No wonder, then, that he sometimes woke up choking on something that felt like fear. Sometimes he couldn’t quite stand it—the subtle ostentation, the supernatural calm, the fucking order of it all, like a planned economy.
He sat up. He got out of bed and put on his coat over his pajamas, and he put on his running shoes—bought as a Christmas present by Nina, who had grinned and pinched at his hefty trunk—and he punched in the security code at the doorway, blinking a subterranean green, and he found himself outside on the sidewalk. He tried to remember the last time he’d been out alone. There were some early acts of rashness, before the ear came through the window, and there had been a few moments of defiance since then. He’d sneaked out early one forgotten anniversary, when he knew there was no time to order something, and he’d been proud of his romanticism—risking life and limb to get his wife a diamond bracelet. Had she worn it? He couldn’t remember.
The cool of the morning air, the squeak of the snow under his shoes—they were quickly soaked, and a gangrenous ache started climbing up his calves—reminded him of those painfully cold mornings back in the early eighties when he’d run about the city before dawn started melting across the sky, free in his shrinking anonymity. He could envy this strange American woman, almost, and whatever wound had made her leave her country alone and come here to work for him for free. Whatever it was, whatever it had broken in her, it had also broken the mechanism that was small, that huddled, that took tiny steps and looked behind shoulders.
In the distance, Aleksandr could almost see the inky spines of the modern office buildings, the peeling gilt of the moldering palaces, the slate-colored twist of the Neva. No one knew he was out, and under his heavy hat he might walk around unrecognized for hours. He’d spent years risking everything for the major freedoms—the right of the people to vote, to buy and sell, to cruelly caricature their leaders. But there was the small thing, too, of walking unsupervised through the snowy streets. Aleksandr headed down Nevsky Prospekt. The bakeries were just starting to open, and light came bleeding through the windows of Kazan Cathedral. Aleksandr turned down Naberezhnaya reki Moiki. In the dour crepuscular light, the Moika looked like aluminum. Soon Nina would be waking up and climbing on the treadmill, and maybe she’d wonder where he was, and maybe soon she’d start to worry. Maybe she’d leave two messages on his cell phone, curt and exasperated, and maybe the third would open up into something long and pleading and tender. Maybe she’d call Vlad, and maybe he’d take a car out and track Aleksandr’s muddy sneaker-prints across the city. But for now Aleksandr was safe from all of that. For now he was out in the world: alone, the wind carving up his lungs, his city a little closer with every step.
16
IRINA
St. Petersburg, 2006
Aleksandr was brilliant, of course. Anybody could see that, and everybody did. But he wasn’t quite as I’d imagined him, or maybe it’s more accurate to say he wasn’t quite as I imagine my father had imagined him. When the maid set down his afternoon espresso, Aleksandr never thanked her—he rarely even looked up. When his colleagues disappointed him, he snapped at them; when he heard something he deemed stupid, he raised an eyebrow with such withering contempt that all talk in the room ground to a halt. The apartment was absurd: it was as decadent as Versailles, with an endless supply of dumb little contraptions intended to make life easier than it should be—an appliance that simultaneously toasted your English muffin and fried your eggs, bottles of perfume with wood stems for all-day fresh fragrance. And the marriage was exactly as Viktor had described it. It was the kind of marriage that embarrasses everybody by its transparency—all of its petty dynamics and long-standing resentments were obvious in the way that Nina handed Aleksandr his espresso and the way his eyes followed her out of a room. Aleksandr’s colleagues respected him—and more than a few of them were in awe of him—but Nina’s departures were always followed by a tense, soggy moment when everybody looked down at their papers and tried not to show their pity. I didn’t spend a lot of time speculating about it. Marriages fall apart so often, and in so many different, excruciating ways, that trying to sort out the particularities of anybody’s is like trying to unspool the proximate cause of death of a person with no immune system. Though at times there was an edge of fatigue in Aleksandr’s eyes, or an ironic twist to his words, that made me think of Elizabeta and the way he’d looked when he heard her name.
