Twang! The racket snaps through the air and sends the ball rocketing towards the sun. It is invisible for a moment, lost between the overpowering glare of the sun and the soupy haze sweating freely from the tarmac (it is December in Johannesburg, mid summer, and it is 48C-- almost hot enough asphalt to melt, already hot enough for traffic lanes to distort into sticky, wobbling ribbons). Felix watches it come back down, his muscles already tightening as his body condenses, ready to spring forward. Twang! and the ball comes rocketing back.
There are four boys there, and one girl, an older sister sitting in the shadow of a Sell All! convenience store. The owner, an Indian man (almost to be expected of Jozi) with a lazy eye and a halo of whitening hair, is kind enough. He comes out sometimes to bring lukewarm sodas to the kids and slips the girl dime novels, mostly short stories and mystery novellas from thirty years ago, still dusty under their covers. Felix is grateful for his charity; even though the boys are rich (very rich) they are still low on the pecking order, and they can only play when the adults donāt want to. That means mid-day doubles when the sun is hottest, and even the shadows perspire.
The racket game is as much a national pastime as a status symbol. Everyone here plays tennis, yes, but not everyone plays it equally. The way a person holds a racket is almost a better indicator of status than clothing or cars. This is why Felix is now extremely frustrated. Heās playing badly, like a chattis, afraid to swing high and hard because the fabric of his t shirt (9 rand from a street vendor) has ripped under both arms, revealing two layers of soaked-through sports bras-- theyāve been sapping his strength for some time now, leeching it in gallons of sweat and making him struggle to breathe in air that is already so thick that it is swallowed, not inhaled.Ā
His only redemption is speed; puberty has graced him with little, but at least heās a lot quicker on his feet than the others. His companions are mistaking the small foot-to-foot dance he keeps doing for strategy, but the truth is that the tarmac has been burning a hole through the soles of both shoes for about an hour now, and the bottoms of his feet are red-raw from heat.Ā
The ball is arcing through the air towards him now.
Twang! Felix swung casually, underhandedly with a sharp laugh and a whoop, his free hand held over his eyes to shield them from the June sun (pointless, he was already well guarded by a pair of dark Ray-Bans, and even at its fiercest, London sunlight was always tempered by pollution and gravid cloud coverage).Ā
āAweh! Think itāll bring the ISS down?ā Felix scrubbed the sweat from his forehead with curled fingers, flicking it away before propping his sunglasses up with a hooked thumb. He wanted to see Maya Langās face, squinted and scrunched, maybe even pinched with pain as xe craned back to search the skies for the ball. Felix hoped it would come down behind xer; maybe frustration would finally put the fight in xer.Ā
Heād always liked that part of tennis; it was the only kind of physical combat he could have ever appreciated, and one of very few sports he considered deserving of his time. The movement was refreshing, and something about the rubbery tug of the grip in hand, the violent clip of the racket against a moving ball, had always felt like home. It was easier now than ever before, too; nothing around his chest to keep his lungs half-full, breathing freely in a loose-fitting silk shirt-- one that would not rip under the arms, at least not for a good ten years.
The ball came hurtling back, rocketing into view as its proximity to the ground painted it in dark contrast against the sun. Ah, crap. Felix bent his knees, let the racket hang loosely in his fingers, and smiled as warmly and widely as he could-- more for the benefit of their audience than Maya.Ā
Performance was almost requisite now. A small crowd of suburbanites and white collars had gathered in the background, fingers hooked through the chain link while they exchanged comments and shouted encouragements as if the game was their business, as if Felix had not paid good money to rent the court for their privacy. Still, he was well liked within the country club-- familiar young money with a winning smile-- and if he hadnāt wanted witnesses, he wouldnāt have dragged Maya Lang all the way here just to talk business.
Ā āMake this good, eh?ā Felix called, clipping his racket against the ground as the smile became a toothy grin. Never had an expression read so authentically ofĀ āhumor me now, andĀ Iāll have less energy to fuck with you laterā.
