Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  ‘Tell me about Kazan and your grandmother’s house.’

  She looked at me warily, as though suspecting a trap. ‘It’s not the house of my nightmares, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘The house in my nightmares is very large and rambling. There was nothing at all frightening about my grandmother’s house. It was modest and homely. I remember a small vegetable garden at the back, and a little kitchen with an oil stove and a small table.’

  ‘Where did you sleep?’

  ‘In a bedroom upstairs.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No. I was to share the room with my father.’

  ‘You say you were to share the room? Did you in fact share it?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘I suppose we must have. I don’t think there was room for him anywhere else.’

  I made a note and moved on. ‘How did you get to the house from the station?’

  ‘A carriage probably, but I really can’t remember.’

  ‘What did you do when you arrived?’

  She frowned and was silent for some long moments. ‘We were there for a week but my mind is absolutely blank.’

  ‘Try to remember. Anything. What did your grandmother cook for you?’

  ‘Now I think about it, I don’t think we did stay a week,’ she said slowly. ‘We were supposed to. I remember my mother kissing me at the station and saying she didn’t know how she’d live a week without me.’ Her voice trailed off as she fished her memory. ‘I’m sure … we were supposed … to stay a week, but …’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘I really don’t remember anything at all,’ she said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. When I tried to prompt her she cut me off with a plea: ‘Please. Really, this is a waste of time. Nothing happened.’

  Her vehemence only deepened my conviction that here was gold, and yet at the same time I was hesitant about bearing her from simple history-taking into the unpredictable realm of the unconscious. I did not want to run the risk of provoking a crisis, but I was her doctor and had a responsibility to get to the bottom of her illness, something that could only be achieved by prising her from this fixed, defended state.

  ‘Was anyone else in the house?’

  ‘Please!’ she said.

  She put her hands to her face, placing her thumbs on her cheekbones and spreading the fingers upwards in a curtain over her eyes. She was silent for several minutes. ‘I don’t want to talk about this any more.’

  No amount of persuasion on my part would change her mind.

  At the end of the session I made her some tea. She asked about Catherine.

  ‘She’s well, thank you. At least as far as I can tell. Since she began her studies at the university I see very little of her.’

  ‘She’s a very remarkable girl. I only wish she didn’t dislike me so.’

  ‘She doesn’t dislike you in the least.’

  Anna smiled knowingly. She said, ‘Have you ever thought of remarrying?’

  ‘No,’ I answered at once, the question taking me by surprise.

  ‘Because of Catherine?’

  ‘Not just Catherine,’ I said.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I seldom go out,’ I said, ‘and with little opportunity to meet anyone …’ I smiled helplessly and shrugged.

  ‘That sounds to me like an excuse,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I conceded.

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Of meeting someone? Of falling in love again?’

  I do not know why but the question upset me. I got up and went to the window.

  ‘Otto, I am so terribly sorry,’ she said. ‘What a stupid thing to say.’

  I stared down at the street below, dark now and almost deserted. She came up behind me and touched my elbow.

  ‘Will you forgive me?’ she said quietly.

  I turned round to face her. She was so close we were almost touching. We stared at each other in silence for some moments. Had I been Kopelzon, I would have kissed her. Instead, I moved past her to the safety of the chess table, and the kiss that wasn’t was left in the air between us.

  ‘You seem preoccupied,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me why?’

  I should never have told her: it was unprofessional and almost certainly unethical. She listened, at first incredulous, then indignant.

  ‘What right has this Lychev to demand your attendance at police headquarters? You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s an outrage.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of going,’ I said. ‘But I am afraid for Catherine.’

  ‘You must get someone to intercede on your behalf. A person of influence. Someone who will put Lychev in his place. And you must do it before you go to police headquarters tomorrow. Once the police process starts, it will be impossible to stop.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone with that kind of influence,’ I said.

  She fell silent for a moment, as though debating something with herself. She asked if she might use the telephone in the outer office.

