Everything on the Line (17 page)

Yep, they would.

“Okay, then, let’s take this a step further. Doesn’t this little story say something about tennis and the very nature of competition? Doesn’t it once again confirm for you guys what I always tell you about being proactive and not reactive, especially under pressure? Doesn’t it shout out to you the simple fact that if you compete in an overly personal way against your opponent, if you get into the petty politics and jealousies and dislikes and the psychology of proving your superiority over whoever happens to be on the other side of the net or the other side of the
piazza
, instead of just concentrating on the joy of competing and playing the game and creating your ‘sculpture’—your thing of beauty—you run the risk of being insecure or angry or even…
fearful
?”

Giglio puts his hand in front of his distorted face and freezes, statuelike, in terror.

Ugo and Antonella crack up and look one more time at the defensive posture of the Rio de la Plata god in the fountain and smile at each other and, yet again, appreciate in their hearts the uplifting wisdom of Giglio Marotti’s teaching.

And the transcendent power of metaphor.

* * *

Ugo and Giglio are in the middle of one of their practice sessions, hitting hot and heavy.

Literally.

The thermostat at the Tennis Club Beppe Merlo reads 38.9 Celsius, or 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Giglio has arranged for the heat to be cranked up on purpose, in order to simulate the subtropical summer climate of January in Melbourne.

Giglio watches in awe as his prize pupil and the apple of his eye scrambles to reach unreachable balls in this swampy humidity, to pound unrelenting groundies, to construct points with implausible creativity. He is thinking of how proud he is of Ugo, and of how this extraordinary young man who cannot hear, and his archrival Jack Spade, have clearly established themselves as the two best players in the world, and arguably ever, although they may be a year or two away from putting this argument to rest for good and surpassing the towering accomplishments of the most dominating players ever (“The Magnificent Eight”), namely, Bill Tilden, Don Budge, Pancho Gonzalez, Rod Laver, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal, and Jaden Gil Agassi.

Dink!

Giglio’s reverie is interrupted by a gorgeously conceived and brilliantly executed drop shot that comes out of nowhere and catches him uncharacteristically flat-footed and unawares.

“Bravissimo,”
Giglio signs to Ugo. “Now, before we hit the showers, may I have a little word with you?”

Ugo’s favorite part of the workout session.

Perspiration is streaming down from Ugo’s hair and face as if its source were one of those “fake sweat” gadgets they used in the old comedy routines. But he doesn’t much mind, because here comes one of those lovely lectures.

“Okay,
ragazzo,
” Giglio signs, “can you tell me which part of your body is totally unlike that of anybody else’s on the face of the earth?”

Ugo giggles like a schoolboy at the first silly answer that crosses his mind and, after ten seconds of quality thought, gives his mentor a stunned look, precipitated by his ignorance of the correct answer and his not having a clue as to where
this
is going.

Giglio turns Ugo’s right hand palm-up, puts the tip of his index finger on the tip of Ugo’s pinky, and draws on it a series of imaginary concentric circles.

“Impronta digitale!”
Ugo says.

“Yes, your fingerprint! Now why do you suppose I’m asking you this?” Giglio asks Socratically.

Ugo thinks, because that is what Giglio has always inspired him to do.

“Because,” Ugo signs, “my fingerprint makes me unique?”

“Esatto,”
Giglio says, smiling that proud smile. “And just like your fingerprint is different from everyone else’s, in the same way your whole spirit and essence should be unique. And that is why we have been placed here on earth, to do our own unique, distinctive thing. Just think of your fellow countrymen alone. Dante! Petrarca! Leonardo! Michelangelo! Verdi! Ferrari! Fellini! Pavarotti! Each one did his thing as no one else had before and left his fingerprint on the world. And this should be true not just for celebrities, but for
every
human being! And you,
caro
, you too are leaving your fingerprint on the world, your gift, through your special way of playing tennis. And do you know how? It is not that you hit the ball harder than anyone ever has or are stronger or faster or more consistent or have more heart. You have all of these qualities,
certo
, but what makes you so special and unique is…”

Giglio places his right index finger on his right temple.

