Estoril

by Dejan Tiago-Stankovic

  Alekhine gave Potapov a pained look.

  ‘A few more years, you say...? Well, then, dear doctor, there’s really no point in me making the effort. I’d rather die of a litre than of a stroke,’ said the man, gasping for breath. ‘All the same, could you please give me something now so that I feel at least a little better? I just don’t want to feel sick right now. When the fatal hour strikes, then I’ll die.’

  ‘You can’t give up just like that, maestro,’ Potapov protested. ‘Let me take your temperature.’

  ‘What do you mean “give up”, doctor? I’ve spent my life fighting like a lion! I spent my best years between two wars, each of which destroyed my life, with one difference: I was twenty-six at the end of the First World War and had the strength and willpower that I lack now at the age of fifty-three,’ Alekhine lamented, holding the thermometer under his arm. ‘Frankly, I’d rather be killed by a glass of cognac than the bullet of a paid assassin, which looks as if it will be my lot.’

  ‘Good gracious, maestro, where did you get such an idea from?’ said the astonished doctor.

  ‘Maybe it won’t be a paid assassin. Maybe somebody will do it for free.’

  ‘And who would that be, if it’s not a secret?’

  ‘The death squad,’ said the chess player. ‘The French resistance movement has hit lists. That’s why I don’t dare go back to France.’

  ‘You think your name is on that list?’

  ‘I don’t think, doctor, I know. I still have friends and fans who tell me if my life is in danger,’ said the champion in a dispirited voice.

  The long strands of hair that he combed across his pate stuck to his sweaty skull. His breathing was laboured; the short hairs peering out of his nostrils trembled.

  ‘And what do they blame you for?’

  ‘You’d do better to ask what don’t they blame me for. It was an ugly war, there was nothing noble about it; no hero on either side worthy of an epic poem. It was a war of the wretched not the heroic. And I’m only one of the many wretched people who did what they had to because they feared for their very lives. Unfortunately, I am visible from far away.’

  ‘What could you have done that was so terrible that they are threatening to kill you?’ The doctor found it hard to believe.

  ‘What could I have done? I played chess. That’s my job. And under the occupation everybody did their job. Isn’t that so? Doctors were doctors under Hitler. You had to work to survive. Why would I be any different?’

  ‘You’re right, but, forgive me if I sound insensitive, don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little?’ said the doctor. ‘If that’s the case, then you’re not alone. Your colleagues played chess during the war as well. Then they should execute Keres and Bogolyubov and Stoltz as well.’

  ‘They may be targeted too,’ Alekhine agreed.

  ‘Do you know if they’ve already killed anybody on those hit lists?’ asked the doctor, checking the thermometer.

  ‘I haven’t heard anything yet. But when they start, they’ll start with me. I’m always the first. Alexander Alexandrovich! A.A.!’ he said, buttoning up his shirt.

  ‘You’ve got a temperature. Thirty-eight degrees centigrade. I have to bring it down a little. Do you prefer it orally or with an injection?’

  ‘However you like, it’s all the same to me. I just want this temperature to go away so that I can get back to my nice cirrhosis, duodenitis and arteriosclerosis,’ grumbled the chess player.

  ‘All right then, just wait a minute. The injection will hurt a bit but it works quickly – I’ll go and prepare it.’ The doctor washed his hands and then took the instruments out of his bag, one by one. The glum chess player said pensively:

  ‘You know, doctor, what Chekhov said: And a thousand years from now man will still be sighing, “Oh! Life is so hard!” and will still, like now, be afraid of death and not want to die.’

  ‘So, the French planned to get rid of you?’ said the doctor, trying to pick up where they had left off.

  ‘The God’s truth. And not just the French, my dear doctor. I’m even more afraid of our own people.’

  ‘Our own people?’ The doctor did not immediately understand what Alekhine meant.

  ‘The Russians. The Bolsheviks. They are even more dangerous.’

  ‘And how did you offend them?’

