Читать книгу The Fire - Katherine Neville - Страница 10

Mozart: Confutatus Maledictum – how would you translate that?

Salieri: ‘Consigned to the flames of woe.’

Mozart: Do you believe in it?

Salieri: What?

Mozart: The fire that never dies, burning you forever.

Salieri: Oh, yes…

– Peter Shaffer, Amadeus

Deep in the pit of the hearth, the fire spilled over the sides of the giant log like liquid heat. I sat on the moss rock fireplace ledge, and I gazed down mindlessly. I was lost in a daze, trying hard not to remember.

But how could I forget?

Ten years. Ten years had passed – ten years during which I’d believed I had managed to repress, to camouflage, to bury a feeling that had nearly buried me, a feeling that emerged in that splinter of a second just before it happened. That frozen fragment of a moment when you still think that you have all of your life, your future, your promise before you, when you can still imagine – how would my friend Key put it? – that ‘the world is your oyster.’ And that it will never snap shut.

But then you see the hand with the gun. Then it happens. Then it’s finished. Then there is no present anymore – only the past and future, only before and after. Only the ‘then,’ and…then what?

This was the thing we never spoke of. This was the thing I never thought about. Now that my mother, Cat, had vanished, now that she’d left that murderous message lodged in the bowels of her favorite piano, I understood her unspoken language, loud and clear: You must think about it.

But here was my question: How do you think of your own small, eleven-year-old self, standing there on those cold, hard marble steps in that cold, hard foreign land? How do you think of yourself, trapped inside the stone walls of a Russian monastery, miles from Moscow and thousands of miles from anyplace or anyone you know? How do you think of your father, killed by a sniper’s bullet? A bullet that may have been intended for you? A bullet that your mother always believed was intended for you?

How do you think of your father, collapsing in a pool of blood – blood that you watch in a kind of horror, as it soaks into and mingles with the dirty Russian snow? How do you think of the body lying on the steps – the body of your father as his life slips away – with his gloved fingers still clinging to your own small, mittened hand?

The truth of the matter was, my father wasn’t the only one who had lost his future and his life that day, ten years ago, on those steps in Russia. The truth was, I had lost mine, too. At the age of eleven, I’d been blindsided by life: Amaurosis Scacchistica – an occupational hazard.

And now, I had to admit what that truth really was: It wasn’t my father’s death or my mother’s fears that had caused me to give up the game. The truth was –

Okay. Reality check!

The truth was, I didn’t need the truth. The truth was, I couldn’t afford this self-examination right now. I tried to squash that instant rush of adrenaline that had always accompanied any glimpse, however brief, into my own past. The truth was: My father was dead and my mother was missing and a chess game that someone had set up inside our piano suggested it all had plenty to do with me.

I knew this lethal game that still lurked there, still ticking away, was more than a gaggle of pawns and pieces. This was the game. The last game. The game that had killed my father.

Whatever the implications of its mysterious appearance here today, this game would always remain etched with acid in my mind. If I’d won this game, back in Moscow, ten years ago, the Russian tournament would have been mine, I’d have made the grade, I would have been the youngest grandmaster in history – just as my father had always wanted. Just as he’d always expected of me.

If I had won this Moscow game, we’d never have gone to Zagorsk for that one final round, that ‘overtime’ game – a game that, due to ‘tragic circumstances,’ was destined never to be played at all.

Its presence here clearly carried some message, like my mother’s other clues, a message that I knew I must decipher before anyone else did.

But there was one thing I knew, above all: Whatever this was, it was no game.

I took a deep breath and stood up from the hearth, nearly conking my head on a hanging copper pot. I yanked it down and slapped it atop the nearby sideboard. Then I went to the parlor grand, unzipped the bench cushion, gathered all the pieces and pawns from the piano strings, and dumped them into the pillow sack along with the board. I left the piano lid propped open as it usually was kept. I zipped up the lumpy pillow and shoved it into the sideboard.

