I went back out on the balcony, thinking, it’s them, they’re here. My head was seething with ideas and I started writing again. They’re in Jerusalem, they came for him, perhaps they heard his talk at the conference, but the reason they left him that message is that they preferred not to approach him, they must have been waiting for the right moment, they wanted to announce themselves through a message to see his reaction, and he was unable to bear it. Perhaps he did kill himself after all.
I heard the telephone and went back in the room. Marta was lying on the bed, smoking. She had taken her clothes off. I’m sorry, she said, it’s hot and I feel more comfortable like this, I wouldn’t do it if things weren’t so clear between you and me. Don’t worry, I said, and I lifted the receiver. It was Momo. I have news, sir, the woman who left the message has just called the hotel again, to Room 1209, just above yours, and something more, sir, the caller ID gives me a number in Tel Aviv, would you like it? He dictated it to me. Then I said, Momo, please, can you check if the call yesterday was from the same number, and he said, yes, sir, exactly the same, I already looked. I hesitated, then asked him, in whose name is Room 1209 registered? William Cummings, he said.
Momo, I’m sorry to ask this, but. . do you know if Cummings is black? That’s hard to say, sir, the register with the photocopy of his passport is in reception, and I don’t have access to it. Thanks, Momo, anything else you hear, let me know immediately. Of course, sir, how’s the young lady? Fine, Momo, she’s working. Give her my regards. I will.
I dialed the Tel Aviv number, with my hand shaking, and to my surprise it turned out to be a branch of the Universal Coptic Church. I had never even imagined an eventuality like that, so I decided to ask, is Miss Jessica there? There was a silence and then they said, there’s nobody here of that name, Jessica who? I thanked them and asked for their address, because I wanted to visit them. Aaron Pater Street, number 19, near Allenby Street, sir, we’re open from eight in the morning to seven-thirty in the evening. Then I dialed the number of Room 1209 but nobody replied. I had an idea. I went down to reception and asked the receptionist if it was possible to be moved to the room directly above mine, Number 1209, is it occupied? The man typed on his keyboard and said, yes, it’s occupied until Tuesday of next week, sir, I’m sorry, by that date you’ll already have left the hotel, won’t you? Yes, I said, it’s a pity, is the person occupying it at the conference? No, sir, no.
I walked away, thinking that I had to go to Tel Aviv to pay a visit to the Coptic Church. At six there was Supervielle’s lecture, and early the next day the much-awaited talk by Sabina Vedovelli, one of the high points of the ICBM, because according to gossip she was going to tell her life story. I had just over an hour to rest.
With all the demands of this conference, my recovery was taking longer than expected.
Going back to my room I found Marta in the same position, wearing nothing but a white G-string. I asked her about her work and she said, I haven’t been able to start, I checked my e-mail and then I started chatting with an old friend, and the time just went, my God, and how about you? I’m tired, I said, I’d like to sleep a while before Supervielle’s talk. Good idea, she said, I’ll do the same, yesterday I drank like a prostitute from Minsk. I could really do with a nap.
She closed the curtains and lay down beside me. Her closeness and her smell gave me an erection, which I tried to conceal, but she put her arm on my hip and finally noticed it. What about this? I was silent at first and then said, it’s only an erection, leave it, it’ll pass. Is it me who’s causing it or are you thinking of somebody? I told her it didn’t matter. It had not happened to me in a while, and it was like meeting an old friend; but she insisted: you won’t be able to rest, let me help you. She lowered the zipper of my pants and took out my penis, which grew even harder at the touch of her hand. Yes, you’re very hard, you must really like the woman you’re thinking about, let me help you, I think you need it. She started caressing it and squeezing it in her hand. Close your eyes, she said, I’m good at this. Imagine someone you like, a naked woman you’d like to fuck, O.K.? I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She had gotten on her knees, with her legs half open; where the pubic hair should have been there was a soft furrow of golden dots, on the verge of sprouting. She moved her arm rhythmically and I felt I was about to ejaculate; she also must have felt it, because she said, wait a moment. She got up and ran to the bathroom. Her ass and breasts bounced up and down and I had to make an effort to contain myself. A second later she came back with a towel and said, leave it to me, just tell me when, O.K.? She continued rubbing my penis with increasing force until I felt myself coming, and I told her, so, still rubbing, she put the towel around it. When I had come, she got up and went and left it in the bathroom. I heard her sitting on the toilet and tearing off pieces of paper, had she become aroused? It was quite likely.
When she came back she said, all right, now you can rest, and she lay down again by my side. You didn’t have to do that, I said, by the way, there’s a drop left on your arm, clean it off. Instead of which, she raised her arm to her mouth and licked it. Your semen tastes of iron, I like it. Then she knocked back what was left of the vodka and said, don’t talk anymore, we only have an hour’s sleep.
PART TWO. THE BOOK OF TRIBULATIONS
1. THE OSLOVSKI & FLØ VARIATION (AS TOLD BY EDGAR MIRET SUPERVIELLE)
This story begins one night in a bar in Tel Aviv, the Blue Parrot, and its main characters are two elderly immigrants, one from Wadowice, Poland, and the other from Gothenburg in Sweden. Their names are Ferenck Oslovski and Gunard Flø. I shan’t say which is which, as I assume a certain degree of education in my listeners and have no wish to insult them. As I was saying, Oslovski and Flø were in the Blue Parrot, it was already very late, and between them on the table was a chessboard.
The Pole was drinking Smirnoff vodka and the Swede a nauseating apricot schnapps, one of those Nordic digestives that is sure to rot your stomach if you were not born somewhere several degrees below freezing point. The two men were both staring into the distance, and neither said a word, which means that they were good friends, friends who did not need to talk in order to feel together.
Suddenly Flø struck the table with his hand and said, I have it, I think I have it!
Oslovski, who was familiar with these outbursts, looked at him and said: All right, show me.
Flø arranged the pieces with three pawns on either side, king, knight, and bishop. Look, he said: pawn advances and blocks the king behind the rook. Oslovski sat looking at the chessboard for a while. He looked up and cried, waitress, another round! Then he looked down at the chessboard again, silent once more. The drinks were brought, he took a sip, then continued sitting there with his nose very close to the pieces. After two more sips of his vodka, he at last looked up again and said, no, Gunard: there’s a way out in bishop four, and no way to stop it.
Flø stared at the board and took his head in his hands. It’s true, he murmured, it’s true.
It was a position from the 1971 Interzonal in Buenos Aires, in which Petrosian and Fischer had drawn. Flø always maintained that Fischer could have won and had been trying to demonstrate that for some time now. It was not a totally irrational belief, but he felt it in the way that grand masters are aware of positions: as a series of luminous lines traced across the chessboard, like the routes of bombers flying across the Atlantic, trajectories that at first are merely flashing lights but then take on a shape and turn into known positions that have previously been played or studied.