The Ringmaster's Daughter

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The Ringmaster's Daughter Page 8

by Jostein Gaarder

on good terms with the girls who'd spent the night with me.

  We went to the cinema and theatre together, and

  occasionally we'd go for long walks in the forests around

  Oslo. I told her several stories, though now only when she

  asked for them, but we no longer lay together in the bilberry

  bushes. We didn't share Maria's bed at the campus either.

  The bilberries were ripe now. I missed her body.

  One warm summer's evening when we'd thrown our-

  selves down on the manicured landscape in front of

  Frognerseter's caf� and restaurant, I spent several hours

  relating a long story about a chess game with living pieces.

  This was after we'd spoken to a Scots couple who'd pointed

  across Oslofjord and remarked how like Scotland Norway

  was. I made the story up as I went along; it had a large cast of

  characters, and Maria was particularly impressed by the way

  I managed to think up all the Scottish names. The basic

  outlines of the story were these:

  Lord Hamilton had been widowed early in life and lived on a large

  estate in the Scottish Highlands. From his childhood he'd been an

  ardent chess player and, as he also loved being out in the sumptuous

  garden behind his stately home, he'd built a large, outdoor chess

  board in the open space between an intricate maze of clipped hedges

  and a fine fish-pond. The chess board itself consisted of sixty-four

  black and white marble slabs two metres square, and the chessmen,

  which were of carved wood, were between two and three feet high

  depending on the value and rank of the individual piece. The

  servants of the house might stand at the windows and watch their

  master moving about the marble slabs and shifting the huge

  chessmen late on summer evenings. He sometimes seated himself

  in a garden chair, and then it could be an hour before he rose to make

  the next move.

  The laird had a loud bell that he rang when he wanted his butler

  to bring him a tray of whisky and water, and sometimes the butler

  would ask him if he wasn't coming indoors soon. He was solicitous

  for his master's health and, at the back of his mind, there was

  probably also the fear that Lord Hamilton's sorrow at the loss of his

  wife, combined with his passionate love of chess, might one day turn

  his brain. This nascent anxiety was in no way diminished when one

  evening the laird told him to stand on the chessboard and pretend to

  be the black knight, as the real black knight had gone in for repair

  after a violent thunderstorm. For almost two hours the butler stood

  on the chessboard, and only occasionally in the course of the game

  did the laird come out on to the marble slabs and push him two

  squares forward and one to the side, or one square back and two to

  the side. When, finally, he was taken by a white bishop and could

  at last return to the house � though many hours before the game

  itself was over� he was cold and cross, but naturally most relieved as

  well.

  When the laird moved the black and white chessmen, it was

  impossible to tell if he favoured one side or the other in the game.

  This was because he was in fact playing both sides as well as he

  could, he was playing both for and against himself, so he both won

  and lost every game, unless it ended in a stalemate. But with

  growing frequency he would also carry all the chessmen off the board

  and place them on the great lawn. Then, for hours, he would sit

  staring out over the marble squares. His employees said that in this

  state he could see the chessmen on the board even though they

  weren't there, and so could play against himself without even getting

  up from his chair.

  For a long time the butler had been doing what he could to make

  the laird think of other things besides chess, and one evening he

  suggested that Hamilton should hold a summer party as they'd done

  in the days when her ladyship had been alive. This was one of the

  rare evenings when the laird, who generally preferred his own

  company, had offered the butler a glass of whisky, and now they

  were both seated beside the fish-pond, whisky glass in one hand and

  lit cigar in the other. The laird sat for some moments following one

  of the carp with his eyes before he turned to the butler and signalled

  his agreement that a summer party was an excellent idea, but that

  he should prefer a masquerade.

