm really worth, how much heart I have.

You could have talked me out of all this any time. Because of the love, and because somehow it's so easy to talk to you, about anything. Or you would have supported me. But it's not nearly as fun if there is no suffering, is it? Life...

I also kept to myself because I didn't want to trash your rich world, or yourself for that matter, right in front of you. You had to have your own path. Maybe the tennis world would work out nicely for you. But then, I guess Pamela broadened your view a bit.

My Dad and Claudine never congratulated me for the way I dumped you.

I don't think I would ever have written the book.

Well, this is it. And now, what? Hopefully you don't hate me. Anyhow, I still wish the best to this gracious backhand of yours.

Love,

Thérèse


July 2010 -------------------------------------


I text her: “Thank you”.

No answer. But I didn't ask any question.

[rebeccathestrange]

August 2010 -------------------------------------


“Good evening guys my name is Ashley I'll be your waitress tonight our specials today are the ranch mahi mahi which is presented with a side of either chips French fries mashed potatoes rice beans corn...”

Back to the States. Do foreigners ever dare torturing waitresses and have them repeat everything slowly until every ingredient is properly understood?

I trip badly over the first step and don't get to see much more of Washington. In passing I catch a glimpse of the Capitol and the taxi driver tells us that the White House is over there, but we can't see it. A lot of black people, carrying our luggage, handling our reservations, checking us in. None in the restaurant where we have dinner, in a place called Georgetown.

Canada – hard to think I ever made the final here. Another first round blow to the guts. Feeling down, I get a bit trashed on the regular bar and then the minibar, and in that state I start to send messages overseas with utter disregard for the time difference. At 5 AM in London Thérèse is awoken by the ever important Ça va? Tu me manques – How are you? I miss you. I have no doubt she appreciated the intention. At my 5 AM, she sends me a reply. Pas trop mal, merci, et toi? - Not too bad, thank you, and you?

At a mutually decent hour I give her a call. The plane back to the US is delayed by fifty minutes and I have time to kill at the airport.

“Ok, excuse-me. I was trashed and alone in an hotel room, a bad combination.”

“Maybe you should contemplate winning something this month.”

“Nah, I love to make the US trip a waste of my time.”

“You're an idiot. Two months a year you insist on being miserable. It doesn't have to be like that.”

“I know, but... Don't you miss France?”

“Yes and no. The UK is my home, now. I read the French newspapers online and to be honest, more often than not I'm glad I'm out of there. I like that feeling, escaping my own culture. I'm free to just keep the best of it.”

“You're smart, Thérèse. It helps, I guess.”

“Find something you like over there. I heard they have good margaritas.”

“Except as a professional athlete I'm not supposed to get wasted on a daily basis.”

“Yeah, being one of your collateral damages, I tend to agree. You know what? I met this new guy, it's going not too bad. Sometimes I would like to avoid having to explain to people that I'm friends with a tennis player that travels the world yet doesn't understand time zones.”

“You've had time to come up with an alternate story.”

“I'm friends with an asshole that I don't see that much and keeps incredibly irregular hours?”

“That would work.”

“But people might find it strange that I'm still your friend.”

“Whereas if you tell people that I'm a tennis player, it makes perfect sense that I'm your friend.”

“Got me. I guess our friendship is strange. Hey, are you playing in Montpellier?”

“I didn't enter it, but I could. Do you want to meet over there?”

“Yeah, let's do that. I haven't been home in a while. And you can tell me all about how you ended up embracing the American culture.”

“Shit, we're boarding. I've got to go.”

“Gasquet?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck for the Open. I'm with you.”

What's the take-out? I'm down because she has someone else or I'm smiling because I just talked to my long time friend?


Cincinnati -------------------------------------


We choose a rather low-key hotel close to a park. The first leg of my morning jog runs along a busy road, then I reach the green oasis. In the early hours the lawns are deserted. Casual runners cross me with headphones on and a dog. I run to the distant traffic noise.

Close to the hotel is a family restaurant where we hang out at night. There is a bar in the entrance for people waiting for their tables. It's actually a cozier place than the dining room.