But then it’s possible I was just projecting. Everybody likes a story about love long gone. When I thought of Jonathan—if I thought of Jonathan—he came back in flashes, on mute, through static. Our time together had taken on the surreal dimensions of a dream or a childhood.
I took to keeping longer and longer hours at Aleksandr’s, since there was nothing impelling me toward anything else. I got the sense that Viktor and Boris were similarly situated—they were the kind of young people who probably slept on half-deflated mattresses, who kept their books in a pile and their appliances unassembled. They seemed to be living the refugee life of students who haven’t yet learned that they’re supposed to find meaning in things, not just ideas.
But even though I started spending long days in Aleksandr’s apartment—twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours, stumbling ever later out into the bitter dark, ringing the door and being buzzed into the hostel, receiving looks from the man at the front desk that ranged from disapproval to indifference to knowing amusement—Aleksandr and I spoke no further about my father. Sometimes he’d walk toward me with a look of determination, and I’d be almost sure that he’d found something—my father’s original letter, perhaps, or some conclusive answer to my father’s questions, or some magic strength to live and to die. But he didn’t. He handed me no answers. What he handed me instead were press releases, drafted e-mails, rally posters. Gruesome numbers about the bombings: the 300 dead, the 108 buildings destroyed, the hundreds of Chechens detained, the seventeen who were ultimately found guilty. They were the kind of facts that make one self-conscious about the search for illumination. Which was a good thing, since none was forthcoming. Weeks passed, in fact, before Aleksandr and I had another proper conversation.
It was late, and I was about to reluctantly leave for the day. I’d been retranslating an editorial for a British newspaper, and I waved it at Aleksandr. “There’s that,” I said. He was sitting at his laptop. On the picture window behind him, I could see the reflection of a game of online chess. On the table sat an actual set—expensive, probably, ancient-looking and beautiful. I wondered about that. I had never seen him play.
“Thank you,” he said, waving me away.
I couldn’t look away from the set. “Are you playing?” I said.
“Chess.”
“Yes, I see that.”
He dragged a bishop into the center of the screen, then made the corresponding move on the set. “You played at home, right?” he said. His voice was hoarse, as though he’d recently talked quite a lot or hadn’t spoken in several days. It would have to be the first, I decided.
“Not too much. With one of the chessmen in Harvard Square. And with my father, some, as I said.” I waited for him to comment. He did not.
“You know the Fool’s Mate?”
“No.”
“It’s the shortest possible route to checkmate. It’s this.” He reset the game on his chessboard. “Two staggered pawns and a bishop in the right place. That’s it.”
“Does that ever happen in real life?”
“No, never. It’s just theoretical, really. It’s a scrupulously theoretical game.” He sounded, I thought, slightly bitter.
I stared at his set. The manes of the knights twisted out behind them as if moved by some mythical battlefield wind; the kings were bent, gnarled, stately. They were magnificent, more like statues on a medieval bridge than what I had to remind myself they were—essentially toys. The look of the kings made me bold.
“How did you learn to play?” I asked.
Aleksandr scratched his nose. “I saw a problem
in the newspaper and I solved it.”
“Yes, but how did you learn?”
“That’s how I learned. I was four.” With his thumb, he tapped over the fool’s king. It landed on the board with a click. “Then my mother found me a trainer. Then I enrolled in a correspondence course. Then I came here. The end.”
“Oh,” I said, and I didn’t know what else to say.
“Did you know that in Saudi Arabia they play without bishops or queens?”
“I guess that sort of makes sense.”
“It really is a subversive, militantly feminist game, when you think about it.”
“Who was your last match?”
He looked at me, as if trying to ascertain whether I was being cruel. “A computer,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Oh.” I lowered my eyes. I remembered this now, vaguely—the amused headlines, the newspapers tripping blithely sardonic over the revelation that man had invented his own match. The best chess mind in the world was defeated by a machine; what, then, was the use of chess minds, or minds in general? I was almost glad that my father hadn’t kept his own mind long enough to see it. “I remember something about that, I think,” I said.
“You probably do. Newsweek called it ‘The Brain’s Last Stand.’ ” He laughed ruefully. Then he started to tell me about it.
