As the first light of morning filtered in through the Venetian blinds, I buttoned the cufflinks of my fine Sea Island cotton shirt, stared deeply into the eyes of my darling, sleeping Eva, and reflected on what a truly privileged life I live. While I awaited the arrival of my chums, I ate a breakfast of smoked fish and pain au chocolat and penned several letters – to my brother, the Lord Treasurer Monsieur Saint-Denis, and to the Mayor of Toulouse, where Tony Parker Day was celebrated a fortnight ago.

I heard the sound of a klaxon and strolled out onto the veranda, ascertaining that my driver had come to my estate. As I carried my valises across the threshold, I espied my Eva at the balcony, her hair a luminous waterfall at her shoulders.

“Anthony,” she cried. “Why must you love me with the ferocious intensity of some sort of wild animal?”

“I am but a man,” I replied. “But your tender embrace unlocks the beast within!”

Outside, the sky was the color of chalcedony, and inside the Aston Martin sat my dearest Timothy and Emanuel.

“I bid you good morrow, sirs!” I cried, bussing each of them briskly on the cheeks. Yet Emanuel was vexed.

“What ho, Emanuel?” I inquired, noting his visible discomfort.

Emanuel tore at his sleeves with bitter malaise. “It is this damnable dress code!” he lamented. “Lucifer’s thunder! It is designed to crush the spirit of even Artest of Indianapolis!”

“Yet surely,” I said, “it is an honour to wear such finery! As a child I was brought up to believe that the acquisition of clothing like this was nothing less than a lifelong aspiration. There is a certain je ne sais quoi at hand here.”

“Lies!” spat Emanuel. “My forefathers tamed the wild Pampas. They slept in their gauchos. Would they not sneer at such decadence?”

“I should hope not,” replied Timothy, quaffing a Pellegrino.

“Then let it be voluntary!” cried Emanuel. “I wish to be judged as a man, not as a mannequin. These fine suits serve as too ornate a frame within which I must be viewed.”

“Yet you are wealthy and successful,” Timothy noted. “We are all wealthy and successful. To dress in this fashion conveys respect and understanding of the position in life which we occupy.”

“Pah!” Emanuel spat, using an Argentine expletive which translates poorly into this language, yet which Timothy and I immediately understood. “These are but mere hairshirts. Do you not remember the Duchamp retrospective last week, gentlemen? Recall, if you will, the blank frame! The declension of the bourgeois!”

“Yet Dada is…vulgar!” I exclaimed. “Call me a classicist if you must, but I prefer the more prosaic forms of yore.”

“I should think to call you a romantic,” he sniffed, but before I could provide a bitter riposte, our carriage had arrived at the SBC Center.

There is little to add. At the half that evening we enjoyed excellent victuals and wine, and young Beno played the lute. The Cavaliers were soundly thumped on our watch. I read the news of les émeutes with great sorrow; my heart grows heavy with sadness with each passing day, much like that of Michael Jordan when he wakes up each morning and discovers it impossible to make love to a giant pile of money.

Adieu, Anthony

Tony Parker plays point guard for the San Antonio Spurs.