Zugzwang (23 page)

‘Why does the doctor not remember?'

She paused. ‘He probably wishes he could forget,' she said; then she added, ‘Because of what happened … between us.'

The taller man studied her carefully, then turned to me. ‘Were you carrying on with your secretary, Dr Spethmann? Is that what you were doing?'

‘I refuse to answer that question,' I said, ‘or any others from you.'

The taller man scratched the bridge of his nose with his left index finger, sighed and got to his feet. At the door, he said, ‘You shall be hearing from us again, Dr Spethmann.'

Minna stood where she was, facing me. We heard the outer door open and close. She turned to go.

‘Minna,' I called after her.

But she ignored me and left the room.

Whether he admits it or not, every psychoanalyst has patients who bore him. It was my bad luck that day to have to listen to the young foreign office clerk as he regaled me with his depraved exploits as he scoured the Vyborg for his victims. My next appointment was with the wife of a timber merchant. A vicious snob, she complained chiefly of her husband's lack of refinement. Perhaps I should have been grateful for the distraction they offered but all I really wanted to do was talk to Minna. Why had she lied for me?

It was not until I'd hurried out the last of my patients that I
had an opportunity to talk to her in private. She was at her desk, bringing the diary up to date.

‘I tried Rozental again but he's not answering the telephone,' she said, as if nothing had happened.

I sat on the bench to the side of her desk. ‘What's going on, Minna?' I said.

She pursed her lips and shook her head. Nothing.

‘Why did you lie to those men?'

‘If you will forgive me, Doctor, I have to finish some correspondence before I go.'

She pushed back her chair, lifted a sheaf of papers and went to the cabinet. She pretended to concentrate on sorting the papers. I got up and stood behind her.

‘It was a very dangerous thing to do,' I said.

‘I did it to help you,' she said, enunciating each word carefully so that I could not possibly misunderstand.

I put a hand on her shoulder. She froze and spun round, her eyes wide and startled as if I were about to assault her. I snatched my hand away.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I just don't want you to get into any trouble on my account.'

The papers filed away, she pushed the drawer shut, went back to her desk and picked up a pen.

‘I do not want to talk about this again,' she said.

By the time I arrived at the opening ceremony, Saburov, as president of the St Petersburg Chess Union, had already started his speech. Manoeuvring through the throng to the French windows at the far end of the ballroom, I scanned the faces around me. Of the players, I glimpsed Capablanca and also Bernstein, but I could not find Rozental. Saburov was thanking the organising committee for their hard work and the benefactors for their generosity. At the mention of Tsar Nicholas's subscription of one thousand roubles, there was a burst of reverent applause.

‘This tournament,' Saburov intoned, ‘which marks the jubilee of the St Petersburg Chess Union, is the strongest ever seen in the history of chess. The committee decided to invite only the first-prize winners in great international masters tournaments, that is, masters who have triumphed in open contest with the very strongest of their peers.' Saburov smiled, obviously enjoying every second of his time in the limelight. ‘Thus we are delighted to welcome Dr Lasker, the reigning World Champion.'

There was another, less restrained burst of applause. I caught sight of Lasker, bowing in acknowledgement. It was the first time I had seen him in person. Although quite short and unremarkable-looking, he projected a determination that could not but command attention.

‘From Cuba,' Saburov went on through the roll, ‘the man already being talked of as “the chess machine”, Senor José Raul Capablanca.'

The audience clapped and cheered, and the suave Cuban inclined his head graciously. Lasker was World Champion, but Capablanca was the true celebrity. He glanced at Lasker, the young lion eyeing the old; it was well known the two hated the sight of each other. Extraordinarily handsome, with sleek black hair and burning dark eyes, he gave off an astonishing confidence. Surrounded by awestruck admirers with fixed and silly grins – they included a large number of women – he was irresistibly suited to glory in a way Rozental never would be.

Saburov continued, ‘Five years ago, here in St Petersburg, many of you will have been present at a now legendary game. It was one of Dr Lasker's rare defeats but I'm sure, great sportsman that he is, the World Champion will not object to my reminding you of his epic encounter with Avrom Chilowicz Rozental.'

The applause started up but soon faltered when Saburov failed to locate Rozental in the crowd.

‘Is Avrom Chilowicz present?' he asked somewhat plaintively.

People craned their necks and turned to their neighbours with the question in their eyes.

‘I could not prevail on him to come,' a voice next to me whispered. It was Kopelzon. ‘Nothing to worry about. Avrom never attends these things.'

Saburov made a little joke about Rozental's legendary modesty and went on with his speech.

‘How is Avrom?' I whispered to Kopelzon.

‘Well enough,' he whispered back. ‘He'll be able to play, that's the important thing.'

Saburov next introduced the American, Marshall.

‘Avrom's first game tomorrow is with Marshall,' Kopelzon said. ‘He's a tricky player, but tactical, and shallow. Avrom should beat him comfortably.'

We clapped each of the remaining competitors as they were introduced: Tarrasch, Alekhine, Nimzowitsch, Blackburne, Janowski, Bernstein and Gunsberg.

‘Only Lasker and Capablanca present any real difficulties,' Kopelzon said, raising his voice as the applause climaxed. ‘The rest are cannon fodder.'

Saburov signalled for quiet.

‘I have one final but very important and very exciting announcement,' he said, making his voice grave. ‘As you know, the scheme of play is that there will be a preliminary tournament in which each of the eleven competitors will play one game with every other. The five leaders of the preliminary tournament will then play off in a double-round final section. The winner of the final section, the winner of the 1914 St Petersburg tournament, will have the inestimable honour …' Saburov paused for dramatic effect. ‘Of being presented at the Peterhof to His Imperial Highness Tsar Nicholas II to be created the first Grandmaster of Chess.'

