Читать книгу Manila Gambit - John Zeugner - Страница 15

“So, you’re the ones. I figured it had ta be you,” Mrs. Spendip says at the doorway. Pam and I are right on time. Pam carries a small Sony microcassette recorder. I have a leather folder with copies of my columns in it. “The Hane Tribune?” Mrs. Spendip says. Is there a trace of sneer in her voice, I can’t quite decide.

“I sent you some of the earlier columns, and here are some more, if you want copies of them.”

“Ah more copies, yeah sure. Maybe on a pearl grey matting, is that it? Incidentally they don’t show me much,” she answers easily, stepping back so that we can come into what turns out to be a very narrow hall, leading left and right. She takes us to the left. “They show me you can copy whatever you read in Chess Review, but they don’t show me much. And I see you brought along your space cadet friend.”

“What?” Pam says.

“Nothing. Nothin’. You’re nearsighted, aren’t ya? Maybe you wear contacts, eh?” she says to Pam, who nods.

We’re led into a small room dominated by a three-quarter size bed. There is a small table with three chairs. Mrs. Spendip takes the furthest one, and signals us to sit down. “Now why don’t ya tell me about this, this Hane Tribune.”

“Paid circulation around 63,000. Readership well over two hundred thousand. Some people think it’s the best and most conservative paper on the West Coast of Florida.”

“Very nice. Conservative, eh? K.K.K., that kind of crap?”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, don’t beg my pardon, sweetie. That crap I don’t like. Why don’t we talk a little substantively? Like five hundred bucks up front, right here on the table.”

“The Tribune never pays for interviews.”

“Isn’t that quaint, positively old world. Special. You and she look a little old world all right—something you might see on the old Danube.”

“I’m sorry, but I only wanted to talk with David a bit for some human interest stuff for the column.”

“You only wanted to talk to David for a little human interest stuff for your little column in, in, what is it, on the West Coast of Florida?”

“Hane Tribune,” Pam offers, working her fingers together on the Formica top of the little table.

“Well, wherever. You know the New Yorker wanted to do a profile, but no money up front, no interview. I told ‘em that, and that was the end of it. They never came round again.”

I look at her for a moment and then decide, since all was lost anyway, simply to be blunt about the situation. “That was a stupid decision.”

“For them, or for me?” she asks, suddenly disengaging from our colloquy. She repeats “For them, or for me?” It seems the phrase interests her, as if the sound of uttering it was soothing.

“For you,” I continue, worried that she might not be listening. “You should have paid them to do the profile. Not the other way round. Then you could have billed the hell out of everybody else, since the kid had already been profiled in the New Yorker. It would have been worth a small fortune. Why throw away that kind of publicity for a few lousy bucks?”

“Lousy bucks,” she says slowly. “You mean tick-filled deer? You could mean that.”

“I mean it was a stupid, silly decision. Cutting your own throat or David’s—-“

“Mikey,” she interrupts me. “Mikey.”

“Okay, Mikey’s throat. Right now you need publicity. The more, the better. Otherwise he’s just another talented kid who spent too much time at a chessboard . Believe me there are a million of them.”

She straightens up, seems jerked out of whatever sphere she had slipped into. “Yeah, that’s why you’re here, begging for an interview. Because there are a million of them.”

“I’m here ‘cause I don’t know shit about chess and I got this crappy assignment to write a chess column three times a week for the rest of my lousy life, or until I can think of some better way to make a living. That’s why I’m here. Since I can’t write about the actual chess, I thought, what the hell, I could write about the people who play the stupid game. That way I could disguise my ignorance until I learned something about the game. But I’ll tell you something. I don’t give a good goddam about learning the moves, the combinations, the openings, the endgames—all that crap. I just want to turn in a few more columns till I can think of something better. Now, if you can help me, I can give your boy, your Mikey, if that is his name, a lot publicity in a remote area of Florida. But if that’s not good enough, I can always find some squirrel somewhere in some seedy chess club that’s willing to talk about his toilet training and his middle game.”

Pam began pressing her head down toward the tabletop. Was she embarrassed by this little tirade? Did she sense something had been left out or was she simply leaving, in another vacancy response to apparent tension? Actually I was feeling better and better, thrashing through my litanies of mild woe. Feeling very good indeed.

Mrs. Spendip was smiling, “Call me Vera. You and I can talk. Why don’t you put her on ice for a while,” she nods toward Pam.

“She stays, if she wants. Do you want to stay, Pam?”