  ‘How did I offend them, Vladimir Kirilovich? Don’t you see what that country has become? Stalin won the war and now is flexing his muscles. Now he wants the Soviet Union to be first in everything. And to spoil it all, instead of having one of their Bolsheviks as chess champion, they have me, a reactionary and collaborator. They’re so disgusted with me that they won’t play with me. You understand? And it wasn’t me who wrote those articles.’ The old man was getting delirious. ‘They say I’m an anti-Semite. That’s why they want to get rid of me. When I die, they will organize a championship and most probably a Soviet will win.’

  ‘What you say is interesting, but to me it sounds exaggerated. Now let me give you that injection, then you can go back to talking,’ said the doctor, checking that there was no air in the needle. ‘Please stand up for a moment, that’s right... turn around... drop your trousers a little, that’s right, a bit more... and... done! Did it hurt?’

  ‘No, I didn’t feel a thing. Thank you, doctor,’ said the champion, glumly pulling up his trousers. Now he could return to his favourite place – the depths of the armchair.

  ‘So... you say that Stalin himself wants your head,’ said Potapov while Alekhine was tucking in his shirt. ‘Where did you hear that? Who told you, if it’s not a secret?’

  ‘Nobody has to tell me. What more logical and likely answer could there be to my tortured life? Except for a brief break, I’ve been chess champion since 1927. Botvinnik challenged me recently. We’re soon supposed to hear when the match will be. They’re afraid I’m the better player. And very possibly I am. Just imagine how they would see it if I defended my title – they’d see it as their own defeat. You think Stalin would let something like that happen? Go on, tell me. I am a class traitor, a defector, and he is the Soviet champion. You think they don’t want me dead? Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. In any event, it’s good that you’re here and safe,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Didn’t they assassinate Trotsky in Mexico?’ the grandmaster countered.

  ‘Mexico is different. This is a serious country,’ the doctor said reassuringly.

  I’M LUCKY TO HAVE YOU CLOSE AT HAND, MY FRIEND

  The doctor went up to the grandmaster’s room for the scheduled match only to find Alekhine sitting in his armchair again, wrapped up in his Crombie coat, shivering as if he were cold.

  ‘I’m lucky to have you close at hand, my friend Vladimir Kirilovich,’ said the grandmaster, as if expecting him to perform some miracle.

  There was no need to say anything to the doctor. The glazed eyes, parched lips and dark circles under his eyes were obvious signs that his patient was not well.

  Alexander Alexandrovich smelled of alcohol and the unwashed, and though he was well and properly drunk and afraid of being sick, he became as obedient as a little boy. He did whatever the doctor said, and he did it without question, which, knowing him, the doctor did not expect. A large tray covered with a silver dome stood on the table in front of him.

  ‘Would you like to eat first?’

  ‘I don’t feel like eating. You just get rid of this temperature, my good man, and there’ll be no problem in me eating my dinner.’

  The doctor washed his hands and took the ampoule and syringe out of his bag.

  ‘You don’t have to get up and pull down your trousers this time. I’ll give you the injection in the vein,’ said the doctor, helping the old man roll up his coat and shirt sleeves rather than making him strip.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked after the injection.

  ‘Better... Maybe a little better... I just feel a bit dizzy,’ Alekhine replied in the slow voice of the inebriate
d.

  ‘Take it easy, maestro...’ said the doctor soothingly.

  But Alekhine did not hear him. His head had dropped onto his chest.

  The doctor stepped out onto the balcony for a cigarette.

  Darkness had only just fallen and a wind was blowing in from the sea. You could hear the waves and the roar of the cars on the Marginal road down along the coast. A train pulled in from the direction of Cascais. You could hear the screech of the brakes as the clatter came to a halt. The doctor did not wait for the sound of the locomotive’s departing whistle. Stubbing out his cigarette he stepped back into the room, walked over to the old man, felt his pulse and established that he was dead. He rolled down the old man’s sleeve, propped him up into a comfortable sitting position, removed the dome from his dinner tray and cut a large piece of meat. Then he opened the still warm maestro’s mouth and carefully pushed the piece of cold roast beef far down into his gullet, quickly closing his jaw to stop it from going rigid while still open. He placed the knife next to the plate on the table and put the fork on the floor where it would have fallen if the old man had suddenly died eating.

