Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  I had smuggled Anna in and out of the house without Catherine knowing. Lidiya was another matter. She said nothing, but her look was full of disappointment and reproach. I asked her to make some tea, which I took to Catherine in her room. Catherine was coming out of a deep sleep but smiled sweetly when she saw me. Since our release, we had hardly spent more than a few minutes alone together. I sat on the bed and kissed her.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said.

  She made a contented, sleepy sound. ‘You were out late,’ she said.

  ‘I was dining with Kopelzon.’

  ‘Did you have a nice time?’

  ‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘I’ve brought your tea.’

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes while I arranged the pillows behind her. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost ten o’clock.’

  She sipped her tea, leaned back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

  ‘We are not yet out of danger, Catherine,’ I said.

  Her eyes moved to meet mine. ‘I’m so sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.’

  I reached for her hand and squeezed it. Catherine never apologised for anything. She embraced me, fierce and tender all at once.

  ‘Tell me about Yastrebov,’ I said.

  On occasion Blok, Akhmatova, Gumilyov and other famous writers dropped into the Stray Dog and sometimes read, but the club was mainly the resort of students and the demi-monde who wanted to bemoan the woes of Russia, discuss symbolism and the approaching apocalypse, listen to poets, get drunk and have sex. One night in February, Catherine noticed a thin young man with sad eyes, high cheekbones, long, wild hair and the brave, anxious look of the young lost. Catherine, always attracted to strays, started talking to him. He was shy, friendly and serious. The atmosphere between them quickly became intimate and, in the way of young people, they were soon exchanging their life histories. Catherine’s was true – at least as she recognised it – his only partly so.

  His name, he told her, was Leon Pikser. He had left his small village beyond the Urals two years before to go to Moscow, driven by a passionate desire to do something meaningful with his life, which for him meant writing poetry. But things did not go as he had hoped: his poems were rejected by every editor he sent them to. He decided to travel to St Petersburg to solicit help from his heroes, Blok and Akhmatova. He had not been able to make contact with them, however, and had soon run out of money and been reduced to the doss-house and soup kitchen.

  Catherine, charmed by his romantic idealism, poverty and good looks, proposed temporary solutions to two of his most pressing problems: a friend of hers worked at Leinner’s on the Moika Embankment and, she was certain, would be able to find him a job there as a waiter. As for somewhere to stay, she could get the key to an office which, after eight or nine o’clock at night, was always empty.

  After leaving the Stray Dog, Catherine smuggled Pikser into my office building through a back door. They made love on the couch and stayed together until dawn. Before they slipped out again early next morning, Catherine took one of my cartes de visite so he would be able to find his way again to his provisional sanctuary. They used the office on three or four occasions only and were meticulous about leaving everything exactly as they found it.

  ‘Did you love him?’ I asked.

  ‘It wasn’t love,’ Catherine said after some moments. ‘Or maybe to begin with it was. I liked him, but after I’d seen him a few times I started to like him less. When I told him I wouldn’t see him any more he started to cry, and that’s when he told me about the other things.’

  ‘What other things? You have to tell me, Catherine. This is more important than you know.’

  ‘Leon did write poetry – in fact, he showed me some of his poems. They weren’t very good. But he’d lied when he said he came to St Petersburg to meet Blok and Akhmatova. I think he would have liked to meet them – who wouldn’t? – but what had really happened was that in Moscow he’d fallen in with a group of anarchists. He implied they were serious revolutionaries and that he’d learned things from them.’

  ‘What sort of things?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Practical things of use to the revolutionary, he said, but he never revealed exactly what.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One day, in Moscow, Leon met this man. He was obviously in awe of him. He described him as “the true revolutionary”.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ I asked.

  ‘Someone who didn’t waste time with words and arguments – just got on with the job.’

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘I’m not sure Leon ever knew his real name.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘This man, this revolutionary, persuaded Leon to come to St Petersburg where, he said, he would arrange for him to be put in touch with other serious comrades. He gave Leon the name and address of someone he could stay with, until the man himself could join him, that is.’

