“Shahin understands some of them,” said Chariot proudly, walking to the side of the Pyramid and looking at the strange array of drawings carved and painted there. “This one—the man with the head of a bird—is the great god Thoth. He was a doctor who could heal any illness. He invented writing, too. It was his job to write the names of everyone in the Book of the Dead. Shahin says each person has a secret name given him at birth, written on a stone, and handed to him when he dies. And each god has a number instead of a secret name.…”
“A number!” said Fourier, looking quickly at Shahin. “You can read these drawings?”
Shahin shook his head. “I know the old stories only,” he said in his broken French. “My people have great reverence for numbers, endowing them with divine properties. We believe the universe is comprised of number, and it is only a question of vibrating to the correct resonance of these numbers to become one with God.”
“But this is what I myself believe!” cried the mathematician. “I am a student of the physics of vibrations. I’m writing a book on what I call the ‘Harmonic Theory’ as it applies to heat and light! You Arabs discovered all those truths about number on which our theories are built.…”
“Shahin is not an Arab,” Chariot interjected. “He is a Blue Man of the Touareg.”
Fourier looked at the child in confusion, then turned back to Shahin. “Yet you seem familiar with what I seek—the works of al-Kwarizmi brought to Europe by the great mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci, the Arabic numerals and algebra that revolutionized our way of thought? Did these not originate here in Egypt?”
“No,” said Shahin, looking at the drawings on the wall before him. “They came from Mesopotamia—Hindu numbers brought down from the mountains of Turkestan. But the one who knew the secret and wrote it down at last was al-Jabir al-Hayan, the court chemist of Harun al-Rashid in Mesopotamia—the king of the Thousand Nights and One Night. This al-Jabir was a Sufi mystic, a member of the famous Hashhashins. He recorded the secret and as a result was cursed for all time. He hid it in the Montglane Service.”
THE END GAME
In their grave corner, the players
Move their plodding pieces. The board
Detains them until dawn within its
Strictured bounds where two colors clash.
From within, the forms radiate their magic rules.
Homeric castle, nimble knight,
Armored queen, backward king,
Oblique bishop, and aggressive pawns.
When the players have departed,
When time has consumed them,
Certainly the ritual will not have ceased.
In the Orient this war burst into flame
Whose amphitheatre now is all the Earth.
Like another game, this game is infinite.
Weak king, slanted bishop, carnivorous
Queen, straightforward rook and cunning pawn.
Over the black and white they seek the path
And unleash their armed battle.
They do not know that the distinguished hand
Of the player governs their destiny.
They do not know that an unyielding force
Controls their autonomy and their days.
The player too is prisoner
(The phrase is Omar’s) of another board
Of black nights and of white days.
God moves the player, and he, the piece.
What god from behind God begins to weave the plot
of dust and time and dreams and agonies?
—Chess
Jorge Luis Borges
NEW YORK
SEPTEMBER 1973
We were approaching another isle in the midst of the wine-dark sea. A 120-mile stretch of land floating off the Atlantic seaboard, known as Long Island. On a map it looks like a giant carp whose mouth is about to flap open at Jamaica Bay and swallow Staten Island, and whose tail fins flipping up toward New Haven seem to scatter little isles like drops of water in its wake.
But as our dark ketch skimmed landward, our yards of sails unfurled in the glittering sea breeze—that long, white sand coastline rippling with little bays seemed paradise to me. Even the place names I remembered were exotic: Quogue, Patchogue, Peconic, and Massapequa—Jericho, Babylon, and Kismet. The silver needle of Fire Island hugged the crenellated shore. And somewhere around a turn and out of sight, the Statue of Liberty lifted her coppery lamp three hundred feet above New York Harbor, beckoning tempest-tossed travelers like us toward the golden door of capitalism and institutional trading.
