Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  ‘I can understand you wanting to think this has nothing to do with you, Spethmann,’ Lychev said. ‘You would like it to be a game, the kind that children play and when they get frightened all they have to do is say I don’t want to play any more. But this game is different and, like it or not, you are involved now. There is no way to stop other than to win or lose.’

  He took out a card and scribbled something down.

  ‘When you’ve talked to Catherine call me at this number at police headquarters. If I don’t answer, hang up and call later. Do not leave your name with anyone. And do not use the telephone in your house or your office.’

  He rapped the window with his knuckles and commanded Kavi to get on.

  ‘Now,’ he said merrily, ‘I believe you are expected at A l’Ours for dinner with Kopelzon. This is good. A normal place where the lights are on and people are relaxed and enjoying themselves – it will help you calm down.’

  Fifteen

  The lights were on, as Lychev had promised, and through the frosted windows the fashionable after-theatre crowd presented a friendly mass into whose sheltering depths I longed to dive. I reached for the car door, desperate to be out of the dark corners in which Lychev and Kavi dwelled.

  The detective took hold of my arm. ‘Say nothing to anyone about what happened tonight,’ he said.

  I made to get out of the car but he did not let go.

  ‘Even if Semevsky’s body is swept out to sea and gets lost in the Gulf of Finland, Gan will be missing an agent. The colonel is a thorough man and he will investigate his loss. Sooner or later, he will come to you. Make sure you have your alibi ready.’

  I yanked myself free of his grip and stepped out onto Konyushennaya Street. I could hear the orchestra’s muted playing from the restaurant as the car pulled away. I did not immediately enter but thought about going to Filippov’s where Anna and I were supposed to have met at nine. I checked my watch. It was after ten. Anna would have waited, but not for an hour. As I approached the restaurant, a white-gloved attendant bowed and opened the door for me.

  I saw Kopelzon at his usual table but made for the corridor on the left-hand side where the public telephones were and asked the operator to put me through to the Ziatdinov residence. A servant answered and I asked to speak to madam. Some seconds later I heard the telephone being picked up again.

  ‘Anna?’ I said.

  ‘Who is this?’ a male voice answered.

  I said, ‘Otto Spethmann. I’m Anna’s doctor.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ the man said.

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Do you have a message for my wife?’

  ‘I was calling to arrange an appointment.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘I apologise for the lateness. I had meant to call earlier but got caught up in some business.’

  ‘Isn’t that why you have a secretary?’

  ‘If you would be kind enough to tell her I called,’ I said.

  The line went dead. Guilt and anxiety welled up inside me. I needed a drink.

  The dining room buzzed with talk and laughter and the cheerful clink of champagne glasses. As I made my way to Kopelzon’s table I kept thinking, As soon as they see me they will know everything. How can they not? How can the inward testimony of murder not be etched in the witness’s face? But no. The maître d’ greeted me with the working smile of his profession, declared how pleased he was to see me again and commented on the welcome mildness of the evening. The orchestra continued to play. The diners ate and drank. No one so much as cast a passing glance in my direction as I joined my dinner companion.

  Kopelzon embraced me. Brimming over with his own high spirits, he didn’t notice my frozen condition. This was not unusual with Kopelzon – his own enthusiasms, feuds, loves and hates always came first. Even when he asked, as a matter of formal course, how you were, you knew he was waiting for you to finish so he could launch into his own latest news. When Kopelzon was in this expansive mood – there were other, darker dispositions – it did not seem ill-mannered. Such was the sheer performance surrounding everything he said and did that quieter, less certain personalities could only sit back and enjoy and envy him. In my present state I was only too happy to be distracted by his bravura.

  For the first twenty or thirty minutes I heard him the same way I saw the white-coated waiters, elegantly turned-out diners and the conductor and musicians, which is to say vaguely and generally. Detail was still beyond me. My eyes were unable to focus, my hearing capable only of taking in rhythm and cadence. I do not remember ordering, I do not remember the wine being brought to the table.

