I saw him as if through Donald’s eyes: he seemed glamorous and handsome, a rich Argentinian wearing expensive sunglasses and speaking English carefully and precisely as I had taught him to do. It had been some years since I had looked at him, studied the shape of his long legs. Beside him, Donald looked plain and uninteresting. I stood back, said nothing, and let them watch each other.

The Canettos had clearly decided to make this an important occasion. The father and his two sons had taken the afternoon off. The father was affable, but oddly authoritative and distant as though he had been searching in the mirror for the pose which would most strike the American as presidential. He told us to use the bathroom in the house, if we didn’t want to use the dressing room beside the court, and be sure to come for drinks afterward. No matter whether we won or lost, he said, the drinks were on him. His laugh, I thought, was too loud and hearty. I was embarrassed for him. When Donald spoke to him I noticed how good and fluent his Spanish was. I had always remembered his accent as flat and his speech as faltering.

“Where is Pablo?” the father asked. Jorge said he was in the swimming pool and we made our way down there, the father going back into the house. I dreaded the drinks after the game, I knew that every moment would seem set up to impress our guest and it would all seem forced and false. The terraced gardens led down to a swimming pool; on the level below there was a tennis court. We could see Pablo’s body slicing the water, his arms and legs opening and closing like scissors. He was wearing light blue trunks. Jorge called to him that we were ready.

He swam to our end of the pool and put his elbows on the ledge. He smiled at us. I watched him through my own eyes, and then I turned and noticed that Donald was watching him too. I caught Pablo’s eye for one second, but found I had to look away in case it became too clear that I was attracted to him. He swam away from us as though he had no intention of joining us. Jorge shouted at him to get out of the pool and come down to the tennis court. We went down and changed into our tennis gear in the dressing room, and then we played around on the court until Pablo came. His thick, black hair was still wet, but he had changed into white shorts and a light blue T-shirt. He joined his brother on the other side of the net.