On the courts.
- 09:00 Mr. Bianchi vs. his machine.
- 14:00 Mrs. Tognazzi vs. Marco. (She will win.)
- 17:30 Doubles. Names withheld.
The Court Pavilion
VOLUME I · SETTEMBRE 2026
The first three pieces of the house. Cut in small numbers.
The house opens to a limited new round of members soon.
Edizione I · Primavera 2026
Membership
Knock at the door.
Leave an email. We open the list to a small new round each season — twelve hours before the public.
We write seldom, and only when there is something worth carrying.
FRITSCHI HOUSE — BULLETIN BOARD
Founders on the list —
On the courts.
The Court Pavilion
The Tognazzis returned from the coast, saw the green door open, and assumed something was wrong. Something was. We are, for the moment, a shop.
The House
The English couple, who came for an afternoon in June, have ordered two. This is either a compliment or a lease.
The Groundsman
I have been asked to stop opening the boxes before they leave, 'to check the numbers.' I have checked the numbers. The numbers are fine. I will check them again tomorrow.
Marco
A message arrived overnight, in English, asking whether the foxes are real. We have replied that they are embroidered, that there are fifty-seven, and that she is very much real.
The House
A bottle was opened for the first order, and another for the tenth, on the grounds that the first had gone rather quickly. No further grounds were required.
The Cellar
The first boxes went down the drive this morning in the back of Marco's car. He drove slowly, again. The postman has been told to expect competition.
The Atelier
Mr. Bianchi folds every polo before it leaves, though the atelier had already folded it. Both foldings are, we are told, correct. Only one of them is his.
The House
The espresso machine, sensing occasion, has worked flawlessly since Tuesday. We do not trust it. We are enjoying it anyway.
The Kitchen
The court was watered at 5:50. Nobody came. It was, for one morning, entirely mine.
The Groundsman
The pecorino was opened after all, in the long room, once the last box stood empty. The customs officer was not invited.
The Cellar
Number one has been spoken for. Marco was in the room when it happened and has not been seen since. The intern is checking the cellar.
The Atelier
Open. The first order arrived at 17:01, from a name none of us know, in a country none of us expected. Marco has taken it personally.
The House
The door opens at five. Mr. Bianchi has polished it twice and the handle three times. He has been told the guests will not look at the handle. He has polished it again.
The House
They begin to leave us this week, one number at a time. The green door will be unlocked in the morning and locked again by evening, as is proper.
The House
The courts are cut short now for the end of the season. Whoever wears the first of these will find the ball sits differently. That is the fault of the grass, not the shirt.
The Groundsman
Every piece checked against its number, then checked again by the intern, who has devised a system he declines to explain to anyone.
The Atelier
Unpacked in the long room, on the same table where the film was cut. The numbers survived the journey. Two of the boxes did not.
The Atelier
Arrived. I drove slowly. The boxes are heavier than the tailor implied, and the last mile to the house is not a road.
Marco
Released. Forty-one kilometres of Italy remain between the boxes and the green door. Marco has volunteered to drive them, which no one asked him to do.
The House
The pecorino has come back to us unopened. It has gone down to the cellar, where it will keep, and where it will wait.
The Kitchen
A form was missing. It has been found, signed, and photographed three times — once by Marco, who does not trust the machine.
The House
The boxes are at the border. The customs officer has been offered pecorino. He has declined it, for now.
The House
Three pieces: numbered, pressed, photographed, filmed, and at last finished with us. They leave the office next week. For once, the green door will be left unlocked.
The Atelier
This week the racing green, the bordeaux, and the court short go up for the first time. The house becomes, briefly and reluctantly, a shop. It does not suit us. The tailor, however, must eat.
The House
The film will be shown once, in the long room, to an audience we have chosen not to announce. Volume IV of Trees of Tuscany will play no part.
The Librarian
The woven numbers are legible in the final cut. The intern who wove them has requested a credit. Denied — kindly, and with pecorino.
The Atelier
Mr. Fritschi returned mid-edit, watched perhaps thirty seconds, pronounced it 'too much tennis,' and withdrew — leaving, by way of apology, a wheel of pecorino.
