Theory of Shadows, page 7
Thus, albeit in a completely unexpected way, he managed to get what he wanted: in the end, rather than the mummified Guendalina, the mother was indeed preferable. If he had any regrets, they were only for the way he had treated her, venting his bad moods, anger, and frustrations on her, and making her the chosen victim of all his excesses. Surely, after putting up with his tyranny for years, Nadezhda had won herself a place in heaven.
* * *
“I WOULD RATHER not talk about that saintly woman,” Alekhine pleaded.
“Of course.”
Miss Ocampo nervously consulted the pages of her notepad, skipping a few points. Finally, she found a place to resume.
“You have led quite an eventful life. You were imprisoned more than once for political reasons.”
“Yes, that is correct. The first time was in Germany, in Mannheim, where a major international tournament was being held. I was ahead by nine wins, one loss, and one draw. Although there were still a few rounds to play, my lead was unbridgeable and my victory assured. Suddenly, the tournament was suspended.”
“And the reason for the suspension?”
“A minor diplomatic incident, let’s say: Germany had declared war on Russia. In addition to myself, there were at least eleven other Russian players participating in the tournament, so you can imagine the authorities’ embarrassment: technically, we were prisoners of war. We remained in custody for a few days. I was the last to be freed, because, while searching through my personal belongings, they found a photo of me in my cadet outfit, which some idiot mistook for an army uniform. Eventually, however, the misunderstanding was cleared up, and they decided to transport us to Baden-Baden, to await repatriation. We were sure we had escaped the worst, but we were wrong. During the train trip, some of us passed the time playing chess. A watchful conductor found some score sheets we had used to jot down our moves. He thought they were some sort of secret code. At the Ramstadt station, he alerted the police, who slammed us all back in prison. For about twenty days, I was locked in a cell with Bogolyubov. We passed the time playing blindfold, one game after another. Then they separated us, and put me in solitary confinement.
“Ultimately, as an alternative to prison, our only option was to enlist in the German army. I had no physical defects and was in perfect health. Luckily for me, the doctor assigned to examine me was an admirer of mine, and declared me unfit for military service ‘due to suspected mental disorder.’ Considering me therefore completely harmless, they eased their surveillance of me, and although the competition had been suspended, I was granted the sum of eleven hundred marks as the undisputed winner of the tournament. I used part of that money to help some of my fellow unfortunates and to procure false papers for myself. It was very risky: had they caught me, I would have immediately been sent before a firing squad. But once again I was lucky, and managed to leave the country.
“Crossing through Switzerland, I reached Genoa. There I embarked on a Russian ship, which, before bringing me back home, sailed around half of Europe: England, Sweden, Finland … At each port of call, I took the opportunity to play in some simultaneous matches. I arrived in St. Petersburg at the end of October, and from there I finally reached Moscow.”
Miss Ocampo seemed quite impressed by his story. Alekhine noticed this and felt a kind of inner gratification, which turned into genuine self-satisfaction when she asked him: “Was there perhaps another time when your celebrity was of help to you in a difficult situation?”
“Oh yes, I remember clearly one day when, together with Chess, I managed to cross the Polish border without a passport. I simply said that I was the world chess champion and that I had no need of a passport. The border guards were bewildered. They whispered together for a while, then went into the gatehouse to make some phone calls. Eventually, an officer appeared and, after studying my face closely, ordered them to let me through.”
“And who was Chess?”
“He was my beloved Siamese cat. I always took him with me, even to the tournaments. The regulations did not prohibit it, maybe because no one had ever thought it possible that a chess player might bring along his cat. But Chess was a quiet little creature; he strolled among the tables and didn’t bother anyone. When he sensed that I was in trouble, he would leap on my knees and encourage me by purring.”
The journalist pressed him: “Are there any other such incidents that come to mind?”
“Well, there was an episode in which—I still can’t explain how—the game actually saved my life.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was in Odessa, just after the Revolution. I was staying in a hotel room that had been previously occupied by a British officer. He had left some compromising documents in a drawer, which were found during a search by the Cheka, the Russian secret police. My protestations of innocence were of no use. I was accused of espionage and sentenced to death by firing squad. On the eve of my execution, two guards entered my cell. One of the two was carrying a chessboard under his arm. Behind them, Trotsky himself appeared, and invited me to play a game. I was astonished. But I had no choice but to accept. We began to play. Meanwhile, I kept wondering what I should do. Should I indulge him with a draw? Win by a narrow margin? Crush him like a bug? Given that the firing squad awaited me at dawn the following day, I thought I might as well go out on a high note, so I did not spare him—I showed him no mercy. I even took the satisfaction of announcing a forced checkmate in seven moves. At the end of the match, I thought I saw a bare hint of a smile on that inscrutable face. I expected him to react, to say something; but no, he merely stood, picked up the chessboard, and walked out of my cell without a single word. The next morning, at the first light of dawn, I heard gunshots begin at regular intervals, coming from the prison’s inner yard. By the time the guards arrived, I was prepared to die. They escorted me to the end of a long corridor, but then, at the last moment, rather than shoving me into the bloodbath, they opened the prison door for me and told me that I was free to leave.”