  While Kopelzon talked I tried to be as logical about Lychev’s story as about the variations in a chess game. In chess it is easy to be panicked by a complicated position and the aggressive manoeuvring of an opponent. What is needed always is a cool eye and a clear head. Calculate. Calculate concrete variations. What do I do if my opponent does this? What do I do if he does that?

  ‘Otto?’ I heard Kopelzon say.

  If I agreed to help Lychev, would Catherine tell me what I needed to know? If I talked to Rozental, what would he tell me? What if Gan’s agents questioned me about Semevsky’s disappearance? Could I escape by implicating Lychev? Calculate. Where does this go?

  ‘Otto? Are you all right?’

  I blinked at my companion. ‘Just a little tired,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Am I boring you?’

  ‘You are never boring, Reuven.’

  He smiled, pleased at the compliment. Slowly, words began to take on discrete sounds, and with the sounds came meaning and comprehension. Assured now of his audience’s attentiveness, Kopelzon poured forth: he had been in Warsaw where he had given a recital and been praised as a genius. Before Warsaw there had been Paris and the same thing. He had triumphed.

  ‘Otto,’ he declared, putting a hand dramatically to his breast, ‘I was moved beyond words.’

  At the next table a party of glowing youngsters caught Kopelzon’s eye and raised their glasses to toast the maestro. He bowed graciously and returned the toast. I saw him mentally pick out the prettiest girls for possible pleasures later that night. Kopelzon inhabited a whole palace of sensuality.

  He turned back and, as though only now taking note of me as an autonomous being with independent interests, asked about my arrest and detention. Kopelzon had a melodramatic and somewhat paranoid cast of mind. But even had Lychev not warned me against talking, I did not have the energy for what would have followed had I told him but a fraction of the story. I assured him it had been a mix-up and that everything was now resolved.

  ‘Russia likes to feel the whip – isn’t that what the tsarina likes to say? And you felt it, Otto, you felt the whip,’ he said grimly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, ‘but thank you anyway.’

  ‘I saw our friend Rozental. He’s improved somewhat, don’t you think? He’ll never be normal, exactly, but at least when I saw him he had his board up and was analysing Lasker’s most recent games – a good sign.’

  Couched in this was the implication that he had some right – as a gambler might inquire of the trainer of a horse, or a parent of his child’s teacher – to intelligence on Rozental’s progress. He refilled his glass and raised it to his mouth.

  ‘When did you see him?’ I asked.

  ‘This morning, in his room at the Astoria.’

  ‘I’m afraid he may not be as improved as you think,’ I said. ‘When he left my office this evening, he was highly agitated.’

  Kopelzon put down his glass. His lips were slightly parted, his look more than a little apprehensive. ‘He hasn’t been rambling, has he?’ he said. ‘He hasn’t been talking rubbish? I told you not to listen to him.’

  ‘He is a divided man. He is in torment.’

  ‘Divided?’ Kopelzon said warily.

  ‘He feels guilty because he’s a chess player. He feels he has betrayed his
grandparents.’

  This analysis seemed to come as a relief to him. ‘I see,’ he said, nodding sympathetically.

  ‘When did you meet Rozental?’ I asked.

  ‘A year or so ago, at the chess club in Lodz.’

  ‘Are you good friends?’

  ‘I believe so. I hope I’m good a friend to him.’

  ‘How well do you know him? I mean, his background, his interests?’

  ‘He never talks about his family. As for interests – I don’t think he has any, apart from chess.’

  ‘Is he interested in other sports or games?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Theatre, music?’

  Kopelzon turned down the corners of his generous mouth. ‘He’s never mentioned it.’

  ‘Religion? Politics?’

  Kopelzon gave me a look. ‘Politics? Why on earth do you ask that?’

  ‘I’m trying to build up a picture of my patient.’

  ‘I’ve never heard him venture anything remotely resembling a political opinion,’ Kopelzon said. ‘Look, Otto, is he going to be ready to play or not?’

