His mind, the unique way in which he could look at a chess problem, was a mystery to him. Like all mysteries, John thought, there was a dark side to it. One day, perhaps, his mind would turn on him, cast him adrift on the sea of night music that was the scream of the mad.
He kept his eyes straight ahead as he walked up the narrow sidewalk to the main entrance, but he was aware of a dozen or more pallid faces watching his progress from behind the barred windows on the top two floors of the main building. He entered the lobby of the administrative section and approached the reception desk. A burly male nurse was sitting behind the desk, reading a comic book.
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Butler.’
The nurse didn’t look up. ‘You kin?’
‘I’m her son.’
‘Visiting hours are almost over.’
John wanted to shout, to demand to know how anyone making a living supposedly dealing with human misery could be so concerned with time. He didn’t. Instead, he swallowed his anger and said: ‘I know. Please. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me see her.’
The nurse casually wrote out a pass and held it out towards John. ‘You know the way?’
John took the pass, turned and walked off down a corridor without speaking. He knew the way.
He made a conscious effort to relax as he approached his mother’s room. He stopped at the door, then froze. Someone had scratched the words, Emma’s a fucker, into the wood with a pen knife or nail: it was obvious that none of the custodial staff had bothered to try to remove them. In fact, John wondered if it might not have been one of the staff who had put them there.
Again, John found that his eyes had filled with tears. He glanced around to make sure that he was not observed, then wiped them away with the back of his hand. Twice that day he had wept—for the first time in many, many years. Both times he had suppressed his anger immediately before. More prices to be paid, John thought. He raised his hand, hesitated a few moments, then knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’ His mother’s voice was airy, cheerful, as though she were a famous hostess who had been greeting guests all day.
John pushed the door open and stepped into the room. The room was as he remembered it from the last visit, and the visit before; the room, like the hospital and patients, never changed. It was small, and attempts had been made to make it attractive. The attempts failed because, John knew, without looking, that all of the rooms—at least in this wing—were exactly the same. His mother had hung some of her own paintings on the walls. All of the paintings were hung upside down.
Emma Butler was sitting in an easy chair by the single, large, draped window in the room. At forty-eight, she was not so much attractive as a caricature of the attractive woman she had once been. She was garishly dressed in a fringed maxi-dress with a plunging neckline that revealed a good deal of her breasts. She wore black stockings and red, patent leather shoes. Her face was caked with make-up, and her lips were covered with a lipstick shade that matched her shoes. She was smoking a cigarette held in a long, imitation mother-of-pearl holder. John forced himself not to look away.
‘Hello, Mother.’ The smile on his face hurt.
Emma Butler studied her son for a few moments, as though her brain was taking more than the usual length of time to make the connection between the man standing in the door and someone she knew. Then she leapt up and rushed towards him.
‘Johnny!’ she squealed with delight.
John braced himself as his mother’s arms wrapped around him and her mouth rose to his. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else as he felt his mother’s tongue darting over his lips, her hands caressing the back of his neck. He tried not to think of the nipples beneath the gown pressing into his chest, her thrusting pelvis. His stomach churned.
After what seemed an eternity his mother pulled away. Her eyes, once fiery with passion, were now vacant, like unused storerooms. All of her passion had been spent, John thought, or drugged out of her. Now she was just going through the motions, like a corpse continuing to twitch.
Emma Butler puffed on her cigarette, then smiled warmly. ‘So, how are you? How are you feeling, Johnny?’
‘I’m fine, Mother,’ John said quietly. ‘How are you?’
‘Ha!’ Her eyebrows lifted in mock wonder. ‘How would you be if you were locked up in this funny house?’
John tried to think of something to say and couldn’t. His throat hurt, as though something very large and sharp was trying to force its way out. He watched as his mother walked back across the room and looked out the window.
‘I have a new lover, Johnny,’ Emma said casually. ‘You want to see?’
‘I came to see you, Mother. I have something to tell you.’
Emma Butler waved her arm impatiently. ‘Oh, do what you’re told and come here! I’m the one they’ve got locked up. Humour me a little!’
John slowly walked across the room until he was standing next to his mother. He forced himself to look in the direction she was pointing. Outside the window, fifty yards away, a skinny gardener with a pock-marked face stood beneath a floodlight winding a hose on a mechanical wheel. Apparently sensing that he was being watched, the gardener glanced towards the window, then left the hose and walked quickly away.
It was true, John thought, dropping his eyes; God, it was true.
Emma sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned John towards the easy chair. ‘Why don’t you sit down, Johnny? You in a hurry? I know you are; I can feel it. You just got here, you know.’
John sat down woodenly in the chair. His mother’s cigarette had gone out. She stared at the blackened tip for a few seconds, then extracted it from the holder. She put a new cigarette in and lighted it.
‘They put me here because I killed your father, you know,’ she said casually, through a smoke ring. ‘Can’t say that I blame them. In a way I suppose it’s pretty decent of them. This place is a drag sometimes, but it’s better than prison.’
John shook his head slowly back and forth. ‘You didn’t kill anyone, Mother. My father is still alive.’
‘Ha! That shows how much you know! Have you seen him lately?’
