Zugzwang (27 page)

Spethmann–Kopelzon
After 46 … Qc7. Can Spethmann win the all-important f-pawn?

I had to be utterly precise and utterly ruthless. Everything depended on the f-pawn. If I could win the f-pawn I would win the game. But how to do it? I had king and queen to attack it, he had king and queen to defend it. If I played 47 Qg7 Kopelzon would reply 47 … Qe7, and the f-pawn was still defended. As long as he kept his queen on the seventh rank he could defend against all my threats. If I then played 48 d4, he would play 48 … Qxe4 49 Qxf7 + Kd8 50 Qxa7 Qxd5+ 51 Kf8 Qe6 – and it would be a draw. I had never been in such a good position against Kopelzon and I so wanted to beat him, for many reasons.

It all hinged on the f-pawn.

And then suddenly I saw it. I had my answer.

* * *

I opened my eyes. Gregory Petrov was standing by the bed. With him was Lychev.

‘So, you've decided to rejoin us,' Petrov said. There were crumbs on his moustache.

‘Catherine?' My voice was hoarse. Lychev gave me water to sip.

‘Safe,' he said. ‘She's been here several times to see you.'

‘And Anna?'

‘Don't worry,' Lychev said. ‘She's also safe.'

‘What happened? Where is she?'

‘Zinnurov sent two men to the apartment to kidnap her. They thought she'd go meekly but she didn't. She managed to escape and eventually made her way to your house. She was in a terrible state. She told Catherine everything. It was late. You were at the hotel at the time.'

‘The hotel?'

‘The Astoria. Do you remember?'

‘There was a rose petal on my shoe,' I said. Lychev and Petrov exchanged a look.

‘Anna was desperate to find you and warn you not to go to the apartment,' Lychev went on. ‘Catherine went to Saburov's to look for you but you'd already gone and no one knew where.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘In a safe house not far from here,' Lychev said.

‘Where is here?' From what I could see of the room it was bare and none too clean.

‘We're in the Vyborg,' Petrov said with a grin. ‘You're back where you started, with the workers.' He helped me sit up. ‘You and Anna are going to Paris.'

‘What are you talking about?'

Petrov laughed and turned to Lychev. ‘He doesn't seem very grateful, does he, after all our hard work?' Turning back to me, he said, ‘We've arranged everything – the tickets, the
false papers.' He produced a small packet. ‘They're in the name of Mr and Mrs Spirodovich,' he said, placing them by the bed.

‘What is this about Paris? I'm not going to Paris. I'm not going anywhere.'

‘I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Spethmann,' Petrov said, obviously enjoying himself, ‘but until four days ago, in spite of a little trouble with an over-zealous policeman' – he turned to grin at Lychev – ‘you were a respected psychoanalyst and upstanding member of the St Petersburg bourgeoisie. Sadly, since the explosion at the Bolshoy apartment, you are now a wanted murderer. Your picture is all over the newspapers.'

Even when he put a copy of
The Orator
in my hands and I saw my own face staring back at me I could not believe it. The story was not long – three or four paragraphs only – but I experienced the same difficulty I had with Zinnurov's note: the words were clear enough but meaning and consequence were too tortuous to take in.

‘You're in this too,' I said, looking up at Lychev.

‘Lychev has also gone from hero of the St Petersburg bureau of detectives to wanted fugitive,' Petrov said. ‘It's an unhappy blow for the Party, but we'll get over it.'

‘I always knew the day would come,' Lychev said evenly. ‘In many ways it's a relief.'

Petrov's tone became suddenly sombre. ‘If Gan catches you, he will show you no mercy.'

‘I am aware of that.'

My eyes were very tired, my head heavy.

‘He's fallen asleep,' I heard Lychev say.

‘Let him rest,' Petrov said. ‘He's got a long journey tomorrow.'

‘Any news of Berek Medem?' Petrov asked.

‘Nothing,' Lychev replied. ‘After the Astoria, he disappeared.'

‘He'll still be in St Petersburg. What about the fiddle player?'

‘Kopelzon? He's back at his apartment,' Lychev said. ‘I suppose he has nothing to worry about.'

