The Luzhin Defense (25 page)

A bit swarthier, which brought out the whites of his eyes, as smartly dressed as ever, wearing an overcoat with a black fur collar and a large, white silk scarf, Valentinov strode toward Luzhin with an enchanting smile, illuminating Luzhin with this searchlight, and in the light that played on Luzhin he saw Luzhin’s pale, fat face and blinking eyelids, and at the next instant this pale face lost all expression and the hand that Valentinov pressed in both of his was completely limp. “My dear boy,” said radiant Valentinov, “I’m happy to see you. They told me you were in bed, ill, dear boy. But that was some kind of slipup …” and in stressing the “pup” Valentinov pursed his wet, red lips and tenderly narrowed his eyes. “However, we’ll postpone the compliments till later,” he said, interrupting himself, and put on his bowler with a thump. “Let’s go. It’s a matter of exceptional importance and delay would be … fatal,” he concluded, throwing open the door of the car; after which he put his arm around Luzhin’s back and seemed to lift him from the ground and carry him off and plant him
down, falling down next to him onto the low, soft seat. On the jump seat facing them a sharp-nosed yellow-faced little man sat sideways, with his overcoat collar turned up. As soon as Valentinov had settled and crossed his legs, he resumed his conversation with this little man, a conversation that had been interrupted at a comma and now gathered speed in time with the accelerating automobile. Caustically and exhaustively he continued to bawl him out, paying no attention to Luzhin, who was sitting like a statue that had been carefully leaned against something. He had completely frozen up and heard remote, muffled Valentinov’s rumbling as if through a heavy curtain. For the fellow with the sharp nose it was not a rumbling, but a torrent of extremely biting and insulting words; force, however, was on Valentinov’s side and the one being insulted merely sighed, and looked miserable, and picked at a grease spot on his skimpy black overcoat; and now and then, at some especially trenchant word, he would raise his eyebrows and look at Valentinov, but the latter’s flashing gaze was too much for him and he immediately shut his eyes tight and gently shook his head. The bawling out continued to the very end of the journey and when Valentinov softly nudged Luzhin out of the car and got out himself slamming the door behind him, the crushed little man continued to sit inside and the automobile immediately carried him on, and although there was lots of room now he remained dejectedly hunched up on the little jump seat. Luzhin meanwhile fixed his motionless and expressionless gaze on an eggshell-white plaque with a black inscription, V
ERITAS
, but Valentinov immediately swept him farther and lowered him into an armchair of the club
variety that was even more tenacious and quaggy than the car seat. At this moment someone called Valentinov in an agitated voice, and after pushing an open box of cigars into Luzhin’s limited field of vision he excused himself and disappeared. His voice remained vibrating in the room and for Luzhin, who was slowly emerging from his stupefaction, it gradually and surreptitiously began to be transformed into a bewitching image. To the sound of this voice, to the music of the chessboard’s evil lure, Luzhin recalled, with the exquisite, moist melancholy peculiar to recollections of love, a thousand games that he had played in the past. He did not know which of them to choose so as to drink, sobbing, his fill of it: everything enticed and caressed his fancy, and he flew from one game to another, instantly running over this or that heart-rending combination. There were combinations, pure and harmonious, where thought ascended marble stairs to victory; there were tender stirrings in one corner of the board, and a passionate explosion, and the fanfare of the Queen going to its sacrificial doom.… Everything was wonderful, all the shades of love, all the convolutions and mysterious paths it had chosen. And this love was fatal.

The key was found. The aim of the attack was plain. By an implacable repetition of moves it was leading once more to that same passion which would destroy the dream of life. Devastation, horror, madness.