  I hesitated, knowing how much what I was about to say would anger my friend. ‘I believe it essential for Rozental’s psychological well-being,’ I began slowly and carefully, ‘that he take no part in the tournament.’

  Kopelzon slammed his glass to the table. His brow came down in a glower. The transformation from companion to adversary was instant and total; Kopelzon never knew degrees. There was either calmness or rage with him, ecstasy or despondency. There were not opponents but enemies born out of blood feuds. From his friends he demanded uncritical allegiance to his person, commitment to his views and acceptance, always, that his wants came first. He took rejection of any of these things badly.

  ‘He will play! He must play!’ he shouted.

  I stared into his large brown eyes. They were not soft. He pursed his lips and looked around the restaurant. Had I not known him better, I would have thought he hated me.

  ‘You have to understand the importance of this, Otto,’ he said, striving but not entirely succeeding in making his voice conciliatory.

  I answered in the same tone. ‘I am his doctor and I must advise my patient as I see fit.’

  ‘You are his doctor only because I brought him to you,’ he snapped, ‘and I can just as easily take him away.’ He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Do you know what it would mean for a Polish Jew to win the St Petersburg tournament? Have you any idea? The Russians think us barely human, the rest of the world doesn’t give a damn. We are despised, Otto, twice over – first as Poles, second as Jews. Can you imagine it? Rozental beating Russians, Americans, Germans, Cubans, Englishmen? Did you know the winner will be invited to the Peterhof for a personal interview with the tsar? A personal interview during which he will receive a title specially designed for the winner of this tournament – Grandmaster of Chess. What can they say about us then? A Polish Jew in the Peterhof, presented to the tsar and tsarina!’

  ‘Do you think Rozental going to the Peterhof will stop the pogroms?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Kopelzon replied, irritated. ‘But it would be a powerful message: it would say we are human beings. It would say we are as good as anyone else.’

  We said nothing for some minutes but endured a difficult silence. We had started on the sakuska and the waiters had filled our glasses with champagne before Kopelzon spoke again. He did so carefully and earnestly, for evidently he wanted me to understand that what he was telling me went very deep with him.

  ‘I’ve lived in St Petersburg the whole of my adult life,’ he began, ‘and, if I’m truthful, my sense of Polishness, my true national and cultural identity, was in danger of being lost. Little wonder – for nearly twelve years I didn’t set foot on Polish soil. It was only last year, on my way back from Paris, that I visited the city of my birth. I can hardly tell you what emotions it produced in me. To walk the streets I grew up in. To speak the language I learned as a child. To hear the voices of the women in the market and see the children coming from the heder. I tell you, Otto, whenever I go back I feel ashamed. Here I am, living well in the land of the people who have conquered, partitioned and oppressed my country. You know the saying the goyim have – “Since the partition of Poland, Europe has been in a state of mortal sin”? I feel I also have committed a sin, a terrible dereliction of duty.’

  He had a mobile face, capable of expressing in quick turns excitement and mournfulness, rage and despair, devotion and disappointment. With Kopelzon, nothing was trivial, he had an opinion about everything: women, wine, houses, horses, war, chess and politics.

  ‘What do you conceive your duty to be?’ I asked.

  I heard a voice say, ‘His duty is to play like an angel so we mortals may hear the music of heaven on earth.’

  It belonged to one of the young women at the adjacent table. Her face was flushed from the heartiness of her friends’ company and the vodka and champagne she had consumed. She had found the courage to approach her idol. It was a frequent occurrence. I scratched my ear and played with the crumbs on the tablecloth as she introduced herself as Kopelzon’s sincerest, most dedicated admirer. Kopelzon took her hand and kissed it and the two flirted, he congratulating her for her charming conversation, she for the beauty of his playing. At last, having extracted a promise that Kopelzon would join her and her friends for a drink, she returned to her table, from where she continued to send silent, doe-eyed pleadings to her hero.

  ‘You take no side in these things,’ Kopelzon said, taking up our conversation again. ‘That’s entirely your affair. But you have to understand, Otto, that not all men are made like you.’

