Beyond this garden spot was a windbreak of dusty trees draped with a green canvas. It was torn and faded; I squinted through the shreds at a tennis game. The ball bounced off a racquet with the hard hollow beat of a tight drum and shot across the sagging net. It bounded from a crack in the court and squirted over the head of the young man poised to return it. He had moved with muscular grace to meet the ball; its crazy bounce tied him into a congested knot. He unraveled, waved wildly at it—he looked as if he were falling out of a tree—and missed. The girl on the other side of the net laughed deliciously.

“That’s a takeover,” he said. His voice had a sinewy, theatrical ring. “Bad bounce.” He was tall and flat-bellied in his spotless white shorts and fashionable T-shirt. I didn’t like him.

“The hell it is,” the girl said. “You know the ground rules, Derek.”

Turning, the girl walked to the baseline. She had an effortless way of walking, as if a substance more volatile than blood—helium perhaps—were coursing through her adorable veins. Her legs seemed to flow while her hips remained motionless, her breasts bobbing and weaving as if the sap and the fire of life were racing through them. Then all was quiet again, no movement of neck or slim shoulders or ponytail. Elegant little beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.

Now she glanced off at a second young man standing at the net on the sideline. He was paying absolutely no attention to the game, and small wonder.

“Balls!” she cried at him. “You’re a lousy ball boy, Abby.” She shook her head and the ponytail flew this way and that and then settled down again.

“He’s all the time dreaming, for Christ’s sake,” said the young man on the other side of the net. She laughed again. She knew damned well what the ball boy was dreaming about.

Abby roused himself. First he frowned with embarrassment, and then, as if he realized his expression was inappropriate, rearranged his long face into the grin of a slave trader. He trotted onto the court, retrieved a couple of balls, and tossed them at her as if they were orchids. Then he melted back to the side of the court, aware that his skill as a retriever had been challenged. More likely his discomfort stemmed from his fantasies, if they were anything like mine.