Lily and I stood on deck with tears in our eyes, hugging each other. I wondered what Solarin thought of this land of sunshine, wealth, and freedom—so different from the darkness and fear I imagined penetrated every corner of Russia. In the month or more it had taken to cross the Atlantic and come up the coast, we’d spent days reading Mireille’s journal and deciphering the formula and many nights exploring each other’s minds and hearts. But not once had Solarin mentioned either his past in Russia or his plans for the future. Every moment spent with him seemed a frozen golden drop of time, like the jewels scattered on the dark cloth—as vivid and as precious. But the darkness that lay beneath could not be penetrated.
Now, as he trimmed the sails and our boat slipped toward the island, I wondered what would become of us once the Game was over. Of course, Minnie had always said the Game would never end. But deep in my heart I knew it would—for us, at least—and soon.
Boats bounced like sparkling baubles everywhere. The closer we came to the island’s coast, the thicker was the water traffic—colorful flags and wind-whipped sails fluttering across the frothy water, mingling with the dark polished gleam of silent yachts and little motorboats buzzing back and forth like dragon-flies among them. Here and there we sighted the gray splash of a Coast Guard cutter putting quietly along and a scattering of big naval ships anchored near the point. So many ships, in fact, that I wondered what was going on. Lily answered my question.
“I don’t know whether it’s our luck or misfortune,” she said as Solarin came back to take the wheel, “but this greeting committee isn’t for us. You know what today is? Labor Day!”
That was it all right. And if I wasn’t mistaken, it also marked the closing day of yachting season, which explained the mad confusion that swarmed around us.
By the time we reached the Shinnecock Inlet, the boats around us were so thickly packed there was hardly room to sail. The queue waiting to get into the bay was forty boats long. So we sailed on about ten miles down to the Moriches Inlet, where the Coast Guard were so busy towing boats and pulling tipsy people out of the drink, they could hardly be expected to notice one little boat like ours that had tiptoed up the Inland Waterway full of illegal immigrants and illicit contraband, about to creep in beneath their unsuspecting eyes.
The line here seemed to be moving faster as Lily and I hauled down the sails and Solarin quickly turned on the engine and strung floats around our sides to keep us from being rammed by the heavy traffic. One ship going out in the opposite direction passed close to our flanks. A passenger dressed in yachting regalia leaned over our side, passing Lily a plastic champagne glass with an invitation ribbon-tied to the stem. It requested our presence at six o’clock for martinis at the Southampton Yacht Club.
It seemed like hours that we putt-putted along in that slow procession, the tension of our situation draining all our energy as the revelers on other boats cavorted around us. As in war, I thought, it was often the last phase—the final confrontation—that decided everything. Likewise it’s often the soldier with his discharge papers in his pockets who gets picked off by a sniper while boarding a plane that would’ve taken him home. Though there was nothing confronting us but a $50,000 Customs fine and twenty years for smuggling in a Russian spy, I couldn’t forget that the Game itself was not yet over.
At last we cleared the inlet and pulled toward Westhampton Beach. There wasn’t a slip in sight, so Solarin dropped Lily and
me at the pier with Carioca, the bag of pieces, and several satchels containing our scanty belongings. Then he dropped anchor in the bay, stripped down to trunks, and swam back the few yards to the beach. We adjourned to a local pub so he could put on dry clothes and we could lay our plans. We were all in a daze as Lily went off to the booth to phone Mordecai with the news.
“Couldn’t reach him,” she said as she returned to the table. I had three Bloody Marys already waiting, complete with celery sticks. We had to get to Mordecai with these pieces. Or at least get out of here until we could find him.
“My friend Nim has a house near Montauk Point, about an hour from here,” I told them. “The Long Island Railroad stops there. We could catch it just down the road at Quogue. I think we should leave him a message we’re coming and head for the point. It’s too dangerous to go dashing into Manhattan.” I kept thinking of the city with its maze of one-way streets—how easy it would be to get trapped there with no way out. After all our exertions, to be pinned like pawns would be criminal.
