Zugzwang (14 page)

He got to his feet in a quick, smooth movement. For an old man, he was remarkably supple. I stood up and went to the door while he gathered his coat and cane. He paused at the threshold.

‘Tell me,' he said in a voice full of sly insinuation, ‘what is the precise nature of your relationship with my daughter?'

‘I am her doctor.'

‘I get the impression there is more to it than that.'

It was half-statement, half-question. I had no reply ready, not even for myself. He looked me up and down and, dispensing altogether with the need for formal politeness, said, ‘You came to me for help. I said I would do what I could, even though, to be frank, you are not, properly speaking, Russian. You are not to see my daughter again. Do not try to contact her. If you attempt to telephone her or write to her, I will be aware of it.'

‘So far as I know,' I said, ‘there is no law in Russia to prevent a doctor from treating his patient.'

‘Don't underestimate me, Spethmann,' he said, putting on his hat. He smiled and added, ‘Don't be a fool.'

When he'd gone, I went to the chessboard and stared at the position. It took almost an hour before I could see the pieces properly. Even then, I could not stop trembling, with anger, with anxiety, and above all with doubt. Was Zinnurov right about his daughter? Had I misread Anna so badly?

Shortly before seven o'clock, Minna entered to say that Rozental had arrived. She also told me that Semevsky had
informed her my car had been mended and was parked in its usual place. Then she handed me an envelope.

‘A messenger delivered this a few minutes ago,' she said.

I went to my desk and sliced the seal with a letter opener. Inside was a handwritten note.

It read, ‘I meant what I said' and it was signed ‘P.A. Zinnurov'.

Rozental received my apology for my absence with indifference. Monomaniacally fixated on chess, he was someone for whom nothing had the slightest meaning except as it affected his freedom to play; the existence of others he understood only in terms of their capacity to help or hinder his obsession. If this is to paint an unattractively selfish picture of my patient, I should emphasise that Rozental's character was not in the least manipulative, cynical or grandiose. He was a shy and gentle man, with a pathetic aura of sadness, as though perpetually confused by the world and the people in it. Whenever I looked at him, I was put in mind of a child who has lost his parents in a crowd. Chess was Rozental's life; beyond was a void. To be prevented from playing, whether through illness or mishap or the machinations of others, was as traumatic to him as the loss of a limb to anyone else.

His movements were quick and jerky, he could not sit still. I tried to calm him with some innocuous questions about his hotel and his room (overheated, he muttered) and whether he had any relations with Lasker, Capablanca, Tarrasch, Nimzowitsch and the other participants (he did not). He spent all his time studying the games of his opponents, looking for improvements in his opening repertoire and, his speciality, analysing endgames. I should not give the impression that the information I elicited came easily or conversationally. Again, I was put in mind of a child – one with a very short
attention span and with only a minimally developed awareness of others.

The tournament was only three days away. It was time to get to the heart of the matter.

‘I have been giving a great deal of thought to the fly that so torments you,' I began. He gave me a wary, doubtful look. ‘Do you recall you told me that everyone wanted you to do this or that, to be this or that? Do you remember I asked to whom “they” referred?'

His features took on the suspicious expression of a man who thought himself being lured into a trap.

‘You said “they” were not your grandparents, and yet it is clear from other things you have told me that your grandparents had extraordinarily high expectations of you. “They” are your grandparents, are they not?'

He twisted uncomfortably and turned to look directly at me. It was unusual for him to make eye contact in this way and, paradoxically, it was a sign in him of extreme distress. At such critical junctures the psychoanalyst must decide whether to proceed with the line of inquiry which has produced this heightened level of anxiety in the hope of a breakthrough, or, fearing more harm than good will come of it, pull back and endeavour to calm the patient.

‘You disappointed your grandparents, Avrom,' I said, deciding to press on. ‘You did not do what “they” wanted you to do.'

‘No, no, no! Not me, not me!' he cried.

‘And naturally you experience guilt because you are doing something they think is wrong.'

