The chess player read it out loud:
"The sentence I am now writing is the one that you are now reading." He looked at Belmonte in surprise. "So?"
"That's all there is. That sentence was written by me a minute and a half ago and you read it only forty seconds ago. That's to say, my writing and your reading correspond to different moments in time, but on that piece of paper 'now' and 'now' are undoubtedly the same 'now'. Therefore, on the one hand the sentence is true, but on the other hand it lacks all validity. Or is it the concept of time that we're failing to take into account? Don't you think that's a good example of a paradox? I can see you have no answer to it. Well, you'll find the same problem with the enigmas posed by my Van Huys or by anything else. Who's to say that your solution to the problem is the correct one? Your intuition and your system? Fine, but what superior system can you count on to demonstrate that your intuition and your system are valid? And what other system can you call on to corroborate those two systems? As a chess player, I imagine you'll find these lines interesting."
Pausing between each line, Belmonte recited:
The player too is captive of caprice
(The words are Omar's) on another ground
Where black nights alternate with whiter days
God moves the player, he in turn the piece.
But what god beyond God begins the round
Of dust and time and sleep and agonies?
"The world is just one vast paradox," the old man concluded. "And I defy you to prove the contrary."
Julia glanced at Muñoz and saw that he was shaking his head slightly, and his eyes had grown dull again. He seemed disconcerted.
Filtered by the vodka she'd drunk, the music–gentle jazz with the volume turned down to a tenuous murmur that seemed to blossom from the shadowy corners of the room–surrounded her like a warm caress, soft and soothing, that was transformed into calm lucidity. It was as if everything, night, music, shadows, even the comfortable feeling of the arm of the leather sofa under her neck, blended into a perfect harmony; everything, down to the tiniest object in the room, down to the most fleeting of her thoughts, had found its precise place in her mind and in space, fitting with geometrical exactitude into her perceptions and her consciousness.
Nothing, not even the gloomiest of memories, could have shattered the calm that reigned in her spirit. It was the first time she'd managed to recover that sense of balance, and she plunged into it with absolute abandon. Not even the ring of the telephone, as it announced one of those threatening, by now almost familiar, silences, could break the spell. With her eyes closed, moving her head gently to the rhythm of the music, Julia allowed herself a warm, secret smile. At times like this it was so easy to live in peace with oneself.
She opened her eyes lazily. In the shadows, the polychromed face of a Gothic virgin was smiling too, her gaze lost in the soilness of the centuries. Leaning against the table leg, on the paint-stained Shiraz carpet, was a painting in an oval frame, its layer of varnish only half removed, a romantic Andalusian landscape, nostalgic and peaceful, that depicted the river in Seville flowing quietly past leafy green banks, with a ship and some trees in the background. And. in the middle of the room–in the midst of sculptures, frames, bronzes, paintings, bottles of solvent, canvases, a half-restored baroque Christ, art books piled up next to records and ceramics–at the strange intersection, random but undeniable, of lines and perspectives, The Game of Chess presided solemnly over the orderly disorder reminiscent of an auction room or an antiques shop. The dim glow from the hallway cast a narrow rectangle of pale light on the painting, enough to bring the surface to life and for every detail, although steeped in deceptive chiaroscuro, to be clearly visible from where Julia was reclining, her feet and legs bare below her baggy black woollen sweater. Rain was pattering on the skylight but the radiators kept out the cold.
The golden letters of the newly uncovered inscription gleamed from the shadows. It had been a difficult, painstaking task, interrupted often to photograph each phase of the process as she removed the top layer of copper resinate and as the orpiment of the Gothic lettering was gradually revealed, five hundred years after Pieter Van Huys had covered it up, the better to conceal the mystery.