The thing about the loss, he said, was this. If there had ever been a point to chess—and Aleksandr would be the first to admit that there might not be any point to chess—it was conclusively defeated by the revelation that all chess problems of the world could be unscrambled unconsciously by robot neurons firing into the void. Great chess was no longer the elegant accomplishment of the human mind; the true accomplishment was the ability to create something bigger and better than oneself and to then stand back, amazed. Humans should retire or else find more modest modes of occupation. Everybody knew this. Even the jokes afterward—at the bars, on the news, on the Internet—reflected this knowledge. “In a related story,” one of the talk-show hosts had said, “the New York Mets were beaten by a microwave oven.”
The worst part was the speed with which the program played—Aleksandr’s moves were instantaneously matched and outsmarted by the computer, without the hemming and sweating and doubting that made any brilliant human move feel as though it could have been otherwise. The computer moved with a clinical ruthlessness, and it made Aleksandr understand with a sickening certainty that there was nothing he could think of that the computer hadn’t thought of first. It worked with the efficiency of a guillotine.
The man who played for the computer was soft-looking, chubby-cheeked, his hands like chicken cutlets, his leporidian face innocent and wide. He made a little gesture with each move, a nearly imperceptible half-shrug (Aleksandr was never sure whether or not the cameras had recorded it) as if trying to disown it—not me, he seemed to say, not me who’s doing this to you, who’s humiliating you, who’s unraveling the human brain. I’m just the conduit here, the messenger, the mechanism. I am, humbly, just the pawn.
In the end, it took a paltry nineteen moves—the shortest loss of Aleksandr’s career. He’d opened with the Caro-Kann Defense—not his usual against human opponents, but for a little while, things were under control: he met the computer’s advancing duo of pawns with his own staggered pair, and a brief frenzy of exchange commenced. Next came the ritualistic introduction of the knights. He’d broken his own rule—don’t move the same piece twice in the opening—but the beginning was conventional and promising enough. The computer advanced its knight farther, and Aleksandr introduced the second of his. The three knights assembled in a crooked-elbow single file. The computer advanced its bishop. Aleksandr advanced his pawn to e6, bringing it to the flank of his farthermost knight. The computer roused its second knight in response. Then Aleksandr flicked his pawn forward to h6, and as soon as he lifted his finger, he knew. The avid watchers knew. He’d moved it too early in the sequence—he should have introduced his bishop, then awaited the grand entrance of the computer’s queen, and only then brought his pawn to h6 to menace the computer’s closest knight. That knight would have retreated to the center of the board only to be followed by Aleksandr’s. The h6 move in response to the knight was a mistake. It was a mistake, but it wasn’t a mistake of strategy—it wasn’t a misjudgment, an incorrect forecast into the future. It was a mistake of memory, of basic competence—like losing your car keys, like dropping a dish.
The computer’s knight took another pawn, at e6, and crouched breathing down the neck of Aleksandr’s king. Should he have taken the knight immediately? Maybe. Later, many, many people—mostly anonymous, mostly on the Internet, mostly people who’d had a decade in their pajamas to think about it—would say that he should have gone straight in then. But he hadn’t. He’d wanted to give his king another square to maneuver. He’d allowed the common knight sacrifice, which was not a reflection of the computer’s fantastic strategy, in particular; that sacrifice was a dull, almost juvenile move, well known to theory. He’d used it himself against Rusayev in one of their fifty-three games—back when he’d been the new astonishment, the brilliance at which everyone had marveled.
At this point, the newspapers said later, there’d been a look of “terror” on Aleksandr’s face that obtained for the rest of the game.
So he’d lost the ability to castle, which the computer then did—quietly, brutally, without comment, the soft man’s brow remaining smooth and dry.
Aleksandr took the knight, as he had to, and the bishop sailed into the space that his pawn had prematurely abandoned and put him in check. He jockeyed his king to the right; he had nowhere else to go. It was only the tenth move of the game.
The computer’s second bishop crept halfway down the board and sat there waiting. Aleksandr halfheartedly menaced it with his knight, and it temporarily retreated by one square.