There was a frenzy of cheers and applause. Kopelzon was in good form, beaming smiles at friends and admirers, but it was hard for me to look at him without feelings of anger and hurt. If he knew about the house on Kirochny Street, then he knew about Yastrebov, which made his pretended concern for me and Catherine and his outrage at our arrests a hypocritical fiction.

Oblivious as always to others' moods, Kopelzon said cheerfully, ‘It seems the appropriate moment to give you my move, Otto. I play 44 … Ke7.' He checked my reaction, then said, ‘We each have king and queen. I can protect the f-pawn with as many defenders as you have attackers. I really don't see how you think you are going to make progress.'

Spethmann–Kopelzon
After 44 … Ke7. Kopelzon says it's a draw. Is he right or is he
bluffing? Can White make further progress?

Perhaps he was right but I didn't care; I wanted to win. Or, rather, I wanted to beat him. I concentrated on visualising the position. If I played 45 Kg8 to attack the pawn, he would respond simply with 45 … Qc8 +, so I played 45 Qg5+. It didn't help me with the f-pawn, but there was a trap.

Kopelzon grinned amiably. ‘Really, Otto. Aren't you embarrassed to play these cheap tricks? Did you really think I was going to allow you to checkmate me on the back rank? I play 45 … Ke8.'

‘46 Kg8.'

‘Still going after the f-pawn, eh, Otto? You won't get it. 46 … Qc7.'

Chess without sight of the board, at least for more than a move or two, was beyond my powers. Even with so little material remaining I was having trouble keeping track of the pieces, as Kopelzon knew only too well.

‘You'll be here for Rozental's opening game tomorrow, won't you?' he said rather patronisingly. ‘Give me your move then.'

A waiter came round and refilled our glasses with champagne.

‘Come and meet Lasker,' Kopelzon said. ‘Saburov introduced me earlier – and guess what? Lasker congratulated me on my performance in Vienna last summer. Can you believe it? The World Champion came to see me perform. He said my playing moved him to tears.'

‘Your fame knows no boundaries, Reuven.'

‘Apparently not,' he said without irony. ‘Let me introduce you. He's a fascinating man. There's not a subject under the sun he can't talk about – philosophy, politics, economics, religion. He'd love to meet you.'

‘Perhaps later,' I said.

‘As you please,' he said, sounding disappointed. ‘By the way, are you coming to my recital at the Mariinsky next week? I'm going to be playing a selection of Bach's Partitas and Sonatas. I'm told the tsar himself is coming. Don't tell anyone – they don't like these things to get out too far in advance. All very exclusive' – he jabbed me jocularly in the ribs – ‘but I'll get them to make an exception and allow you in. Put it in your diary. The 26th. I'll arrange the tickets.'

He clapped me on the back and made me promise not to go before he could effect an introduction to Lasker.

For an hour I made uneasy small talk with acquaintances from the St Petersburg Chess Union. I exchanged a few pleasantries with Herr Tarrasch when we were briefly introduced, and with the Englishman Blackburne who, it turned out, had been to Yegorov's and found the experience wonderfully invigorating.

I asked a servant if I could use the telephone. I dialled the number of the apartment on Bolshoy Prospect but the telephone bell just rang and rang. I thought about calling Anna at
home, but I did not want to risk having her husband answer. I dialled another number.

‘Where are you?' Catherine said.

‘At Saburov's. It's the opening ceremony tonight. Has anyone called for me?'

‘No. Were you expecting someone?'

‘Not especially,' I lied. ‘What have you been doing?'

‘I had a visitor,' she said.

‘That's nice. Who was it?'

‘Mintimer Sergeyevich.'

‘Who?'

‘Lychev. That's his name – Mintimer Sergeyevich Lychev.'

‘What did Mintimer want?' I asked acidly.

Catherine was unexpectedly serene. ‘Nothing – just to talk. It wasn't anything to do with Leon or the murders. It turns out he's really quite unusual, for a policeman. To hear him talk about the conditions of the workers in the Vyborg you'd think you were listening to Petrov.'

‘Catherine,' I said. ‘Listen to me. He had no right to call on you. If he tries to talk to you again, you must refuse to see him. Do you understand?'

There was a long silence. I imagined her mouth setting and that single dark line of eyebrow coming down.

‘You always accuse me of never telling you anything,' she responded sharply. ‘And what happens when I do? You immediately start to interfere and order me around.'

‘I am not ordering you around,' I said. ‘But Lychev is a very dangerous man. I forbid you to see him.'

‘And who are
you
seeing?' she asked, a note of triumphal vengefulness in her voice.

‘Catherine, this is about your welfare. It is about your safety.'

‘Did you think I wouldn't find out?'

I was in no mood to take a scolding from my daughter. ‘We
can talk about Anna Petrovna later if you like, but I am telling you: stay away from Lychev.'

‘You swore to me you would never see her again but she has been your patient for almost a year –'

‘Enough, Catherine. This doesn't concern you.'

‘And the fact she is your lover? Does that concern me?'

Even good fathers become exhausted. ‘No,' I said with harsh finality, ‘it does not.'

Catherine put down the telephone.

As I waited to collect my hat and coat I became aware of someone standing next to me. Turning, I saw Peter Arseneyevich Zinnurov.

‘What gives you the right to dig around in other people's lives, Spethmann?'

I was in no mood to take lectures from the Mountain either. With my coat over my arm and my hat in hand I made to push past him. He put a hand up to my chest.

‘Kazan is in the past. No one cares. We have enough problems in the present. We have terrorists and revolutionaries. Germany and France threaten war. The people are hungry. What is Kazan compared with this?'

How did he know about Kazan? He read my thoughts at once.