I’d nearly forgotten the ‘missing’ Black Queen. Plucking her from the triangular rack of balls on the billiard table, I put the eight ball back in its proper place. The pyramid of colored balls reminded me of something, but at the moment I couldn’t think what. And perhaps it was my imagination, but the queen seemed slightly weightier than the other pieces, though the circle of felt on the base seemed solid enough. But just as I thought to scratch it off with my thumbnail, the phone started ringing. Recalling that my aunt Lily was about to descend, with chauffeur and yappy dog in tow, I shoved the queen in my pocket along with the bit of paper containing my mother’s ‘encryption,’ dashed to the desk, and caught the phone on the third ring.

‘You’ve been keeping secrets from me’ came the liquid voice of Nokomis Key, my best friend since our youth.

Relief flooded through me. Though we hadn’t spoken in several years, Key was the only person I could think of who might actually figure out a way to solve the quandary I found myself in at this moment. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle Key’s feathers. She’d always been able to solve problems with that same ingenious and ironic detachment in a crisis that Br’er Rabbit possessed. Right now, I hoped she could pull this particular rabbit out of the hat – or in my case, the briar patch – one more time. That’s why I’d asked her to meet Lily and bring her here to the house.

‘Where are you?’ I asked Key. ‘Did you get my message?’

‘You never told me you had an auntie,’ Key said in reply. ‘And what a babe! I found her along the roadside, accompanied by a dog of unidentifiable genetic origin, surrounded by stacks of designer luggage, and plowed into a snowdrift in a quarter-million-dollar car that would do James Bond proud. Not to mention the younger “companion” who looks like he could pull down that much cash each week himself, just by sauntering along the Lido clad in a thong bathing suit.’

‘You’re referring to Lily’s chauffeur?’ I said, astonished.

‘Is that what they call them these days?’ Key laughed.

‘A gigolo? That doesn’t sound much like Lily to me,’ I said.

Nor did it sound like any of a long procession of rigidly formal drivers that my aunt had always employed. Not to mention that the Lily Rad I’d known since my infancy was far too preoccupied with her international image as the Queen of Chess to waste her time, her energy, or her wads of cash on keeping a man. Though I admit, the rest of the Lily scenario – the car, the dog, and the luggage – all rang true.

‘Believe me,’ Key was saying with customary assurance. ‘This guy’s so steamy, he has smoke coming out of his nostrils. “Where there’s smoke there’s fire.” And your auntie sure looks like she’s been “rode hard and put away wet.”’

Key’s addiction to slogans and colloquialisms was exceeded only by her favorite topic: heavy metal, the kind you drive.

‘But that car in the snowdrift,’ she informed me, practically panting, ‘it’s a Vanquish – Aston Martin’s flagship limited edition.’ She began rattling off numbers, weights, gears, and valves until she caught herself and realized just whom she was talking to. Simplifying it for the mechanically impaired, she added: ‘That monster cruises at a hundred and ninety miles per hour! Enough horses to pull Ophelia from here to China!’

That would be Ophelia Otter – Key’s favorite bush plane, and the only machine she trusted to get into those remote sites where she did her work. But knowing Key, if unfettered, she could go on talking horsepower for hours. I had to rein her in, and fast.

‘So where are they now, the motley crew and their car?’ I pressed, with no small amount of urgency. ‘When I last heard from Lily, she was on her way here for a party – that must’ve been an hour ago. Where is she?’

‘They were hungry. So while my crew’s digging out the car, your aunt and her sidekick are watering and foddering at the Mother Lode,’ Key said.

She meant a restaurant just off the track, which specialized in wild game, and I knew the place well. They had so many horns, antlers, and other cartilaginous display on the walls there that walking through the room without paying attention was as dangerous as running with the bulls at Pamplona.

‘For God’s sake,’ I said, my impatience bubbling over. ‘Just get her here.’

‘I’ll have them at your place within the hour,’ Key assured me. ‘They’re just watering the dog now, and finishing their drinks. The car’s another matter, though: It’ll have to be shipped to Denver for repairs. Right now, I’m at the bar, and they’re still at the table, thick as thieves, whispering and sipping vodkas.’ Key snorted a laugh into the phone.

‘What’s so funny?’ I said, in irritation at this further delay.