“I have an idea,” said Lily. “Why don’t I go get Mordecai. He never strays far from the diamond district, and it’s only a block long. He’ll be at the bookstore where you met him, or at one of the restaurants nearby. I can stop at my place and pick up a car, then drive him out here to the island. We’ll bring those pieces Minnie said he had, and I’ll phone you from Montauk Point when we arrive.”
“Nim doesn’t have a phone,” I told her, “except the one attached to his computer. I hope he picks up his messages; otherwise we’ll be stranded there ourselves.”
“Let’s arrange a time to meet, then,” Lily suggested. “How about nine o’clock tonight? That’ll give me time to round him up, fill him in on our escapades and my new chess expertise … I mean, he’s my grandfather. I haven’t seen him in months.”
Agreeing to what seemed a plausible plan, I phoned Nim’s computer to announce I’d be arriving by train in an hour. We threw down our drinks and departed on foot for the station—Lily to continue toward Manhattan and Mordecai, Solarin, and I in the other direction.
At the flat, open platform at Quogue, Lily’s train arrived before ours, around two o’clock. As she climbed aboard with Carioca tucked under her arm, she said, “If there’s any problem getting there by nine, I’ll leave a message on that computer number you gave me.”
It did no good for Solarin and me to study the schedules. The Long Island Railroad has traditionally established its schedules using a Ouija board anyway. I sat on a green slat bench, watching the gaggles of other passengers milling around me. Solarin put the bags down and sat beside me.
He let out a sigh of frustration as he turned again to look down the empty track. “You’d think this was Siberia. I thought people in the West were punctual, that the trains always ran on time.” He jumped up and was pacing up and down like a leashed animal through the thick crowd on the platform. I couldn’t stand watching him, so I hefted the bag with the pieces over my shoulder and stood up, too. Just then they called our train.
Though it’s only about forty-five miles from Quogue to Montauk Point, the trip took over an hour. With the hike to Quogue and the wait on the platform thrown in, it had been nearly two hours since I’d left that message on Nim’s computer from the bar. Still, I didn’t expect to see him—for all I knew, he might phone in for messages once a month.
So I was surprised when, descending from the train, I saw Nim’s long, lean form moving down the tracks in my direction, his coppery hair blowing in the breeze, his long white scarf fluttering with every stride. When he spotted me he grinned like a madman and waved his arm, then broke into a trot, bounding around passengers as they nervously stepped out of his way to avoid a collision. When he reached me he grabbed me with both hands, then swept me into his arms, burying his face in my hair—crushing me to him until I nearly suffocated. He lifted me off my feet, spun me around in a dizzying way, then set me on the ground and held me away for a better look. There were tears in his eyes.
“My God, my God,” he whispered in a broken voice, shaking his head. “I thought for sure you were dead. I haven’t slept a moment since I learned how you’d left Algiers. That storm—then we completely lost track of you!” He couldn’t stop looking at me. “I really thought I’d killed you by sending you off like that.…”
“Having you as a mentor hasn’t exactly improved my health,” I agreed.
He was still beaming down at me and had dragged me to him in another embrace—when suddenly I felt his body stiffen. Slowly he released me, and I looked up at his face. He was staring over my shoulder with an expression that seemed to mingle amazement and disbelief. Or perhaps it was fear—I couldn’t be sure.
Quickly glancing over my shoulder, I saw Solarin descending the steps from the train behind me, carrying our collection of canvas bags. He was looking back at us, his face the same cold mask I remembered from that first day at the club. He was staring at Nim, his unfathomable green eyes glittering in the late afternoon sun. I wheeled back to Nim and started to explain, but his lips were moving as he continued to stare at Solarin as if he were a monster or a ghost. I had to strain to hear him.
“Sascha?” he whispered in a choked voice. “Sascha …”
I flipped back to Solarin, who still stood on the steps with passengers waiting behind him to disembark. His eyes were filled with tears—tears were streaming down his cheeks as his face crumpled.