  ‘Beчная памятъ, Гроссмейстeр,’ said Dr Vladimir Kirilovich Potapov, bidding farewell to the late world chess champion as if talking to a living being. He had become fond of the weak-willed, capricious old man.

  The green Sèvres trophy cup was poking out of the doctor’s bag. He had taken it with him so that, in keeping with the deceased’s wishes, he could pass it on to the next champion.

  POST-MORTEM

  Chief Inspector Cardoso was dictating his report to Miss Tonita, who was taking down his every word in shorthand.

  ‘At 11 a.m. on 24 March 1946, in room number 46 of the Palácio Hotel in Estoril...’

  In short, using bureaucratic language he related how the lifeless body of Mr Alekhine had been found in his room at the Hotel Palácio that morning. The body was discovered by the hotel bellboy who was bringing his breakfast and by Dr Potapov, the deceased’s friend and doctor, who arrived at the same time to look in on his patient. The doctor established his death and immediately notified the hotel management which, for its part, instantly sought assistance from the police. He roughly described the situation he found upon entering the stuffy room, which was overflowing with empty and half-empty bottles of cognac and whisky. He did not forget to mention that there was no sign of either violence or a break-in, that nothing had been established as missing and that the guest had not locked the door to his room that evening. He signed the report. The witnesses gave and signed their statements, they being the distressed doctor, the frightened bellboy and the cool-headed hotel manager.

  After finishing the report, Cardoso, along with the others, looked pityingly at the overweight old man, slouched in the armchair in his heavy coat. With their silence, they seemed to be paying homage to the deceased. The late world chess champion looked like one of those inflatable dolls, but only half-inflated: his chin had dropped onto his chest, as if he were dozing, his bloated face had collapsed, his right hand was resting on his lap and his left was hanging on the side, over the fork that had fallen onto the carpet.

  A few months earlier, when he had been alerted that Mr Alekhine was back, Chief Inspector Cardoso was delighted. He knew the grandmaster from his previous visits to Estoril and was looking forward to talking to him again. He was told that the old man seldom left his room and hardly ever received visitors, except for Gaby and his countryman the doctor. He heard that the grandmaster was in poor health and, not wishing to witness his deterioration, had decided not to look him up. All the same, he had been called urgently to the Palácio on this Saturday morning to investigate the scene.

  ‘Like an oak tree felled,’ said the policeman poetically. ‘He was a big man, was Mr Alekhine.’

  ‘He looks as if he’s asleep,’ Miss Tonita ventured to say. She was sensitive, but took it stoically and did not cry.

  ‘May God forgive you,’ said Dr Potapov.

  ‘May God forgive you,’ Black repeated, thus forever forgiving the deceased’s unpaid bill of seven thousand escudos.

  ‘What might have been the cause of death, doctor?’ the inspector inquired.

  ‘As a doctor I can tell you that he called me last night to come urgently and take a look at him. I examined him in his room before dinner. He complained of flu-like symptoms. He had a temperature, a racing pulse and complained of a headache and aching muscles and joints. I gave him his regular injection of insulin and a Bayer aspirin. Although he was feverish he refused to go to bed, so I left and let him eat his dinner. You know how odd he was; he liked to eat alone. I noticed nothing to indicate oncoming death. At first glance, I’d say he choked on his food, but my pathologist colleagues are better placed to say what it was,’ replied the Russian, clearly upset by his friend’s death.

  ‘The body will be moved today to the Forensic Laboratory in Lisbon. We still have to photograph the body for the police report, before removing him from the scene,’ said the policeman.

  The man holding the camera, who had been inconspicuously standing in the corner so as not to get in the way of the investigation, took the inspector’s words to mean it was time for him to get down to work. With his back to the window he tried to get as good a light as possible to photograph the deceased.

  ‘Hold it! Wait a minute,’ the policeman suddenly said, raising his hand as if he had just remembered something. He took the chessboard from the dresser, laid out all the pieces and placed it on the table in front of the late grandmaster.