Now it was there before her: Quis necavit equitem. Julia would have preferred leaving the inscription hidden beneath the original layer of pigment, given that the X-rays proved its existence. Montegrifo, however, had insisted on uncovering it; according to him, it would excite the morbid curiosity of clients. Soon the painting would be open to the gaze of everyone: auctioneers, collectors, historians. The discreet privacy it had enjoyed until now, apart from its brief spell in the Prado, would be over for ever. Soon The Game of Chess would come under the scrutiny of experts; it would become the subject of polemical debates, and newspaper articles would be written about it as well as erudite theses and specialised texts such as the one she was preparing. The old Flemish master, its creator, could never have imagined that his painting would achieve such fame. And should Ferdinand Altenhoffen ever learn of it, his bones would doubtless tremble with pleasure beneath his dusty gravestone in the crypt of some abbey in Belgium or France. His name would at last be cleared, and a few lines in the history books would have to be rewritten.
She looked at the painting. Almost all of the top layer of oxidised varnish was gone, and with it the yellowish surface that had dulled its colours. Unvarnished and with the inscription uncovered, there was a luminosity about it and a perfection of colour that was apparent even in the near darkness of the room. The outlines of the figures could be seen in all their extreme precision, perfectly clear and succinct, and the sense of balance that characterised the domestic scene–paradoxically domestic, thought Julia—was so typical of a certain style and period that the painting was sure to fetch an astonishing price.
Paradoxically domestic: the phrase was exactly right. Nothing about the two serious gentlemen playing chess or the lady by the window dressed in black, reading, her eyes lowered, a demure expression on her face, would lead one to suspect the drama that lay coiled beneath the surface, like the twisted root of a lovely plant.
She studied the profile of Roger de Arras as he leaned over the chessboard, absorbed in the game, a game in which he was already dead. The steel gorget and the leather cuirass made him look like the soldier he once was, like the warrior whose insigne he had worn (perhaps dressed in burnished armour like that worn by the knight riding alongside the Devil) when he had escorted her to the nuptial bed to which she was destined by reasons of state. Julia could imagine Beatrice clearly–still a virgin, younger than she appeared in the painting, before bitterness had etched lines about her mouth–peeping out between the curtains of the litter, a maid by her side, and admiring the gallant gentleman whose fame went before him: her future husband's best friend, still a young man, who, having fought beneath the fleur-de-lys of France against the lion of England, had sought peace by the side of his childhood companion. And Julia imagined Beatrice's wide blue eyes meeting, just for a moment, the calm, weary gaze of the knight.
It was impossible that the two of them were never united by anything more than that one look. For some obscure reason, by some inexplicable twist of the imagination—as if the hours spent working on the painting had spun a mysterious connecting thread between her and that fragment of the past–Julia contemplated the scene in the Van Huys painting with the familiarity of one who had experienced every detail of the story alongside the characters depicted in it. The mirror on the wall in the picture reflecting the foreshortened figures of the two chess players also contained her, in the same way that the mirror in Las Meninas reflected the king and queen as they watched—was it from inside or outside the picture? - the scene being painted by Velazquez, or just as the mirror in The Arnolfini Double Portrait reflected the presence and the meticulous gaze of Jan Van Eyck.
The flame from the match as she lit a cigarette dazzled her for a moment, hiding The Game of Chess from her view un
til, gradually, her retina readjusted to the scene again, to the people and the colours. She herself had always been there–she was sure of that now–right from the beginning, ever since Pieter Van Huys first imagined that moment, even before he had begun the careful preparation of calcium carbonate and animal glue with which to impregnate the wood before he started painting.
Beatrice, Duchess of Ostenburg, a touch of melancholy in her eyes intent on her book–perhaps prompted by a mandolin played by a page outside at the foot of the wall–remembers her youth in Burgundy, her hopes and dreams. Above the window framing the pure blue Flanders sky, a stone St George plunges his lance into the dragon writhing beneath his horse's hooves. It does not escape the implacable eye of the painter observing the scene–nor that of Julia observing the painter–that time has blunted the tip of St George's lance, and where his right foot, no doubt once wearing a sharp spur, used to stand out in sharp relief, there is only a broken stump. This St George, putting the vile dragon to death, is not only half-armed, with his stone shield worn away by time, but also lame. Perhaps that only makes the figure of the knight all the more touching, reminding Julia, by a curious transposition of ideas, of the martial pose of a lead soldier.
She's reading, this Beatrice of Ostenburg, who, by reason of lineage and family pride and despite her marriage, never really stopped being Beatrice of Burgundy. And she's reading a strange book, whose binding is decorated with silver studs, and with a silk ribbon to mark her page, a book whose chapter headings are exquisite brightly coloured miniatures by the master of the Coeur d'Amour epris, a book entitled Poem of the Rose and the Knight, which, although the author is officially anonymous, everyone knows was written almost ten years before, in the French court of King Charles Valois, by an Ostenburg gentleman called Roger de Arras:
Lady, the same dew
that at break of day
lays on the roses
in your garden hoarfrost,
falls, on the field of war,
like teardrops,
upon my heart,
upon my eyes, upon my sword.
Sometimes those eyes, which have the luminous clarity of Flemish eyes, leave her book and look up at the two men playing chess at the table. Her husband is leaning on his left elbow, his fingers distractedly playing with the insigne of the Golden Fleece that his uncle by marriage, the late Philip the Good, sent him as a wedding present, which he wears about his neck, on the end of a heavy golden chain. Ferdinand of Ostenburg cannot decide on his next move; he reaches out a hand towards a piece, touches it, changes his mind, and looks apologetically into the calm eyes of Roger de Arras, whose lips curve in a courteous smile. "Touching a piece is the same as moving it, sir," those lips murmur with just a touch of friendly irony, and a slightly embarrassed Ferdinand moves the piece he touched, because he knows that his opponent is not just a courtier, but his friend. He shifts on his stool, feeling vaguely happy, for he knows that it is no bad thing to have someone who, from time to time, reminds him that there are some rules even princes must abide by.
The notes from the mandolin drift up from the garden into another window, not visible from there, the window of the room where Pieter Van Huys, court painter, is preparing an oak panel, made up of three sections his assistant has just glued together. The old master is not sure yet what use to make of it—perhaps a religious subject that has been in his mind for a while now: a young Virgin, almost a child, shedding tears of blood as she gazes, grief-stricken, at her empty lap. But, after due consideration, Van Huys shakes his head and emits a discouraged sigh. He knows he will never paint that picture. No one would understand its true meaning, and in the past he's had his fair share of problems with the Inquisition; his weary limbs would not withstand another encounter with the rack. With paint-encrusted fingernails, he scratches his bald head beneath his woollen beret. He's becoming an old man and he knows it; he has too few practical ideas and too many vague phantasms in his mind. To exorcise them he closes his tired eyes. When he opens them again, he sees the oak panel still there, waiting for the idea that will bring it to life. In the garden someone is still playing the mandolin; some lovesick page no doubt. The painter smiles to himself and, after dipping a brush into a clay pot, he applies the primer in thin layers, up and down, following the grain of the wood. Now and then he looks out of the window, and his eyes fill with light. He feels grateful for the oblique ray of sunlight that warms his old bones.
Roger de Arras has just made a remark in a low voice, and the Duke is laughing, in a good mood now, for he's just taken a knight. Beatrice of Ostenburg, or of Burgundy, is finding the music unbearably sad. She's on the point of asking one of her maids to have the player stop, but she doesn't, for she hears in its notes an exact echo, a perfect harmony of the pain flooding her heart. The music mingles with the friendly murmurings of the two men playing chess, and she finds a heartbreaking beauty in the poem whose lines tremble in her fingers. Born of the same dew that covers the rose and the knight's sword, there is a tear in her blue eyes when she looks up and meets Julia's gaze, watching in silence from the shadows. And she thinks that the gaze of that dark-eyed Italianate young woman is only a reflection in the dim surface of some distant mirror of her own gaze, fixed and anguished. Beatrice of Ostenburg, or of Burgundy, feels as if she were outside the room, on the other side of a pane of dark glass, from where she observes herself sitting beneath the mudlated St George, next to a window framing a blue sky that contrasts with the black of her dress. And she knows that no amount of confession will ever wash away her sin.