The journalist must have been satisfied by those stories, because she now switched to a completely different topic: “Dr. Alekhine, after nine years of unchallenged supremacy, you will shortly have to defend your title against a leading exponent of Soviet chess. It will be an awkward situation, don’t you think?”
“If the world changes, it is certainly through no fault of chess, nor can chess be influenced by revolutions and wars,” he replied cautiously. “My adversary is primarily an adversary at the chessboard, certainly not in life, nor as regards political ideals.”
“I meant: awkward for the Soviets,” she clarified.
Alekhine shrugged slightly.
“It was the Moscow club that put together the necessary sum, it is they who are anxious to recover the title to flaunt it to the world; besides, the match will take place in England, not in the Soviet Union.”
“Regardless, in their eyes you remain a dissident, a traitor.”
At those words, he reached for the glass that he had left untouched on a small table beside him, and drained it in one gulp. “Because of some of my statements against the new regime, my brother, Aleksei, who remained in Russia and espoused their cause, publicly renounced me and my ideas—or, rather, he was forced to do so. His loyalty was repaid, two years later, with murder.” His voice almost cracked, but he quickly regained control. “The long arm of the regime, unable to reach me, decided to punish me by brutally killing my beloved brother.”
“And you never feared that you might suffer the same fate?”
“You mean being killed?”
The journalist nodded.
He hesitated a moment, then: “Perhaps, yes, now and then, the thought’s occurred to me.”
“After all,” Ocampo said, a little heavy-handedly, “Trotsky himself, despite taking refuge in Mexico, was ultimately hit by a hired assassin.”
“I took my precautions.”
For a time, Alekhine was silent. In fact, he knew very well that it was not strictly necessary for a victim to be close to his murderer, that there was no place in the world where one could be assured of finding a completely secure refuge. A well-trained hit man could strike even in broad daylight and in the midst of a crowd.
Clearing her throat, the reporter called him back to the present. She must have realized that, at this rate, she was in danger of seeing the interview go up in smoke, because she suddenly brought the conversation back to chess.
“Dr. Alekhine, there’s a twenty-year age difference between you and your challenger.”
“Nineteen,” he corrected her, slightly irritated.
“All right, nineteen. Don’t you think that might pose a disadvantage for you?”
“If you are alluding to physical endurance, keep in mind that it is not the hours spent at the board that tire me. If anything, it’s the waiting, the delays, the intervals between one match and another. The board for me is like a magnet: it attracts me irresistibly and charges me with renewed energy. When I play, I am immersed in my world. It’s only there that I feel alive … only there that I can find a life apart from this miserable, contradictory one.”
“As we read in your book, you envisioned your path to the title from the time you were still quite young and were just beginning to emerge in the chess world. Even then you had set yourself a specific goal.”
Alekhine knew that sooner or later he would have to do it, so he decided to be the first to broach the subject and, not without some effort, spoke that detestable name.
“Capablanca was the man to beat. At that time, he was the most formidable. They called him ‘the machine built to win.’ But I studied his matches closely, and I did not feel he was unbeatable. There were few players able to stand up to him, it’s true: Lasker, who had just lost the title, did not even consider it. And Rubinstein didn’t have the strength of character. But, all things considered, I was the ideal challenger.”
“It was an arduous undertaking.”
“Arduous?” he echoed her. “I’d say downright hellish. And I am not referring only to the superhuman stress to which I was subjected, but to the physical suffering as well. Besides the unbearable heat and the attacks of dysentery, during the course of the third game I was overcome by intense neuralgia, caused by an infection in my upper dental arch, which required me to undergo painful dental treatments during the match. It became necessary to extract six teeth. What was left in my mouth was comparable to the worst array of Pawns imaginable. Until, later on, a skilled dentist…” With his index finger, he raised his lip to expose prostheses made of gold and platinum.
“But once the title was in your hands,” Ocampo ventured, “you took care not to give him a rematch. You preferred to compete with less aggressive opponents, such as Bogolyubov.”
“I only insisted that certain conditions be met,” Alekhine said curtly, “such as the amount of the pot and the choice of venue. My opponent was accustomed to torrid climates, but I prefer temperate ones. It was within my rights to be able to choose. In any case, due to the crisis of ’29, Capablanca was never able to put together the sum of money required to get his chance.”
“And yet he was considered the only player capable of taking the title from you.”
“By that time, his game had visibly deteriorated. Capablanca was lazy—I don’t really think he was all that eager to play anymore. He relied on his positional sense; he avoided risks and complications and became entirely predictable. Lasker himself, in an interview given after his defeat, affirmed that Capablanca’s game was based on fundamental rules, and that he very rarely made an unexpected move—he guided the pieces like a shepherd guiding his flock, satisfied to lead only one to the pen, and whatever small advantage he gained in that way, he managed to maintain until the end. If you analyze his games closely, you discover quite a few weak moves, if not actual errors, and even in his endgames he was not exactly the ‘prodigy’ that many thought he was. Drawing a comparison with music, he composed charming minuets, whereas I aspired to create majestic symphonies.”