  ‘There. Isn’t that nicer? This way you immediately see that the man was a great chess player. Miss Tonita, you’re better at placing the chess pieces on the board, would you mind...? That’s it. Good... That looks much more dignified, don’t you think?’ The inspector was obviously very pleased with the result of his artistic touch.

  It took the photographer some time to find the best angle for the picture of the dead champion and his chessboard. He repositioned the board to make the scene look grander and more impressive. He had to draw the curtains just enough to soften the light’s reflection on the deceased’s skull. The chiaroscuro effect gave the picture depth.

  The investigation did not take long. No one likes to spend time in a room with a dead body, especially when it is close to lunchtime. And so the doctor, the policeman and the hotel manager went downstairs to the manager’s office to complete all the necessary paperwork and sort out their impressions. They toasted the deceased with a glass of whisky.

  ‘So, you think it was a natural death, death by choking.’

  ‘As I said, at first glance that’s what I would say, but...’ Here the doctor stopped, as if unsure whether he should say what was on his mind or hold his tongue forever.

  ‘Yes?’ Cardoso helpfully prompted him.

  ‘We talked a lot recently. And these last few days he often said he was afraid,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Afraid of what?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Afraid that they want to kill him. I mean that they wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Who wanted to kill him?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘The French resistance... They thought he was a traitor. And the Russians.’

  ‘What Russians? You may be the only Russian around here right now!’ the perplexed policeman said.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t express myself properly; not the Russians, the Bolsheviks; the Soviets,’ the doctor said.

  ‘And what did he do now to offend them?’ the policeman asked in utter astonishment.

  ‘He was afraid they wanted to liquidate him so that one of the Soviets’ stars could take the chess title without having to play for it. He thought they were afraid of challenging him for the title.’

  ‘And where did he think they would kill him? Here?’

  ‘Well, they assassinated Trotsky in Mexico,’ the doctor said.

  ‘If he was so afraid for his life, doctor, why didn’t he lock the door to his room?’ said the
policeman, pointing to the fallacy of this logic.

  ‘He probably would have locked it before going to bed, everybody does that, but in the meantime he choked... Or else they really did kill him.’

  Black and Cardoso looked at one another, and then the Portuguese said to the Russian:

  ‘I don’t wish to offend you, doctor, but I’ve been a policeman for some thirty-odd years, I’ve seen all sorts of things and I know that anything is possible, but I also know what is not possible. And it is not possible that there are Bolshevik agents in my district and that I don’t know about it. You don’t know me and you don’t know my work. Trust me, if there were even just a single Bolshevik around, I would know about it.’

  Black nodded his agreement with this pronouncement. The policeman went on:

  ‘I know it’s hard for you, you’ve lost a fellow countryman and a friend, but it would be wiser to try to forget about all this; relax and enjoy your time here. This place is heaven on earth. Remember that.’

  ‘I still think,’ the doctor countered, ‘you can tell when somebody has choked on his food, the person struggles, turns blue in the face... But the grandmaster...’

  ‘Please, doctor... don’t play the detective... How would it look if I tried to teach you how to treat the flu?’ The policeman politely walked him to the door. ‘Don’t create problems where there are none. If you want to help, think about what we should do with the man’s body. He’s got nobody. It looks as if the funeral will have to be paid out of state funds.’

  In the end, the state did not have to loosen its purse strings. A rich Portuguese chess fan donated the gravesite and paid for the funeral.

  QUINTA DOS GRILOS

  ‘The dogs’ barking announced that they were coming even before they arrived. Looking out of the sitting room window Madame Radmila saw the car approaching. Perfectly coifed and nicely dressed, she could not stop herself from going out in front of the house, the way village women run out into the courtyard to happily await their guests. She hugged her children, pressed her hands against their cheeks, clasped them to her breast, kissed them on the face and head. ‘Mama’s little doves,’ ‘sunshine,’ ‘darling,’ ‘my little lamb,’ ‘Mama’s sweetheart,’ ‘my angel,’ she murmured. Grada looked different somehow, as if he had grown up, become a man, but Lila was as beautiful as before, slimmer than ever. Later, when they were all seated at the lunch table, their mother said: