Chapter 12
At night, Dimi dreamed of her. By day, she haunted him. Sometimes he thought he saw her in the stands—a ghost faint and impassive, neither approving nor reproving, merely watching and waiting.
“I will wait for you forever,” Tatiana seemed to say.
He wondered if she were merely the figment of a conscience long buried and corroded from infrequent use or an object of ardor whose principal appeal lay in her death. Did he love her or merely the memory of her? Or did he intend the love of that memory to atone somehow for her death?
He stepped to the baseline to serve against Stavros Costas—the ball, his raised arms, racket, back and slightly bent knees one continuous, graceful arc. Was there any motion, a kind of frozen layback spin, more beautiful in sports?
He served for an ace