Why did Lily – never a drinker – require a booze infusion at ten in the morning? And what about her chauffeur? Though, in fairness to him, it appeared he wouldn’t have much left to be chauffeuring around, if the car was that badly damaged. I confess, I had trouble visualizing my flamboyant, chess-playing aunt, with her de rigueur flawless manicure and exotic clothes – brunching atop the peanut-shell-and-beer-encrusted floors of the Mother Lode, nibbling away at their trademark fare of possum stew, rattlesnake steak, and Rocky Mountain Oysters – the Colorado euphemism for deep-fried bulls’ balls. The image boggled the brain.

‘I don’t get it,’ Key added sotto voce, as if reading my thoughts aloud. ‘I mean, nothing against your auntie – but this guy is pretty hot stuff, like an Italian film star. The staff and the clientele all stopped talking when he walked in, and the waitress is still drooling on her shirtfront. He’s dripping with as many furs as your aunt Lily is, not to mention the designer gold trim and custom-made clothes. This guy could get any babe. So pardon me – can you clarify – exactly what draws him to your aunt?’

‘I guess you were right all along,’ I agreed with a laugh. ‘He’s attracted to her figure.’ When Key said nothing, I added: ‘Fifty million.’

I hung up to the sound of her groans.

I realized that I probably knew Lily Rad better than anyone else could know such an eccentric; despite the difference in our ages, we had much in common. For starters, I knew I owed Lily everything. It was Lily, for instance, who had first discovered my chess abilities when I was only three years old. Who had convinced my father and my uncle that these leanings of mine should be developed and exploited – over my mother’s irritated, and eventually angry, objections.

It was this bond with Lily that made my phone conversation with Key seem so odd. Though I hadn’t seen my aunt in a number of years – and she had also dropped out of the chess world – I found it hard to swallow that a person who’d been an older sister to me, as well as mentor and mother, could suddenly be lobotomized by hormones over some good-looking hunk. No, something was wrong with this picture. Lily just wasn’t the type.

Lily Rad had long earned a reputation as the Elizabeth Taylor of chess. With her voluptuous curves, jewels, furs, designer cars, and cash liquidity bordering upon the obscene, Lily had single-handedly brought glamour to professional chess; she’d filled that enormous black hole of Soviet lassitude – all that remained back in the seventies after Bobby Fischer had departed the game.

But Lily wasn’t all just panache and pizzazz. People had flocked to her games in droves, and not only to observe her cleavage. Thirty years ago, in her chess-playing prime, my aunt Lily had boasted an ELO rating approaching that of the more recent Hungarian chess whizzes, the Polgar sisters. And for twenty of those years, Lily’s best friend and coach – my father, Alexander Solarin – had honed her brilliant defenses and helped keep her star soaring high in the chess empyrean.

After my father’s death, Lily had returned to her former chess coach and mentor: the brilliant chess diagnostician and historian of the ancient art of the game, who happened also to be Lily’s grandfather and her only living relative, Mordecai Rad.

But then, on the morning of her fiftieth birthday, the lights were suddenly and surprisingly extinguished on Lily’s chess marquee.

On the morning of her birthday, so the story goes, Lily was running a bit late for her breakfast appointment with her grandfather. Her chauffeur had pulled the limo from her apartment building out onto Central Park South, and he’d managed to maneuver deftly through the thick morning traffic, down the West Side Highway. They had just passed Canal Street when, up ahead in the sky, they saw the first plane hit the first tower.

Thousands of cars screeched to a halt, the highway in instant gridlock. All drivers were staring up at that long, dark plume of smoke, unfolding like the tail of a big, black bird – a silent omen.

In panic, in the backseat of the limo, Lily tried desperately to tune her TV to the news – any news – but she flipped through the channels in vain. Everything was static. She was going mad.

Her grandfather was at the top of that building. They had an appointment to meet at nine o’clock, at a restaurant called Windows on the World. And Mordecai had a special treat for Lily, something that he wanted to reveal to his only descendant on this special day, her fiftieth birthday: September 11, 2001.

In a way, Lily and I were both orphans. We’d each lost our closest relative, the person who had done the most to train us in our chosen field. I had never questioned for a moment why Lily had closed up her vast apartment on Central Park South that very same week of her grandfather’s death, why she’d packed a single bag – as she later wrote me – and headed for England. Though she bore no great love for the British, Lily had been born in England, her late mother was English, so she carried dual citizenship. She just couldn’t face New York. I’d barely heard a word from her since. Until today.