“You were friends, in your youth…”
“You can be friends in life and adversaries at the chessboard.”
“You two, however, became adversaries in life as well.”
“When there are big gains at stake, it can happen.”
“In the end, you were defeated by Max Euwe.”
Alekhine waved a hand, as if this wasn’t even worth talking about.
“A mere setback. Euwe was a mathematician, a calculator, certainly nowhere near Capablanca’s strength. Recapturing the title two years later was child’s play.”
Ocampo allowed herself a brief pause. It was time to change the subject again.
“Dr. Alekhine, are you in Portugal as an exile or as a political refugee?”
“I would rather not answer.”
“Is it true that you were summoned several times by the Allied Control Commission to clarify your position?”
“I have never been summoned,” he snapped, irritated. “And, furthermore, I really don’t know what there would be to clarify. Should I perhaps have explained that I played chess wherever it was still possible to do so?”
“Is it true that you and your wife were about to emigrate to the United States, but were denied an entry visa?”
“No, that is false. It was our decision to remain in Europe.”
“Some insinuate that you were unable to obtain a visa because of several pro-Nazi articles.”
Alekhine ordered his third glass. He could feel his anger mounting. His vanity, however, got the upper hand, and allowed him to maintain his self-control. He was the center of attention for the international press and had to be able to remain composed. He smiled pleasantly, crossed his legs, and let his body sink back against the chair as he fumbled in his pocket for some cigarettes. That posture, in front of a chessboard, would have been an inauspicious portent for his opponent.
“My dear Miss Ocampo,” he said, with all the amiability he could rally, “I have undergone a number of harsh interrogations in my life. All of them seem quite mild, in retrospect, compared with yours.”
The woman blushed violently at first, then, in an alarming transition, turned almost instantly pale. She bent forward. Was she about to pass out? No, she was only turning off the tape recorder. She seemed contrite about having gone too far.
“I’m sorry to have touched upon such sensitive matters. If you like, I can erase whatever you think is inappropriate from the tape.”
“I have nothing to hide. Everything I told you is the truth,” Alekhine replied with a half-smile.
The photographer, seeing him smile for the first time, insisted on taking a few more shots of him, but was unable to coax out more than a sardonic grin.
Being able to talk with the tape recorder off restored Alekhine’s good humor. As if seeking forgiveness, Ocampo now kept strictly to the topic of chess.
“Is it true that chess can also lead to madness?”
Alekhine regarded her with a kind of indulgent condescension.
“You see, my dear lady, not many laymen are aware that, to fully appreciate the complexity of this magnificent art form, one must also have a considerable knowledge. To acquire this knowledge, one must devote oneself exclusively to chess from a young age, which means giving up a balanced development of the mind. So, yes, I do believe that focusing on a single object of interest to the exclusion of all else can certainly lead to insanity.”
“Could you name some of the players to whom this happened?”
“There are several examples, but one individual whom I knew personally: Akiba Rubinstein, an Eastern Jew. His most significant achievement was to share first prize with Emanuel Lasker in St. Petersburg in 1909. A memorable tournament, in which I myself participated, at just sixteen. After another few years of triumph, he began an imperceptible downward slide. He never stopped studying, but it was evident that he was putting excessive strain on a brain that, though talented at chess, was rather mediocre. Undoubtedly, in the last ten years of his endeavors, Rubinstein still played some good games, but his mental disorder became more and more apparent. During tournaments, he used to run away from the board—literally—after each move he made, taking refuge in a corner of the room and resuming his place only when the other player had responded to his move. He did this—he explained—so as not to be subject to the malign influence of his opponent’s ego. Currently, Rubinstein lives somewhere in Belgium, but he hasn’t participated in a tournament in years.”
“So, then, do you have other passions besides chess?”
“Oh yes. I’m interested in music, painting, languages, literature. I also love horseback riding and table tennis—an activity that relaxes me.”
“Over the course of your career, is there one memory that stands out?”
“When I won the title, beating Capablanca with a three-point lead, I was carried in triumph through the streets of Buenos Aires. I was acclaimed by more than ten thousand people.”
“And among all the prizes you have received, which was the one you felt most gratified by?”
“When I won the national tournament at age sixteen, the tsar himself gave me a precious Sèvres vase adorned with the imperial eagle. In 1921, I was allowed to take it out of Russia, and since that time, though it’s extremely fragile, I have always brought it along with me wherever I lived. Only once did I happen to forget it: it was left in Paris, at my wife’s home, when we moved. For months and months, I lived in anguish that it might suffer some damage. On my return, I found it in the midst of some worthless junk that had been piled up in the cellar. When I saw the state the case was in, my blood froze. Fortunately, the vase itself was still intact. There was only a tiny chip on the rim, which I took pains to have repaired in Lisbon by a master ceramicist. At a high cost, but it was well worth it.”
