Zugzwang (16 page)

‘Otto?' I heard Kopelzon say.

If I agreed to help Lychev, would Catherine tell me what I needed to know? If I talked to Rozental, what would he tell me? What if Gan's agents questioned me about Semevsky's disappearance? Could I escape by implicating Lychev? Calculate. Where does this go?

‘Otto? Are you all right?'

I blinked at my companion. ‘Just a little tired,' I said. ‘Sorry.'

‘Am I boring you?'

‘You are never boring, Reuven.'

He smiled, pleased at the compliment. Slowly, words began to take on discrete sounds, and with the sounds came meaning and comprehension. Assured now of his audience's attentiveness, Kopelzon poured forth: he had been in Warsaw where he had given a recital and been praised as a genius. Before Warsaw there had been Paris and the same thing. He had triumphed.

‘Otto,' he declared, putting a hand dramatically to his breast, ‘I was moved beyond words.'

At the next table a party of glowing youngsters caught Kopelzon's eye and raised their glasses to toast the maestro. He bowed graciously and returned the toast. I saw him mentally pick out the prettiest girls for possible pleasures later that night. Kopelzon inhabited a whole palace of sensuality.

He turned back and, as though only now taking note of me as an autonomous being with independent interests, asked about my arrest and detention. Kopelzon had a melodramatic and somewhat paranoid cast of mind. But even had Lychev not warned me against talking, I did not have the energy for what would have followed had I told him but a fraction of the story. I assured him it had been a mix-up and that everything was now resolved.

‘Russia likes to feel the whip – isn't that what the tsarina likes to say? And you felt it, Otto, you felt the whip,' he said grimly. ‘Is there anything I can do?'

‘I don't think so,' I said, ‘but thank you anyway.'

‘I saw our friend Rozental. He's improved somewhat, don't you think? He'll never be normal, exactly, but at least when I saw him he had his board up and was analysing Lasker's most recent games – a good sign.'

Couched in this was the implication that he had some right – as a gambler might inquire of the trainer of a horse, or a parent of his child's teacher – to intelligence on Rozental's progress. He refilled his glass and raised it to his mouth.

‘When did you see him?' I asked.

‘This morning, in his room at the Astoria.'

‘I'm afraid he may not be as improved as you think,' I said. ‘When he left my office this evening, he was highly agitated.'

Kopelzon put down his glass. His lips were slightly parted, his look more than a little apprehensive. ‘He hasn't been
rambling, has he?' he said. ‘He hasn't been talking rubbish? I told you not to listen to him.'

‘He is a divided man. He is in torment.'

‘Divided?' Kopelzon said warily.

‘He feels guilty because he's a chess player. He feels he has betrayed his grandparents.'

This analysis seemed to come as a relief to him. ‘I see,' he said, nodding sympathetically.

‘When did you meet Rozental?' I asked.

‘A year or so ago, at the chess club in Lodz.'

‘Are you good friends?'

‘I believe so. I hope I'm good a friend to him.'

‘How well do you know him? I mean, his background, his interests?'

‘He never talks about his family. As for interests – I don't think he has any, apart from chess.'

‘Is he interested in other sports or games?'

‘Not that I know of.'

‘Theatre, music?'

Kopelzon turned down the corners of his generous mouth. ‘He's never mentioned it.'

‘Religion? Politics?'

Kopelzon gave me a look. ‘Politics? Why on earth do you ask that?'

‘I'm trying to build up a picture of my patient.'

‘I've never heard him venture anything remotely resembling a political opinion,' Kopelzon said. ‘Look, Otto, is he going to be ready to play or not?'

I hesitated, knowing how much what I was about to say would anger my friend. ‘I believe it essential for Rozental's psychological well-being,' I began slowly and carefully, ‘that he take no part in the tournament.'

Kopelzon slammed his glass to the table. His brow came down in a glower. The transformation from companion to
adversary was instant and total; Kopelzon never knew degrees. There was either calmness or rage with him, ecstasy or despondency. There were not opponents but enemies born out of blood feuds. From his friends he demanded uncritical allegiance to his person, commitment to his views and acceptance, always, that his wants came first. He took rejection of any of these things badly.

‘He will play! He must play!' he shouted.

I stared into his large brown eyes. They were not soft. He pursed his lips and looked around the restaurant. Had I not known him better, I would have thought he hated me.

‘You have to understand the importance of this, Otto,' he said, striving but not entirely succeeding in making his voice conciliatory.

I answered in the same tone. ‘I am his doctor and I must advise my patient as I see fit.'

‘You are his doctor only because I brought him to you,' he snapped, ‘and I can just as easily take him away.' He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Do you know what it would mean for a Polish Jew to win the St Petersburg tournament? Have you any idea? The Russians think us barely human, the rest of the world doesn't give a damn. We are despised, Otto, twice over – first as Poles, second as Jews. Can you imagine it? Rozental beating Russians, Americans, Germans, Cubans, Englishmen? Did you know the winner will be invited to the Peterhof for a personal interview with the tsar? A personal interview during which he will receive a title specially designed for the winner of this tournament – Grandmaster of Chess. What can they say about us then? A Polish Jew in the Peterhof, presented to the tsar and tsarina!'

‘Do you think Rozental going to the Peterhof will stop the pogroms?' I asked.

‘Of course not,' Kopelzon replied, irritated. ‘But it would be a powerful message: it would say we are human beings. It would say we are as good as anyone else.'

We said nothing for some minutes but endured a difficult silence. We had started on the
sakuska
and the waiters had filled our glasses with champagne before Kopelzon spoke again. He did so carefully and earnestly, for evidently he wanted me to understand that what he was telling me went very deep with him.

