Zugzwang

by Ronan Bennett

  I directed Lychev to turn left.

  ‘After the assassination,’ Lychev went on, ‘Gan and his friends will install a puppet on the throne. They’ll close the Duma, break the alliance with France, ally with the Kaiser and unleash a patriotic crusade. You have to admire their creativity: Gan is plotting a coup which they will pass off as a revolutionary uprising.’

  ‘Are you going to let this happen?’ I said.

  Here Lychev dropped the offhand tone he had deployed until then. ‘It’s not my decision,’ he said with a hint of bitterness. ‘The Central Committee of the Party has of course been kept informed of everything. They are analysing the likely consequences. When they make their decision, I will receive the appropriate instructions.’

  ‘The consequence will be a bloodbath,’ I said.

  ‘There are two schools of thought within the Party leadership. One is against letting the plot go ahead. They say if the country is panicked by an assassination, Gan will be free to clamp down with an iron fist and set the revolution back by a generation.’

  ‘And the other school?’

  ‘They say that objectively we have reached the limits of what we can achieve in the present climate. They say our organisation is riddled with traitors and spies like King. They say we will only break through in an atmosphere of chaos.’

  ‘And you?’ I said. ‘What is your opinion?’

  ‘My opinion is whatever the Central Committee decides,’ he said.

  What to make of such a man, for whom every moral choice was bent wholly to the needs of a machine?

  ‘The Central Committee’s decision may yet be irrelevant,’ I said. ‘If Rozental doesn’t win the tournament, someone else will be going to the Peterhof – Lasker or Capablanca – and Medem’s plan will fall apart by itself.’

  The apartment block came into view. ‘Stop here,’ I said.

  Lychev ignored me and continued for another block before making a right turn into a side street.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘There was a car parked across the street from the apartment block,’ he said. ‘Let’s just be careful.’

  We walked back the way we had come. The motor car stationed opposite the apartment building appeared to be empty.

  ‘What floor is the apartment on?’ Lychev asked.

  ‘That’s it,’ I said, pointing to a darkened window on the first floor.

  Lychev took a last look around and then approached the entrance. We climbed the stairs to the first floor. Nothing stirred. Lychev held his gun the same way Medem had held his, the barrel pointing down, parallel to the seam of his trousers. He was taking no chances.

  ‘When did you last see Anna?’ Lychev asked.

  I had to think for a moment. A very long time ago – this morning.

  ‘Is she expecting you?’

  ‘She asked me to come.’

  He took the key and, beckoning me to stand to the side of the door, quietly slid it into the lock. The tumbler clicked, loud enough to wake the dead. The apartment was in darkness and the only noise was the sleepy ticking of a grandfather clock. Without waiting for our eyes to adjust to the gloom Lychev crept forward, disappearing into the kitchen on the left.

  I inched forward, trying to recall the layout of the room and the placement of the furniture. There was a clear path, I remembered, from the front door across the length of the drawing room to the short corridor leading to the bedroom.

  I bumped into something and fell awkwardly on what I immediately knew, though I still could not properly see, to be the legs of an overturned wooden chair.

  Lychev sprang into the room, pointing his gun.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said quickly.

  He turned on the light. I looked at the chair. Why was it here? Why was it lying on its side?

  Getting to my feet, I saw it was not the only thing out of place. There was a broken teacup on the floor by the table, and a small writing desk had been upended; papers and pens were scattered everywhere.

  My heart filled up with fear. I ran to the bedroom and turned on the Tiffany lamps. The heavy drapes were open and the bed was unmade. Anna’s clothes were strewn everywhere. I whipped aside the blankets, as though Anna might be concealed beneath.

  ‘They’ve taken her,’ I said. ‘Zinnurov has taken her.’

  Suddenly, Lychev put a finger to his lips. Be quiet! I looked around but could not see what he had obviously seen.

  ‘I’m going to the kitchen,’ he said, making his voice distinct. But instead of moving to the door he sidled up to a full-length closet to the right of the bed. Raising his pistol to head height, he reached for the handle and, in a rapid, simultaneous movement, pulled open the door.

