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landed back in Toronto. Tibor hadn’t left the province, had gone to Queen’s for his master’s degree, and then returned to the University of Toronto for the Ph.D. He was just finishing his dissertation on nationalism and modernism in post-war Hungary, a study of treaties and boundaries, the politics of geographic and territorial identity. Daniel hadn’t completed the Ph.D. in political economy and government at Harvard, but as he explained over a tumbler of Jameson’s, he’d never really wanted to be a scholar. He wanted the real world, all its messy, ego-driven scrapping, its material stakes. And Toronto. He’d had enough of America, frankly. He’d brought his fiancée home with him, a woman he’d met in Boston, and they were expecting a child. Life. Tibor would like her, an academic type, just like him. Rafaela. Yes, great name.
    In the over-warm bar, all gleaming wood and glass, Daniel talked with the same confidence as always, dismissing anything that clearly didn’t count. And Tibor, as always and against his own will, believed him. It wasn’t just the timbre of Daniel’s voice that pulled him in, nor his casual name-dropping—he’d had drinks with men whose books were described as “seminal”—it was simply and undeniably Daniel’s intelligence . With Daniel, it was as though everything accelerated: the heat of whisky in the throat, the throb of the crowded room, the flash of the waitress’s belly ring, the clamour of dishes from the kitchen, the snow outside that pressed against the glass, the bar humid and dark. Between them, conversation rapid-fire, not tumultuous or aggressive, but seeking, sparking, connecting in new and unpredictable combinations. It made Tibor’s heart race, and not figuratively. Pounding excitement. Whether the topic was Argentinian economic policy or Big Brother, Daniel formulated. He fulminated. Ideas shot to the surface and scattered, phosphorescent. Talk was crucial. It was urgent, and important things hinged on words traded just like this, over a varnished table in the steam-pressure of a clamorous bar on a winter night between intellectuals of similar, if not identical, left-leaning political stripe.
    As they left, Daniel, feeling for the keys in the pocket of his expensive-looking grey parka, turned to Tibor: “Dissertation sounds really good, man. Really interesting. I’d like to hear more about it sometime.”
    It was just after midnight, and the snow was rushing down, tumbling under streetlights, pulsing in dark. They paused, face to face, shoulders hunched. And Tibor knew that his best friend was lying. Daniel didn’t want to hear more about the dissertation. Daniel didn’t give a shit about post-war Hungary. Daniel was being polite.
    So then why, given that, did Tibor respond as if he’d detected nothing. “Great, great. Well, why don’t we grab a drink next Thursday?”
    Daniel, keys in hand, had already taken one step away. He sucked his breath through his teeth, grimaced. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure about next Thursday. But sometime soon, for sure.” And then he took one step back toward Tibor to clasp him in a firm, manly hug. “Really good seeing you again.”
    â€œYou too.” Tibor clapped his friend’s back. “Good to have you back.”
    They separated with a “See you soon,” and Tibor pulled his toque out of his pocket, snugged it over his head, and trudged the twenty minutes home through five-centimetre drifts, feeling like he’d just been shit on.
    Yet, two weeks later, Tibor held a tiny plastic birdie upended over his racket and inhaled, focusing. He pulled his racket back gently and swung it forward: tap . The trick is to contain the energy in the swing, contain it and release it in the tap, which ought to be unhesitating, direct. Only a small surface of the racket meets hard red rubber. All the energy of the