Tatiana

20

“Whose place is this?” Lotte asked.

“A guy I know.” Zhenya looked into the refrigerator, where a husk of cheese kept a lonely vigil.

“He lets you have a key? He must be a good friend.”

“Sort of. He’s an investigator.”

“Really.” Arkady had allowed Anya to hang photographs of convicts and their tattoos, with an accent on dragons, Madonnas and spiderwebs, and they caught the girl’s eye. “I saw these in a magazine.”

“Would you like a beer?” Zhenya popped two bottles.

“Is your friend a little strange?”

“Arkady? They don’t come more ordinary.”

Lotte walked along the bookcases. “He really likes to read.”

“Your beer. I’m afraid it’s warm.”

Offhand she said, “It’s British. Warm beer is British, cold is American.”

“Okay, here’s your British beer.” He was feeling socially inept. He knew it was a mistake to bring her to Arkady’s apartment. It was all too rushed, but he had no other place to take her. He had expected her to beg off with some excuse about a lecture or a previous engagement. In the official chess world he was a bottom-feeder. Fortunately, he did know how to move the pieces. Chess was alive with traps, gambits, the shepherding of a passed pawn or the menace of rooks aligned like cannon. It was drama. The Sicilian Defense smacked of black deeds in back alleys. Each notation read like a story. No matter how lowly, every player brushed shoulders with the game’s immortals. Morphy and his shoe fetish. Fischer the genius and Fischer the crank. The serene Capablanca and Alekhine, a glutton who ate with his fingers and choked to death on beefsteak.

Besides chess, they had zero in common, Zhenya thought. A little adventure with a hustler was how she’d remember the day. He figured she was probably nineteen, which made her more than a year older, and most likely had her life mapped out: a year of rebellion, followed by a few minor chess trophies, marriage to a millionaire, children, a series of affairs with oligarchs, finally tossed overboard in Monte Carlo.

“What are your plans?” she asked.

“Plans? Join the army and have my brains kicked in.”

“Seriously, what do you want?”

“To be rich, I guess. Have a nice car.”

“What about a home?”

“I suppose,” Zhenya said, although he couldn’t picture what a home would look like.

“You’re so evasive.”

So she said, but he knew if he told her the truth, she would bolt.

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s simple. I heard you shot somebody.”

“Who says that?”

“Everybody. That’s why they’re afraid to play chess with you.”

“You’re not afraid.”

“Because I’m a redhead. Everyone knows that redheads are crazy.” In a sterner voice, she added, “Don’t become my grandfather. Don’t be a coward.”

“What should I become?”

“Somebody.”

“I get by.”

“Is that so?”

“I live freely, on my own.”

“Except when you’re in the cold.”

“Everyone should have to live out of a backpack. They’d find out what’s essential.”

“Like an outlaw? What are your essentials? Show me.”

He was backed into a corner and it dawned on Zhenya that arguing with Lotte was like chess, and, once again, he was losing.

“Okay.” He dug into his backpack and, one by one, placed on the table a folded chessboard, a velvet pouch of chess pieces, a chess clock, a notebook and pencil, a paperback of Beyond Bobby Fischer and plastic bags containing a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and soap.

“How many games of chess have you won? More than a thousand. And this is all you have to show for it? Some outlaw.”

“I can beat you.”

“But you didn’t.” She picked up the notebook and opened it to savor her victory a second time. “ ‘Bd5 to b3, Qe2 to d1.’ That was your blunder.”

He followed her around the table. “I’ll play you again, right now.”

“The match is over.”

“Then if I’m such a waste of time, why are you still here?”

“I never said you were a waste of time.” She turned and gave him a kiss full on the lips. “I never said that.”

• • •

Maxim’s apartment was essentially a tunnel bored through pizza crusts, half-empty bottles of beer, totally empty bottles of vodka, and books, newspapers and poetry reviews everywhere, spilling off shelves, stacked on the floor, sliding underfoot. A fine volcanic ash of cigarettes hung in the air.

“It’s more comfortable than it looks.” Maxim swept a pizza box and manuscripts off the couch. “What made you decide to stay in Kaliningrad?”

“Its charm. Maybe I should just go to a hotel,” Arkady said.

