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remember him swearing, the way the minister of health routinely did, particularly when an opponent hit a shot that clipped the tape and fell in for a point. At such moments the minister of health had a way of glowering at the ball as though it had reneged on some sort of gentlemen’s agreement. Upon retrieving the ball he would give it a squeeze, only to declare it flat, thereby having an excuse to replace it with a ball that had not yet offended his sense of decency.
    The week after my visit with M. Guinee to Habitation Louvois, Senator Marcus and the minister of health played a long-awaited rematch against their oldest rivals, Father Grommace and Ambassador Twitchell. Father Grommace was the priest at the Church of the Holy Trinity in Lyonville, and I had no doubt my father would say he was in suspiciously good shape for a man who should have held himself above vanity and matters of the flesh. Nor would my father have approved of the expensive watch and the handful of rings Father Grommace stored in a velvet pouch in the hotel safe while he played. Then again, my father would have been more furious still just to learn I knew the man.
    That his fiercest competitor was also his spiritual guide seemed to pose no problem for Senator Marcus. He often joked that winning was that much sweeter when you beat a man with God on his side. And when Father Grommace won—well, that was God’s will, and there was nothing Senator Marcus could do to change it.
    Ambassador Twitchell, in contrast to his robust partner, had the look of a man in the late stages of terminal illness. By common parlance, his skin was white, but in truth it was nearly transparent, like certain fish one finds clinging to life in the fetid pools of dank caves. No matter the weather, Ambassador Twitchell had a cold, and there was room in his pocket for only one ball at a time, for the rest of the space was packed with lozenges. For all that, though, Ambassador Twitchell possessed a remarkable grace with a racket. Even while he clenched a handkerchief in one hand, his other could return a ball with all the ease of an afterthought. He had the ethereal presence of a ghost.
    At their last match, several months before, Father Grommace and Ambassador Twitchell had come out the victors. For the minister of health, the loss had been particularly painful. Having twisted his ankle in the last game of the third set, M. Rossignol had to hobble through the final points as best he could, but his range was drastically reduced. The match had ended with a backhand from Father Grommace that—adding insult to injury—nicked the tape and fell in just a few centimeters from the minister’s outstretched racket. Off balance and infuriated, he crumpled to the ground, howling in pain and rage.
    Today’s rematch turned out to be no less dramatic. In the last game of the final set, Senator Marcus and the minister of health were leading, having mounted an impressive comeback. It had begun to look as though they might actually win.
    But then the minister of health, who had served flawlessly all day, double-faulted, driving both attempts straight into the net.
    â€œShit!” he yelled, swinging his racket as though it were a scythe. “ God damn it,” he declared, drawing out the first syllable for special emphasis.
    Father Grommace frowned.
    â€œNever mind about that.” Senator Marcus squeezed his partner’s shoulder. “We’ve got them right where we want them.”
    The minister of health’s feet remained planted in protest.
    â€œThe net’s not going to change its mind,” the Senator said, gesturing for him to resume his service.
    The minister of health glared back in silence as he stomped to his left, reluctantly getting into position.
    As he bounced a new ball at his feet, M. Rossignol’s eyes followed each movement with furious attention, as if he were performing some elaborate form of exorcism with his mind.
    At the