X
The Blue Car
"That was a dirty trick," said Haroun...
"Show me another ... one that is honest."
Raymond Smullyan
BENEATH THE BRIM of his hat, César arched a peevish eyebrow as he swung his umbrella and looked about with the disdain, tempered by the most exquisite boredom, in which he usually entrenched himself when reality confirmed his worst fears. The Rastro, it must be said, did not look terribly welcoming that morning. The grey sky threatened rain, and the owners of the stalls set up along the streets occupied by the market were taking precautions against a possible downpour. In some places, walking became a tortuous process of dodging people and skirting the canvas and grimy plastic with which the stalls were hung.
"In fact," he said to Julia, who was looking at a pair of battered brass candlesticks displayed on a blanket on the ground, "this is a complete waste of time. I haven't found anything decent here for ages."
This wasn't quite true, and Julia knew it. From time to time, thanks to his expert eye, César would unearth from the pile of discarded junk in the old market–drawn from that vast cemetery of dreams swept out into the street on the tide of many an anonymous shipwreck–some forgotten pearl, some tiny treasure that chance had chosen to conceal from the eyes of others: an eighteenth-century crystal tumbler, an antique frame, a diminutive porcelain objet d'art. Once, in a shabby little shop selling books and old magazines, he'd found two beautiful chapter headings delicately and skilfully illuminated by some nameless thirteenth-century monk, which, once restored by Julia, he had sold for a small fortune.
They slowly made their way to the upper part of the market, to the short row of buildings with peeling walls and gloomy inner courtyards connected by alleyways with wrought-iron gates, that were home to those specialist antiques shops more or less worthy of die name–although César wore a look of prudent scepticism when he spoke of them.
"What time did you arrange to meet your dealer?"
César shifted his umbrella–a very expensive piece with a beautifully turned silver grip–to his other hand, pushed up his cuff and studied the face of his gold watch. He was looking very elegant in a light brown felt hat with broad brim and silk band, a camel's-hair coat draped over his shoulders and a handsome cravat at the open neck of his silk shirt. He always dressed perilously close to the limits of good taste, though without ever overstepping the mark.
"In about fif
teen minutes."
They browsed amongst the stalls. Under César's mocking gaze, Julia picked up a painted wooden plate showing a yellowing landscape rather crudely done, a rural scene with an ox cart moving down a path edged by trees.
"Surely you're not going to buy that, my dear?" César said, enjoying his own disapproval. "It's revolting. Aren't you even going to haggle?"
Julia opened her shoulder bag and took out her purse, ignoring César's protests.
"I don't know what you're complaining about," she said as the plate was being wrapped for her in a few pages from an illustrated magazine. "You've always said that people, comme il faut, never discuss the price of anything: you pay on the nail and walk away with your head held high."
"That rule doesn't apply here." César, looking about with an air of professional detachment, wrinkled his nose at the plebeian sight of junk-laden stalls. "Not when you're dealing with people like this."
Julia put the package into her bag.
"Even so you might have had the decency to buy it for me. When I was a child, you bought me anything I fancied."
"I spoiled you horribly when you were a child. Anyway, I refuse to pay good money for trash like that."
"You're getting mean in your old age, that's your problem."
"Be silent, viper!" The brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face as he bent to light a cigarette outside a shop crammed with dusty old dolls. "One more word and I write you out of my will."
Julia watched him climbing the flight of steps as he left for his meeting. He did so with great dignity, keeping the hand that held the ivory cigarette holder slightly raised, and wearing the half-disdainful, half-bored air of one who does not expect to find very much at the end of the road, but who, for aesthetic reasons, takes pains to walk that road as elegantly as possible. Like a Charles Stuart climbing to the scaffold almost as if he were doing so as a favour to the executioner, with his already rehearsed "Remember" on his lips and in the hope that he would be beheaded in profile, as he appeared on the coins struck in his image.
The Flanders Panel Page 20