The night I crash out of the tournament, the barmaid recognizes me.

“You've been here yesterday already, right?”

“Yes. My hotel is not too far.”

“Are you in town for business?”

That makes me smile. The bar is not too busy tonight and obviously she's a bit bored. I would place her at thirty-something, not a striking beauty but there's something about her. Earlier her boss was being a bit harsh to her, I can tell she's tired and is having a tough day. Markus already left, also a bit pissed at me for the loss today. He suggested with an ironic tone that I'd better not drink too much and get home safely.

“Sort of. Yes, I'm here because of my job.”

“What's the accent? Where are you from?”

“I'm French.”

“Really? I don't see many here. What's your job?”

“I... I play tennis. I'm a tennis player. There is a big tournament in Cincinnati this week.”

“Oh. Yes, they mentioned it on the radio this morning. Oh my god, are you Roger Federer?”

“I wish. Richard Gasquet.”

“Well, never heard of you, it figures.”

“It's ok. I don't win as much as he does.”

“And how is that going, the tournament?”

“I lost today.”

“Oh, I'm sorry... Oh! Did you need another drink?”

“No, I'm fine with this one, thanks.”

“God, this is unreal. I have a French tennis player in my nowhere bar.”

“It is a nice bar. It feels like having a normal life.”

“Well, I'll be damned. How is it like, the kind of life you have?”

“There is good stuff and less good stuff.”

“Sure. Who's that man who was there with you? He looked angry.”

“That was my coach.”

“Oh. So he was not so happy because you lost.”

“Right.”

“Well, you'll do better next time. What's your next tournament?”

“The US Open, in New York.”

“Wow. This sounds big. Is it a big one?”

“It's one of the biggest.”

“I'm sorry, I'm so ignorant. We're baseball and hockey fans in my family. I know nothing about tennis.”

“It's ok. If you did you would already be lecturing me about how I manage my career.”

“If you allow me, it sure sounds like you need a nicer coach.”

“He's a good guy.”

Half an hour later, she's showing me pictures of her two kids. Her name is Patricia. She goes on to tell me about growing up in Cincinnati. She never really went anywhere else. I mention that I beat Federer once. God, am I pathetic.

Got a flight to New York early the next day.


Montpellier 2010 -------------------------------------


Tennis is all the sudden extremely secondary. It's painful to be locked up inside a gym when most of my friends and family members live within a 100 kilometer radius. Thérèse made it, to my relief on her own. I'm not ready to be introduced to Someone Else. Apparently she didn't mean to have him meet her parents right away either. Or was the story short-lived?

Our parents are silent and tense. They're not sure what to make of the fact that we're talking to each other again, seemingly as if nothing had ever happened. My mother has the hardest time.

I spend an entire night on Thérèse's patio talking about everything but the confrontational. November is almost there, it's getting chilly. I don't really like this time of year, I'm so used to the perpetual tennis summer that I take it for granted. Australia will come back fast.

We're buried under three blankets and drinking wine to keep ourselves warm. Indeed Thérèse's new man didn't make it past the first month. And what about Davis Cup? This is all everybody's talking about at the moment. Yeah, I'm going to Belgrade, but hopeless. I've jumped through all the hoops Forget wanted me to jump through, but I know he won't take me on the final squad. My punishment is not over yet with him. Old Davis Cup grudge. Thérèse offers her support by cursing his name every ten minutes or so. Whatever, apparently I've offended the French Federation in every possible way and I'm not done paying.

“Should you ask for UK citizenship? Andy Murray needs a Davis Cup teammate.”

“I won't fool anybody with my English.”

“Come on, everybody thinks your accent is cute. They loved Cantona back in the day. And you've actually won some grass court titles.”

“I don't know, as much as your citizenship can be a bitch, it's hard to get rid of the coat.”

“Maybe you can get dual citizenship. And play for the UK. That would show this asshole Forget.”

“We need more wine. Do they have wine in the UK?”