  A minute or two later she returned. ‘I’ve just spoken to my father,’ she said.

  The Mountain. My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘I explained the situation,’ she went on. ‘He would like to see you tonight to talk it over.’

  ‘I should never have told you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Otto. It’s the least I can do. Go and see my father. If anyone can help you, he can.’

  I knew from what she had told me in our earliest sessions that the close bond between Zinnurov and his daughter had not endured, but she had never revealed the reasons for their estrangement.

  ‘He will expect you at midnight at the Imperial Yacht Club,’ she said.

  Grateful and embarrassed, I helped her on with her coat. I let my hands rest lightly on her shoulders. She was perfectly still. Without thinking, I moved my right thumb a fraction to touch a curl of her thick black hair where it fell on her pale neck. She turned her head a fraction; I could not tell whether it was to encourage me or warn me off.

  I took my hands from her shoulders.

  We walked together from the office to the wide marble landing where I summoned the elevator. She got into the car and the uniformed attendant pulled the gate to.

  From behind the crisscross of bars she said, ‘Telephone me when you’ve seen my father.’

  I stood listening to the electric whine and the clicks and jolts of the descending car, then turned back to my office. I had just reached the door when I heard someone on the stairs. Slow, heavy footsteps echoed.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out.

  The only reply was the continued scuff of unhurried steps. Two figures appeared at the top of the stairs. One, a tall young man, grinned unpleasantly. His companion had a dour look and was holding a revolver.

  He said, ‘Hello, Jew.’

  Five

  Two weeks before Gulko’s murder, Kopelzon had invited me to a private recital he was giving at the house of the shipping magnate S. I. Raetsky. Afterwards we dined together at A l’Ours. Usually after a recital Kopelzon would be expansive and excited, quite full of himself, but that night he was preoccupied and agitated.

  ‘You are either dissatisfied with your playing or you are having trouble with a woman,’ I said, trying to animate him.

  ‘Is it true you are treating Anna Petrovna?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, somewhat guardedly.

  ‘Are you sleeping with her?’

  ‘No,’ I said, pretending to be more taken aback than I really was.

  ‘Have you fallen in love with her?’

  ‘Is this why you are so morose tonight? Because you failed to seduce her?’

  ‘Who says I failed?’ He summoned a grin, though it took some effort. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I failed. For once.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me treat you?’ I said.
/>   ‘Treat me?’ he exclaimed with some aggression. There were times when I thought Kopelzon might despise me. ‘What for?’

  ‘Your very alarming priapism.’

  The hostility in his expression faded. ‘Your own lack of interest in these matters is of much greater concern,’ he said with a smile.

  We had finished the meal and the wine. He ordered champagne and brandy.

  ‘I have a new patient for you – Avrom Rozental,’ he said. ‘I’m serious – he’s quite mad.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised you knew Rozental.’

  ‘We’re actually quite friendly,’ he said, though rather vaguely. ‘Anyway, he’s going to need your help if he’s to play in the tournament.’

  ‘Does he want my help?’

  ‘I’ve talked to him about you.’ Again, there was a vagueness, a hint of evasiveness. ‘When will you see him? Tomorrow?’

  ‘What are his symptoms? Why do you say he’s mad?’

  ‘You’ll see for yourself. By the way, Rozental has no money to speak of. I can pay something towards the cost of his treatment –’

  ‘There may be no treatment,’ I interrupted him. ‘But if there is, you owe me dinner, nothing else.’

  Kopelzon took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you, Otto,’ he said. ‘You don’t know how important this is.’

  The following day Minna showed Kopelzon and the famous Avrom Chilowicz Rozental into my office. I had never before seen Rozental in the flesh, though like thousands of others I had followed in the newspapers his triumphal sweep across Europe. His game against Rotlewi at Lodz in 1907 was his masterpiece; I had studied it as closely as I had the case histories of Anna O., Dora and Little Hans. On examination, everything was revealed to be perfectly logical. Yet such were the dizzying depths of imagination it seemed the work of a conjuror.

