As I looked he rose from his chair, stretching himself out in three jerks, like a telescope, and came towards me and said, in a hushed voice, with a peculiar foreign intonation:
‘Can you please give me a match?’
‘With pleasure.’
He recoiled from the light of the match-flame, shading his concealed eyes with a gloved hand. I thought of the Devil in Bon-Bon. The tightly clamped mouth parted a little, to let out a puff of smoke and a few more words.
‘I find the light hurts my eyes. Will you drink?’
‘Oh, thank you.’
He indicated a chair. When we were seated, he asked:
‘Pardon me. You live in this vicinity?’
‘Almost next door.’
‘Ah. In apartments?’
‘That would be a polite name for them.’
‘You will excuse my asking?’
‘Of course. Are you looking for a room?’
‘Yes, I am. But it must be cheap.’
‘I live on the corner. They have one or two rooms vacant there. They’re cheap enough, but——’
‘Are there tables?’
‘Oh! Yes, I think so.’
‘Then I will go there. One thing: I can pay in advance, but I have no references.’
‘I don’t suppose Busto will mind that.’
‘You see, I never stay long at one place.’
‘You like variety, I suppose?’
‘I detest variety, but I have to move.’
‘Ah, landladies are often very difficult to get on with.’
‘It is not that. A large number of people live in this house of yours?’
‘A good few. Why?’
‘I do not like to be alone.’ At this, he looked over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me the address?’
‘I’m going that way. Come along with me, if you like.’
‘You are far too kind.’ He reached down and picked up a great black suitcase which had been standing between his feet. It seemed to drag him down as if it were full of lead. I said:
‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘No, no, no, thank you so very much.’
We walked back to the house.
‘First afloor fronta vacant, thirteen bob. Very nice aroom. Top floor back aten bob, electric light include. Spotless. No bug,’ lied Busto.
‘Ten shillings. Is there a table in that room?’
‘Corluvaduck! Bess table ina da world. You come up. I soon show you, mister.’
‘As long as there is a table.’
We went upstairs. Straining at his suitcase the stranger climbed slowly. It took us a long time to reach the top of the house, where there was a vacant bedroom next to mine. ‘Ecco!’ said Busto, proudly indicating the misbegotten divan, the rickety old round table and the cracked skylight, half blind with soot. ‘Hokay?’
‘It will do. Ten shillings a week; here is a fortnight’s rent in advance. If I leave within a week, the residue is in lieu of notice. I have no references.’
‘Hokay. What name, in case of letters?’
‘There will be no letters. My name is Shakmatko.’
‘Good.’
Shakmatko leaned against the door. He had an air of a man dying of fatigue. His trembling hand fumbled for a cigarette. Again he recoiled from the light of the match, and glanced over his shoulder.
Pity took possession of me. I put an arm about his shoulders, and led him to the divan. He sat down, gasping. Then I went back to pick up his suitcase. I stooped, clutched the handle; tensed myself in anticipation of a fifty-six-pound lift; heaved, and nearly fell backwards down the stairs.
The suitcase weighed next to nothing. It was empty except for something that gave out a dry rattling noise. I did not like that.
Shakmatko sat perfectly still. I watched him through the holes in the wallboard partition. Time passed. The autumn afternoon began to fade. Absorbed by the opacity of the skylight, the light of day gradually disappeared. The room filled with shadow. All that was left of the light seemed to be focused upon the naked top of Shakmatko’s skull, as he sat with his head hanging down. His face was invisible. He looked like the featureless larva of some elephantine insect. At last when night had fallen, he began to move. His right hand became gradually visible; it emerged from his sleeve like something squeezed out of a tube. He did not switch the light on, but, standing a little night-light in a saucer, he lit it cautiously. In this vague and sickly circle of orange-coloured light he took off his spectacles, and began to look about him. He turned his back to me. Snick-snick! He opened the suitcase. My heart beat faster. He returned to the table, carrying an oblong box and a large board. I held my breath.
He drew a chair up to the table, upon which he carefully placed the board. For a second he hugged the box to his breast, while he looked over his shoulder; then he slid the lid off the box, and, with a sudden clatter, shot out on to the board a set of small ivory chessmen. He arranged these, with indescribable haste, sat for a while with his chin on his clenched hands, then began to move the pieces.
I wish I could convey to you the unearthly atmosphere of that room where, half buried in the shadows, with the back of his head illuminated by a ray of moonlight, and his enormous forehead shining yellow in the feeble radiance of the night-light, Shakmatko sat and played chess with himself.
After a while he began to slide forward in his chair, shake his head, and shrug his shoulders. Sometimes in the middle of a move the hand would waver and his head would nod; then he would force himself to sit upright, rub his eyes violently, look wildly round the room, or listen intently with a hand at his ear.
It occurred to me that he was tired – desperately tired – and afraid of going to sleep.
Before getting into bed I locked my door.
It seemed to me that I had not been asleep for more than a minute or so when I was awakened by a loud noise. There was a heavy crash – this, actually, awoke me – followed by the noise of a shower of small hard objects scattered over a floor. Then Shakmatko’s voice, raised in a cry of anguish and terror:
‘You again! Have you found me so soon? Go away! Go away!’
His door opened. I opened my door, looked out, and saw him, standing at the top of the stairs, brandishing a small silver crucifix at the black shadows which filled the staircase.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
He swung round instantly, holding out the crucifix. When he saw me, he caught his breath in relief.
‘Ah, you. Did I disturb you? Forgive me. I – I——May I come into your room?’
‘Do,’ I said.
‘Please close the door quickly,’ he whispered as he came in.
‘Sit down and pull yourself together. Tell me, what’s troubling you?’
‘I must leave here in the morning,’ said Shakmatko, trembling in every limb; ‘it has found me again. So soon! It must have followed on my very heels. Then what is the use? I can no longer escape it, even for a day. What can I do? Where can I go? My God, my God, I am surrounded!’
‘What has found you? What are you trying to run away from?’ I asked.
He replied: ‘An evil spirit.’
I shivered. There are occasions when the entire fabric of dialectical materialism seems to go phut before the forces of nightmarish possibilities.
‘What sort of evil spirit?’ I asked.
‘I think they call them Poltergeists.’
‘Things that throw – that are supposed to throw furniture about?’
‘Yes.’
‘And does it throw your furniture about?’
‘Not all my furniture. Only certain things.’
‘Such as——’
‘Chess-pieces and things connected with the game of chess. Nothing else. I am a chess-player. It hates chess. It follows me from place to place. It waits until I am asleep, and then it tries to destroy my chess-pieces. It has already torn up all my books and papers. There is nothing left but the board and pieces: they are too strong for it, and so it grows increasingly violent.’