Álvaro Enrigue - Sudden Death

At the time of his leap to fame, the artist never had to walk more than three hundred yards to deliver the painting he had just finished.

The serve fell within easy reach of the Spaniard, who risked aiming straight for the dedans even though the Lombard was planted right in the middle of the court. The artist’s backhand return was flat-out impossible not only to stop but even to see. The ball struck in the corner, inside. Quindici — amore, said the mathematician, but it sounded like a titter. Easy, that’s not the way, shouted the duke. The poet understood that when he was on the receiving side it was impossible to surprise his opponent — that he needed to wait him out.

He took the artist’s second serve off the roof, and quickly moved up to the center of the court. Here he was able to contain a drive from the left, but the next shot blazed from the right. Impossible to reach. The duke, whose eyes had been popping out of his head ever since he saw the buffeting the poet took on the last point, didn’t even bother to try to call out the score. Trenta — amore , the professor almost whispered.

The Lombard had woken in a splendid mood that morning, even though his first glimpse of dawn came when his second dragged him off his cot by his foot. He had fallen flat on his ass on the clay floor, its cool contact with his buttocks faintly pleasurable. Then he scratched his head with both hands. All right, he said, still a little drunk, and he rubbed his belly with his right hand and worked his still-swollen face with his left. Then he scratched his pubic hair, massaged his temples, and only then opened his right eye a crack — the left was sticky with sleep.

The professor, already dressed and washed, had glanced rather greedily at the artist’s rock-hard erection, the result of his spell lazing in bed. He sat down next to him. We’re late, he said, brushing bits of mattress straw from the painter. Rouse yourself; last night we agreed to a duel. A duel? The painter’s mouth was pasty, with an acrid taste of grease from the fried tripe he’d eaten before turning his attention to the barrel of grappa the night before. The mathematician stroked his abdomen, still ridged as a grill, traced the trail of hair that began at his navel, then removed his hand. The artist wiped the sleep from his left eye with a finger. Don’t you remember? No, but if I kill anyone just now my head will roll. It’s a game of tennis, the professor explained; against a Spaniard. The artist closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows, worries gone. He rested his head on the bed, rocking it back and forth. He scratched his neck. Did we fuck last night, he asked the professor. You drank so much you’d never have got it up. But did you? Yes. Well, then, you owe me. He stretched his legs. The professor understood what this meant and obeyed the demands of the painter’s member, stroking it slowly. So did I enjoy it, asked the artist, still with a half smile. Instead of laughing, the mathematician snorted, and the artist stretched his arms along the edge of the mattress, parting his legs a little and closing his eyes. He rubbed his buttocks on the cold floor so that the pleasure spread to his spine. The professor put the point of his nose in his ear; when he felt the base of the artist’s member swell he squeezed his testicles gently. The artist came, more tenderly than forcefully. As he did so, he clung to the professor’s neck. Hold me. We have to go. A moment, no more.

The professor let his cock sleep in his hands, then he got up. Only then did the artist open his eyes and look at him. The mathematician felt that he was taking the measure of his skull. He ran his hands through the artist’s hair to wipe the pollution from between his fingers. Are you going to let me paint you? Now the Lombard was stroking the professor’s slack sex with the tip of his nose and his chin. The mathematician was in his formal robes, so it was more a gesture of gratitude than an invitation to keep playing. I’m not your whore. He let him go on a little longer and then said: I’ll wait for you outside; we swore very solemnly last night that we would be there. The artist slapped his thigh as if to say that now he was really getting up.

For breakfast he had half a bottle of wine that he found at the foot of his cot — he imagined the mathematician must have left it there when he went off the night before to the sumptuous palace guest rooms, where he slept when he was visiting Rome.

Two more slams and the game was the artist’s in a shutout. The Spaniard never found a spot where he could block the shots of such a versatile foe. The Lombard had risen like a hawk over the match, exercising graceful but firm control of the henhouse in which everyone else around the court flapped. He was playing so well that he didn’t seem to even be trying, or particularly possessed by the spirit of victory, let alone hungover, sleep-deprived, and raped by a mathematician. He was unimpeachable, nearly perfect. He’s playing like a saint, the Spaniard said to his second at the break. Before he returned to the court, the duke said: Wait, and from around his neck and under his shirt he drew a scapular. He hung it around his companion’s neck. It’s very good luck, he said. What is it, asked the poet, eyeing the faded image. A Mexican virgin, I believe; incredibly good luck.

The escorts lost the coins they had bet. Their master gave them more, eyes on the player done in by the sun and the shock, his shoulders down around his hips in pure defeat. Bet on points, not games, the duke said to Otero; maybe then it’ll be less of a bloodbath. With all due respect, the mercenary replied, I don’t think how we bet will make any difference.

POSTS OF PEDRO GÓMEZ, QUEVEDO’S FATHER

Scribe to Maria of Austria, Holy Roman Empress

Chamber Scribe to Anne of Austria

Chamber Scribe to His Serene Highness Prince Charles

Chamber Scribe to His Highness

POSTS OF JUAN GÓMEZ DE SANTIBÁÑEZ, QUEVEDO’S PATERNAL GRANDFATHER

Chamber Scribe to Their Highnesses

Gentleman-in-Waiting to Anne of Austria

Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Our Lady Queen

POSTS OF FELIPA DE ESPINOZA, QUEVEDO’S MATERNAL GRANDMOTHER

Lady of the Queen’s Wardrobe to Her Majesty

Lady of the Queen’s Toilet to the Infanta Isabel

Juana Cortés didn’t attend her daughter Catalina’s wedding to the duke of Osuna: she found it irritating that the king was among the guests. Her gift to her daughter was a jade necklace inscribed in Latin that had been the conquistador’s wedding present to Catalina’s grandmother. The necklace is lost, like most Cortesiana.

She summoned the duke the day before the start of the festivities. She told him that when she died, the conquistador’s arms would go to him because none of the Martín Cortéses were foolish enough to return to Spain. Then she reached out her madwoman’s hand, for a moment the nest of all past and future misfortunes of the vast Americas, and in her palm was a little matte-black sparrow, framing an image so worn it was unrecognizable. It’s Cortés’s scapular, she said; my gift to you. The duke opened his palms to receive it like the Communion host. It wasn’t as if he believed the tales about his betrothed’s infinite grandfather, but he understood that the woman was bequeathing him a soul. The scapular was made with hair cut from the head of the emperor Cuauhtémoc after Cortés had him killed, she said; may it protect you — my father never took it off, and he died of old age with more lives on his hands than anyone before him. Osuna looked at it, feeling something between fear and disgust. Put it on, said the old woman.