‘Nothing,' Petrov said. ‘Gan won't allow anything to happen to him. At least not until they have carried out the assassination. After that, Gan will throw him to the wolves.'

‘Do you think Kopelzon knows?'

‘Of course not. He's so egotistical he probably thinks the new regime will make him a duke or a prince.'

There was a brief pause. I heard Lychev say, ‘May I speak frankly?'

‘Go on,' Petrov answered with a hint of suspicion.

‘Once they kill the tsar Gan will use the public hysteria to attack us. I am not convinced we will survive.'

‘I think you underestimate the organisation's resilience,' Petrov said curtly.

‘We can stop them if we want,' Lychev went on. ‘They still need Rozental's double and we know where he is.'

‘Where?'

‘At the house on Kirochny Street – Kavi's watching it now. Eliminate the double and the plot falls apart.'

Petrov's voice was stern. ‘The Central Committee has made its decision. We are to do nothing to hinder the assassination.'

There was a silence.

‘Have I made myself clear?' Petrov repeated.

I heard them argue. I heard Lychev's voice rise insistently. Petrov was shouting. At least the bed was not tipping up.

If you are knocked down in the street, my father used to say, check your wallet and your balls. I didn't care about my wallet. My head ached and there was a low humming in my ears. But I could see. I could feel my toes. I could wiggle my fingers. No broken limbs. I brought my hand up to my face. I needed to shave. I touched the hair on my head. It was brittle, not uniformly but in patches; I could crush individual strands and rub them between my fingers until they crumbled to dust. My hair had been scorched.

I was lying in a bed that was not mine, in a room I did not know. Smoke from the coal fire combined with the paraffin lamps and the building's general dampness produced a sharp odour that stung my nostrils. I had a hacking cough. Wherever I was, it was a poorer quarter – back where I started, where my father the baker started.

I decided to get up and immediately fell asleep again.

A cool hand was stroking my brow. I opened my eyes. Catherine. Her huge blue eyes were troubled and concerned. I had forgotten how long her eyelashes were.

‘Your mother always envied you your eyelashes,' I said. She smiled and kissed me.

‘How do you feel today?'

‘My head hurts,' I said.

‘You said that yesterday.'

‘Were you here yesterday?'

‘I've been here every day. They couldn't risk taking you to a hospital so they arranged for your friend Dr Sokolov to treat you. Your injuries were superficial, some minor burns and cuts and bruises, but you suffered a concussion.'

‘What day is it?'

‘It's the 26th – Thursday. Mintimer brought you here after the explosion five days ago. You're looking a lot better than you did then,' she said, narrowing her eyes to scrutinise me. She helped me sit up and started to re-arrange the pillows.

‘The police are looking for me,' I said.

She took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I know. Because of the murder in the apartment.'

‘That wasn't me,' I protested, my voice catching on the acrid air.

‘I know – Mintimer told me everything. The police are looking for him as well. They know he's a Bolshevik. Don't worry, as long as we get you on the train, you'll be safe.'

‘I'm not going, Catherine. I'm not leaving you.'

‘You have to,' she said matter-of-factly.

‘Then you must come too,' I said.

‘No, I'm staying,' she said with equal bluntness.

‘Why?' I protested.

‘I've joined the Party,' she said.

I filled up with fear and rage and outrage. I swung my feet to the floor. ‘I will kill Petrov!' I said. ‘I will kill him!'

‘I haven't joined because of Petrov.'

‘Who then? Who persuaded you? Was it Lychev?'

She laughed at my anger. ‘You're behaving like a bourgeois paterfamilias.'

‘I am a bourgeois paterfamilias. I am your father and you are my daughter. You are not even nineteen years old. You are still at university. What about your studies?'

‘They had nothing more to teach me,' she said.

‘I will not allow you to throw your life away like this.'

‘Papa, I don't think you understand. My old life is over. After what happened at the Astoria and the Bolshoy apartment, Colonel Gan raided our house. I'm in hiding now, the same as you.'

‘Then you have to come with me. I will tell Petrov and he will make you come.'

I saw the familiar look of determination and will come into her eyes. It cost her a great deal, it went against her fierce spirit and all her instincts, but she fought down the temptation to fly into a rage with me.