But at this moment, I knew that the one individual I desperately needed to see – perhaps the only person who knew all the players in our lives, the only one who might hold the key to my mother’s disappearance, perhaps even to those cryptic messages that seemed somehow related to my father’s death – was Lily Rad.

I heard a phone ringing.

It took me a moment to realize this time it wasn’t the desk phone, it was the cell phone in my trouser pocket. I was surprised it even worked in this remote region of Colorado. In fact, I’d only given out this number to a handful of people.

I yanked the phone from my pocket and read the incoming caller ID: Rodolfo Boujaron, my boss back in Washington, D.C. Rodo would just be arriving for work at his famous restaurant, Sutalde, to learn that the chickadee he believed had been working his night shift had flown the coop.

But in all fairness to myself, if I’d ever had to ask my boss’s permission first, I would likely never have gotten any time off at all. Rodo was a workaholic who thought everyone else should be, too. He liked to keep 24/7 surveillance on all his employees, because ‘the fires must always be stroked,’ as he’d say in that accent, so thick you could cut it with a meat cleaver.

At this moment, however, I was in no mood to deal with Rodo’s rantings, so I waited until I saw the voice message sign pop on my phone screen, then I listened to what he’d recorded:

‘Bonjour, Neskato Geldo!’

That was Rodo’s nickname for me in his native Basque – ‘Little Cinder Girl’ – a reference to my job as a firebird: the person who stokes the coals.

‘So! You are sneaking away in the dead of the night and leaving me to discover Le Cygne this morning, in your place! I hope she will not produce the…aruatza. How you say? The œuf? If she makes the mistake, it’s you who cleans it up! You abandon your post with no warning – for some boum d’anniversaire – so Le Cygne tells me. Very well. But you MUST return back here at the ovens before Monday, to make the new fire. So ungrateful! You will please recollect why you even have a job: that it was I who rescued you from the CIA!’

Rodo clicked off – he was clearly lathering himself into one of his typical Basque-Hispano-French snits. But his blathering wasn’t quite as bizarre as it sounded, once you learned to read Rodo’s multi-lingo-isms:

The ‘Cygne’ – the swan – whom he’d suggested might lay an egg on the night shift during my absence was my colleague, Leda the Lesbian, who’d happily agreed to pinch-hit for me, if necessary, until my return.

When it came to maintaining those huge wood ovens for which the restaurant Sutalde was known (hence its name in Basque: ‘The Hearth’), Leda – as glamorous as she appeared when on display (as she often was) – was no slouch back in the kitchens, either. She swung a mean shovel; she knew the difference between hot ashes and embers. And she preferred taking over my Friday night solo hitch on the graveyard shift, to her customary cocktail-hour duties on the floor of the restaurant, where overjazzed and overpaid male ‘K Street lobbyists’ were always hitting on her.

When it came to Rodo’s comment about gratitude, however, the ‘CIA’ that he’d ‘rescued me from’ was not the Central Intelligence Agency of the U.S. government, but merely the Culinary Institute of America in rural New York – a training ground for master chefs, and the only school I’d ever flunked out of. I’d spent a fruitless six months there just after high school. When I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to study at any college, my uncle Slava felt I should prepare myself to get a job in the only other thing I’d ever known how to do, besides chess – something that Nim had trained me in himself when I was young. That was cooking.

In short order, I’d found the CIA atmosphere a bit like storm trooper boot camp: endless classes in accounting and business management, memorizing vast repertoires – of terminology more than of technique. When I’d dropped out in frustration, feeling I was a failure in everything I’d ever done, Slava urged me into an underpaid apprenticeship – no dropouts, cop-outs, time-outs, or waffling permitted – at the only four-star establishment in the world that specialized exclusively in open-hearth cuisine: that is, cooking with live coals, embers, ash, and fire.

But now, almost four years into my five-year contract, if I took a good hard look in the mirror I had to confess that I’d turned into as much of an isolated loner – even living smack in the midst of Our Nation’s Capital – as my mother was, here in hermetic retreat atop her very own Colorado mountain.

In my case, I could explain it away with ease: After all, I was contractually tied to the obsessively slave-driving schedule of Monsieur Rodolfo Boujaron, the restaurateur-entrepreneur who’d become my boss, my mentor, even my landlord. With Rodo standing over me these past four years, cracking the proverbial whip, I’d had no time for a social life.

In fact, my all-consuming job at Sutalde, that my uncle had so prudently locked me into, now provided me exactly the same structure – the practice, the tension, the time clocks – that had been woefully lacking in my life ever since my father had died and I’d had to abandon the game of chess. The task of preparing and maintaining the fire for a full week of cooking each week required all the diligence of minding an infant or tending a flock of young animals: You couldn’t afford to blink.

But if that mirror told me the unblinking truth about myself, I’d have to admit that my job, these past four years, had provided me a lot more than structure or diligence or discipline. Living with the fire as I did – looking into those flames and embers day after day so I could manage their height and heat and strength – had taught me a new way of seeing. And thanks to Rodo’s recent vituperous rantings, I’d just seen something new: I’d seen that my mother might have left me another clue – one that I ought to have noticed the very moment I walked in the door.

The fire. Under the circumstances, how could it be here at all?

I hunkered down beside the hearth for a better look at the log in the pit. It was a seasoned white pine of at least thirty caliper inches – a log that would burn faster than a denser hardwood from a broadleaf tree. Though it was clear that my mother, as a mountain girl, knew plenty about building fires, how could she have created this fire without prior planning – not to mention without loads of assistance?

In the hour or so I’d been here, no one had applied fresh kindling, enlivened the embers with a bellows or blowpipe – nothing to speed the intensity of the heat. Yet this fire was a pretty mature one with flames six inches high, which meant that it had been burning for three hours. Given the steady, even nature of the flame, somebody had stayed around tending this fire for well over an hour until it was really established.

I checked my watch. This meant that my mother must have vanished from the lodge even more recently than it had first appeared – perhaps only half an hour before I’d arrived. But if so – vanished to where? And was she alone? And if she – or they – had departed by a door or a window, why were there no tracks, other than mine, in the snow?

My head was aching from this cacophany of clues that all seemed to lead toward nothing more than background noise. But then, yet another sour note leapt out at me: Just how had my boss Rodo known that I’d left to attend a ‘boum anniversaire,’ as he called it – a birthday party? Given Mother’s lifelong reluctance about even mentioning her birth date, I’d told no one why I was leaving or where I was going – not even Leda the Swan, as Rodo’s message said. No matter how contradictory things might appear, I knew there must be a theme to my mother’s disappearance hidden here somewhere. And there was one more place that I hadn’t yet searched.

I plunged my hand into my pocket and grabbed the wooden chess queen I’d rescued from the billiard table. With my thumbnail, I scraped off the bottom circle of felt. Within the hollowed-out queen, I saw that something hard and firm had been inserted. I jimmied it out: a tiny bit of cardboard. I took it over to the window light and pried it open. When I read the three words printed there, I nearly fainted.

Beside it were the faded traces of the phoenix – just as I remembered from that bleak, awful day at Zagorsk. I remembered that I’d found it in my pocket then, too. The bird seemed to be flying up to heaven, enshrined in an eight-pointed star.

I could scarcely breathe. But before I could come to grips with anything – before I could fathom what in God’s name this might mean – I heard the sound of a car horn outside.

I looked out the window and saw Key’s Toyota pulling up into the snowy parking space, just behind my car. Key emerged from the driver’s side, followed by – from the backseat – a man dressed in furs who helped out my aunt Lily, similarly attired. All three of them were headed straight for the front door.

In panic, I shoved the cardboard back into my pocket, along with the chess piece. I raced to the mudroom; the outer doors were just swinging open. Before I could speak, my eyes flashed past the two women – right to the ‘gigolo’ of my aunt Lily.

As he stepped over the threshhold, he was shaking loose snow from the high fur collar of his coat. His eyes met mine, and he smiled – a cold smile, a smile filled with danger. It was no more than an instant before I understood why.

Standing there before me, in my mother’s isolated mountain retreat, as if we two were completely alone in time and space, was the man who had killed my father.

The boy who had won the Last Game. Vartan Azov.