The House
Two bottles were opened: one for the finished film, one for Marco's opinion of it. The second was, by some distance, the larger.
The Cellar
Filming has wrapped. Marco is under the impression the film concerns Marco. It concerns a polo. We have, again, not corrected him.
Marco
A swallow crossed the loggia mid-take and declined to leave the shot. The photographer has kept it in. The swallow has not been credited, nor paid.
The Groundsman
The crest reads on film after all. The mother-of-pearl catches the light once per take, which the photographer insists was always the intention. We have chosen to believe him.
The Atelier
Samuel declined to appear on camera and has since appeared in every frame — background, plain white shirt, visibly disapproving. The photographer calls it texture. Samuel calls it principle.
The House
Filming ran clean through lunch. Mr. Bianchi's espresso was, for the first time this summer, served at six thirty exactly. The camera was watching.
The Kitchen
Filming began this morning. The bordeaux polo on Marco; the racing green on the English gentleman who turned out to be exactly the right size; the court short on no one who will admit to it.
The Atelier
Centre Court has been groomed for the camera. Mr. Pavese reports the slope has migrated again; it will appear in the film regardless — uphill and unrepentant.
The Groundsman
The photographer returns from Milan on Tuesday, this time with a cine camera. A film, then, and not photographs. Marco has been informed. Marco has informed everyone else.
The House
The three pieces came back from their final press today — the bordeaux polo, the racing green, the court short. They hang in the office in a row, saying nothing, which is the most a garment can be asked to do.
The Atelier
The long July evenings make honest people of us all. We close nothing early this week. Mr. Fritschi is, predictably, asleep on Centre Court.
The House
Two polos and one short went to the frame today. Volume I is complete. The door stays shut a little longer.
The Atelier
Samuel came down in a plain white shirt — no flag, no remark. Marco wore the green, collar up, and poured the coffee himself. For one morning, honour is quiet. It will not last the week.
The House
Breakfast moved indoors. The swallow above the loggia has reclaimed its chair, and one does not argue with the swallow.
The Kitchen
A bottle was opened for the winner and, in fairness, a second for the loser. The cellar now records the fortnight even: Paris to the Germans, London to the Italians. The house considers the rivalry settled. The house is wrong.
The Cellar
An Italian has the trophy, and for one evening the house is entirely, unrepentantly Italian. Marco did not gloat — he put on a record, opened the good Barolo, and let Samuel pour his own. That was gloating enough.
The House
The same German reached it; this time the grass belonged to Mr. Sinner, who took it in four. Marco has said nothing at all — which, from Marco, is a great deal. Samuel, who crowed through the whole of Paris, has gone off to water a court that did not need it.
The House
Marco has new strings and a certain look. He will be, by Friday, 'terrifying.' We have heard this before.
The House
The draw has produced it again — a German and an Italian in the final. The same German as Paris, Mr. Zverev; a new Italian across the net this time, Mr. Sinner. Samuel has already claimed the good chair; Marco the other, an inch closer. Nothing has been said. Everything has been said.
The House
The first boxes are sealed — heavy paper, a wax seal at the join. Samuel keeps one on his desk 'as a reference.' It is not a reference.
The Atelier
The Tognazzis return from the coast on Friday. Centre Court will, once again, be theirs. Marco apologises in advance.
The House
A Sangiovese was opened 'just to check it.' It has now been checked, thoroughly, by four people. It was fine.
The Cellar
A storm was promised for the afternoon. Mr. Pavese covered the grass court. The storm, offended, did not come.
The Groundsman
The racing green is, at last, the green of the door at dusk. This was always the point. Three earlier greens are not invited to discuss it.
The Atelier
A guest asked whether the courts have air conditioning. We explained that they have shade, a bar, and the good sense to close at noon.
The House
Doubles at dusk. Samuel partnered Marco. They did not speak for two sets, and won both.
The House
The first polos are folded, numbered and boxed. Marco asked, again, who gets number one. He was, again, not told.
The Atelier
Every polo is numbered, one to one hundred — woven into the hem, where only the wearer will find it. Marco is still lobbying for number one.