“Slava!” he cried in a cracked voice. Dropping our bags on the ground, he leaped from the steps and flew past me, throwing himself into Nim’s arms in an embrace of such power, it looked as if they would crush one another into dust. I quickly scrambled for the bag he’d dropped with the pieces. When I’d retrieved it they were still weeping. Nim’s arms were wrapped around Solarin’s head, grasping him frantically. First he would hold him away, look at him, then they embraced each other again as I stood there in astonishment. Passengers streamed around us like water parting around a stone, indifferent as only New Yorkers can be.
“Sascha,” Nim kept murmuring, embracing him repeatedly. Solarin had buried his face in Nim’s collar, his eyes closed, tears pouring down his cheeks. With one hand he clung to Nim’s shoulder as if too weak to stand. I couldn’t believe this.
When the last few passengers had passed, I stepped away to pick up the rest of our scattered bags that Solarin had dropped on the ground.
“Let me get those,” Nim called to me, blowing his nose. When I glanced up he was coming toward me, one arm draped across Solarin’s shoulders, squeezing him from time to time as if trying to make sure he was there, his eyes red from weeping.
“It seems you two have met before,” I said irritably, wondering why no one had ever mentioned this to me.
“Not for twenty years,” said Nim, still smiling at Solarin as they bent to pick up the bags. Then he turned his strange bicolored eyes on me. “I cannot believe, my dear, the joy you’ve brought me. Sascha is my brother.”
Nim’s little Morgan wasn’t really big enough to hold the three of us, let alone our bags. Solarin sat on the bag with the pieces, and I sat on him, the few bags with our belongings squeezed into every nook and cranny. As he drove away from the station, Nim kept looking over at Solarin with an expression of disbelief and joy.
It was odd to see these two men, so cold and self-contained, suddenly overcome with such emotion. I could feel the power of it surging all around me as the car whizzed along, wind rattling through the wooden floorboards. It seemed as deep and dark as their Russian souls, and it belonged to them alone. No one spoke for the longest time. Then Nim reached over and squeezed me on the knee I was trying to keep clear of his stick shift.
“I suppose I should tell you everything,” he said to me.
“That would certainly be refreshing,” I agreed.
He smiled at me. “It’s only been for your own protection—and ours—that I haven’t done so earlier,” he explained. “Alexander and I haven’t seen one another since we were
children. He was six and I was ten when we were parted.…” The tears were still in his eyes, and he reached over to grasp Solarin’s hair as if he couldn’t keep his hands away.
“Let me tell it,” said Solarin, smiling through his tears.
“We’ll both tell it,” Nim said. And as we wheeled along the coast in the open car toward Nim’s exotic estate on the sea, they unfolded a story that for the first time revealed what the Game had cost them.
THE TALE OF TWO PHYSICISTS
We were born on the isle of Krym—that famous peninsula in the Black Sea written of by Homer. Russia had wanted to get her hands on it since the time of Peter the Great, and was still trying when the Crimean War took place.
Our father was a Greek sailor who’d fallen in love with a Russian girl and married her—our mother. He’d become a prosperous shipping merchant with a fleet of small ships.
After the war, things changed for the worse. The world was a mess—and nowhere more than on the Black Sea, surrounded by countries that considered themselves still at war.
But where we lived, life was beautiful. The Mediterranean climate of the southern coast, its olive, laurel, and cypress trees sheltered from snow and bitter wind by the close-lying mountains, the restored ruins of Tatar villages and Byzantine mosques set among the cherry orchards. It was a paradise, far from the foibles and purges of Stalin, who, as his name implied, still ruled Russia with a fist of steel.
A thousand times our father discussed leaving. And yet—though he had many contacts among the shipping fleets along the Danube and Bosporus who would have assured us safe passage—it seemed he could never bring himself to go. Go where? he asked. Surely not home to Greece—or Europe, which was still suffering the throes of postwar reconstruction. It was then that something happened, something that made up his mind. Something that was to change the course of all our lives.
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