“Richard, let's focus on the positive.”


Paris, November 2010 -------------------------------------


“Hello...”

“Hello you, how are you?”

“Well, I wanted to be the one to break the news for you...”

“You're on the Davis Cup squad?”

“No, I think that decision will take a bit longer and then Guy will kick me out. No, the thing is... I didn't qualify for the year-end championship in London.”

“Duh... We knew that in April already, no?”

“More like January. Anyway, that was my chance to go and scoop out my new prospective nation. Now I won't have a chance until the grass season.”

“Bummer.”

“Unless... I just happen to have a few days off, courtesy of Roger Federer, and I thought maybe I could show up and you would try and convince me that I want to be British.”

“How many days off?”


London, November 2010 -------------------------------------


So that's her place. A small studio in the attic of a five story house, stuffed with books and photos and the mess that makes up her world. Her infant princess size bed is hidden behind a curtain. The bathroom is microscopic, the same as in apartments in Paris. Her kitchen is limited to the essential. She lives the bohemian life. And seeing her there, in her jeans and large woolen sweater, this fits her so well.

I dump my bags in a corner of the living room and they fill half the space already. I didn't stop home on the way and I didn't have a place where I could leave the rackets for a few days. I didn't book a hotel and I'm wondering if she'll be ok with me sharing her bed. I guess I could sleep on the floor.

“So what's the program?”

“I have tickets for the tennis showdown.”

“A – you're kidding me and B – I can't stay that long. Guy is having us do a Davis Cup boot camp.”

“A – I was kidding you. Let's hit the pubs.”


Later -------------------------------------


Picture me drunk.

“Thérèse... I mean, you're a really good friend and a very important person to me.”

“G, you're drunk.”

And really, she is too.

“But what I mean... Really, I like you.”

“Me too, you're my buddy!!!”

“But seriously, there is one thing we need to discuss just once and then we forget it. I just need to ask one question, and I don't want you to get angry.”

“Oh my god, this is the moment when we have to talk about that f**king date again.”

“No, not that. Just answer this: when... when will it be long enough that I'm allowed to try and seduce you again?”

“Oh, you will know. I will make you understand.”

“Ok. What kind of sign will it be?”

“A perfectly explicit sign.”

“And is there anything I can do to make the sign come faster?”

“Just live.”

“Ok, this is not helping.”

“Is it clear for you that you're sleeping on the floor tonight?”


Christmas 2010 -------------------------------------


A vintage Christmas. On a high from the trip to London, indifferent to the Belgrade outcome. My parents dare to accept an invitation from Thérèse's family. The evening goes out in laughter and tennis is not discussed. Everybody is so relieved to experience this magical instant away from drama. Just a bunch of people that have come home for Christmas, leaving their stressful lives behind.

I send a “Merry Christmas, your family is in my thoughts” email to Yasmina.

[rebeccathestrange]

Paris – Chennai -------------------------------------


Not been in long courier flights for a while, the movie selection has been renewed. The sound is still crappy. I can barely keep my eyes open, yet know I wouldn't fall asleep. I need to drink water, the air conditioning has dried the air to asphyxiation levels. I get up and make my way to the galley, crossing dark rows of sleepers and illuminated poor-resolution screens. The flight attendants are busy narrating He cheated on her stories to each other. I catch a plastic glass and a snack and make my way back to my seat. Well, that took a whole four minutes. Remaining flight time: 6:47. We're flying high North to go around Afghanistan. Looking at the zoomed in maps on the flight monitor, the landscapes look deserted, moon-like. Probably majestic if one could see a thing. Cities you never heard of. We're flying toward the night; it will be well upon us when we land in Chennai.

I get up again and open the overhead compartment to fetch my backpack. I retrieve a book Thérèse gave me for Christmas. We usually don't exchange gifts on the occasion, it's foremost a family holiday, but she insisted on grounds that she had skipped my birthday for a while. But then, I'm not known for being an avid reader, so the gift is strange. And it's in English. I'm not really sure what it's about, it seems quite technical. So for the last week or so I've treasured the object as a gift but failed to read a single line of it.

