Read Online Devil May Care by Sebastian Faulks - Free Book Online
Authors: Sebastian Faulks
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Thai.
‘If he’s looking for a game,’ said Bond, casually.
‘Oh, yes. He looking. I introduce you.’
Chagrin led the way past the spiral staircase that wound up to the extensive viewing area, bars and restaurant.
Gorner was staring through the plate-glass window at the nearer courts.
He turned and looked Bond in the eye. He held out his right, ungloved hand.
‘What an enormous pleasure to meet you, Mr Bond. Now, shall we play?’
.
5. Not Cricket
The changing room was on the lower ground floor, and included a large steam room, four saunas and enough colognes and aftershaves to have stocked Trumper’s of Mayfair for a year. Bond, who was used to the club in Barbados (single shower stall, wooden bar with cold beer) or the shabby back rooms of Queen’s Club in London, noticed that no amount of expensive scents had quite concealed a rancid under-smell of socks.
Gorner changed in a secluded cubicle, and emerged in new white Lacoste shorts that showed off muscular, tanned legs. He had retained the long-sleeved flannel shirt and the white glove on his large left hand. Over his right shoulder, he carried a bag with half a dozen new Wilson racquets.
Without speaking, as though he merely expected
Bond to follow, Gorner led the way upstairs and out into the playing area, which consisted of a dozen immaculate grass courts and the same number again of beaten earth with a powdery red dirt dressing. The club was proud of the surface, said to give a fast but exceptionally regular bounce and to be kind to the joints of knee and ankle. At each court there was a raised umpire’s chair, four smaller wooden seats for the players, a supply of fresh white towels and a fridge, which contained cold drinks and new boxes of white Slazenger tennis balls. Marshals in the club’s striped green and chocolate colours moved busily between the courts to make sure the members were happy with their arrangements.
‘Court Four is free, Dr Gorner,’ said one of them, as he ran to meet them. He spoke in English. ‘Or Number Sixteen if you would prefer grass this morning.’
‘No, I shall take Court Two.’
‘Your usual court?’ The man appeared anxious.
‘It’s occupied at the moment, Monsieur.’
Gorner looked at the marshal as a vet might inspect a spavined old horse to whom he is about to administer a lethal injection. He repeated, very slowly, ‘I shall take Court Two.’
The bass-baritone voice retained a slight Baltic
thickening of the vowels in the otherwise cultured English pronunciation.
‘Er . . . Yes, yes. But of course. I shall ask the gentlemen to move to Court Four straight away.’
‘You will find Court Two a better surface,’ said Gorner to Bond. ‘And one isn’t troubled by the sun.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bond. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was already high. Gorner took a fresh box of tennis balls from the fridge, threw three to Bond and took three for himself. Without consultation, he selected the far end, though there was no obvious advantage that Bond could see. They knocked up for a few minutes and Bond concentrated on trying to find a nice, easy rhythm, hitting the forehand well in front of him with a good long swing, and slicing the backhand with a proper follow-through. He also kept an eye on Gorner’s game to see if there were obvious weaknesses. Most players concealed their backhands in the knock-up, but Bond hit several wide to that side to give Gorner no chance. He chipped each one back to Bond’s baseline without difficulty. His forehand, however, was not really a tennis stroke at all. He slashed downwards at it with heavy slice, so that it fizzed flat over the net. Either he could not play a
regular forehand drive with topspin, thought Bond, or he was keeping it in reserve. In the meantime, Bond knew he must not let the awkward slice unsettle him.
‘Ready,’ said Gorner. It was less a question than a statement.
He marched up to the
‘If he’s looking for a game,’ said Bond, casually.
‘Oh, yes. He looking. I introduce you.’
Chagrin led the way past the spiral staircase that wound up to the extensive viewing area, bars and restaurant.
Gorner was staring through the plate-glass window at the nearer courts.
He turned and looked Bond in the eye. He held out his right, ungloved hand.
‘What an enormous pleasure to meet you, Mr Bond. Now, shall we play?’
.
5. Not Cricket
The changing room was on the lower ground floor, and included a large steam room, four saunas and enough colognes and aftershaves to have stocked Trumper’s of Mayfair for a year. Bond, who was used to the club in Barbados (single shower stall, wooden bar with cold beer) or the shabby back rooms of Queen’s Club in London, noticed that no amount of expensive scents had quite concealed a rancid under-smell of socks.
Gorner changed in a secluded cubicle, and emerged in new white Lacoste shorts that showed off muscular, tanned legs. He had retained the long-sleeved flannel shirt and the white glove on his large left hand. Over his right shoulder, he carried a bag with half a dozen new Wilson racquets.
Without speaking, as though he merely expected
Bond to follow, Gorner led the way upstairs and out into the playing area, which consisted of a dozen immaculate grass courts and the same number again of beaten earth with a powdery red dirt dressing. The club was proud of the surface, said to give a fast but exceptionally regular bounce and to be kind to the joints of knee and ankle. At each court there was a raised umpire’s chair, four smaller wooden seats for the players, a supply of fresh white towels and a fridge, which contained cold drinks and new boxes of white Slazenger tennis balls. Marshals in the club’s striped green and chocolate colours moved busily between the courts to make sure the members were happy with their arrangements.
‘Court Four is free, Dr Gorner,’ said one of them, as he ran to meet them. He spoke in English. ‘Or Number Sixteen if you would prefer grass this morning.’
‘No, I shall take Court Two.’
‘Your usual court?’ The man appeared anxious.
‘It’s occupied at the moment, Monsieur.’
Gorner looked at the marshal as a vet might inspect a spavined old horse to whom he is about to administer a lethal injection. He repeated, very slowly, ‘I shall take Court Two.’
The bass-baritone voice retained a slight Baltic
thickening of the vowels in the otherwise cultured English pronunciation.
‘Er . . . Yes, yes. But of course. I shall ask the gentlemen to move to Court Four straight away.’
‘You will find Court Two a better surface,’ said Gorner to Bond. ‘And one isn’t troubled by the sun.’
‘As you wish,’ said Bond. It was a beautiful morning and the sun was already high. Gorner took a fresh box of tennis balls from the fridge, threw three to Bond and took three for himself. Without consultation, he selected the far end, though there was no obvious advantage that Bond could see. They knocked up for a few minutes and Bond concentrated on trying to find a nice, easy rhythm, hitting the forehand well in front of him with a good long swing, and slicing the backhand with a proper follow-through. He also kept an eye on Gorner’s game to see if there were obvious weaknesses. Most players concealed their backhands in the knock-up, but Bond hit several wide to that side to give Gorner no chance. He chipped each one back to Bond’s baseline without difficulty. His forehand, however, was not really a tennis stroke at all. He slashed downwards at it with heavy slice, so that it fizzed flat over the net. Either he could not play a
regular forehand drive with topspin, thought Bond, or he was keeping it in reserve. In the meantime, Bond knew he must not let the awkward slice unsettle him.
‘Ready,’ said Gorner. It was less a question than a statement.
He marched up to the
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