  ‘What was the address, did he tell you?’

  ‘19 Kirochny Street, near the Preobrazhensky Barracks.’

  ‘Did he go to the address?’

  ‘He said it was being watched by police spies, that he was walking into a trap. He asked me to go with him and we posed as a courting couple so as not to attract attention. We strolled past it. I didn’t see any police but Leon was convinced they were watching. I don’t know if they were – I think he just lost his nerve.’

  ‘What did this mysterious man in Moscow want him to do?’

  ‘Leon just said that it was very important, the most important thing that would ever happen in my lifetime. I didn’t know if any of it was true or if he was making the whole thing up, including the house on Kirochny Street, to impress me. By then I was getting a little scared of him. I wanted him to go and leave me alone. I didn’t want him in your office any more.’

  ‘Did you ever see him with guns or dynamite?’

  ‘He always carried a big, heavy bag. But I never saw what was inside and assumed it was his clothes and books. I never saw guns or anything like dynamite or chemicals, in the office or anywhere else.’

  ‘Did he ever mention the name Berek Medem?’

  Catherine’s eyes widened. ‘Berek Medem the terrorist? No, never.’

  ‘When did you last see Leon?’

  ‘The day before he was murdered. He was on his way to Leinner’s to start his shift. He was very excited. He said he’d had word from the man from Moscow and he was going to meet up with him that night. But I wasn’t interested any more. He got upset and started shouting at me. He said, “Soon the whole world will know my name.” ’

  ‘What do you think he meant by that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said.

  We sat together for a while, both of us thinking about Leon Pikser and the trouble he had brought into our lives. The question now was how to extricate ourselves.

  I drove to Yegorov’s. Undressing in the Moorish tent, I smelled Anna’s smell all over me. I took a steam bath, then went to float in the pool. After half an hour, feeling somewhat refreshed, I got dressed and went to Café Central. I lit a cigarette and ordered pastries and coffee. The smoke in my nostrils did no more to dislodge the scent of Anna than the steam or the pool. She was in my throat, on my tongue and my fingertips. She was under my nails. I did not want her to go. The heyday was past, but the blood was not yet humble.

  I scanned the faces of those around me. If there was an agent among the patrons, I could not pick him out.

  I concentrated on two specific variations, two lines. One: co-operate with Lychev. Tell him what Catherine had told me of Pikser/Yastrebov and the house on Kirochny Street. It seemed simple enough. Pass on the information. If I got anything from Rozental, pass that on too. What were the likely consequences for Catherine and me? Would Lychev leave us alone?

  The second line: refuse to help Lychev. What would be the consequences? The detective’s investigation is taken over by Colonel Gan. There would be another raid, more time
in the cells of the Peter and Paul fortress. The interrogation would be more brutal. There was more to hide: my knowledge of Pikser; Semevsky’s murder; Gan’s involvement with the Gulko assassination.

  What line to choose?

  I ordered a second cup of coffee and lit another cigarette. For distraction, I went to the newspaper rack and selected The Orator. There had been another bomb, this time the Bronze Horsemen was the target. According to the account, the device was small and amateurish; there were no casualties and it had inflicted only superficial damage to the monument of the city’s founder. In a separate, prominently displayed item, the German ambassador had complained to the foreign minister about reports that Russia and Great Britain had agreed closer naval ties, something the ambassador could interpret only as an act of hostility towards Berlin. In the newspaper’s opinion it was not a question of if there would be war but when. I folded the paper and pushed it aside.

  What line to choose?

  I checked my watch. It was almost time to go to the office. I finished my coffee and went to the telephone booths in the short corridor leading to the bathrooms. I called police headquarters. Lychev answered at the first ring.

  ‘I will do what you want,’ I told him, ‘but first you have to do something for me.’

