The first light of day barely illumines the sky as he parks the white car outside the club. He finds the young tennis pro waiting for him on the tennis court, its purple morning glories growing up the fence around it. The pro sends him an easy forehand, and Dawit slams the ball back hard, aiming for the corner and thinking of the guard in the prison who tormented him. The pro responds in kind, returning the ball to the other side of the court, setting up a difficult backhand for Dawit. But Dawit responds with a fierce cross-court, a ball the pro is unable to retrieve. “You have a wicked backhand,” the tennis pro says, laughing, coming up to the net to retrieve a ball, smiling at him, panting. He runs back and forth across the court, sweating, all through the game. Out of the corner of his eye Dawit notices someone standing at the fence, watching their game. There is something mysterious and melancholy about the man’s fine face. He seems to have something ancient about him, though he looks relatively young, probably in his early forties, the lines around his eyes only adding to his attractiveness.