“I’d like to sit in the other room,” Pam says, slowing standing up.

“That’s Mikey’s room.”

“Mikey’s?” Pam replies.

“That’s his name. He never uses David. And he don’t like to be disturbed in his room.”

“She won’t disturb him, believe me. She doesn’t disturb people. She’s very quiet.”

“Oh yeah,” Vera says, “of course she’s very quiet. So go ahead, disturb him.”

Pam lingers at the turn into the hallway and then waves to me as if departing on a cruise ship.

“Okay, what kind of publicity can Mr. Publicity deliver?”

“You tell me what to say, just tell me and I’ll spread it all around south Florida.”

“For one thing,” she says going to the kitchenette and pouring herself a coffee, “for one thing, I don’t mind letting a few of your readers know how hard I’ve worked getting Mikey ready. And he is ready!”

“Maybe I could run a separate column on you and the mothers of champions.”

“Forget that. I’d just like a few people up in Baltimore to know that it ain’t the rosiest life trying to get a genius ready for his destiny. I suppose somebody in south Florida knows somebody in Baltimore. That’s more than likely, ain’t it?”

“His destiny?”

“What else? In six months nobody will beat him. Nobody. Even Fischer couldn’t come out of retirement to beat him. And it’s not retirement, you know. You read Chess Review, right? And about every other month there’s a letter from him talking about this or that annotation is full of errors. Mikey spots the errors long before Fischer writes about them. Know what I mean, do ya?”

“Yes.”

“The hell you do. I got the distinct impression you don’t know squat about chess.”

“I told you I didn’t.”

“That has nothin’ to do with it. I’m talking about the Dutch Defense. What Mikey does with the Dutch will make everybody come back to it.”

“Sure.”

“You know, you’re a wise guy. But that’s okay. We still haven’t reached our agreement, have we? You’re right. Two hundred, three hundred thousand readers on the west coast of Florida don’t exactly fill my needs. See what I’m saying? So tell me how you’re gonna sweeten the deal.”

“How about a deep freeze for your cellar?”

“Ah, you’re so funny. Why don’t you laugh in the elevator on your way out?”

“Okay. Okay. A deal. A very sweet, very easy deal: two tickets to Florida in return for a simultaneous exhibition some place in Hane. Maybe the auditorium or the Y or someplace. Maybe even the big new culture center Van Shuten is building in the bay. And —this is crucial—an exclusive—features and interviews for the Hane Tribune.”

“Two tickets?”

“You want four? You have friends? I don’t think so.”

“I can’t live on a ticket.”

“Ah, a place to stay then?”

“And meals.”

“Like here? A kind of Ramada Inn in Hane, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

I think about an offer, and to cover I ask, “You mind me asking a question about this arrangement?” I point to the kitchen dining area.

“What arrangement?”

“The one here. Do you have a thing for Ramada Inns? I imagine you could rent a pretty nice apartment for what this costs.”

Vera laughs, sets her coffee down. “Sidney owns a judge in Baltimore,” she laughs again, watching me try to make a connection. “And, get this, the judge tells my lawyer ‘This is child support.’ Got it? Child support! So instead of the cash we get to live here, in this dump, with its lousy thirty percent vacancy rate, in the worst rooms in the place, so nobody will ever want them. But once, can you believe it? The schmuck management actually moved Mikey out for four days from his room into mine. Into here! They carried his chess books in here, for chrissake, so they could move in two Japanese businessmen and soak ‘em for that little hole next door. This,” she motions to the bed, the Formica nightstands, the mock wood low bureau, “this is child support. It doesn’t cost Sidney a dime, since he’s partners in this place. But I’m staying. Know why? Let me tell ya why. ‘Cause this neighborhood is changing. Ya can see it from the Holiday Inn up. Things are looking ritzier and ritzier. And the prices are going up and the little fag antique shops and the little precious boutiques. Someday even Logan Circle is gonna come back and meanwhile the rates here are gonna double, triple, and I’m gonna be here permanent, until Sidney can’t believe how much he’s losing every hour I’m in the place. And he’s gonna squeal bloody murder, and I’m gonna stick him and stick him until . . . until. Hell, he’ll probably sell the place and we’ll be back on the street. Yeah, we’ll come to Florida. Why not? Mikey likes simultaneous exhibitions. But nothing’ blindfolded. I’m with the Russians on that. Nothin’ to hurt Mikey’s head. Just a simultaneous. Maybe thirty boards. I’ll have to talk to him about it. Maybe forty. Talent can’t be much down there, right?”