‘No, Mother. He’s just a memory to me. But I know that you didn’t kill him. You know it, too. That’s just something in your mind.’
Emma Butler suddenly leaped to her feet. ‘Who are you to tell me I shouldn’t have a lover?’ she screamed, jabbing the cigarette holder in the air, wielding it like a sword. ‘You’re a man, Johnny! You should understand!’ The rage passed as quickly as it had come. She sank back on the bed, crossed her legs and stared at him. ‘I’ll grow old in here, Johnny,’ she continued softly. ‘My body’s going to dry up.’
‘I didn’t say anything, Mother,’ John said in a choked voice.
‘I saw it in your eyes when you were standing by the window.’ She crushed out the second cigarette, lighted another. She smoked in silence for a few minutes. A vein throbbed in her left temple. John stared at it in helpless fascination. ‘Anyway,’ she said at last, ‘you’re right about one thing. I did kill him in my mind.’
‘Who, Mother?’ John said absently.
‘Your father. I did it because he left us, because he didn’t understand. The doctors know I killed him and that’s why they’ve got me locked up here. I killed him in my mind, so they’re punishing my mind. God, I hate it here, Johnny. I hate it here.’
‘Mother,’ John said quietly, ‘I’ll be leaving for Italy soon. I’m playing for the world chess championship.’ John waited, but Emma said nothing. She was staring off into space, apparently lost in her own mad thoughts. ‘Mother, I came to tell you.’
‘Are you still playing that same silly game, Johnny? When are you going to go out and get a job?’
John stepped back, as if from a physical blow. He quickly passed his hand over his eyes. The muscles in his stomach had knotted into a hard hot ball.
‘Oh, Johnny,’ his mother said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve hurt your feelings.’
‘You haven’t hurt my feelings, Mother. I just … it. Hurts me to see you like this. I don’t know how to say anything to you.’
‘Come to Mother.’
She moved close to him again, put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. John screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists at his side. Tears welled from his eyes and flowed freely down his cheeks. This time he made no effort to wipe them away.
His mother moved away and stared at him thoughtfully for a few moments, then reached out and patted him on the cheek. John cringed; it had been a gesture of contempt.
‘Okay, Johnny,’ his mother said with quiet savagery. ‘The visit’s over, Johnny boy. You’ve done your duty by coming to see your crazy old mother. You can go now.’
‘God, Mother,’ John said, his voice cracking. ‘If we could just learn to talk to each other—’
John stopped when he saw his mother was not listening. She had returned to the window and was staring vacantly out at the night.
‘Get out, Johnny,’ she said tightly. ‘Just get out. I’m tired of talking.’
John started to speak, then thought better of it. He walked across the room and kissed his mother lightly on the cheek. Then he turned and walked from the room. He closed the door quietly behind him.
John’s confrontation with his mother had had a cathartic effect. He found during his ride back to the city that he was very tired but relaxed. He knew he would be able to sleep soundly, and he was grateful for that. He would get a good night’s sleep, then rise early in the morning with his mind fresh, ready to attack the problems imbedded in the papers Anna had brought him. He found he was no longer concerned about why Anna had brought him the papers. That was her business. He would use the papers because he would be a fool not to, but he would simply refuse to play the rest of her game, whatever it might be … unless he chose to.
And he would apply the same reasoning to the problem posed by Petroff’s supposed desire to defect. If the world champion wanted to defect, fine. John might or might not help him, and in any case he would not commit himself beforehand to any plan. Tom Manning would see now that he was protected, and in less that forty-eight hours he would be on a flight to Venice. He would be there to play chess, to wrestle the championship away from the Russians—and that would be his only reason for being there He would simply refuse to allow himself to be distracted by anything or anybody. He would not take any calls, not see anybody but Henry and Tom Manning.
Guilt, sudden and unsuspected, pricked his consciousness. He thought of the girl, and the collapse of her cool façade when he had told her about the reports. There seemed to be one truth that had risen out of the cacophony of unanswered questions: someone, somewhere, was in trouble.
But that was not his responsibility, John thought. It was not his fault. He had not invented politics, and he had not asked Petroff to fight his government. He had not asked Anna Petroff to bring him her brother’s games, and he could not see where Arnett—even if he was really a CIA agent—had the right to ask anything of him. Perhaps the person or persons in trouble would suffer. But he had suffered, and he had endured. Now there was just one more rung on the ladder he had been climbing for more than two-thirds of his life … He would win!
Riding through the dark, sucking in the cool night air through an open window, John felt confident of beating the Russian. Then, perhaps, he might even try to change, to loosen up, learn to accept other people on their own terms. He would see a doctor about his sexual problem. Perhaps he would even take a few months off from chess and travel, for once, without the suffocating, blinding pressure of an important chess tournament pushing in on him. If he felt like it he might even enroll for a few courses in a university. He could relax, do what he wanted. Then he could afford to; he would be champion.
And he would like to see the girl again, John thought. Perhaps everything would work out. If it was in his power, he would try to make sure that it did.