‘I'm not doing anything wrong,' he mumbled, ‘I'm not.'

‘Of course you're not, Avrom –'

‘It is the other one!' he wailed. ‘Not me!'

I was puzzled. The other one? What was this? I pressed on. ‘You're not doing anything wrong, Avrom. The guilt you
experience exists only because you are aware of your grandparents' disapproval. The guilt is expressed by the fly.'

‘There are two, there are two, there are two … ' he muttered.

‘Two … flies?'

‘It's not me, it's not me.' He got to his feet, repeating this senseless refrain. His eyes were distracted. ‘I will not do it,' he cried. ‘No, I will not do it. Let the other one do it. Not me, not me.'

‘Are you talking about a brother, Avrom? Or a sister?'

I was not sure he heard me. Was this what Kopelzon meant when he said Rozental rambled?

‘There can't be two, just one,' he muttered, looking around him for the fly.

‘How many flies are there, Avrom? What are there two of? You keep saying two, Avrom! What do you mean by two?'

He began to bat the air violently with his hands, as though swatting away a black cloud of flies, all the time crying and moaning. Minna, hearing the commotion, knocked and entered, and together we succeeded in getting him to the couch. He sobbed pitifully for the best part of an hour. When I judged things were again under control I let Minna go for the evening.

Gradually Rozental recovered himself. Unwilling to risk upsetting him further, I said nothing more other than to offer him refreshment.

‘I get so confused,' he said at last, his voice exhausted and brittle. ‘Sometimes I cannot tell which one is which.'

He was still and rather calm, as one who has suffered a fever after the crisis has passed.

‘Would you like to proceed with our session?'

He did not reply. I let some minutes go by.

I said, ‘Painful as it may be to you, Avrom, it is essential we continue. I would not suggest doing so if I were not convinced that it will ultimately be of help to you.'

He appeared reluctant but willing; he said, ‘May I use your bathroom first?'

‘Of course,' I said, getting up to show him where to go.

I went back to my office and jotted down on my notepad the word ‘Two'. I circled it and put a question mark after it. What did he mean by this? I wrote ‘Paranoid Schizophrenia?' I had never personally encountered such a case before. The phenomenon had been only recently discovered and was not at all well understood.

I heard the toilet flush and the tap water run.

Besides my concern for my patient, I felt the stirring of professional excitement. I would write to Bleuler at Burghölzli for advice on how to continue with the treatment.

I waited for Rozental to come in. The sound of running water continued. Many of my patients washed obsessively and I was used to their taking time in the bathroom. I wondered how my interpretation of the fly as the manifestation of
yetzer hara
– the evil inclination that had led him from the centredness of his community and his religion to the life of an itinerant chess player – might be fitted into my new interpretation. The thought that I might be wrong did not even occur to me.

What was keeping Rozental?

I got up and went to the outer office. The bathroom door was open. I turned off the running tap and went out to the hall.

‘Avrom!' I called. ‘Avrom!'

He was nowhere in sight. Without even locking the office behind me, I hurried down the stairs. Semevsky was standing just inside the door of the lobby.

‘Did you see someone leave just now?' I shouted. ‘A man? Stocky, with short hair and a moustache?'

‘I let him out just a moment ago. Is something wrong, your honour?'

I barged past the doorman into the street.

In the fading light I caught sight of Rozental turning into the Nevsky. I darted after him through the chaotic traffic as he dodged horses and motor carriages to cross the wide avenue at a diagonal, finally disappearing into the crowds outside the Gostinny Dvor.

I was about to give up my pursuit when I spotted him again hurrying into Dumskaya Street. From there, he turned right and continued the short distance to the Griboyedova Canal. His quickness and agility surprised me, for he was physically stolid; I would have almost certainly lost him had he not stopped on reaching the dimly lit embankment.

Not wanting him to take fright at the thought I was following him, I concealed myself in a darkened doorway while I considered what best to do. He too seemed to be taking stock of his situation, looking anxiously around as though trying to decide where to go.