“…what you possess
up
here.
Instinctively, like no one now or ever before, you have a feeling for what is happening on the court, for creating intelligent points and being one step ahead. It’s as if you are playing tennis like a great chess grandmaster, one or even two steps in the future. Even in practice, every point for you is well conceived and tactically purposeful, as if you hit each shot not simply to keep the ball in play, but to prepare for the next one and then the next one, and so you almost always know what shot I will hit and where. It is a rare tennis game that you have, because you are capable like no one else of visualizing how a point will develop in advance and then, using your creativity and your imagination, you are able to create
un bel gioco
, a beautiful game. And if those words sound familiar to you, they are the same that are used to describe
o jogo bonito
, the beautiful game of soccer played by the Brazilians for nearly a century now. And this,
carissimo
, is your unique fingerprint…it is playing…
Ugo Bellezza tennis
!”

Giglio Marotti, exhausted from the workout, the heat and humidity, and the force of his passion, is toast.

A blushing Ugo smiles, towels off his drenched neck and brow, and looks down proudly at the tip of his right pinky.

* * *

“It looks like
Monte Vesuvio
!” Ugo signs to Giuseppe Gravina.

Giuseppe and his wife, Maria Signorile, are old friends of Gioconda and Giglio’s and tonight, in their sprawling flat on Via Monte Grimano, are hosting them, Ugo and Antonella, and their ever-faithful mastiff mix, Micromega.

Giuseppe nods to Ugo in agreement and continues his artistry on this Saturday afternoon in the northeastern section of Rome. On the kitchen table is a visual that indeed resembles Mount Vesuvius. In the middle of the wooden table, Giuseppe has just poured a giant mound of
farina semplice di Lazio,
a local golden flour. He then hollowed out the middle of the mountain to create a twelve-inch-in-diameter crater, inside of which he cracked eight raw eggs.

Giuseppe gently squashes the eggs in circular movements with a fork. Little by little, centimeter by centimeter, the crater of eggs comes in contact with the surrounding mountain of flour as he meticulously combines the two elements, the eggs growing thicker with each circular hand movement and the rim of flour growing thinner.

Giuseppe Gravina continues this tedious procedure for another ten minutes with the precision of a watchmaker and the concentration of a tennis line judge, until the flour has at last absorbed all the eggs, the mountain and crater have disappeared, and he is left with a mammoth flax-colored blob.

Next comes the painstaking stage of kneading, Giuseppe smushing down the blob with the butts of both his hands, then squeezing it between his palms, over and over. After which he separates it manually into a dozen minihunks, then kneads the minihunks as painstakingly as he did the original mammoth hunk. The muscles in Giuseppe’s biceps and arms ripple and bulge, just like those in Michelangelo’s
David
and
Dying Slave
.

And now there is the flattening of the minihunks, which Giuseppe effects in a specialized machine by inserting them once, then again, then again, until they are perfect. And the flat strips are inserted into a second specialized machine, where they are cut into thin strips, which are the final product,
the ultimate fettucine
, left to dry on the kitchen table with a sprinkling of flour on top and then placed lovingly on the backs of the four kitchen chairs.

Ugo is watching in awe and thinking of what Giglio always told him about
process
and how Giuseppe has just created his own masterpiece by struggling physically and mentally, at each stage, and by putting his heart and soul and effort into it every step of the way and by overcoming the bumps in the road (uncooperative minihunks, obdurate bubbles, impudent creases) and despite these bumps—perhaps
because of
them?—Giuseppe performs his art with great joy and gusto, constantly singing and smiling and joking with Ugo and Antonella.

After the three couples have enjoyed wine and lively conversation and a little romp outside with Micromega, the fettucine has dried, and Maria Signorile lowers it gently into a large pot of boiling water. The ragu-and-tomato sauce is bubbling, and the guests are famished.

“A tavola,”
Giuseppe and Maria shout in unison.