  ‘How do you think I’m made?’

  ‘You see things calmly, from above, with a third eye. I’m not criticising you. But what I see cuts me to the quick. I can’t help it – that’s how I’m made. Every time I cross the border from Germany and pass through Ciechocinek and Wloclawek and on to Warsaw, when I travel through the great plain of Poland, I am horrified by what I see. Miserable villages made of wood so weather-beaten and faded it is as grey as the half-starved people who inhabit them. Jews, Otto. Jews like us. Except here I am in St Petersburg playing my caprices and sonatas while you listen to the ravings of madmen.’

  I made a face to show mild disapproval.

  He smiled collusively and went on, his tone lightening. ‘Is it not right to speak of duty when we see these things? When we see our brothers forced to live as beasts? What should we do then? This is the question, Otto. It is the question for men like you and me, comfortable, well fed and successful. What do we do for our brothers?’ He drained his champagne in a single gulp. ‘Madmen and fanatics are killing us every day,’ he said, ‘murdering us.’

  ‘We have our own madmen and fanatics,’ I said. ‘Berek Medem, for example.’

  At the mention of the name, Kopelzon hunched his shoulders and looked around to see if anyone had heard.

  ‘Why do you say that name? Why?’

  ‘The name is notorious, Reuven. Everyone knows it.’

  ‘You know the reason they know it? Because the Russians will never let anyone forget it. What better way to tarnish us than by chanting his name, over and over and over?’

  ‘Lychev claims he was seen in my office building.’

  ‘Berek Medem?’ he whispered.

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  Kopelzon considered the news for a moment, then shook his head. ‘The police are obsessed by him. They see him everywhere, or pretend to. It suits their purposes. Why do you think he keeps escaping? It’s because the police want him out there setting off his bombs and throwing his acid. It suits them to have a bogeyman – that way they can slur the cause of Poland. I’m telling you, Rozental winning the tournament will do more for us than a whole army of’ – he could barely bring himself to utter the name – ‘Berek Medems.’

  I had upset my friend. He stewed for some moments, shaking his head and g
lowering around him.

  Spethmann–Kopelzon

  After 37 … Kh6. The black king is exposed

  but does White have enough resources to win?

  Eventually he said, rather sullenly, ‘Do you have a move for me?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you have it tomorrow.’

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘you’re so confident you can beat me. Let me have your move.’

  I dragged my thoughts back to the position. ‘38 Qf6 check,’ I said.

  He threw me a hard look. ‘Do you really think you can beat me, Otto?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to, if this is how you behave when you’re losing.’

  He let out a small dismissive laugh. ‘To win an endgame like this requires considerable technical skill, Otto. I’ve seen better positions than yours ruined in an instant by a single inaccuracy: 38 … Kh7.’

  Provoked, I responded quickly, ‘In that case I play 39 Kg3.’

  ‘39 … Kg8,’ he replied at once, affecting a nonchalant air, as though nothing I could do would hurt him.

  I had analysed this line at home but his bravado made me hesitate. I tried to visualise the position. Did he have something? I could not see it. Surely my plan remained viable: march my king up the board and break with e5 at the appropriate moment. The only thing I had to worry about was Kopelzon getting in behind my king and finding a perpetual check. My heart began to thump – ridiculous after what I had witnessed on the embankment only a couple of hours earlier. But chess produces extraordinary levels of anxiety, never more so than when a player is on the point of realising an advantage but knows that a single wrong move can destroy his prospects.

  ‘40 Kh4,’ I said.

  Had we been at the board moving the pieces, he would have seen my hand tremble.

  ‘40 … Qb6,’ he said, fixing me aggressively with his dark eyes, telling me again, You think you have me, but you don’t.

  He could check me at f2 on his next move and harry my exposed king. I had to be careful if I was not to let the win slip through my fingers.

  ‘I’ll need to think about this,’ I said.

  ‘What’s there to think about?’ he said sharply. ‘If you’re so confident, why don’t you see it through?’