There were no shops or restaurants on this part of the embankment. Apart from the occasional passing carriage, it was completely deserted. I saw him go to the wall and look out over the water. Fearing he might harm himself in his distracted condition, I decided to approach my patient, even at the risk of panicking him. I was about to step forward when I heard a figure coming up behind me.

‘Can I be of assistance to his honour?'

I recognised the doorman's uniform – Semevsky.

‘What are you doing here?' I said.

‘I thought his honour might need help. Is the other fellow a thief?'

He seemed, as always, eager to please.

I said, ‘He's no thief. He's my patient and rather unwell. I must see him safely to his hotel.'

As soon as I said this, I realised that the doorman must have seen Rozental come into my office on two or three previous occasions. Something was not right. Before I could say or do
anything, Rozental turned away from the canal and started uncertainly towards the footbridge a little further along the embankment.

‘You should return to your post,' I said to Semevsky.

He gripped me by the arm. Gone was the ingratiation. ‘Let's just see where your patient goes,' he said.

I yanked my arm, attempting to free myself, but he spun me expertly round, simultaneously twisting my arm up my back. Another fraction and it would break.

‘Who are you?' I said.

‘You don't need to concern yourself with that,' he replied calmly. ‘Let's go.'

He nudged me into the street. We were about to cross to the embankment side when a small car came round the corner. As soon as it passed, we crossed the street and moved towards the footbridge. Rozental was already almost on the far side of the canal.

‘What do you want with Rozental?' I said.

‘Let's see where he goes and who he talks to.'

We were a few paces from the bridge when the same car suddenly swung round and accelerated towards us.

‘Who's this?' I heard Semevsky mutter.

The car screeched to a halt and a man in a long coat jumped out. It was Kavi.

For a moment everything was perfectly still. I heard only the approaching stamp of Kavi's boots and Semevsky's quickening breath. Semevsky threw me forwards, the better able to defend himself. I did not fall but recovered my balance in time to see him pull a pistol from his pocket.

‘Keep away!' Semevsky shouted.

The Cossack did not break his stride but came steadily onwards. He grinned as he produced his long, bone-handled knife. Semevsky raised the pistol and took aim. Kavi did not even try to get out of the way.

From behind, out of the gloom, a small, nimble figure rushed up. Semevsky heard him, but too late. He let out a groan and slid to the ground. His right leg twitched horribly. Only then did I take in the insubstantial presence of Lychev standing over Semevsky's body. He was holding a knife. Blood boiled from the gash in Semevsky's throat. The twitching stopped.

Without a word, like two men who had spent a lifetime working in concert, Lychev and Kavi lifted the body and hoisted it over the wall into the canal. I could still hear the splash as Kavi bundled me into the car.

Lychev hurled his knife through the open window as Kavi drove up the deserted embankment. The spinning metal briefly caught the light from the street lamps and winked like a star before disappearing over the embankment and into the canal. He lit a cigarette.

We were at the junction with the Nevsky opposite St Catherine's. People were streaming to the theatres, shops and restaurants. Liveried servants with the serious look of men entrusted with sacred tasks rode the running boards of their masters' carriages. Outside an art gallery a double act of juggler and fire-eater performed tricks for the patrons' amusement. At the Gostinny Dvor it seemed that the whole of St Petersburg had assembled to shop for furs and slippers, porcelain and silver, tea and caviar.

I looked from Kavi to Lychev. ‘So you two are in league,' I said. ‘I knew it.'

‘You should be a policeman, Spethmann,' Lychev said. ‘There may still be time.'

‘Where are you taking me?'

‘Where would you like to go?' Lychev said amiably, as if we were driving back into the city from a pleasant afternoon's excursion in the country. ‘We can drop you anywhere you want.'

‘Why did you kill that man?'

‘I was protecting a member of the public,' he said. ‘You.'

‘Policemen do not throw bodies into the canal. Nor do they consort with thugs.'