  The man inside was also armed and he fired once before Lychev, displaying more physical strength and agility than I had imagined he possessed, wrenched him out and threw him to the floor. The man’s gun skidded to a stop at my feet. By the time I took it up, Lychev had dropped his right knee onto the man’s chest, pinioning him. I dropped the pistol into my coat pocket.

  ‘Where is she?’ Lychev shouted, pressing his pistol into the man’s throat.

  ‘Don’t shoot me! Don’t shoot me!’ the man pleaded, making no effort to resist.

  ‘Where is Anna Petrovna? Tell me, you bastard, or I will shoot you dead.’

  ‘I swear I don’t know. She got away.’

  ‘What do you mean, she got away?’

  ‘This morning Zinnurov sent two men to get her but she got away from them. He told us to wait here in case the Jew came back.’

  Lychev looked up at me then back at his prisoner.

  ‘Us?’ Lychev said. ‘How many are you?’

  The man swallowed nervously. ‘Three.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘In the car?’

  The man nodded.

  There was a piece of paper on the pillow. Thinking it must be from Anna I picked it up. The note read:

  My daughter has told me everything. You took advantage of an unhappy woman made vulnerable by illness. Your aim was to defile her, and you succeeded. Outwardly you pretend to be a Russian but you cannot disguise the stink of your race. You are despicable and revolting beyond measure. You will learn the lesson that your kind must ever be taught, and sooner than you think.

  The brain does not take in such messages at a stroke. We get to the end without really having read the beginning or middle: single words only come off the page, a matter of tone and insinuation. Stink. Defile. Despicable. I started again. The words had not changed. ‘You will learn the lesson that your kind must ever be taught, and sooner than you think.’

  I handed it to Lychev. He read it quickly, then said, ‘We have to get out of here now.’

  He looked down at the man on the floor. Without warning he fired once into the man’s head.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said, starting for the corridor.

  Transfixed by the sight, I hadn’t taken a single step when the window suddenly exploded, showering me with glass. I felt a sliver fall under the collar of my shirt and, instinctively putting a finger to my neck, I remember thinking, I will have to be careful trying to get that out if I’m not to cut myself. Then I noticed a cobblestone lying in the middle of the bed. I turned back to the window. A huge shard hung like a dagger from the top of the frame.

  I heard Lychev shout, ‘Get out now!’

  Through the broken window a second cobblestone now sailed as gently and gracefully as a leaf borne by the breezes. The huge shard dropped to the floor and shattered. The second cobblestone also landed on the bed, up by the pillows. It had a fuse and the fuse was burning. It was not a cobblestone.

  I scrambled as fast as I could to the corridor. Lychev was ahead of me, half-running, half-throwing himself to get clear.

  Someone picked me up and propelled me through the air and a great hot wind whooshed past me. There was a blinding flash of light. I passed through a furnace. I felt the hair on my head
shrivel. There was a strange smell, like burnt wool. Then came the deafening roar.

  What was I doing like this? It was desperately uncomfortable. I was upside down and in a very constricted space, my head pushed forward into my chest. Dust fell into my mouth and eyes and nostrils, it settled on my lips. My mouth was parched. Someone was trying to double me up. I thought my back would snap. I couldn’t breathe. Then I began to slide a long way down.

  Twenty-Five

  In the beautiful White Hall of the Mariinsky, Kopelzon was playing Bach’s Partita No. 3. How I loved his playing, the truth he brought to the music, the way he released and controlled its loveliness and melancholy. What a gift he had, what sublime comprehension. He followed the lines that drove the music but was never unbending. Flexibility – and cunning! – this was how Kopelzon made beautiful music his own. The tsar and tsarina were in the audience, and so were Zinnurov and Gan. Rozental suddenly jumped to his feet and said, ‘You are all in zugzwang, ladies and gentlemen. You cannot save yourselves.’ One of the magnificent chandeliers fell from the ceiling, crashing on top of Kopelzon. But when I went to dig my friend out of the mountain of diamonds I found not him but Yastrebov’s pickled head. I pickeditup, put it in my pocket and brought it home to Catherine.

  Every now and then the bed tipped up violently, sometimes feet first, sometimes head first. Bile surged into my mouth. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to wake up very badly. But I lost my footing. I would have fallen into the pit had I not flapped my arms and started to fly. It was not the soaring, effortless flight of dreams but precarious and treacherous, and several times I almost crashed. I was a novice, really, at flying. Worse than the nausea was the awful confusion in my head, a reeling drunkenness that sleep did nothing to cure.

  *

  I could not stop thinking about chess. At first it only made the dizziness worse, but after a time things settled down. A single position came into focus and the visualisation without sight of the board that I had always found so difficult suddenly became possible.

  Spethmann–Kopelzon

  After 46 … Qc7. Can Spethmann win the all-important f-pawn?

  I had to be utterly precise and utterly ruthless. Everything depended on the f-pawn. If I could win the f-pawn I would win the game. But how to do it? I had king and queen to attack it, he had king and queen to defend it. If I played 47 Qg7 Kopelzon would reply 47 … Qe7, and the f-pawn was still defended. As long as he kept his queen on the seventh rank he could defend against all my threats. If I then played 48 d4, he would play 48 … Qxe4 49 Qxf7 + Kd8 50 Qxa7 Qxd5+ 51 Kf8 Qe6 – and it would be a draw. I had never been in such a good position against Kopelzon and I so wanted to beat him, for many reasons.

  It all hinged on the f-pawn.

  And then suddenly I saw it. I had my answer.

  *

  I opened my eyes. Gregory Petrov was standing by the bed. With him was Lychev.

  ‘So, you’ve decided to rejoin us,’ Petrov said. There were crumbs on his moustache.

  ‘Catherine?’ My voice was hoarse. Lychev gave me water to sip.

  ‘Safe,’ he said. ‘She’s been here several times to see you.’

  ‘And Anna?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lychev said. ‘She’s also safe.’

  ‘What happened? Where is she?’

  ‘Zinnurov sent two men to the apartment to kidnap her. They thought she’d go meekly but she didn’t. She managed to escape and eventually made her way to your house. She was in a terrible state. She told Catherine everything. It was late. You were at the hotel at the time.’

  ‘The hotel?’

  ‘The Astoria. Do you remember?’

  ‘There was a rose petal on my shoe,’ I said. Lychev and Petrov exchanged a look.

  ‘Anna was desperate to find you and warn you not to go to the apartment,’ Lychev went on. ‘Catherine went to Saburov’s to look for you but you’d already gone and no one knew where.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In a safe house not far from here,’ Lychev said.

  ‘Where is here?’ From what I could see of the room it was bare and none too clean.

  ‘We’re in the Vyborg,’ Petrov said with a grin. ‘You’re back where you started, with the workers.’ He helped me sit up. ‘You and Anna are going to Paris.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Petrov laughed and turned to Lychev. ‘He doesn’t seem very grateful, does he, after all our hard work?’ Turning back to me, he said, ‘We’ve arranged everything – the tickets, the false papers.’ He produced a small packet. ‘They’re in the name of Mr and Mrs Spirodovich,’ he said, placing them by the bed.

  ‘What is this about Paris? I’m not going to Paris. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Spethmann,’ Petrov said, obviously enjoying himself, ‘but until four days ago, in spite of a little trouble with an over-zealous policeman’ – he turned to grin at Lychev – ‘you were a respected psychoanalyst and upstanding member of the St Petersburg bourgeoisie. Sadly, since the explosion at the Bolshoy apartment, you are now a wanted murderer. Your picture is all over the newspapers.’

  Even when he put a copy of The Orator in my hands and I saw my own face staring back at me I could not believe it. The story was not long – three or four paragraphs only – but I experienced the same difficulty I had with Zinnurov’s note: the words were clear enough but meaning and consequence were too tortuous to take in.

  ‘You’re in this too,’ I said, looking up at Lychev.

