Equilibrium had been restored on the board again, and this equilibrium ought to last for quite a long time, because Andrei knew that his partner was a genius of caution, who always considered men to be the most valuable thing of all, which meant that for the immediate future nothing could threaten Wang, and Andrei sought out Wang in the ranks along the walls and smiled ever so slightly at him, but immediately turned his eyes away, because they had caught Donald’s intent, sad gaze.
His partner thought, slowly and deliberately tapping the cardboard tube of his long papirosa on the mother-of-pearl-encrusted surface of the small table, and Andrei squinted once again at the frozen ranks, but this time he was looking not at his own men but at the men whom his adversary had at his disposal. There were almost no faces that he knew: some surprisingly cultured-looking men in civilian clothes, with beards and pince-nez, wearing old-fashioned neckties and vests; some military men in unfamiliar uniforms, with numerous diamonds on their collar tabs, with medals bolted onto mounts covered with shot-silk ribbons… Where did he get men like that from? thought Andrei, feeling rather surprised, and looked again at the white pawn that had been moved out. This pawn, at least, was very familiar to him—a man of once-legendary fame who, so the adults whispered, had failed to justify the hopes placed in him and had now, so to speak, left the stage. The man clearly knew that himself but was not particularly mournful—he stood there with his crooked legs firmly planted on the parquet floor, twirling the wings of his gigantic mustache, peering around under his brows, and giving off an acrid smell of vodka and horse sweat.
Andrei’s partner raised his hand above the board and moved a second pawn. Andrei closed his eyes. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. How could it be—immediately, like this? Who was it? A handsome, pale face, inspired, yet at the same time rendered repulsive by a strange hauteur, a bluish pince-nez, an elegant, curly beard, a shock of black hair above a light forehead—Andrei had never seen this man before and couldn’t say who he was, but he was evidently someone of importance, because he was talking peremptorily and briskly with the crooked little man in the felt cloak, who only twitched his mustache, twitched his jaw muscles, and kept turning his slanting eyes off to the side, like some huge wildcat facing a confident trainer.
But Andrei had no interest in their relationship—Wang’s fate was in the balance, the fate of little Wang, who had suffered torment all his life, who had his head pulled right down into his shoulders now, prepared already for the very worst, hopelessly submissive in his preparedness, and now there were only three possibilities: Wang is taken, Wang takes, or Andrei leaves everything just as it is, suspending the lives of these two in uncertainty—in the exalted language of strategy that would be called Queen’s Gambit Declined—and Andrei was familiar with that continuation, and he knew it was recommended in the textbooks, he knew that it was elementary, but he couldn’t bear the idea of Wang hanging by a thread for hour after hour, breaking out in a cold sweat in fear of imminent death, and the pressure on him would keep building up and up, until finally the monstrous tension at this point became absolutely intolerable, the gigantic, bloody abscess burst, and not a trace would be left of Wang.
I couldn’t bear that, thought Andrei. And after all, I don’t know this man in the pince-nez at all—why should I feel pity for him, if even my brilliant partner thought for no more than a few minutes before deciding to make this sacrifice… And Andrei removed the white pawn from the board and set his own, black pawn in its place, and in that moment he saw the wildcat in the felt cloak suddenly, for the first time in its life, glance directly into its tamer’s eyes and bare its yellow, smoke-stained fangs in a carnivorous grin. And immediately a man with dusky, olive-dark skin, not Russian or even European looking, slipped through between the ranks along the walls to the blue pince-nez and swung an immense rusty blade, and the blue pince-nez flashed aside like a streak of blue lightning, and the man with the pale face of a great tribune and failed tyrant gasped feebly, his legs buckled, and his small, well-proportioned body tumbled down the ancient, chipped steps that were heated to incandescence by the tropical sun, becoming soiled with white dust and bright red, sticky blood… Andrei caught his breath, swallowed the lump that was obstructing his throat, and looked at the board again.
Two white pawns were already standing there side by side; the center had been firmly seized by the Brilliant Strategist, and in addition, from out of the depths the gaping pupil of impending doom was aimed directly at Wang’s chest—there could be no lengthy deliberations here, this wasn’t a matter of just Wang; the slightest procrastination and the white bishop would break through into open space with room to maneuver—he had been dreaming for a long time of breaking out into open space, this tall, statuesque, handsome man, a great commander, decorated with constellations of medals, badges, diamonds, and stripes, this proud Adonis with eyes of ice and the plump lips of a youth, the pride of a young army, the pride of a young country, the successful rival of other, equally haughty and arrogant individuals, bedecked with the medals, badges, diamonds, and stripes of the Western science of warfare. What was Wang to him? He had hacked down dozens of Wangs with his own hand; at a single word from him thousands of such Wangs—dirty, lice-ridden, and hungry, inspired with blind faith in him—had marched, steady and erect, against tanks and machine guns, and those who had miraculously survived, now well-groomed and paunchy, were willing to march even now, willing to do everything all over again…
No, Andrei must not let this man have either Wang or the center. And he quickly advanced a pawn that was waiting there to be used, without looking to see who it was and thinking of only one thing: covering Wang, bolstering him, defending him, if only from the rear, showing the great tank commander that Wang was, of course, in his power, but he could not move beyond Wang. And the great tank commander realized this, and the fresh glint in his eyes was drowsily concealed once again by those handsome, heavy eyelids, but evidently he had forgotten, exactly as Andrei had forgotten and now suddenly realized with some appalling inner flash of insight, that it was not they, the pawns and bishops, who decided everything here—and not even the castles, and not even the queens. And immediately the small, hairless hand slowly rose over the board, and Andrei, already realizing what was about to happen, croaked hoarsely, “J’adoube.” And in accordance with the noble code of the game, and so hastily that his fingers actually cramped, he swapped Wang and the piece that was supporting him. Fortune favored him with a pale smile: Wang was now supporting, and Wang’s place had been taken by Valka Soifertis, with whom Andrei had shared a school desk for six years, and who had already died anyway in ’49, during an operation on a stomach ulcer.
His brilliant partner’s eyebrows slowly rose up and the brownish, speckled eyes narrowed in mocking surprise. Of course he found this move ludicrous and incomprehensible; it was nonsensical from both the tactical and, especially, the strategic point of view. Continuing the movement of his small, weak hand, he halted it above the bishop, paused for a few more seconds, pondering, and then his fingers closed confidently on the lacquered head of the piece, and the bishop lunged forward and knocked gently against the black pawn, pushing it aside and establishing itself in its place. The Brilliant Strategist then slowly carried the taken pawn off the board, and a small group of intent, businesslike people in white coats had already surrounded the gurney on which Valka Soifertis was lying—Andrei’s eyes caught one last glimpse of the dark features, corroded by illness, and the gurney disappeared through the doors of the operating theater…