“I’m one of the best around,” I say.

She laughs, “Good! We’ll go for it.”

With things going so well I move into another area. “How about some background on, on Mikey—why do you call him that?”

“Sidney calls him David. Used to call him Mikhail, the Russian. When he was in Junior High, Mikhail because he was always reading Russian chess books—just the annotations. But who can say Mikhail a lot? Mikey’s easier, and more American.”

“Nobody calls him David?”

“I said, Sidney calls him David.”

“What does he want to be called?”

“He wants to study chess books. Some days I call him Davey, especially if Sidney actually sends some cash, which from to time he does. Conscience, heard of it? You probably have, especially with her.” She motions toward the other room.

“What does that mean?”

“Such sensitivity. It don’t mean a thing. Nothin’ nothing. Don’t be so nervous. And call me Vera. And what did ya say your name was?”

“Paul Snell.”

“And that is Mrs. Snell?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I didn’t think so. Jesus, what is she on anyway?”

“On?”

“Don’t be cute with me. That, I don’t like. Just when we were getting’ to know each other, you get cute. I don’t like that, see? For business reasons I’d like to know whether you’re doing the same stuff she is, are ya?”

“You mean macramé, leather wallets, rope-soled sandals?”

“I told you not to be cute, so why don’t ya listen to me? Here we are trying to reach an agreement, and I need to have some very clear information who I’m dealing with and whether I should continue to enter these negotiations. So I’m asking a simple, direct question. I’m not taking Mikey into some place that’s drug heaven.”

I think, is Hane drug heaven? “If you’re asking whether I’m doing drugs, the question is insulting. I’m a normal American which means of course I smoke grass, snort cocaine, do hash when I can get it, and have thought about injecting stronger stuff. But I’m no hippie drug freak. I’m a reputable emerging authority on the chess world. You can testify to my expertise. In fact, I’d like to use you as a reference.”

Vera merely waves her had at me and says very quietly, “Look, there’s something wrong with her.”

“There’s something wrong with all of us.”

She sighs, puts both hands on the table, “When do we get the tickets? And where we gonna stay?”

“I’ll have to get authorization from my publisher. That won’t be any problem. Yes, there is something wrong with her, and yes she is on something. Librium and some mood elevators, maybe lithium, I don’t know. But I’m not on anything, not interested in anything. You should feel safe. And Mikey should feel protected. In good hands. Good regular and boring hands. But even when she’s on something, she’s a whole lot better than you are, so why don’t you shut up about her for a while?” I’m surprised by my sudden sentiment.

“So touchy,” Vera says, “so very touchy. I didn’t realize you were so connected to her.”

“Connected?” I am somewhat puzzled by my own growing irritation.

“Young love,” Vera says. “Ya want fresh coffee?”

“No. I want to meet Mikey.”

The hallway’s narrow, chocolate shag corridor is, in fact, a time warp. Coming into Mikey’s room is like coming into another country, another time. Initial obstacle course—stacks of books are in the doorway and against the walls and in the middle of the room. Some stacks are over four feet high. The ones against the wall reach to eye level, a little higher in the corners. In the center of the room, in a space consciously cleared among the stacks are three small typing tables, each one holding a wooden chess board and rather large Stanton-style chess pieces. Mikey sits on a heavily padded desk chair that can swivel and sway. Pam is kneeling beside him, hands on the top of his left thigh, watching him rearrange the pieces on the board in front of him. He quickly shuffles the pieces about and then asks her something. She arches up higher, pressing harder on his thigh, and points to a rook.

“Nah,” he says abruptly and quickly moves the queen down, offers a sacrifice, and shows Pam three variations and says, “He resigned.”

Pam laughs, wonderfully entranced.

“Mikey,” Vera calls from over my shoulder. “Mikey, this is Mr., Mr., what is it again?”

“Snell,” Mikey says. “And yes, I’ll do it. We’ll do it, won’t we?” he says holding Pam’s hand and pushing the black king over with her index finger. “Lemme show you Feldt versus Alekhine, 1917, a blindfold game. Unbelievable.” He drops her hand and begins rearranging the pieces.

“Congratulations on the U.S. Open,” I say to Mikey. “You played terrifically!”

He stops rearranging the pieces, looks down at Pam, then at me, then down at Pam. He says loudly, “They shoulda made me a grandmaster!”

Pam instantly applauds.