  For an hour or two they sat there drawing up a guest list, but

  from the moment Hamilton mentioned that he wanted precisely 31

  guests, the butler's suspicions were aroused, for he was all too aware

  that there were 32 pieces in a game of chess, and his two-hour ordeal

  on the chessboard at the laird's heartless behest was still fresh in his

  memory. The laird made no bones about the fact that one of the

  objects of the prospective masquerade was a chess tournament with

  live chessmen as a kind of after-dinner entertainment. An invitation

  was sent out several days later announcing that a chess masquerade

  was to be held at the Hamilton mansion at which the respective

  guest was requested to come dressed as a king, queen, castle, bishop,

  knight or pawn. The guests who were to be pawns really were sons

  of the local soil, eight farmers and eight farmers' wives, and the

  pieces were either army officers, senior officials or representatives of

  the nobility or aristocracy.

  The butler wasn't surprised when everyone accepted the invita-

  tion, because although Lord Hamilton had been a grumbler of

  almost unrivalled proportions in recent years, both he end his house

  stood in high regard. With the single exception of the Duke of

  Argyll, who'd been invited to come dressed as a king, the laird

  outranked all his guests. For the farmers who'd been invited, the

  mere chance to visit the Hamilton estate was an occasion in itself, an

  almost inconceivable event in a society where, even beyond the

  confines of the chessboard, a very rigid system of rank and order held

  sway.

  During the weeks prior to the party, which was to be held on

  Midsummer's Eve, the forthcoming masquerade was the sole topic of

  conversation in the locality. One of the farmers had to withdraw just

  a few days before the great event because of illness in the family, but

  there was no difficulty in finding another agricultural couple. There

  were plenty of farmers in the district, and they didn't have to be all

  that particular about their costumes � they were only going to play

  themselves, after all.

  The great day came, and even during the banquet many new

  acquaintances were being cemented across social divides. After

  dinner, coffee and dessert were served in the garden, and shortly

  afterwards Lord Hamilton rang his loud bell and requested his

  guests' attention. Everyone was already aware that a game of chess

  was shortly to be played on the marble flags with themselves as the

  living chessmen, but the laird had first to allocate each one his or her

  particular place on the board.

  At table, the seating had been fairly informal and at least

  seemi
ngly unplanned, but this was far from how it was on the

  chessboard. First, the laird arranged the pawns: eight men and an

  equal number of women. Farmer MacLean was placed as a white

  pawn on a2 with his wife opposite as the black pawn on a7. On his

  right stood Mrs MacDonald on b2, and she faced her husband, the

  black pawn on b7. This carefully worked-out pattern meant that all

  spouses could observe one another across the chessboard, and they

  could also keep an eye on how their other half was doing with the

  farmer or farmer's wife to the left or right of them. Precisely the same

  logic was applied to the pieces. The white knight, Chief Constable

  MacLachlan, took up his position on b1 behind Mrs MacDonald

  and with his own wife as the black knight on b8 behind farmer

  MacDonald on b7. There were sixteen women and sixteen men on

  the board, there were two sides and two sexes facing each other,

  always divided by marriage. The only thing that disturbed this

  symmetry was the placing of the kings and queens. Lord Hamilton

  himself took up position as the white king on e1, he had the duchess

  on his left as the white queen on d1 and she was opposite the Duke

  of Argyll as the black king on e8. But Lady Hamilton was no

  longer amongst them. Hamilton had therefore given the role of black

  queen on d8 to a widow called MacQueen of whom he was rather

  fond and to whom, when by some rare chance he met her in town or

  at the cemetery, he sometimes chatted.

  The two kings were the only people who ever decided which pieces

  to move, the other guests were no more than extras in the formal

  aspect of the game. Lord Hamilton had made no secret of the fact

  that the game itself might take some time, perhaps until well into

  the small hours, as both the duke and he were very experienced

  players, but the match was also to be a social game in which all the

  participants would have ample opportunity to get to know one

  another. Each chess piece was a living soul, and the guests were

  exhorted to entertain each other as best they could while they waited

  for the laird and the duke to make a move. Then gradually, as the

  chessmen fell, they could continue their informal socialising out in

  the spacious garden.