‘If you want,' she began in an ominous tone, ‘I will give you my reasons for joining. I will spell them out, one by one, starting with the condition of the people who live in these streets –'

‘There is nothing you can tell me about these streets. I was born here, don't forget!'

‘Peter Zinnurov was born the son of a peasant. He may remember something of that life but even if he does it makes no difference. He doesn't experience it any more than you experience life in the Vyborg.'

‘I don't want to have this conversation,' I said.

‘Fine,' she said. ‘I'm not interested in it either.'

Her mind was made up. It was another battle I would not win.

‘I think,' I said after a time, ‘I would be less hurt by what you're doing if you would only show some sadness at the fact we are parting.'

‘I am sad,' she said.

‘You don't seem it.'

‘Children can never look as sad as their parents want.'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘The children of other parents seem to manage.'

‘Then they're pretending,' she said. ‘Would you like me to pretend for you? Would that make you feel better?'

‘Yes,' I said.

She laughed and put her hand in mine. ‘I don't believe you. You have always looked for the truth. Your work is all about the truth, isn't it?'

Catherine had always been a realist. Even as a child she understood that some decisions, however painful, were inevitable and there was no use in crying; her mother – and I, to some extent – preferred to make and see some sign of distress or sadness before the acceptance.

She said, making her voice softer now, ‘The life we knew is over, it's past. All we can do is start again, a new life – a better one. I will start here.'

‘Then I will too.'

She said, ‘You want to make what you had before, and you can't do that in St Petersburg.' She smiled. ‘Don't look so worried.'

‘I am worried.'

‘There's no need. I'm not alone any more. I'm part of something now, an organism in which each protects the other and together we are strong.'

‘You should really talk to Petrov about the reality of this precious organism before you start rhapsodising to me,' I said sharply. ‘The organism he described to me is full of jealousy, bitterness and betrayal.'

She smiled tolerantly. We looked at each other. I felt low and empty but it was Catherine who, to my surprise, started to cry. I held her head to my chest and kissed the top of it and stroked her fine, white-blonde hair. She gave herself fully to my embrace, for once, sinking into me as her mother used to do. I whispered her name over and over. This was what I wanted. If not sadness, then at least authentic feeling. Eventually, I released her.

‘Are you hungry?'

I said I was. She left the room. A few minutes later she returned with tea and bread and cabbage soup.

‘What time is it?' I asked.

‘It's just gone midday. Here, eat,' she said, raising a spoon to my lips. ‘You've got a long journey ahead of you. The train leaves from the Finland Station at ten o'clock tonight. Anna will be on it.'

‘Are you angry?' I said. ‘I promised you I wouldn't see her.'

She pushed the spoon around in the bowl and without looking at me said, ‘I made you promise you wouldn't – there's a difference.'

Coming from Catherine, this was a fulsome apology for past errors.

‘What do you think of her?' I asked lightly. ‘Do you like her?'

She threw me a sharp look. I should not have pushed my luck. Her mouth started to form the word ‘No', but then she forced a smile to her lips, trying to make it as sincere as possible. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘I do, and she loves you very much.'

Most of us take for granted that people lie to spare another's feelings. I never had, not with Catherine.

We were interrupted by the sound of raised voices next door.

‘Petrov's here,' she said. ‘He wants to say goodbye to you. I'll leave you to get dressed.' She indicated under the bed. ‘Lidiya packed a bag with your clothes and some books and things. I'll be outside.'

‘Catherine,' I called to her as she went to the door. ‘How is Rozental doing? In the tournament?'

‘He's second from bottom,' she replied. ‘All the chess people say he has no chance of winning now.'

So it had all been for nothing. Gan's plot to manipulate the most wanted terrorist in Russia into doing his bidding and killing the tsar had stumbled on the one element he could not
control yet should have had every right to expect to calculate accurately. He bought Kopelzon and fooled Berek Medem, but he could not orchestrate the outcome of a series of games whose very logic should have made them the most predictable element in the whole complex. Gan had overlooked the human factor. He had overlooked Rozental. His plot had claimed the lives of Gulko and the unfortunate Leon Pikser. It had claimed the lives of Tolya and Medem's two companions in the corridor of the fourth floor of the Astoria. And of how many others? All for nothing. The plot had collapsed of its own accord.