  Kopelzon and I exchanged some commonplaces and attentions. Indicating the chessboard, he asked if I had a move ready for him. I apologised yet again and begged his indulgence.

  ‘Are you saying you want a draw?’ he said.

  ‘Would you mind if I took another day or two to think about it?’

  ‘By all means,’ he said expansively, glancing at Rozental. ‘But I think you’ll find it’s a draw.’

  Kopelzon’s performance was intended for Rozental’s benefit, a way to put the great master at his ease. Rozental’s taciturn gaze wandered over to the Jaques pieces and rested there. His features remained impassive. I felt embarrassed by his scrutiny of our feeble efforts.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’ I asked.

  He appeared not to hear me. I repeated the question.

  ‘Nu,’ he answered.

  He muttered an apology at once, both for the refusal and the Yiddish. His Russian was the Russian of the ghetto, fluent enough but guttural and nasal.

  ‘How long have you been in St Petersburg?’ I asked.

  Rozental glanced nervously at Kopelzon.

  ‘Two weeks, Avrom Chilowicz,’ Kopelzon said, addressing him as though he were an infant in his care. Turning to me, he explained, ‘Avrom is staying at the Astoria.’

  Just then Rozental’s head twitched in a way that reminded me of a small animal alerted to the presence of a predator. He began to scratch furiously at his scalp. Kopelzon and I watched in silence.

  After some moments I turned to Kopelzon. ‘Thank you, Reuven. Minna will show you out.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I stay?’ he said, evidently surprised by the request.

  ‘What goes on between analyst and patient is an entirely private matter.’

  ‘Of course. But we are all friends here. Avrom is my friend. I’m the only friend he has in St Petersburg. It was I who suggested he see you. I have to stay.’

  ‘It’s impossible, Reuven. Please.’

  ‘You don’t understand – I have to stay.’

  ‘The answer remains the same,’ I said.

  Rozental, preoccupied with whatever it was that irritated his scalp, did not hear any of this, as far as I could tell. I managed to get Kopelzon to the outer office. He was plainly displeased with me.

  ‘If you want me to treat Avrom Chilowicz,’ I told him, ‘you will have to consent to my doing so in private.’

  Kopelzon made a dramatic, despairing gesture. ‘Couldn’t you just this once make an exception?’

  ‘Why do you want to be present?’

  ‘To save you time. Avrom rambles. God how he rambles.’

  ‘A psychoanalyst cannot ignore anything his patient might say, you know that.’

  ‘Trust me, you’d do well to pay no attention.’

  ‘If I were to tell you to use only three of your violin’s strings, what would you say to me?’

  Kopelzon ran his hand over his brow like a man brought to immense suffering by the inability of others to appreciate the full weight of his concerns.

  ‘The timing is terrible,’ he muttered. ‘There’s so little time. Do you think you can cure him?’

  ‘It depends on whether he will work with me,’ I said. ‘On whether he is prepared to reflect on his inner world and tolerate psychic pain. And not least it depends on whether his illness is treatable by psychoanalysis.’

  ‘The tournament starts on 21 April. He has to be ready to play.’

  ‘It’s a chess tournament, Reuven,’ I said. ‘There’ll be others.’

  ‘No – there won’t!’ he snapped back. ‘This is Rozental’s chance to prove himself the rightful challenger for the World Championship. He must play.’

  Kopelzon was an exacting and impatient man. Most people found him impossible. I was used to his rigour but even I found his vehemence on this occasion unnecessary and distasteful.