“And pay their prices? Nonsense.” Maxim batted cushions. “I know there’s a bottle here somewhere.”

They danced around each other to get from one side of the room to the other.

Arkady said, “I can’t help but feel I’m in the way.”

“Not a bit. Of course if I’d known I was going to have a guest, I would have. .”

Ordered up an earthmover, Arkady thought. “The life of a poet,” he said. “Where would you like me to hang my coat?”

“Anywhere will do. There’s only one rule.”

“Yes?” Arkady was eager to hear it.

“Don’t light a cigarette until you have located an ashtray.”

“Very wise.”

“We’ve had some trouble in the past.”

“With other poets, no doubt.”

“Now that you mention it. Sit, please.”

Arkady picked a sheaf of papers off the floor. “For Review Only” was written on the front page.

“The author is a talentless hack consigned to well-deserved obscurity,” Maxim said, and added an aside: “He’s after the same fellowship in the States that I’m after.”

“You know he just died.”

“He did? In that case, Russia has lost a singular voice. . struck down too early. . leaves a void. I mean, why not be generous?”

“You never told me.”

“Never told you what?”

“The name of the fellowship.”

“Didn’t I? I don’t think they have a name yet. They’re just starting. Hush-hush until they make their choice.”

“Amazing. You really would do anything to get out of Kaliningrad?”

“There is no Kaliningrad.” Starting at the front door, Maxim pantomimed a man entering the apartment, maneuvering to a coffee table, visiting the bedroom and returning with a pillow, from which he pulled a bottle of vodka as shiny as chrome. “It’s only a matter of reenacting what you last did.”

“Why the pillow?”

“That I don’t remember. Are you hungry?” In a cabinet Maxim scouted out glasses, blood sausage and a baguette as stiff as a cane. He had to shout over his sawing. “I’m not a Slav. No offense intended, but a Slav drinks to get drunk.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Whereas a civilized person in a normal country drinks with cordial company, hearty food and a decent interval between toasts.”

Which compared nicely with Victor’s weakness for eau de cologne, Arkady had to admit.

They started solemnly.

“To Tatiana.”

“To Tatiana.”

Followed by the first beads of sweat across the forehead.

Arkady asked, “What do you mean, there’s no Kaliningrad?”

“Just what I said. No past, no people, no name.”

Maxim explained that Kaliningrad had been Koenigsberg, the seat of German kings. But the British bombed it flat during the war, and after the war, Joseph Stalin forced the entire German population to leave. All the people, their homes and memories, were erased. In their place, Stalin trucked in a new population of Russians and gave it a new name, Kaliningrad, after his lickspittle president, Kalinin.

“Kalinin was a little shit, you know. There he was, the head of state, and Stalin sent his wife to a prison camp. Stalin had her brought from her cell to dance on the table. I suppose when you’ve broken a man that way, you’ve broken him for good. My God, my mouth is dry.” Maxim refilled the vodka. “And here’s the joke. No one admits to being a Kaliningrader. They call themselves Koenigs. But it has the worst crime rate in Europe. So you know it’s Russian.”

• • •

The visitor had a bruise under his eye the size of a fist. Otherwise, he looked to Zhenya like the sort of overdressed and overconfident New Russian who had already scored his first million dollars. Before Zhenya could steer him out the door, the man was into the apartment.

“Excuse me, my name is Alexi. I thought this was the home of Investigator Renko.”

“It is. I live here too,” Zhenya said.

“And. .” Alexi turned to Lotte, who sat at the chessboard and returned his stare.

“A friend,” Zhenya said.

“Is anyone else here?”

“No.”

“You’re having a private party.”

“We were in the middle of a game.”

“Look at this place. It’s like a museum.” Alexi took in the heavy Soviet drapes, parquet floor, mahogany table and wardrobe big enough to go to sea on. He fixed on Lotte.

“When the cat’s away the mice will play. Is that what you are? Two little mousies? I don’t mean to spoil the fun, only to pick up a notebook like this. In fact, a notebook just like this.” He tapped the notebook that lay open by the board. “What are you writing?”

Zhenya said, “When you play chess, you write down the moves to study later.”

“Sounds exciting.” Alexi dropped down on the couch next to Lotte. When she moved to get up he clamped his hand around her arm. “I’ll wait for Renko.”