‘I've lived in St Petersburg the whole of my adult life,' he began, ‘and, if I'm truthful, my sense of Polishness, my true national and cultural identity, was in danger of being lost. Little wonder – for nearly twelve years I didn't set foot on Polish soil. It was only last year, on my way back from Paris, that I visited the city of my birth. I can hardly tell you what emotions it produced in me. To walk the streets I grew up in. To speak the language I learned as a child. To hear the voices of the women in the market and see the children coming from the
heder
. I tell you, Otto, whenever I go back I feel ashamed. Here I am, living well in the land of the people who have conquered, partitioned and oppressed my country. You know the saying the
goyim
have – “Since the partition of Poland, Europe has been in a state of mortal sin”? I feel I also have committed a sin, a terrible dereliction of duty.'

He had a mobile face, capable of expressing in quick turns excitement and mournfulness, rage and despair, devotion and disappointment. With Kopelzon, nothing was trivial, he had an opinion about everything: women, wine, houses, horses, war, chess and politics.

‘What do you conceive your duty to be?' I asked.

I heard a voice say, ‘His duty is to play like an angel so we mortals may hear the music of heaven on earth.'

It belonged to one of the young women at the adjacent table. Her face was flushed from the heartiness of her friends' company and the vodka and champagne she had consumed. She had found the courage to approach her idol. It was a frequent occurrence. I scratched my ear and played with the crumbs
on the tablecloth as she introduced herself as Kopelzon's sincerest, most dedicated admirer. Kopelzon took her hand and kissed it and the two flirted, he congratulating her for her charming conversation, she for the beauty of his playing. At last, having extracted a promise that Kopelzon would join her and her friends for a drink, she returned to her table, from where she continued to send silent, doe-eyed pleadings to her hero.

‘You take no side in these things,' Kopelzon said, taking up our conversation again. ‘That's entirely your affair. But you have to understand, Otto, that not all men are made like you.'

‘How do you think I'm made?'

‘You see things calmly, from above, with a third eye. I'm not criticising you. But what I see cuts me to the quick. I can't help it – that's how I'm made. Every time I cross the border from Germany and pass through Ciechocinek and Wloclawek and on to Warsaw, when I travel through the great plain of Poland, I am horrified by what I see. Miserable villages made of wood so weather-beaten and faded it is as grey as the half-starved people who inhabit them. Jews, Otto. Jews like us. Except here I am in St Petersburg playing my caprices and sonatas while you listen to the ravings of madmen.'

I made a face to show mild disapproval.

He smiled collusively and went on, his tone lightening. ‘Is it not right to speak of
duty
when we see these things? When we see our brothers forced to live as beasts? What should we do then? This is the question, Otto. It is the question for men like you and me, comfortable, well fed and successful. What do we do for our brothers?' He drained his champagne in a single gulp. ‘Madmen and fanatics are killing us every day,' he said, ‘murdering us.'

‘We have our own madmen and fanatics,' I said. ‘Berek Medem, for example.'

At the mention of the name, Kopelzon hunched his shoulders and looked around to see if anyone had heard.

‘Why do you say that name? Why?'

‘The name is notorious, Reuven. Everyone knows it.'

‘You know the reason they know it? Because the Russians will never let anyone forget it. What better way to tarnish us than by chanting his name, over and over and over?'

‘Lychev claims he was seen in my office building.'

‘Berek Medem?' he whispered.

‘That's what he said.'

Kopelzon considered the news for a moment, then shook his head. ‘The police are obsessed by him. They see him everywhere, or pretend to. It suits their purposes. Why do you think he keeps escaping? It's because the police want him out there setting off his bombs and throwing his acid. It suits them to have a bogeyman – that way they can slur the cause of Poland. I'm telling you, Rozental winning the tournament will do more for us than a whole army of' – he could barely bring himself to utter the name – ‘Berek Medems.'

I had upset my friend. He stewed for some moments, shaking his head and glowering around him.

Spethmann–Kopelzon
After 37 … Kh6. The black king is exposed
but does White have enough resources to win?

Eventually he said, rather sullenly, ‘Do you have a move for me?'

‘I'm not in the mood,' I said. ‘I'll let you have it tomorrow.'

‘Come on,' he said, ‘you're so confident you can beat me. Let me have your move.'

I dragged my thoughts back to the position. ‘38 Qf6 check,' I said.

He threw me a hard look. ‘Do you really think you can beat me, Otto?'

‘I'm not sure I want to, if this is how you behave when you're losing.'

He let out a small dismissive laugh. ‘To win an endgame like this requires considerable technical skill, Otto. I've seen better positions than yours ruined in an instant by a single inaccuracy: 38 … Kh7.'

Provoked, I responded quickly, ‘In that case I play 39 Kg3.'

‘39 … Kg8,' he replied at once, affecting a nonchalant air, as though nothing I could do would hurt him.

I had analysed this line at home but his bravado made me hesitate. I tried to visualise the position. Did he have something? I could not see it. Surely my plan remained viable: march my king up the board and break with e5 at the appropriate moment. The only thing I had to worry about was Kopelzon getting in behind my king and finding a perpetual check. My heart began to thump – ridiculous after what I had witnessed on the embankment only a couple of hours earlier. But chess produces extraordinary levels of anxiety, never more so than when a player is on the point of realising an advantage but knows that a single wrong move can destroy his prospects.

‘40 Kh4,' I said.

Had we been at the board moving the pieces, he would have seen my hand tremble.

‘40 … Qb6,' he said, fixing me aggressively with his dark eyes, telling me again,
You think you have me, but you don't
.