There is a note on one of the first pages from the hand of Thérèse. For any time when you want to think about something else. Else than her or else than tennis? Hard to tell as she sort of always positions herself as someone that could help me mentally, to face the difficulties of 6-1 / 6-0 losses to adversaries ranked 234 places below me. But well, 2011 is not supposed to be that kind of year.

I can't read. I have the book in my hands and I'm thinking of her. She was on her way to a lively New Year's Eve party. I was on my way to an airport and upgraded security devices. She has the life, I'm left with the discipline. This must be correct – I would suck at life. The backhand is useless in most real situations. How ironic that she pities herself for having no qualification of any sort, unlike me, when I'm absolutely clueless outside of tennis. But this also means that I should maybe take the losses a little less philosophically. I've got to give myself a chance to be something else than a subject of mockery to myself. Sometimes.

Aside from that, the passion is thinning down. There were moments when we had nothing to say. The drama is gone, the substance behind it has hit the road as well. Which is real? The painful passion entertained over years, or the dawn light over faded make-up? Somehow from spending more time with Thérèse, I get less close to becoming her lover again. I think she has views on yet another guy anyway. I could tell during an awkward evening in London when she introduced me to some of her friends.

Side note: London is full of French. This citizenship thing could really be more than a joke. I guess it's unlikely that I could openly discuss it with Murray. Anyway, I can't understand half of what he says.


Dubai 2011 -------------------------------------


The next day it's her again, the beautiful Indian girl with the sunny smile, taking registrations for practice courts. She calls me her handsome Frenchman. Should I ask her out? I haven't done that in ages, it seems. What's her name? Aarushi. Exotic. She chats a bit. It's just me at her desk today. Ok, I ask her out. I have a day off tomorrow and we agree to meet at the end of her shift in the afternoon.

At 6 PM the chauffeur drops me off at a mall where a bunch of Porsche and Ferrari are blocking the entrance. I wanted to take a cab but the tournament insists on driving us everywhere. Aarushi is there waiting for me by a Gucci boutique. She's wearing much more make-up than she does at her job. She's excited to check out all the expensive boutiques, she finds everything in the windows beautiful. I assume my own skepticism is a reflection of my ignorance of trends. I drag her to a place where we can sit and have a coffee and maybe get to know each other.

So she has another job at a hotel when she's not a tennis receptionist. She seems to envy my life a lot. When she explains a bit the reality of not being a citizen in the UAE, I feel it would be disrespectful to criticize the tennis way of life. Her only option is to make as much money as she can, then find another country where she could immigrate in her old days. She's thinking of Canada but is afraid of the cold. She's doesn't feel at home in India, she was born in Dubai and never lived on the other side of the Gulf of Oman. But in the UAE, if you don't work, you can't stay. I'm starting to feel uneasy about the country that's giving me such a nice paycheck this week.

After a couple of coffees we walk a bit more in the mall. Aarushi admires a lot of things she can't buy. She gets crazy over a hand bag where I could stuff a couple of rackets. Richard, it's so beautiful. I don't know, it's big and sort of complicated. The designer name makes most of the fabric design. I feel so sympathetic about the bad cards the good fairy dealt her that I buy her the bag. She's ecstatic. Then she wants me to have something too and pushes me into getting myself a new phone.

Later on, she advises on the restaurant at the top of the Burj Al Arab. I had hoped that hanging out with a local would have been a chance to step away from the tourist paths, but can't refuse. A number of players would have loved the idea. Me, I'm frustrated that she thinks all the rich people have the same taste. The lure of accumulated stars is for granted.

“Richard, what are you thinking about?”

Right now, I'm seeing a chest standing in my tidy bedroom in Switzerland. It's a perfectly ordinary chest, well matched with the rest of the furniture, with eight deep drawers, four to each side. The second drawer from the top on the right contains a smashed frame that I wasn't able to throw away. The picture is still in the frame, Thérèse not really smiling. On top of the frame is a letter, received last summer.