“Ah, don’t!” said Luzhin loudly and tried to get up. But he was weak and stout, and the clinging armchair would not release him. And, anyway, what could he attempt now? His defense had proved erroneous. This error had been foreseen by his opponent, and the implacable move, prepared
long ago, had now been made. Luzhin groaned and cleared his throat, looking about him distractedly. In front of him was a round table bearing albums, magazines, separate sheets of paper, and photographs of frightened women and ferociously squinting men. And on one there was a white-faced man with lifeless features and big American glasses, hanging by his hands from the ledge of a skyscraper—just about to fall off into the abyss. And again came the sound of that unbearably familiar voice: in order to lose no time, Valentinov had begun talking to Luzhin while still on the other side of the door, and when the door opened he continued the sentence he had begun: “…  shoot a new film. I wrote the script. Imagine, dear boy, a young girl, beautiful and passionate, in the compartment of an express train. At one of the stations a young man gets in. From a good family. Night descends on the train. She falls asleep and in her sleep spreads her limbs. A glorious young creature. The young man—you know the type, bursting with sap but absolutely chaste—begins literally to lose his head. In a kind of trance he hurls himself upon her.” (And Valentinov, jumping up, pretended to be breathing heavily and hurling himself.) “He feels her perfume, her lace underwear, her glorious young body … She wakes up, throws him off, calls out” (Valentinov pressed his fist to his mouth and protruded his eyes), “the conductor and some passengers run in. He is tried, he is condemned to penal servitude. His aged mother comes to the young girl to beg her to save her son. The drama of the girl. The point is that from the very first moment—there, in the express—she has fallen in love with him, is seething with passion, and he, because of her—you see, that’s where the conflict is—because
of her he is being condemned to hard labor.” Valentinov took a deep breath and continued more calmly: “Then comes his escape. His adventures. He changes his name and becomes a famous chess player, and it’s precisely here, my dear boy, that I need your assistance. I have had a brilliant idea. I want to film a kind of real tournament, where real chess players would play with my hero. Turati has already agreed, so has Moser. Now we need Grandmaster Luzhin.…”

“I presume,” continued Valentinov after a slight pause, during which he looked at Luzhin’s completely impassive face, “I presume that he will agree. He is greatly indebted to me. He will receive a certain sum for his brief appearance. He will recall at the same time that when his father left him to the mercy of fate, I was generous in shelling out. I thought then that it didn’t matter—that we were friends and would settle later. I continue to think so.”

At this moment the door opened with a rush and a coatless, curly-haired gentleman shouted in German, with an anxious plea in his voice: “Oh, please, Dr. Valentinov, just one minute!” “Excuse me, dear boy,” said Valentinov and went to the door, but before reaching it he turned sharply around, rummaged in his billfold and threw a slip of paper on the table before Luzhin. “Recently composed it,” he said. “You can solve it while you are waiting. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He disappeared. Luzhin cautiously raised his eyelids. Mechanically he took the slip. A cutting from a chess magazine, the diagram of a problem. Mate in three moves. Composed by Dr. Valentinov. The problem was cold and cunning, and knowing Valentinov, Luzhin instantly found the
key. In this subtle problem he saw clearly all the perfidy of its author. From the dark words just spoken by Valentinov in such abundance, he understood one thing: there was no movie, the movie was just a pretext … a trap, a trap … he would be inveigled into playing chess and then the next move was clear. But this move would not be made.

Luzhin made an abrupt effort and baring his teeth painfully, got out of the armchair. He was overwhelmed by an urge to move. Playing with his cane and snapping the fingers of his free hand, he went out into the corridor and began to walk at random, ending up in a courtyard and thence making his way to the street. A streetcar with a familiar number stopped in front of him. He boarded it and sat down, but immediately got up again, and moving his shoulders exaggeratedly, clutching at the leather straps, moved to another window seat. The car was empty. He gave the conductor a mark and vigorously shook his head, refusing the change. It was impossible to sit still. He jumped up again, almost falling as the streetcar swerved, and sat closer to the door. But here too he could not keep his seat—and when suddenly the car filled up with a horde of schoolboys, a dozen old ladies and fifty fat men, Luzhin continued to move about, treading on people’s feet, and finally pushing his way onto the platform. Catching sight of his house, he left the car on the move; the asphalt swept by beneath his left heel, then turned and struck him in the back, and his cane, after getting tangled in his legs, suddenly leapt out like a released spring, flew through the air and landed beside him. Two women came running toward him and helped him to rise. He began to knock the dust from his coat with his palm, donned his hat, and without looking
back walked toward the house. The elevator proved to be out of order but Luzhin made no complaint. His thirst for movement was not yet slaked. He began to climb the stairs, and since he lived a very long way up his ascent continued for some time; he seemed to be climbing a skyscraper. Finally he reached the last landing, took a deep breath, crunched the key in the lock and stepped into the entrance hall. His wife came from the study to meet him. She was very red and her eyes glistened. “Luzhin,” she said, “where have you been?” He took off his overcoat, hung it up, transferred it to another hook, and wanted to fiddle about some more; but his wife came up close to him, and moving in an arc around her he went into the study, she following. “I want you to tell me where you’ve been. Why are your hands in such a state? Luzhin!” He strode around the study, cleared his throat, and walked through the entrance hall into the bedroom, where he commenced to wash his hands carefully in a large green and white bowl entwined with porcelain ivy. “Luzhin,” cried his wife distractedly, “I know you weren’t at the dentist’s. I just called him. Well, say something.” Wiping his hands on a towel he walked around the bedroom, looking woodenly in front of him just as before, and returned to the study. She grasped him by the shoulder but instead of stopping, he went up to the window, drew the curtain aside, saw the many lights gliding by in the blue abyss of the evening, made a munching motion with his lips, and moved off again. And now began a strange promenade—Luzhin walking back and forth through the three adjoining rooms, as if with a definite objective, and his wife now walking beside him, now sitting down somewhere and looking at him distractedly, and
occasionally Luzhin would go into the corridor, look into the rooms whose windows faced onto the yard, and again reappear in the study. For whole minutes it seemed to her that perhaps this was one of Luzhin’s ponderous little jokes, but his face bore an expression she had never seen before, an expression … solemn, perhaps? … it was difficult to define in words, but as she gazed at his face she felt a rush of inexplicable terror. And clearing his throat, and catching his breath with difficulty, he still continued to walk about the rooms with his even gait. “For God’s sake sit down, Luzhin,” she said softly, not taking her eyes off him. “Come, let’s talk about something. Luzhin! I bought you a toilet case. Oh, sit down, please! You’ll die if you walk so much! Tomorrow we’ll go to the cemetery. We still have a lot to do tomorrow. A toilet case made of crocodile leather. Luzhin, please!”