John celebrated his positive mood by stopping at a roadside bar and ordering a drink. He drank it slowly, letting the alcohol warm his stomach and slowly seep into his bloodstream to be carried to his brain. He made a point of joking with the bartender and the half a dozen other people at the bar. Then he bought a drink for the house and went back to his car. By the time he pulled his car to a stop outside the apartment building he was mildly euphoric.
When he went up to his apartment the euphoria contracted into a tight ball in his stomach, soured and melted away. Burns and Draper were waiting for him.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ John asked. He suddenly felt cold.
The two FBI agents had been standing side by side in the middle of the living-room. Now Draper stepped forward, produced a set of handcuffs and snapped them on John’s wrists.
Burns drew two official-looking pieces of paper from his overcoat pocket. ‘This is a search warrant, Butler,’ Burns croaked in his injured voice, ‘and this other paper is a warrant for your arrest. You don’t have to say anything, and you should know that anything you do say may be used against you. You have the right to make one phone call, and I suggest it be to your lawyer.’
‘I don’t want to call anybody. What’s this all about? Who are you creeps running errands for this time?’
Draper lunged forward, his face suddenly twisted with hate. Burns tried to block his rush, but Draper got past him. He stood very close to John, trembling with rage, his fists clenched. John smiled contemptuously.
‘There aren’t any spooks around to help you this time, wise guy!’ Draper yelled.
Burns sounded more contemplative and thoughtful. He stared at John. ‘Everyone knows you’re an obnoxious son-of-a-bitch, Butler,’ Burns said evenly. ‘But who would have thought you were a traitor?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ John stammered, far more disturbed by Burns’ quiet manner than by Draper’s rage.
‘This,’ Burns continued in the same tone.
John watched in amazement as Burns reached into his pocket and withdrew two plastic chess pieces that John recognised as part of one of his sets. Each piece had been placed in a small plastic bag and was marked. Burns held them up to the light. There was a dark blotch inside the translucent material.
‘What the hell is it?’ John asked, bewildered. His stomach felt as though someone had kicked it.
‘You know Goddamn well what it is, wise guy!’ Draper spat.
Burns turned the plastic piece and pointed to the felt bottom. ‘Not a very sophisticated hiding place,’ he said, ‘but then nobody would suspect you. Sometimes the simplest hiding places are the best.’
John worked his tongue back and forth inside his mouth until he was sure there was enough moisture to allow him to speak. ‘Hiding place for what?’
‘Show him,’ Draper said. ‘I want to see the bastard’s face when we show it to him. We’ve still got the other piece, and that’ll have his fingerprints all over it.’
Burns shrugged, then ripped open the plastic bag. He peeled back the felt base on the bottom and pointed to the small area of blackened, rippled plastic in the middle. ‘Clever,’ he said. ‘You took off the felt, burned a hole in the base, slid the merchandise in, then sealed it back in.’
‘What merchandise, damn it?’
Burns hit the chess piece sharply against the side of an end table. The bottom split off and a tiny piece of microfilm slid out and floated to the floor. John stared at the film, speechless.
‘Tell him again,’ Burns said.
Draper repeated the litany. ‘You’ve got one phone call. You don’t have to say anything; if you do, it may be used against you.’ He paused and smiled thinly. ‘That’s from the book. My book says: if you’re smart, you’ll co-operate.’
After a brief period of almost total numbness, John’s brain was beginning to function again. But he could not think of anything to do; he was preoccupied with the vision of everything he had ever wanted slipping from his grasp. ‘The pieces are mine,’ J
ohn said simply, ‘but I don’t know how the film got there. The film isn’t mine, and I didn’t put it inside the chess pieces; I have never seen it before and don’t know what it is.’
Burns and Draper stared at him as if they expected him to say more. John remained silent; there was nothing more to say.
Draper cleared his throat like an embarrassed host who has watched a conversation go flat. ‘But you do admit that this is your chess set?’
‘I just said—’ Anger flared up and this time John made no effort to check it. ‘Look, pal, I don’t mind answering your questions, as long as they aren’t so incredibly stupid! Why don’t you give your partner a chance? He looks a little smarter.’
Draper’s eyes flashed warning signals that John ignored. He was near the point where he almost wanted to be hit, to feel physical pain, anything to take his mind off the growing sensations of despair and loneliness he was experiencing.
‘Butler, you’re going away for a long time,’ the big man hissed in a smothered tone that was almost inaudible.
‘Talk or don’t talk, Butler,’ Burns said in a cold, even tone. ‘But don’t be a smart-ass. We’re not as interested in you as we are in the man or men who hired you to take this with you.’
‘You idiots! What would I want with a piece of microfilm?’
Burns and Draper glanced at each other. John had seen that type of look on peoples’ faces many times before; he had seen it on the faces of countless teachers and guidance counsellors in school. It was meant to convey the message: how could such a supposedly bright boy act so stupidly?
Draper shook his head. It was an almost paternal gesture, and John hated Draper for it, ‘You mean you never even asked what was on the film?’
‘I told you I’ve never even seen that bloody film. I didn’t know it was there. It was planted. Can’t you see that?’
‘Sure, Butler. Now who would go around planting pieces of microfilm in your chess set?’
John ignored Draper’s condescending tone. “The Russians.”
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