  There was silence from the other end. The policeman said, ‘I wasn’t offering to bargain with you.’

  ‘I want you to find out about something that may have happened in Kazan in 1889.’

  ‘This is beginning to sound a little vague,’ he said sarcastically.

  ‘I want to be quite clear about this, Lychev. I’ve made up my mind. I will co-operate with you only if you help me find out about this episode in Kazan.’

  ‘You are wasting time, Spethmann,’ he hissed with angry irritation. ‘I need to know Yastrebov’s real name and I need to know now.’

  ‘I talked to Catherine,’ I said. ‘She told me his name.’

  Lychev could not conceal his excitement. I imagined him sitting forward at his desk, leaning into the telephone. ‘She told you Yastrebov’s name?’

  ‘And an address Yastrebov was told to go to on arrival in the city. I’ll tell you both when you have something for me from Kazan.’

  ‘Tell me now, damn you,’ he said.

  I said nothing. The silence continued.

  Eventually, he said, ‘All right. Kazan – what may have happened there?’

  ‘A murder,’ I said.

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  ‘Peter Zinnurov’s mother.’

  There was a long silence, but even so I could tell he was intrigued. ‘And do we know the murderer?’

  ‘Peter Zinnurov.’

  Another silence, though briefer. ‘Where did you come by this information?’

  ‘If there was a murder,’ I said, ‘there will be a police report, correct?’

  ‘If there was a murder.’

  ‘All you have to do is check the records from Kazan.’

  ‘Have you any idea how difficult that is going to be?’

  ‘That’s your problem,’ I said.

  He muttered an oath. ‘When did this murder occur? What date?’

  Anna had been very precise. She was thirteen and two months when she made the trip. From her records I knew her birthday to be 16 June. ‘August,’ I said. ‘More than likely during the second half of the month.’

  ‘Meet me at seven o’clock this evening in the St George’s Gallery,’ he said.

  I put down the receiver and walked out to the street. The day was bright and clear.

  There were no police at the office building, no detectives asking questions about Semevsky. A uniformed doorman greeted me formally as I entered. Another Okhrana agent, a replacement spy? It was impossible to know. I took the stairs to the third floor.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Minna said into the telephone she had been about to put down as I entered, ‘he’s here now.’ Covering the mouthpiece, she said, ‘It’s Kopelzon.’

  I went into my office while Minna put the call through. I thanked him for dinner.

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said warmly; he was in an expansive mood after his night of revelry.

  I did not need to ask but did so anyway, ‘Did the night continue enjoyable?’

  ‘Very enjoyable,’ he said. ‘The young lady proved most charming.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘Did your other friend also enjoy himself?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one I mistook for Rozental.’

  ‘Ah yes. He was most flattered, though I have to say he was just as surprised as I. Do you really think there’s a resemblance? You’re the only one.’

  ‘It must have been a trick of the light,’ I said. ‘He seemed worried about something.’

  ‘No,’ Kopelzon replied with a faintly exaggerated airiness. ‘He’s often like that. Excitable.’

  ‘Have you seen Rozental?’ I asked.

  ‘Actually, that’s why I called you. I saw him at the hotel. He’s definitely over the worst.’

  ‘I seriously doubt that, Reuven,’ I said. ‘When he left me last night he was highly disturbed.’

  ‘So you said. But I can assure you, Otto, he’s fine now.’

  ‘I’m seeing him later today –’

  ‘He doesn’t want to continue the treatment,’ Kopelzon said quickly. ‘Don’t feel bad. It’s not a comment on your expertise. It’s just that he feels perfectly well and, to be honest, he really needs to concentrate on preparing for the tournament.’

  ‘You are jeopardising Rozental’s mental well-being,’ I said frostily.

  ‘It was his decision, Otto,’ Kopelzon replied evenly. ‘I had nothing to do with it, but, I have to say, I really didn’t think when I brought him to you that you’d dredge up these things from his past. All this stuff about his grandparents – you were making him even worse.’

