Last night, too, the brilliant Frenchman Jean Cocteau was pitted against the American powerhouse with the French name, Cecil B. De Mille. The match was preceded by a dispute about the lights. De Mille wanted all the lights on, Cocteau wanted half of them on and the area where the players sit between sets to be completely unlit.
‘Unlit?’ asked De Mille. ‘Why? How are we going to see what we’re doing?’
‘There’s enough light spilling in from the court. It’ll be great. Some contrast,’ said Cocteau.
‘Contrast?’ said De Mille. ‘People don’t want contrast. They want to see what’s going on.’
‘You don’t know what people want. You only know what you want to give them,’ said Cocteau.
‘Meaningless distinction,’ said De Mille. ‘Just turn the lights on so we can see.’
The lights were turned on and play commenced. Cocteau spent much of the first set angling shots into De Mille from well above the net so they came at him out of the lights and he couldn’t see a thing. De Mille complained to the umpire who agreed, dismissing Cocteau’s protest that the lights were De Mille’s idea. Cocteau smiled. It was not the result that mattered, but the mischief.
De Mille plays well but lacks variation and, as the match progressed, his style became more metronomic, and the inventive Cocteau began to pick him off. De Mille had to be content with having executed, by his own estimation, at 4-all and 30–15 in the third set, ‘The Greatest Shot Ever Played in World Tennis’. It wasn’t enough.
There were no problems for the London-based SuperTom Eliot who was devastating against the resourceful Czech Karel Capek, sharpening his skills and hitting the ball as hard as anyone in the tournament so far. He has a bagful of racquets, each strung to a different tension and he worked his way through to the last of them.
‘Just trying a few things,’ he said. The hangdog SuperTom recently gave up his bank job to devote himself to the tour full-time and has been practising in the country with Ezra Pound. ‘Just a few little things we’re working on,’ said Eliot.
‘Can you be more specific?’ he was asked.
‘More specific?’ interrupted Pound. ‘How could he be more specific?’
‘It’s all right, Ezra,’ said SuperTom and cleared his throat:
‘Légerdemain, Marie, c’est la!
The second was the toughest set. A rugged time I had of it.
Après-dîner. Just the worst time for a match, and such a long dîner.
Because I did not serve too well.
Because I did not serve.
Because I did not serve my purpose
Was not clear Meine Heimat über alles.
I think those are meine Tennisbälle.
And timing please hurry along my timing.
The return is within the serve without the frame between.
Da.’
Day 11
Puccini v. Shostakovich • Gaudier-Brzeska v. Sibelius • Epstein v. O’Casey • Kafka v. D’Annunzio • Stravinsky v. Rivera
Rain failed to dampen enthusiasm this morning and, if anything, was good for the seeds. Several of the courts became unplayable but by late afternoon showers were intermittent and meteorologists promise bluer skies tomorrow.
On Court 1, before the rains came, Giacomo Puccini looked good all the way over one-time Russian junior champion Dmitri Shostakovich, who did not appear happy when he was whisked away by Russian officials after the match. A worried Puccini said the Russian tennis program seemed to be designed to identify ‘an incomparable talent like Dmitri. And snuff it out.’
Henri Gaudier-Brzeska found his road barred by the hardworking Finn Jean Sibelius. The Frenchman threw everything at it. Sibelius plays like no other player. ‘I play like a Finn,’ he said. ‘I am a Finn,’ he added, not unreasonably. His stroke-making sometimes seems agricultural, his serve lacks kick and he hits the ball straight and flat. The problem for his opponent today was that he hit it early and he hit it fast and he hit it into the gaps.
Englishman Jacob Epstein was also on the phone to the travel agent, beaten in four by Sean O’Casey. Epstein seems to have every shot but on the big points was tentative and sadly double-faulted to lose the match. O’Casey is a tough customer and his questioning of line calls brought him into conflict with the umpire. At 30–0 and 3–4 in the third set he did it again.
‘You are questioning a number of line calls,’ said the umpire.
‘I am,’ said O’Casey, ‘yes.’
‘Well, I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘Do you think I’m doing it for the good of my health?’ O’Casey asked. ‘I’m nearly blind, you great bollocks. I’m doing it because I can’t see whether the fucking ball is in or out.’
‘The ball was out,’ said the umpire.
‘Well, it didn’t look out to me. Did you see it, Jacob?’
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t,’ said Epstein, ‘but I think we should accept the call.’
‘Oh, do you?’ said O’Casey. ‘Think you’re being conservative enough there, Jacob?’
‘Thirty seconds,’ said the umpire.
‘What’s this thirty seconds business?’ asked O’Casey.
‘You have thirty seconds left or you’ll incur a time penalty.’
‘You tosser,’ said O’Casey.
‘Mr O’Casey to serve,’ said the umpire.
‘Tosser.’
‘Time penalty, Mr O’Casey. 30–15.’
‘You’re a tosser,’ said O’Casey.
‘Time penalty, Mr O’Casey. 30–all.’
‘Christ, you’re playing a lot better now, Jacob.’
‘Time penalty, Mr O’Casey. 30–40.’
‘Here, have a serve, man,’ said O’Casey patting the balls towards Epstein. ‘Give the crowd something to look at.’
‘Game, Mr Epstein,’ said the umpire.
‘Up your arse,’ said O’Casey.
In the end, it didn’t matter.
Franz Kafka