  Lord Hamilton made his opening by ordering the white pawn �

  it was MacArthur � to advance two squares from e2 to e4, and the

  Duke of Argyll retaliated by moving Mrs MacArthur two squares

  up from e7 to e5, and the game had begun. The butler, chasing

  about the chessboard with drinks for those who wanted them, was

  the best witness to what ensued. He didn't find chess particularly

  engrossing himself, but soon � and with interest � he noted the

  rising suspense on the marble flags. Only one of the many climaxes

  will be highlighted here, but it was the most important one.

  Mary Ann MacKenzie was an uncommonly beguiling young

  woman in her mid-twenties. She appeared on the chessboard as the

  white pawn on d2 opposite her husband Iain MacKenzie on d7.

  Iain was several years older than her and had always had a reputa-

  tion as a bit of a Casanova. Even after marrying Mary Ann he'd

  had several mistresses, and he'd also flirted with several of the local

  married women, a couple of whom were present on the chessboard

  that night, a glass of sweet wine in their hands.

  Over the years, everyone in the district had felt considerable

  sympathy for lovely Mary Ann. It was whispered that not only was

  MacKenzie unfaithful to her, but he was also a tyrant at home. So

  they were two diametrical opposites. Of Mary Ann it was said that

  she was probably the sweetest-natured young girl in the entire

  Scottish Highlands. She was so wonderfully captivating that it was

  no exaggeration to say that everyone who met her fell in love with

  her almost instantly. And not only men. There was something so

  singular about Mary Ann that even many women had to admit to

  having sleepless nights filled with tender thoughts of her.

  If Iain was a potential cause for anxiety who'd at times

  threatened the stability of a number of local marriages, the same,

  paradoxically, could not be said of Mary Ann. When both a farmer

  and his wife felt themselves drawn to the selfsame person they

  usually remained on good terms, and so this mystifying woman

  often merely served to strengthen the marriage bond. It may perhaps

  be added that even the physical love between a couple could be spiced

  up by a common yearning for Mary Ann MacKenzie.

  The very first to be taken on the board that evening at Lord

  Hamilton's was Mary Ann. And so she was free at once to wander

  round the large garden, to stroll in the exquisite labyrinth of clipped

  hedges or to stand by the pond and throw breadcrumbs to the fish. It

  was obvious that Iain felt uncomfortable about the freedom she'd

  been granted so early in the game. Right from the very start he

  followed his wife with a watchful gaze.

  The next person who had to vacate the marble squares was

  Aileen MacBride, who'd been the black pawn on g7. Mary Ann

  was so intoxicated by the great garden, the lovely summer evening

  and all the wine she'd drunk, that she immediately took Mrs

  MacBride's hands and began to dance about the spacious lawn with

  her. Next, they ran hand in hand into the maze, and a number of

  the chess pieces caught glimpses of Aileen and Mary Ann standing

  there kissing and caressing one another. Hamish MacBride also took

  in what was happening behind the topiary but, far from feeling

  jealous, he rejoiced on his wife's behalf, for he felt certain that if he'd

  had the opportunity, he would have been the first to fondle Mary

  Ann himself. It was a long while before other guests were free to step

  off the marble slabs.

  This is a very complex story and one that has been the subject of

  much commentary and analysis, but I'll give it here as briefly and

  concisely as humanly possible.

  It was an enchanted evening, it was as if good spirits and

  guardian angels held their protective wings over what happened that

  Midsummer's Eve. The laird and the duke concentrated ever more

  deeply on their game as it moved slowly towards a conclusion, and

  gradually the garden became full of elated guests who'd been released

  from the chessboard. They all swarmed about Mary Ann, and even

  the officials and their wives who'd never met her before, now began

  to flock around her full of adulation and desire.

  For the first time in her life Mary Ann felt free to be herself and

  give of her boundless love and, though there was no malice in her,

  she relished the sight of Iain continuing to be pushed this way and

  that on the marble squares by the duke. For Iain MacKenzic was

  kept on the chessboard right up to the moment, not long before

  dawn, when the Duke of Argyll checkmated Lord Hamilton.

