When she imagined her former chief Ariadna Petrovna, with her immense form, jogging on a treadmill during a break between two business conferences, Nina let out an involuntary giggle.
“Laughing, eh?” Samsonov responded good-naturedly. “All right, you can laugh all you like, but I’ll do it.”
Gradbank’s director Samsonov was in an excellent mood.
It all went exactly as Nina had anticipated. As he came out onto the court, Pavel Mikhailovich Samsonov smiled broadly at Nina, tossed up the ball and struck it with all his might. The ball flew as fast as a bullet, only it hit the ceiling. Another such deadly ball hit the net. The third time it came out worse still – Gradbank’s director and the beginning tennis-player Samsonov hit the ball with the rim of his racket, and because it was an almighty hit, the racket got torn out of his hand.
Slightly confused, he rubbed his hurt fingers, picked up the racket and smiled at Nina, “It’s all right. I’m just getting the knack of it.”
He was dressed conventionally, in shorts and a tennis shirt, but the shorts were too loose around the hips and the shirt far too tight in the shoulders. A store price tag was dangling from the collar, down his spine. The ridiculous appearance of Gradbank’s director gave Nina great satisfaction. Her own attire was perfect. In the period of her life when she had been working on a strategy for winning men she had equipped herself with good clothes, including tennis articles. Her short white Lacoste skirt was impeccable, and in combination with her slender, strong legs deserved being placed on the cover of a tennis magazine.
They occupied the best court in the club. Normally, there were no vacant courts at that time of day. As they were riding, Nina pondered over a way for Samsonov and herself to wedge in to do some practicing. She had an annual club subscription and a permanent partner named Alik, a man of about forty who worked in television. Alik did not display any interest in women; he played tennis in order to slim down. Nina had known him for about a year, and over that period, the man had accumulated even more fat around the waist. Nina and Alik suited each other as tennis partners, but on occasion, by mutual consent, they swapped around with other pairs. Lolling comfortably on the back seat of the director’s car, Nina was trying to think of somewhere to squeeze in Alik so that she had the court to herself and could give Samsonov a tennis lesson. She recalled that another tennis acquaintance of hers, a middle-aged professor, had mentioned the previous week that he was going to miss tennis next time as he was going away to some international conference. Nina’s plan was to try to fix up Alik with the professor’s partner.
However, the problem sorted itself out in a different way.
As they arrived at the club, Nina spoke to the girl at the reception, trying to explain that while she herself had a subscription, she brought a guest for whom she needed a one-time pass.
“Are you kidding? What one-time pass? We’re packed, don’t you see?” snapped out the receptionist girl rudely.
Samsonov did not take part in the discussion. On entering the club lobby, he stood at its exact center and remained there, erect and massive as a column, as if he was sure that he was going to be attended on and provided with all he needed. And that was exactly how it worked. Behind the counter, beside the receptionist, the manager of the club was sitting. He had more savvy than his employee and was a better judge of people. When he surveyed the figure in an expensive coat that was standing in the lobby with a driver waiting behind with a bag, the manager came out to the visitor.
“Do you wish to play?” he asked.
“We do,” Samsonov replied looking over the manager’s head.
Something in the tone of the visitor finally convinced the manager. He motioned to his receptionist to shut up, took out a guest form from a drawer and brought it to Samsonov.
“Will you fill this in, please?”
Samsonov took out a golden Parker pen and wrote in his name in a bold hand.
“But where are we going to…” the receptionist started, but the manager had already made up his mind.
“First court,” he said.
The first court had a special status in the club. Isolated from the other courts and maintained in a perfect condition, it was kept closed most of the time – the management opened it for VIPs only. That day, Samsonov and Nina were the VIPs.
Sometimes the first court was played on by tennis professionals, and sometimes by rich amateurs. But it had probably never seen a man who had absolutely no idea how to use the racket he had in his hand. Samsonov made all the errors that a beginner could make. He was naturally very strong and developed physically – he had clearly practiced weight-lifting – but now his powerful body worked against him. Where calculation was necessary, he rushed to strike, and instead of feeling the ball, he applied all the might of his iron hands and body. The results were catastrophic. Trying to keep an unruffled expression on her face, Nina watched in delight her enemy, the great and terrible Samsonov, making a fool of himself.
Samsonov became more focused, not smiling any more. He realized that this tennis thing was not as easy as it seemed. He no longer struck the ball just anyhow – he did it with care – but the results were hardly any better for that.
A door in the fencing opened, and the manager appeared. His face and the whole of his bent figure expressed deference and happiness about his club being visited by such people. Obviously, he had already made his inquiries and knew who it was he had on the first court.
“Mister Samsonov, sorry to disturb you – would you like me to send in a boy to pick up the balls?”
“No need,” Samsonov responded raising his racket for another strike.
“Drinks, masseur – anything you like, you just name it,” the manager went on fawning.
Samsonov slashed, and hit the net again.
“Close the door!” he barked.
The manager retreated.
“Stop yelling, you boor,” Nina retorted in her mind. “It’s no fault of the manager that you don’t know how to play.”
She saw that Samsonov was all worked up and wondered what it was leading to. Basically, there were two possibilities – either Samsonov hurled down his racket in fury and left, or he swallowed his pride and asked for help.
But somehow neither one nor the other happened. Samsonov went on struggling with his racket and the ball, trying as best he could to get the ball over the net without hitting the ceiling or the far wall. Little by little, he made some progress. He still did everything the wrong way, but before Nina’s eyes, he was working out his own ugly style which allowed him to send home at least one out of every three balls. Each time he did that, he triumphed openly.
Parrying easily his sparse successful strikes, Nina watched him with interest. She had no memories of how she herself had acquired the basic tennis skills. At that time, she was a little girl to whom everything came easily, and she had a coach to teach her. Now she watched a grown-up man trying hard to do what he absolutely did not know how to do, and what he was ill-suited for by his physique. Still, contrary to her expectations, the man would not chuck down his racket; not in the least baffled, he carried on what he had begun.
It went on that way for about an hour. Little by little, Nina’s malicious gloating faded out and gave way to a sentiment of some respect. Samsonov was making one absurd pirouette after another, but essentially, he was not doing anything shameful or contemptible – on the contrary, he showed enviable grit and persistence. Obviously, it was the same kind of persistence as was necessary for him to deal with his problems in business.