There was another exchange of pawns, this one dirtier and more desperate. Aleksandr’s neck was soaking wet, and he instinctively looked around the room for an exit. Across the table, the fat man looked calm, his cheeks alternately swollen and slack with the movement of his self-satisfied breaths. This man—who was he? Had he helped to build the computer? Had he studied chess theory and computer code for years, learning how to translate the one into the other, hoping to create an entity that could extrapolate and infer? Probably not. Probably he was a nothing, a person who knew how to push a button or two. Aleksandr thought bitterly that he wasn’t only a traitor to chess, as some of the Internet critics had said. He was a traitor to people.
Aleksandr had closed his eyes and sacrificed his queen to take a bishop and a rook. He took the fat man’s bishop greedily, as a kind of petty, interim revenge. This was a frantic move: he could feel himself falling down a well; he could hear the scrape of fingernails against concrete. Everybody could. The fat man coughed. The crowd murmured, looked away.
And then he’d resigned. He might not have been smart enough to beat a computer, but he was smart enough to know when he was beaten by a computer. He wasn’t going to submit to a humiliating inevitability; he wasn’t going to let himself be chased into ever more hopeless cover as the entire world watched. He stood up. He walked out. He did not shake the fat man’s hand.
Afterward, people kept asking him about the pawn—the h6 move, a beat too early. He’d had to tell them he didn’t know, he didn’t know; it was a mistake, and he didn’t know where it had come from or why. On the Internet, conspiracy theorists wondered whether he’d thrown the match intentionally, so that he might one day demand a rematch, so that he might one day win more money. But that wasn’t true. Maybe it wasn’t true, either, that a computer couldn’t be beaten. Maybe it wasn’t true that a computer’s brilliance exceeded all human imagining. Maybe it was just that Aleksandr was forty. Maybe it was just that Aleksandr was tired.
Now the computer sat in the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., and every day it played reenactments of that final game for public viewing, automatically and on rep
eat.
Aleksandr told me this, and we were silent. It was the kind of confession that makes you so uncomfortable that the only possible response is to offer one of your own.
“Well,” I said. “I have a disease that’s going to make me lose my mind.”
Aleksandr raised his eyebrows. “What?” Behind his voice, there was a faint hint of laughter. People’s response to outlandish information is often to laugh.
“It’s called Huntington’s,” I said. “It’s what my father died of. They can test you for it. It’s motor functioning, first, actually, then cognitive functioning. Cortex on down.”
Aleksandr looked away, which is what everybody does. Then he looked back, and I watched him trying to harness the proper reserves of compassion and pragmatism and empathetic imagination so that he could formulate the right response. Announcements like the one I’d just made have a tendency to fluster and upset people, and their shock and bewilderment often become the central facts of the discussion. I’ve had a long time to think about Huntington’s, and they haven’t. But it’s true that I sometimes resent the way other people’s responses so often own these conversations, and I appreciated Aleksandr’s efforts to avoid making that the case.
“This will happen to you—soon?” he said. I could hear him keeping his voice careful and clear.
“This year. Or maybe next.”
“God.” He looked down. He took off his glasses and squeezed the skin above his nose, a gesture I’d seen him do often enough, and for mundane enough reasons, that I did not believe it to be affected. “God. Irina. I’m so sorry.”
It had always been a difficult thing to say to someone. I always felt guilty for ruining the other person’s day, and the other person invariably felt guilty if their day hadn’t been sufficiently ruined. I will admit it sometimes felt strange to me to make the confession to someone and later catch them laughing, or flirting, or eating a sandwich, instead of tearing at the injustice of it all or sitting quietly at the center of a grand and monstrous grief. The disaster of my life might be only the worst thing another person heard that afternoon; they might have forgotten by dinnertime; they might have been more heartbroken by watching certain movies. I’m always confronted, quite horrifically, with my exact net worth in the eyes of the other person—whether they cry, or have to sit down, or pull their mouth into the expression of a frown even though their eyes are somewhere else.
A Partial History of Lost Causes Page 29