I should just replace the frame, quit the pathetic broken heart routine.

After we drop Aarushi off in a suburb town fifteen kilometers away, where the buildings are less tall and less brand new, the chauffeur lets me know that tomorrow, he can find a more appropriate girl for me. This is getting sordid.

Federer would spare me the next episodes.


A short break in Béziers -------------------------------------


Driving past Khal's neighborhood, I take a detour on an impulse and cruise past his parents' house. I'm surprised to see him on the front lawn, busy cutting some bushes. I stop and get out of the car.

“Richard? What a surprise!”

He seems embarrassed for a while, cleans up his hands on his dirty clothes without getting a satisfactory result, and finally shakes my hand. Still unsure, he invites me in for a coffee.

“Everybody's out at work.”

“Look, if they wouldn't want me to be here, I can leave. I don't want to get you in trouble.”

“No, Ritchie, no such thing. They wouldn't mind. Please, come in. We can sit in the garden in the back. Finally we have a bit of sun, it's nice out.”

He gets me a coffee so strong that I have to add a good liter of water before I can drink it. He puts some cookies on the table and looks at me, smiling, still unsure of what to say.

“So, how's your health?”

“I'm fine. I pay attention. I'm much better than I've been.”

“It's good to hear.”

“I thought you were mad at me.”

“Why would I?”

“I figured it was my fault, all the trouble you've been in with the drug suspension. I took you to hang out with some bad people. I've almost put that thing up in your nose.”

“No... No, absolutely not. I never thought that. You know, I never took anything. Two years later I'm still unable to explain what happened. We came up with that story with the girl and it saved my butt, but I never knew. It could have been a lot of things.”

“I thought you had taken something with the girl in L.A. You two were gone to her room for a while at some point.”

“Well, that wasn't drug related.”

We both smile at that.

“Then how did it happen?”

“I have no clue. Honest.”

“Shit. You've been lucky to survive this.”

“I know. But don't feel guilty over anything, I never considered it was your fault. Unless you put stuff in my drinks when I wasn't looking.”

“Richie, I was an ass, but I would never have done anything that could have hurt your tennis. I know what it takes for you to play, and I respect you for doing it.”

“I know, I was joking. I always felt like I should be the one to apologize for the way we kicked you out at the airport.”

“That wasn't you. And I mean, they were right to do it. I was trouble. But still, I'm glad you fired that coach. I didn't like him.”

“I didn't really fire him. I couldn't hold on to people and drag them down with me.”

“Yeah, I guess I've also not been much of a friend at that time.”

“It was part of the plan. Which I never communicated to you, but well. You were supposed to stay away from me and I had to live like a monk.”

“Makes sense. I would have made things worse. You've no idea of the stupid things I've done.”

“You can tell me, you know.”

“I know. Well... You remember Tonio? Bald guy, we saw him in a club in Montpellier. I sold drugs for him. I went to Spain with him to bring back some. We spent a week in Barcelona, in an apartment with guys who had guns. Then... in Algeria I had a brief encounter with Lady Heroin. Just long enough to get me the hepatitis. I've smoked tons of pots, I've put all I could in my nostrils. I've f**ked up my brain and my health. I've put my family through hell. I've hit a nurse with a hammer. Thank God I was too stone to hurt him.”

“You look much better than I thought. I've heard horror stories.”

“At some point I was fat, that was the medication. Then I got bald, that was another medication. I've been really tired. Now I'm ok. I try to stay in shape.”

“What do you do then?”

“Of all things, I would love to finish my studies. I'm waiting for the new term to register. Meanwhile, I spend a lot of time with this association that helped me get out of my mess. I'm trying to give back a bit. I've been lucky that they took pity on me. I could have been dead or in prison just as easily.”

“I didn't know you had been helped by an association.”

“Yeah, they have a place in the countryside, it was donated. People can go there and do some gardening, relax, take time to rebuild themselves. I spent six months over there.”

“Is it for addicts?”