The guests are seated, and the dining room table is filled with a meal fit for a
re
. Giuseppe’s lovingly made fettucine, of course.
Pomodori e rughetta
(simple Roman salad)
.
Fichi e prosciutto
(grilled figs and ham).
Zucchini alla Romana
(zucchini with Romano cheese, garlic, and a touch of mint).
Pollo in agrodolce
(Roman-style sweet and sour chicken)
.

“Vorrei fare un brindisi ai nostri cari amici ed a mia moglie stupenda!”
Giuseppe says, raising his glass of Nebbiolo. Everyone raises their own, toasting the dear friends and of course Maria, the stupendous wife of Giuseppe.

As Giglio Marotti twirls his fork around a mass of fettucine strands, his mind wanders to the Foro Romano, which he and Gioconda had visited just this morning, and the memory of all those broken columns and remnants of temples, basilicas, and arches is making him think about how things don’t last forever, and for that matter life, and here today gone tomorrow and
sic transit gloria mundi
and
carpe diem
and live in the moment and there is so much yet for him to do while he is still a relatively young man, like see how much more he can help Ugo perfect his beautiful tennis game, and what about his deepening feelings for Gioconda? and maybe…

“Ed a Giuseppe Gravina, mio marito stupendo,”
Maria says, raising her glass of Chianti. Everyone raises their own, toasting Giuseppe, Maria’s stupendous husband.

As Gioconda Bellezza chews gently on a fig, her mind wanders to this afternoon’s walk with Giglio and to the plaque in front of the Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte church on the cobblestoned Via Giulia with that death-as-a-winged-skeleton image and the Latin inscription
Hodie mihi cras tibi
, “Today me, tomorrow you,” which at first frightened her but now she is thinking how much meaning the sentiment really contains and how more and more it is so important to seize the day and enjoy the moment after everything she’s gone through in her life what with her husband’s untimely death and Ugo’s deafness and now she is thinking of that deep and probing look that Giglio gave her right after they saw the plaque on the church and did it have anything to do with the plaque itself and with the two of them seizing the day? and maybe…

“Un altro brindisi a mia mamma favolosa,”
Ugo signs, raising his glass. Everyone raises their own, toasting Ugo’s fabulous mom.

As Micromega the dog digests a strand of fettucine that Giglio has just snuck under the table and into his pleading mouth, his mind wanders to when the next strand of fettucine will be delivered into his pleading mouth and maybe…

“Ed anche a mio figlio ugualmente favoloso,”
Gioconda signs back, raising her glass. Everyone raises their own, toasting Gioconda’s equally fabulous son.

As Antonella Cazzaro munches on a chunk of zucchini, her mind wanders to the unassuming San Pietro in Vincoli church where she and Ugo were this afternoon and she is thinking about how she walked into the church and meandered down the right-hand aisle and near the end on the right, ah,
eccola!
, there it was, that amazing statue of Moses created by Michelangelo and how she’d seen it in books but there it was in person and as she was looking at it a Japanese tourist puts a coin in that machine and instantly lights illuminated the statue so you could see it more clearly and in detail and how she just stood there staring at the stone tablet in Moses’s right hand and the muscular arms of the great Jewish prophet and how she felt something powerful welling up within her and then a great big tear rolled down the side of her right cheek and she is thinking about how she looked at Ugo then and how he looked back at her and what strange and wonderful feelings she is feeling more and more for him and maybe…

“Ed anche a Giuseppe e Maria per questa cena splendida!”
Giglio says, raising his glass. Everyone raises their own, toasting the hosts for this splendid dinner.

As Ugo Bellezza spears a chunk of luscious chicken with his fork, his mind wanders to this afternoon and that scene in the San Pietro in Vincoli church and that big tear rolling down Antonella’s right cheek and he is thinking about how touched he was by her sensitivity and how special that moment was and how much he loves her and how much more deeply he is getting to know her every single day and maybe…

* * *

Ugo Bellezza and Antonella Cazzaro sip alternately from the same glass of San Pellegrino, their healthy version of a celebratory cigarette. They have just made love for the very first time.

Made love
being the operative expression, as opposed to other words that might describe the act as an act and, at that, from a purely bestial or mechanical perspective.