  ‘Lychev has also gone from hero of the St Petersburg bureau of detectives to wanted fugitive,’ Petrov said. ‘It’s an unhappy blow for the Party, but we’ll get over it.’

  ‘I always knew the day would come,’ Lychev said evenly. ‘In many ways it’s a relief.’

  Petrov’s tone became suddenly sombre. ‘If Gan catches you, he will show you no mercy.’

  ‘I am aware of that.’

  My eyes were very tired, my head heavy.

  ‘He’s fallen asleep,’ I heard Lychev say.

  ‘Let him rest,’ Petrov said. ‘He’s got a long journey tomorrow.’

  ‘Any news of Berek Medem?’ Petrov asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Lychev replied. ‘After the Astoria, he disappeared.’

  ‘He’ll still be in St Petersburg. What about the fiddle player?’

  ‘Kopelzon? He’s back at his apartment,’ Lychev said. ‘I suppose he has nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Petrov said. ‘Gan won’t allow anything to happen to him. At least not until they have carried out the assassination. After that, Gan will throw him to the wolves.’

  ‘Do you think Kopelzon knows?’

  ‘Of course not. He’s so egotistical he probably thinks the new regime will make him a duke or a prince.’

  There was a brief pause. I heard Lychev say, ‘May I speak frankly?’

  ‘Go on,’ Petrov answered with a hint of suspicion.

  ‘Once they kill the tsar Gan will use the public hysteria to attack us. I am not convinced we will survive.’

  ‘I think you underestimate the organisation’s resilience,’ Petrov said curtly.

  ‘We can stop them if we want,’ Lychev went on. ‘They still need Rozental’s double and we know where he is.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the house on Kirochny Street – Kavi’s watching it now. Eliminate the double and the plot falls apart.’

  Petrov’s voice was stern. ‘The Central Committee has made its decision. We are to do nothing to hinder the assassination.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Have I made myself clear?’ Petrov repeated.

  I heard them argue. I heard Lychev’s voice rise insistently. Petrov was shouting. At least the bed was not tipping up.

  Twenty-Six

  If you are knocked down in the street, my father used to say, check your wallet and your balls. I didn’t care about my wallet. My head ached and there was
a low humming in my ears. But I could see. I could feel my toes. I could wiggle my fingers. No broken limbs. I brought my hand up to my face. I needed to shave. I touched the hair on my head. It was brittle, not uniformly but in patches; I could crush individual strands and rub them between my fingers until they crumbled to dust. My hair had been scorched.

  I was lying in a bed that was not mine, in a room I did not know. Smoke from the coal fire combined with the paraffin lamps and the building’s general dampness produced a sharp odour that stung my nostrils. I had a hacking cough. Wherever I was, it was a poorer quarter – back where I started, where my father the baker started.

  I decided to get up and immediately fell asleep again.

  A cool hand was stroking my brow. I opened my eyes. Catherine. Her huge blue eyes were troubled and concerned. I had forgotten how long her eyelashes were.

  ‘Your mother always envied you your eyelashes,’ I said. She smiled and kissed me.

  ‘How do you feel today?’

  ‘My head hurts,’ I said.

  ‘You said that yesterday.’

  ‘Were you here yesterday?’

  ‘I’ve been here every day. They couldn’t risk taking you to a hospital so they arranged for your friend Dr Sokolov to treat you. Your injuries were superficial, some minor burns and cuts and bruises, but you suffered a concussion.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘It’s the 26th – Thursday. Mintimer brought you here after the explosion five days ago. You’re looking a lot better than you did then,’ she said, narrowing her eyes to scrutinise me. She helped me sit up and started to re-arrange the pillows.

  ‘The police are looking for me,’ I said.

  She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I know. Because of the murder in the apartment.’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ I protested, my voice catching on the acrid air.

  ‘I know – Mintimer told me everything. The police are looking for him as well. They know he’s a Bolshevik. Don’t worry, as long as we get you on the train, you’ll be safe.’

  ‘I’m not going, Catherine. I’m not leaving you.’

  ‘You have to,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Then you must come too,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m staying,’ she said with equal bluntness.