  ‘Rozental is not just a chess player – he’s a Pole,’ he continued; and, with an unmistakable accusatory emphasis, he added, ‘And a Jew. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  There are successful men from humble backgrounds who adjust so effortlessly to the trappings of their new lives you would never guess their true origins. And there are those who know only the tailor and the baker, the rabbi and the innkeeper, the tents of the Torah and fields of weeping; removed from this world they do not know what to do or say, or even think. I suppose I had expected a magician with secret and spectacular powers far remote from the resort of men. Instead I found Avrom Chilowicz Rozental, a poor Jew from the shtetl. Yes, I had noticed.

  ‘I cannot treat him if you insist on being present,’ I said.

  He glared at me, but when he saw I would not be moved he capitulated and said, ‘You will at least keep me informed of his progress?’

  ‘In general terms, yes,’ I said. It was clear this was no more to his liking than my refusal to let him in on the session. I said, ‘I will telephone another doctor now – Bekhterev himself if you like – but I can assure you whoever it is will take exactly the same position.’

  I went back to my patient to begin the first of our many sessions. Rozental did not ramble, at least not to begin with.

  The tall intruder took off his hat and dropped into the chair behind my desk. He placed a yellow, bone-handled knife on the surface before him.

  ‘You are alone here?’ he said. ‘I was hoping to meet Minna. I’ve heard she’s quite beautiful.’ He turned to his accomplice: ‘Check the bathroom.’

  The young man with the revolver moved behind me. I heard the bathroom door open and the light switched on.

  ‘It’s empty, Kavi!’

  I made eye contact with the man in the chair. Kavi, apparently. He was a bear of a man, with a broad face and powerful shoulders. A Cossack, by his look and speech.

  ‘It might be my name,’ he said, reading my thoughts, ‘and it might not.’

  He nodded to his accomplice, a signal to get on with whatever work they had come to perform. I heard drawers being pulled open, papers riffled and the slap of discarded files hitting the floor.

  ‘What do you want here?’ I said.

  He was staring at the chessboard on which my game with Kopelzon
was set out.

  ‘Are you a revolutionary, Otto? A Socialist Revolutionary? A Bolshevik perhaps? Or a member of the Jewish Bund?’

  ‘No,’ I protested. ‘I certainly am none of those things.’

  ‘Then you are for the autocracy?’

  ‘I have no political allegiance of any kind.’

  ‘None? How is that possible?’

  ‘My work is very demanding. I simply do not have time to preoccupy myself with political affairs.’

  ‘Our work, too, is demanding. Isn’t that right, Tolya?’

  ‘Never a truer word spoken!’ came the laughing reply.

  Kavi looked straight at me. ‘He might be Tolya and he might not. We cannot be certain. However, Otto, you can take my word for it that our work is indeed challenging and often difficult.’

  ‘From what I have seen,’ I said, ‘I feel no need to dispute your assurance.’

  Kavi laughed. ‘You see, Tolya?’ he shouted to his friend. ‘Didn’t I tell you the Jew looked like he had balls?’

  Tolya, still going through the files, chuckled. ‘You’re a good judge of character, Kavi. I’ll give you that.’

  Kavi continued, ‘Are you pro-German or pro-French?’

  ‘You’re ransacking my office and you want to discuss international affairs?’ I said.

  ‘We’re about to go to war, Otto!’ he exclaimed with bogus outrage. ‘Don’t you care who we’re going to be fighting? Think of our soldiers! Who are they supposed to shoot? Germans, Frenchmen, Austrians, Englishmen – who?’

  ‘If all you want to do is talk about war,’ I said, ‘we could have met for coffee at Filippov’s.’

  He smiled and said, ‘I just wanted you to know that no matter how demanding our work we find time for politics.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ I said. ‘I congratulate you.’

  ‘Got it!’ Tolya shouted from the outer office.

  I turned to glimpse him holding aloft a file. I could not see which one.

  ‘Very well, you go now,’ Kavi said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Do you want me to cut the telephone line?’ Tolya asked.

  ‘No need,’ Kavi replied.

  What this portended I did not know. Why was Kavi unconcerned about the telephone? Because he intended to kill me?