“Arkady is in Kaliningrad,” Zhenya said.

“Kaliningrad? Isn’t that ironic? In that case, we’ll have to start without him.” He let go of Lotte and placed a gun in the middle of the chessboard, toppling pieces black and white. “New game.”

The bruise on his face was raw. Zhenya wanted to believe that Arkady had administered the punch but couldn’t picture it.

“How can I help you?” Zhenya said.

“That’s more like it. I’m looking for an ordinary spiral notebook of no value and no use to anyone. Like this one, only the language is a little different. I’m pretty sure it’s of a meeting. When you see it, you’ll know. I’ll give you fifty dollars for its return.”

“No.”

“One hundred dollars. You look like you could use the money.”

“No, thanks.”

“A thousand dollars.”

“No.”

Alexi asked Lotte, “Is your boyfriend serious?”

“Totally.”

She was fearless, Zhenya thought.

“He’s turning down a thousand dollars for a notebook he claims to know nothing about? I’m sorry, I just don’t believe him.” He picked up his gun. “This is my X-ray machine. It can tell if someone is lying or not. What kind of gun is it?” he asked Zhenya.

“I think it’s a Makarov.”

“A what Makarov?”

“A 9mm Makarov.”

Alexi ran his fingers lightly over the crosshatching of the grip. “That’s right. And if you put a gun like this in front of most people, they act as if you put a snake on their lap. How many can stay cool? I hear rumors.” Alexi turned to Lotte. “Honestly, did you think he was some ordinary boy? He’s like Renko, a time bomb.”

“What do you want?” Zhenya said.

“I want the notebook. Find the notebook.”

“I don’t know what it looks like.”

“You’ll know.”

“Look for yourself.” Zhenya moved to the wardrobe and opened it up. Shoe boxes poured out, and from every box notebooks spilled onto the floor. “I have hundreds and hundreds of chess games, openings, situations. What do you like? Ruy Lopez, Sicilian, Queen’s Gambit Accepted, Queen’s Gambit Declined? I like the Sicilian, myself.”

“What are you talking about?” Alexi said.

“We don’t have your fucking notebook.” Zhenya reached into the wardrobe and threw more boxes onto the floor. He knew he should have been intimidated. But for the moment, he was brave and saw the world through Lotte’s green eyes.

• • •

The power had gone out in Maxim’s building and he recited by candlelight.

Horses are aristocrats.

Heads high and dressed in silk,

Kicked, whipped, ears pricked

For fear of leopards

While their true enemies at the Ministry of Light Industry call out, “More glue!”

“Lovely,” Arkady said.

“Thank you,” Maxim said. “I used to do an animal for each letter of the alphabet. Remember? I need a fresh wind.”

Arkady opened a window. “You need a fresh liver.”

He helped Maxim off the floor and steered him toward the bedroom. Although the vodka bottle was half-full, Arkady declared it the winner and kicked it under the sofa.

“How did you like the blood sausage?” Maxim asked.

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“How are we doing?” Maxim groped his way toward the dark hallway.

“Making progress.”

“Missed your plane. Sorry about that.”

“That’s all right. This way you can keep an eye on me. That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

If Maxim’s living room was a tunnel, his bedroom was a pit of male funk, a heady blend of drawn shades, sour beer and aftershave. He was a big man and doubled in weight as he passed out. Arkady searched the blackness for someplace to deposit him, finally tipping him onto the outline of a bed.

Arkady dug a hole for himself on the couch, getting comfortable after he swept aside books, loose change and dog biscuits.

• • •

Zhenya gathered notebooks and Lotte sorted. An hour after Alexi had left the apartment their hands still shook. There was more to cleaning up than merely stuffing notebooks into the proper box, but the task was in itself a healing process. The chess pieces seemed comforted to return to their velvet sack.

The one notebook untouched was the one on the chessboard, where it had lain open all evening. When Lotte closed the notebook she found herself looking at the back cover and it took her a moment to understand that the notebook had been flipped and reversed. Front was back, up was down and, read in the right direction, the pages were full of circles, arrows, stick figures with elements of hieroglyphics, maps and traffic signs in an apparently meaningless jumble of shorthand and code.