“For all sorts of lost people. I tell you, you spend a few months in a psychiatric hospital, sedated day and night, and you're pretty f**ked up when you go out. You think society is never going to take you back.”

“And so what do you do when you go there?”

“There's plenty to do around the house, it's an old thing. The association only has enough money to employ one person, a social worker. For the rest they depend a lot on voluntary help. They wanted to hire me but there's no money for that. It's better that they spend it on food and on the house.”

The afternoon goes quickly. I'm so impressed by how he turned around his desperate situation. And by the man he became: calm, serene. His tranquility is contagious. By the end of the day, an all-smiling Yasmina comes back from work. His father whom I haven't seen in years greets me like a lost and found again son and invites me for dinner.

I silently decide to redirect some funds from my Foundation towards a modest association who gives fine second chances.


Madrid, April 2011 -------------------------------------


“Hey miss.”

“Hello Richard. I figured you would call me. Quite the anti-climatic loss.”

“Yeah... There is that.”

“You sound really down. Do you want us to meet?”

“I don't have time for escapades. I'm taking a plane to Rome tomorrow night. Riccardo knows places where I would get in a better mood.”

“No kidding, Italy with an Italian, promising. But right now actually I'm in Madrid.”

“Are you??? “

“I took a few days off and broke the pig. I knew I should have opted for Rome. But well, I have a friend who just moved here and she could accommodate me. So, do you want to meet?”

“Absolutely!”

Later we find ourselves in a little overcrowded restaurant her friend suggested. The music is loud and people are shouting over it. At a minuscule table in a corner and alone in our language, we're hidden from the world, in a perfect intimacy. I promised Riccardo I wouldn't get drunk. Fat chance of that, the wine is awful. The tapas are great though, and Thérèse orders as if she'd lived in Spain all her life. When did she learn to speak Spanish? In the last class I attended with her almost ten years ago, she sucked.

“If your plane is only tomorrow night, would you want to come with me and see Guernica tomorrow?”

“Sure. What's Guernica?”

“Well... One of the most famous paintings of Picasso. It's in the Reina Sofia museum.”

“Ah. Something else you don't learn on a tennis court.”

“Actually, you've seen it before. It was pictured in our history books. It shows the bombing of the town of Guernica by the Luftwaffe during the Spanish civil war.”

“It rings a bell but I'm not sure.”

“You'll know it when you see it. Pure hurt, pure loss. And the strange thing is, there is so much beauty in the work.”

“So, what's the message?”

“I don't know, I guess it all goes down to what it makes you feel. Maybe you'll find it dull.”

“If I manage to see it a bit with your eyes, I don't think I can find it dull.”

“Wow, what's the compliment for? Are you hitting on me again?”

“That came out wrong. I mean, I know you have peculiar views of things, so opposite to what I naturally think. When you explain your side, it always puts things in perspective for me. It gets me out of places where I'm stuck in my mind. I'm here whining about a who-cares loss to who-cares, and you're telling me about Picasso.”

“You've been playing well lately, Richard. Why are you so bummed with this particular loss? You know the drill, they come and go, but you're in a good direction. And it's spring, and it's Europe, it's when you shine.”

“It's not the loss... Actually, I lost because I was bothered with side stuff.”

“What is it, then?”

“Another display of love from the French Federation. It's about Roland Garros. You know, the day before it starts, there is always this exhibition where players volunteer their time for a good cause, except it's really mandatory for the French players. So I sort of have to participate, except nobody would put it like that. And they thought it would be great to have Bob Sinclar run the show.”

“Let me guess. Nobody thought it would feel uncomfortable for you, after the Pamela mess.”

“And he's also animating the players' party.”

“Yeah, that one you can ditch.”

“You bet, there's no way I'm going.”

“Can you avoid the charity thing? What's the cause?”

“That's not the point. Nobody really knows who's the beneficiary. It's more a show to promote tennis players and Roland Garros. And Bob Sinclar, obviously. He's a tennis fan, so the FFT is endorsing him and he's endorsing us back, once a year.”

“And sensitive enough to understand that discretion can be a virtue.”