But he did not halt and only slowed his step from time to time by the windows, raising his hand, thinking a moment and then going on. The table in the dining room was laid for eight people. She remembered that it was just time for the guests to arrive—it was too late to call them off—and here … this horror. “Luzhin,” she cried, “people will be here any minute. I don’t know what to do.… Say something to me. Perhaps you’ve had an accident, perhaps you met an unpleasant acquaintance? Tell me. I beg you, I can’t beg any more.…”

And suddenly Luzhin stopped. It was as if the whole world had stopped. It happened in the drawing room, by the phonograph.

“Full stop,” she said softly and burst into tears. Luzhin began to take things out of his pockets—first a fountain pen,
then a crumpled handkerchief, then another handkerchief, neatly folded, which she had given him that morning; after this he took out a cigarette case with a troika on the lid (a present from his mother-in-law), then an empty, red cigarette pack and two separate cigarettes, slightly damaged; his wallet and a gold watch (a present from his father-in-law) were removed with particular care. Besides all this there turned up a large peach stone. All these objects were placed on the phonograph cabinet and he checked if there were anything he had forgotten.

“That’s all, I think,” he said, and buttoned his jacket over his stomach. His wife lifted her tearstained face and stared in amazement at the little collection of things laid out by Luzhin.

He went up to his wife and made a slight bow.

She transferred her gaze to his face, vaguely hoping she would see that familiar, crooked half-smile—and so she did: Luzhin was smiling.

“The only way out,” he said. “I have to drop out of the game.”

“Game? Are we going to play?” she asked tenderly, and thought simultaneously that she had to powder her face, the guests would be here any minute.

Luzhin held out his hand. She dropped her handkerchief into her lap and hastily gave him her fingers.

“It was nice,” said Luzhin and kissed one hand and then the other, the way she had taught him.

“What is it, Luzhin? You seem to be saying goodbye.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, feigning absentmindedness. Then he turned and went into the corridor. At that moment a bell sounded in the entrance hall—the ingenuous ring of a
punctual guest. She caught her husband in the corridor and grasped his sleeve. Luzhin turned and not knowing what to say, looked at her legs. The maid ran out from the far end and since the corridor was fairly narrow, a minor, hasty collision took place: Luzhin stepped back slightly and then stepped forward, his wife also moved back and forth, unconsciously smoothing her hair, and the maid, muttering something and bending her head, tried to find a loophole where she could slip through. When she had managed it and vanished behind the portiere that divided the corridor from the entrance hall, Luzhin bowed as before and quickly opened the door by which he was standing. His wife seized the handle of the door, which he was already shutting behind him; Luzhin pushed and she grasped it tighter, laughing convulsively and endeavoring to thrust her knee into the still fairly wide opening—but at this point Luzhin leaned with all his weight and the door closed; the bolt clicked and the key was turned twice in the lock. Meanwhile there were voices in the entrance hall, someone was puffing and someone was greeting someone else.