  ‘What did you think a psychoanalyst would talk to him about?’

  ‘Otto, you just have to accept that some people can’t be helped. As long as Rozental plays and plays well, what does it matter what’s going on in that mad head of his?’

  ‘That’s precisely the point: I doubt very much whether he will play well. In my view, he should withdraw.’

  ‘No!’ Kopelzon snapped. ‘I’ve told you – he’s perfectly fine.’

  ‘All so you can boast that a Polish Jew takes coffee with the tsar and tsarina at the Peterhof?’

  He breathed out with annoyance. ‘You may not think it important, others do.’

  A harsh silence followed. Struggling to affect an amiable tone, he eventually said, ‘Speaking of chess, you owe me a move.’

  Spethmann–Kopelzon

  After 40 … Qb6. Should White play 41 e5 in

  an attempt to break through Black’s defences?

  Our games were always competitive but they had never been spiteful. I went to the table and quickly brought the position up to date. Here I would take my anger out on Kopelzon. An aggressive move, something to tear open his position and demolish his defences at a stroke. 41 e5 was the move. This would be his punishment. I stretched out my hand to take the pawn forward one square.

  But then I saw his reply – 41 … Qd4+. After the king moved, say to h5, he would play 42 … Qxd3, and if then 43 exd6 he would play 43 … Qe2+ and my king would hardly be able to escape perpetual check. My move wouldn’t work.

  ‘Come on, Otto. What’s keeping you? Are you losing your nerve?’

  I had to find something else. But what?

  ‘Otto? I’m getting this feeling you know you can’t win.’

  ‘41 Kh5,’ I said.

  The pause that followed suggested he had expected me to make the pawn move. After a moment he said, ‘41 … Kf8.’ He sounded as though he was trying to hide his disappointment.

  Again I thought about playing e5. Much later, long after our game had concluded, I analysed this line. It turned out it would have brought me victory but at the time I did not trust myself. So I p
layed 42 Kh6, confident that the queen check at e3 would bring Black no advantage. Now it was my opponent who asked for time to consider his next move.

  We tried to end the call on a friendly note but it was a strain, for both of us.

  Eighteen

  Shortly after three o’clock I left the office by the back entrance, avoiding the new doorman. Once among the crowds on the Nevsky, I started west. As far as I could tell I was not being followed. I continued past the Stroganov Palace and almost as far as Admiralty Prospect. I ducked into an alley and concealed myself in a doorway for some ten minutes. Judging the coast to be clear, I emerged and once more set off, this time taking side streets and alleys to the Moika Canal. Near the Yusupov Palace I found a taxi. I got to the Hay Market a little after four. It was quiet. A few peasants were selling leftover vegetables from their carts and some drunken horse-dealers were arguing over their animals. I entered the covered market, passing a swineherd with his squealing piglets, and made my way to the stall where I had last seen Gregory Petrov. It was meatless and, apart from the butcher who was clearing up at the end of his day, deserted.

  ‘I’m looking for Grischuk,’ I said to the butcher.

  His look was dully belligerent. ‘I don’t know any Grischuk,’ he said.

  ‘I am Otto Spethmann,’ I said.

  The butcher cast a lazy look around, continued with his sweeping for a moment or two, then said, ‘Wait here.’

  He returned a minute later. ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  After another quick glance to confirm that I was alone, he beckoned me forward and led me to a storeroom. Inside, on a simple wooden chair, sat my patient. He was more exhausted than I had ever seen him. His eyes were small and red, his cheeks sunken, his skin grey. The starched collar of his shirt was limp and rimmed with dirt. His suit, usually so immaculate, was crumpled and stained. There was about him a faintly faecal odour.

  ‘I hope I haven’t put you out, Spethmann, dragging you all the way over here,’ he said when the butcher was gone. ‘But I had to talk to someone.’ He uttered these last words as though admitting something shameful.

  ‘You haven’t put me out at all,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’