‘True,’ conceded Pankhurst. ‘But I’m supporting England in this tournament.’
‘You’re obviously looking for a job in management,’ said Strong, ‘by pretending to be a threat to the system.’
‘How dare you!’ said Pankhurst. ‘I’ll have you know I—’
‘Fuck off, Emily,’ said Luxemburg. ‘Go back to your knitting.’
This exchange rather over-shadowed irresistible performances from Americans Mae West, Ruth Draper and Dorothy Parker, to say nothing of a jaw-dropper by the Australian Nellie Melba, who was down a break in both sets against Clare Boothe Luce but came back each time.
Playing with a brace on her back following a car accident and bandaging to both knees ‘after a weekend away with Trotsky’, fancied Mexican Frida Kahlo was always going to lack court speed in her match with Colette Claudine.
Colette disguised her shots nicely and Kahlo was relieved when it was over. ‘It was killing me,’ she said. ‘I was only doing it for Diego. I am in pain but the coffee mugs are selling well.’
It was business as usual for the men, with one exception. The scoreboard at Court 4 this morning read ‘G. de Chirico (Hel) v. G. Moore (Ire)’. The umpire sat in his chair and the lines-people stood at their posts as the players came out. A voice somewhere yelled, ‘Go Giorgio!’ and another answered, ‘We want Moore!’ Laughter rippled around the court as people applied suncream and made themselves comfortable.
They needn’t have bothered. The great perfectionist, Giorgio de Chirico, turned up in spotless whites and lodged a formal complaint. Moore’s clothing bore the manufacturer’s labels on the outside, he said. This bespoke a moral weakness. ‘I have no interest in appearing on the same court as a degenerate. I shall be in my room. Let me know when you’ve got this business sorted out.’
‘What century is this?’ asked Moore. ‘Everybody wears clothing with sponsors’ names on it.’
‘If a million people do a stupid thing, it is still a stupid thing,’ said de Chirico. ‘Good sense is not democratic any more than good health is. You want to wake up to yourself, Moore.’
‘If you think my shirt is distracting,’ said Moore, ‘you’re going to need oxygen when you see my tennis.’
‘I have no intention of seeing your tennis, as you call it,’ said de Chirico. ‘I am concerned only with seeing the ball.’
‘I’ll endeavour to play slowly,’ said Moore.
Meanwhile, Moore’s friend Big Bill Yeats was in trouble early against the Austrian Gustav Klimt before finding some rhythm but he doesn’t look the player of previous years, and it was only when his longtime friend Maud Gonne was absent during the tie-break in the second set that he began to concentrate. He tore off four unplayable serves and returned Klimt’s with ease, winning the tie-break to love. Gonne returned shortly afterwards but then Ludwig Wittgenstein’s sister turned up and Klimt lost control of his serve.
The storm worsened for Austria across what became a productive morning for Russian tennis. The indefatigable Chekhov looked commanding against Mahler and the Count, Leo Tolstoy, had far too much for Oscar Kokoschka.
Mahler pumped himself up between points and made great drama out of line calls and bad shots, carrying on as if he’d been harpooned when he left a Chekhovian cross-court return, only to see it drop in. The Mahler serve is so strong its power dominates even Mahler himself. After winning the second set he waved to the big German section of the crowd and stood with his hands in the air, his face set in defiance, his shadow thrown deep across the court. When this display was over, Chekhov carried on as if absolutely nothing had happened. Mahler’s wife, Alma, was in the players’ box at the beginning of the match but had vacated it by the end. Chekhov suggested she might have gone to Moscow but Mahler wasn’t convinced.
It wasn’t an easy morning for players’ wives. When Anna Tolstoy arrived for husband Leo’s match the players’ box was full of other women, at least two of whom were on her own staff. Tolstoy suggested these women may have been there to support Kokoschka. This didn’t look likely since the young women were clearly rooting for the Count.
Alma Mahler also had her hands full, monitoring the progress of her companion Kokoschka, checking on Court 17, where Walter Gropius was in all sorts of trouble against Hasek, dashing to Court 4 where Austria’s Franz Werfel was working on his service action, and visiting the recovery room where Gustav was complaining of a corked thigh. Kokoschka was upset by a line call at 2–0 in the second set and by the time Alma returned he was accusing the umpire of foot-faulting him because he wasn’t a freemason. It was all downhill from there.
The locals turned out this afternoon to cheer Fernand Léger, one of the few players to have a two-handed backhand, a two-handed forehand and a two-handed service. He sometimes drives the ball wide but well and seems torn between the mathematical disadvantage occasioned by the loss of a point and the mechanical efficiency of striking the ball truly.
The American Damon Runyon comes largely unheralded, although if we can judge by the number of scribes with plenty of 40–1 on him to reach the quarter-finals, there is some chance he knows what he is doing. Léger romped out to 6–2, 6–2 and, at the changeover at 5–0 in the third, Runyon told the umpire to get on him quickly since the odds were excellent and he had worked his opponent out. His good humour endeared him to the parochial crowd and nobody minded when he took the third and found another gear in the fourth to take it 6–1. At 5–0 in the fifth he offered to take any amount of anyone’s money on Léger at 50–1. This motion lapsed for want of a seconder and he served out the business at 6–0.
There was better news for Austria on Court