  Mary Ann had good cause to fear that Iain would punish her when

  they got home, but she wasn't thinking that far ahead now. She

  thought instead of Iain's many years of unfaithfulness and decided

  that there was some
justice in the world after all. It was still her

  night.

  Gradually, as the pieces on the chessboard thinned, the party got

  more riotous and it was said that Mary Ann shared her love with

  everyone in the garden that night. All that time, Iain MacKenzie

  had to stand quietly on the marble slabs witnessing his own wife

  being belle of the ball and the object of an almost collective lust, a

  sensual sport in which, on this one night, Mary Ann was more than

  willing to be enveloped. In a sense, therefore, MacKenzie found

  himself standing in the corner. He was quite powerless to do

  anything, because it would have been thought deeply shameful to

  ask to be released from the chessboard before the game was over. It

  would have been like spurning Lord Hamilton's hospitality. But he

  raised his arm more and more often as a sign to the butler that he

  wanted the whisky glass in his hand replenished. Soon, though he

  wasn't as steady on his feet as before, he could still keep a constant

  watch on Mary Ann who, time and again, ran playfully in amongst

  the hedges of the maze with some new woman, man or married

  couple. Jealousy was banished from the laird's garden that night.

  Everyone loved Mary Ann and in a way, through her, everyone

  loved each other.

  No sooner had Lord Hamilton conceded that the Duke of Argyll

  had checkmated him and shaken hands on the outcome, than Iain

  MacKenzie lurched out into the garden to search for his wife. He

  discovered her sitting on the grass closely entwined with both the

  MacIvers, but he pulled her away and slapped her hard across the

  face with the flat of his hand. In a matter of seconds, however, he

  was surrounded by a dozen pawns and pieces from the chess game

  and Chief Constable MacLachlan, who'd served his time as the

  white knight, took him into custody.

  Mary Ann didn't leave the Hamilton estate that morning. Her

  marriage to Iain was clearly irretrievable and the laird, who needed a

  new housekeeper anyway, offered her a home.

  Hamilton recalled all the moves from his game with the Duke of

  Argyll, and for safety's sake he wrote them down, so that he could

  carefully study how he'd been beaten. He could often be seen in the

  garden reliving the game move by move on the marble slabs. On

  these occasions Mary Ann would sometimes sit on a chair by the

  fish-pond and talk to him.

  For a while enthusiastic gossip circulated about Midsummer's

  Eve at Hamilton's house, and no one begrudged Mary Ann her

  final revenge for Iain's many years of depravity. But if good spirits

  and guardian angels had watched over Hamilton's garden that

  night, ogres and demons took a hand in its sequel. Not long after,

  there was a series of dreadful murders in the district and after the

  third, Chief Constable MacLachlan noted that all of the victims had

  occupied a place on Hamilton's marble slabs some weeks earlier.

  Hamilton's butler got in touch with the chief constable after the fifth

  murder to tell him that the deceased had also all been killed in

  precisely the same order as the laird's guests had been knocked off the

  chessboard. These were two pawns, two bishops and a knight.

  There was only one exception to this sequence: the very first who'd

  run out into the garden that Midsummer's Eve - Mary Ann

  MacKenzie. MacLachlan, who'd never forgotten the ethereal Mary

  Ann, noted the fact with interest. He had no difficulty guessing why

  this brutal serial killer had spared the charming young woman.

  Quite the reverse, he thought, it wasn't difficult to hazard that the

  motive for all the murders was that the murderer � or murderers �

  wished to eliminate all possible competition and have the beautiful

  goddess completely to themselves. This, in turn, meant that there

  were a great many suspects to be considered.

  The sixth and seventh murders were committed, continuing the

  macabre replay of the fatal chess game. The police now knew at any

  given time who would be the next victim, and gave the threatened

  individual a certain degree of protection, but they were still unable to

 

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