Clay of Roland-Garros

In 2011, there were some fascinating sight, and stories, and some other miscellaneous things happened in the Court Phillippe Chatrier(after her German lesson, now that this half-English and Russian young lady started to train her pronounciation in French). The young lady spoke English and Russian at home, and learnt German at school. She actually really wished to be able to speak to Federer himself after the match... to salute him of his must be great work today, against Senor Nadal, whatever the result would be later. We will call her That Young Half English-Russian-Lady(TYHERL).

She had such a pair of blue-sky eyes(now you must have known her family name already). And so young as she was, there would be no excuse whatsoever to let her watch a match in such crowd alone. We zoom at her surrounding. Okay, beside her sat another blonde woman wearing a pair of black sunglasses, handed her a stick of pink cotton candy. It must be her mother. On her left, chatting calmly towards a brown-haired young boy who looked two years ahead of TYHERL, a dark-haired man in his mid 30's---now that he was stroking TYHERL's head and kissed her cheek amusedly. That should be his father--right?

Apart from the portray of the happy English-and Russian family, the spirit of Roland Garros transcended the souls of the Dual World. This is proved by the existence of, among many other Dual Citizens who actually presented there, these two silently arguing Woman and Man (we call them W and M)transparently drifting above TYHERL's place.

W had been a huge fan of Roger Federer since after 2002. She just really realized it by now the elegance of the swan-like style he demonstrated on the court. She also watched his newest Rolex commercials--- my, the fine gentleman should have regain his reborn on this clay court--- she would be really sad to just know the fact that his star would no longer shine...

under the atmosphere of this young Nadal.

So W had a plan. She would try to strike Nadal's arm at just the right moment... from far. She would make it as though it was Nadal's error of lacking warm-up. Automatically her hands were shaping such a move she would use to cast a spell at Nadal.

M held her hands.

M: You can not do this. I won't let you...

W's face turned pink as M read her tendency.

W: I'm sorry... Nadal has been dominating so much I can see Federer is sinking...

She had some point right. Amidst his loud yell, Nadal's shot had been really dangerous towards Fed's court. Not only he forced Fed to run here and there at his whole area, even from such a distance one can see how strong his strikes were compared to Fed's. W saw a calm flowing water emerging from the flow of Fed's racket.

But from Nadal's... she saw fire and thunder.

Nadal suddenly turned into a combination of horse and dragon.

And he would just savour the poise swan.

W: My bad, my Lord...

M held his arm around W's shoulder.

W: It seems that Nadal has really put his techniques into perfection... if you were Nadal, would you know how to produce such a strike?

M: Look at those strikes... the ball from Nadal's racket would hit the floor but it won't bounce so smoothly. It becomes even faster afterwards. Now if you play ping pong...

W listened carefully.

M: You'll know how to...

W remembered that M has told her once that if he played tennis, he would produce such as Nadal's strike. He was born with Nadal's type of strike in every games with rackets and balls.

The weather was humid in Roland Garros and it rained once.

Why do we watch sport?

Because I can witness such that Athos, Aramis, and Porthos come to life

TYHERL has never heard anybody with such an opinion before.

It was her father. She was really proud of her father.

In fact, the whole family ticket to watch today's match, that Mommy had to book a year before, was due to her birthday wish. She wanted to witness what her father felt, too. She stood before Fed.

***

About 4 hours later, The Marcha Real was played.

Another fascinated face, but this time, Indonesian-shaped--- went asilenced to see The Spanish Champion of this year's Roland Garros.

What does it feel to stand on his shoes?

Up until now, in his 22 years of age, he wondered as what his nationality meant to him.

The clay of Roland Garros was shining.

The crowds were all cheering.

Due To Raden Saleh

Dmitri Mikhailov was a fine gentleman in his early 35. Young but barely felt, his wealth expands from the heart of middle land in West Siberian Plain to Nanjing, Shanghai, Hongkong, Erdenet, and Irkutsk in the East, Toolonlahti, Amsterdam, Den Haag, and Braunschweig in the West, which then would he use all of them as his milestones to conquer the Lands of the South.

A prominent noble man from Russian Empire himself, as one true Heir of The Great Braunsimov dynasty, he was of course served with the best in almost every western country he stepped on that Russia has good relationship with. One of the most progressive lobby towards him came from the Netherlands' dynasty of Van Rijkmaar.

It was a warm summer morning on the bank of the River of Ob, where he could see a pair of naughty fox beneath his favourite hawthorns grown near the transparent white door of his study. Seeing those foxes together disturbing the little squirrel before they both chase and savour it, again, he knew, together-- reminded him of how he once struggled to establish such a dream family of his own. A family where... the wife and child would be so close to him. Yet so obligant.

Master, a knock on the door across the hall sounded, and Dmitri sipped his tea. He pressed the button beside his left hand, ringing the little toller above the knocked door suggesting he was ready to receive whoever coming. It was Bogdan, his 54 years old Head of Household.

There is a present for you, said Bogdan, with a chuckle. From Lord Van Rijkmaar in Netherlands. Apparently he still tries to offer you Lady Marianne Wilhelmina...

An African-European man entered in, bringing a vast rectangle wrapped in brownish paper. He opened it in front of Dmitri before then dismissed himself out of the room.

It was a portrayal of two beautiful young ladies, daughters of Lord Van Rijkmaar himself. The Dutch left a note saying that it was painted by the notable Raden Saleh, the great artist from the Land of The South where Dmitri planned to invest. Marianne Wilhelmina, was of course, the prettier. And the prettiest among the two. The Lord had repeatedly asked him to marry her. What made him still so reluctant to deal was that he knew the history of the old Lord. His family had long he knew to have strangling debt resulting from his speculative deals in the wars for the ownership around East-Indies. Thus to marry the daughter meant that he had such a morale obligation to help the old Dutch with his debts.

However, my master... doesn't she grow all this time? Bogdan said while preparing to hang the portrait in the gallery. The Braunsimovs have long been known as Russia's most notable collector.

Dmitri remained silent. Indeed that he planned to travel to Netherlands imminently, to observe his tobacco business there... but the present was as though adding him more obligation to visit Van Rijkmaar family.

The face of the more beautiful than before Marianne Wilhelmina lingered over his mind.

He could just make her his concubine, he had more than enough power to do it. He doubted that the old Dutch would mind it, but he had not too much idea of this girl Marianne. Once they met five years ago, she was this timid 13 years old little blonde girl, she barely even dared to steal a glance towards him.

He thought about his son, Ricardovich, from his legitimate betraying wife, Duscha. Those little blue eyes were each day being more and more overcasted than ever, one could hardly believe that it belonged to the young face of the Heir of the mighty Braunsimova dynasty. Ricardovich was only five but he never smiled, or laughed, as other five years old did. Dmitri knew that the child missed his parents.

But Dmitri could not look up to the little boy's face. It reminded him too much of Duscha, those bright blue eyes... of the love they once shared, of the betrayal she did, with that bastard. It reminded Dmitri too much of how sick his heart was to love Duscha so much to receive her betrayal in return.

So Dmitri made up his mind that indeed, Ricardovich would never be his successor. That boy would only grow as lame, coward man just like his mother, and, ha ha ha... Dmitri chuckled bitterly alone, it was indeed, maybe his unconscious mind driving him to create such a disadvantageous, uncomfortable circumstances that Ricardovich grew up in.

So The Readers saw the aftermath, unfortunate condition could a boy like Ricardovich endure because of the decision the mother once made.

The Father was at present prepared his journey to the Netherlands to find himself a new wife, to provide him a new son, a new Heir for what supposed to be Ricardovich's throne.