The Atelier
Sunrise at 5:41, the court watered at 5:42. Samuel, who had promised to appear, did not.
The Groundsman
Dinner ran late under the pergola. Mr. Fritschi returned mid-course, unannounced, with a wheel of pecorino. All was forgiven.
The Kitchen
Mr. Bianchi played his ball machine at eight. He lost. He blames the heat. There is always something.
The House
The negroni supplies are holding, for now. Normal service resumes Monday, or when they run out. Whichever is later.
The Bar
The mother-of-pearl buttons caught the afternoon light and the whole atelier stopped to look, then went sheepishly back to work.
The Atelier
Chess on the terrace. Marco lost twice and is calling it strategy. The prawns were over-ordered, exactly as instructed.
The House, from the coast
Mr. Bianchi was given the weekend off and, as ever, declined it. He has come along anyway, and has spent the afternoon disapproving of the swimming from a deckchair, fully dressed.
The House, from the coast
The house is closed until Monday. We have gone to the coast, as we do once a summer. The court will go unwatered. It will survive. It always does.
The House
The collars now stand exactly as they should — not too proud, not too soft. It took eleven attempts. We speak of the first ten only in whispers.
The Atelier
The English couple, who came for an afternoon in June, are still here. We have stopped asking when they leave.
The House
In this heat we serve the whites cold and the reds cool. A guest objected. The guest has been gently re-educated.
The Cellar
The espresso machine, sensing the heat, has gone on strike again. Marco is negotiating. Marco always negotiates.
The Kitchen
Mr. Bianchi has asked, for the fifth time, when he may buy a polo. He has been told: soon, and not before the list. He has begun to sulk.
The House
The clay was down by six. By seven it was thirty degrees. Mr. Pavese has declared July 'unsporting' and retired to the shade.
The Groundsman
Everything is, very nearly, ready. The stitching is done, the colours are set. We are counting the mornings now.
The Atelier
The longest day. The court was watered at dawn and stood empty in the gold for an hour. We let it.
The Groundsman
Dinner ran late. Someone produced a guitar. It was, against all expectation, rather good.
The House
Marco asked how many will be made. He was told one hundred. He asked who gets number one. He was not told.
The House
A piece was tried on at dinner, over a shirt, for effect. The table approved. The table is, admittedly, biased.
The Atelier
The grass court was cut this morning. Mr. Pavese stood and looked at it for some time. He approved.
The Groundsman
The cards are being written. By hand, by Samuel, in an ink the colour of the grass court at dusk. His hand will ache by Friday.
The House
The Tognazzis have left for the coast. The house is, briefly, quiet. No one is quite sure what to do.
The House
The boxes arrived. Heavy paper, the colour of the walls, a wax seal at the join. Samuel has opened one and refuses to part with it.
The Atelier
The espresso machine is, once again, on strike. Marco speaks to it. Marco always speaks to it.
The Kitchen
Mr. Bianchi lost to the machine 6–2, 6–1. He blames the wind. There was no wind.
The House
Mr. Bianchi has asked, for the fourth time, when he may buy a polo. He has been told: soon, and not before the list.
The House
The first pieces were photographed today, on Marco, against the green door. Marco believes he is now a model. We have not corrected him.
The Atelier
A swallow has nested above the loggia. Lunch will be taken indoors until further notice.
The House
A photographer has arrived from Milan. He has asked where the studio is. We have shown him the olive grove.
The House
All three pieces hang in the office tonight: two polos, one short. The door stays locked. July is close.
The Atelier
Numbering has begun — woven in, not written on. The loom, like the house, refuses to be hurried.
The Atelier
Mr. Fritschi has, again, returned. He has brought, by way of apology, a wheel of pecorino.
The House
The crest embroidery has survived its sixtieth wash. The intern who counted is resting.
The Atelier
Samuel's elbow attempted a serve at dawn. It has been formally retired, again.
The House
Mother-of-pearl buttons: approved. The second batch, that is. The first is not discussed.
The Atelier
An English couple arrived without an appointment. They are now staying for a week.
The House
