Ten minutes later it happened again. Djokovic walked into the club café, and there she was, the same waitress who kept him in line when he was a boy, served him cake. Djokovic had forgotten about her, but now it all came rushing back; he moaned, his voice cracking, before pulling her close. "Just to hug you," he said. "You are still here!"
When Djokovic finally let her go, she was crying, and it became clear that the ambassador was wrong. Djokovic's isn't the face of Serbia now. Hers is: weathered, weary and tear-stained, yes, but when confronted with what their Nole has become, unveiling a tight but unmistakable smile.