“Exactly. And I'm so pissed, not at him but more at the Federation. They invest so much into having him around, making his promotion, such as to reassure people and let them know that he's a fun, good guy. And they never did as much for me. But really, why does tennis give a f**k about the reputation of Bob Sinclar?”

“He's the best French musician at the time?”

“The stallion of French culture.”

“Ritchie, you know words! How is that British citizenship coming up?”

“There is no way out of it. I'm so pissed.”

“And rightly you are. These people are assholes. They couldn't portray things in a better way to give the message that you're responsible of terrible sins and you should forever repent and deal.”

“It's not that things were Bob Sinclar's fault. It's just that they can't have a single moment of empathy for me. It would sicken them to have to make a nice gesture toward me.”

“Next thing you know, when you're in the final of Rome kicking Nadal's ass, they'll all be in the tribune taking credit for your backhands.”

“Yes, but let's not get over ourselves here.”

“Right, you first have to kick Djokovic's ass in the semifinal.”

“And Roger in the quarters.”

“Take them one at a time.”


Still Madrid -------------------------------------

We're out of the Museum and into the sun, sitting at the terrace of a café in a random street. Always tons of things to talk about. We've debated the sorrows of my life at length. Then it's been time to catch up on her own distresses. That made me feel shallow again.

She had an abortion a number of weeks ago. The boyfriend really was nothing more than a midnight pal. She could not go through another abandon at birth. How did it happen? Excess of alcohol, casual omissions of her pill, and a touch of self-destruction. Sadness and memories have left her at the bottom of the pit for weeks. The boyfriend was long gone.

When she mentions the self-destruction, I'm thinking to myself, You too, Thérèse... We were continents away and she wouldn't need to explain it to me. She goes as fast as possible over the details of the abortion and switches to another story about a stranded cat which had found a refuge under a cardboard box on her tiny balcony.

She was hiding to die in peace. Thérèse didn't know what had happened to her. There was no evidence of a bad fight, no blood, no visible wound. No name tag either. She didn't accept anything to eat. Thérèse found a vet in the phone book who was kind enough to make the house call. He said the cat was terminally ill. He took the animal away and went back to his clinic to put her to rest. Thérèse didn't go. The cat was there, the next minute she wasn't, and she knew she was dead. She was surrounded by death.

There is so much frailty in her as she tells her stories. She looks down or away. Her hands don't move. She has this life of an unnamed job, of what-can-you-expect boyfriends, and of moments of pain and absolute loneliness. And then she's able to put on her best face to cheer me up over loosing two sets in the tennis sitcom. But this, I finally understand, is her distraction. Somewhere, away from the fog, she entertains hopes that I'm going to win something. She reads columns and interviews and waits to see what is going to come up next. Her smile, her mocking ways, her determination, all is back as soon as we talk about rankings, journalists and opponents.

“Richard... Richard...”, she says, as she tries to interrupt me. I finally shut up and pause, then let her know that I'm ready to listen:

“Yes?”

“Don't give up.”

“When will you come to see me play? In Paris?”

“I don't know.”

“When will I see you again?”

“I don't know.”

“I miss you, you know. Always alone in hotel rooms. And then I see you and it's so brief, I got to go catch my plane. Why do I always feel like I want to touch you?”

And here it comes, the tentative smile and look. Compassion and distance. I'll always be the idiot in this relationship.

Or not. Out of the blue she comes for a refuge in my arms and cuddles up on my chest. And then we kiss.

This emotional charge, I never felt. I'm trembling and hoping it doesn't show. The kisses of the past are of no help, as they happened too long ago. And yet there are none of the awkward adjustments that you have to go through when you first kiss someone. I stop trembling and hold her closer. I can't let go and she won't either. We stop once and almost immediately start over.

Then she's on her way, simply repeating:

“Don't give up.”

I react too late. She's already out of range when I manage to murmur a good-bye, love.


May 12th, 2011 -------------------------------------


[16] R Gasquet (FRA) d [3] R Federer (SUI) 46 76(2) 76(4)