by Jack Vance
Thinking only to demonstrate her trust and affection, Pearl had handed them to Roland wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a pink ribbon. Edgar Maudley could scarcely contain his fury.
For several months after the marriage the Cyprianos saw nothing of Roland and Pearl. They were having troubles of their own, chiefly connected with their new house. The spring had brought heavy rains to Marin County, and the downhill corner of the house, under which there was a certain amount of compacted fill, had begun to sag. Alexander, investigating, found a crack in the foundation which caused him great concern. He wanted to complain to Pearl, but Jehane would not hear of it. Pearl, after all, had been more than generous about the mortgage, the interest being a mere nominal 3 per cent. Alexander had groused and sulked and spent the rest of that day in his study.
About this time, Roland showed signs of restiveness. Pearl was working too hard at keeping him happy. She had bought him a white Jaguar roadster as a surprise, conceiving it to be exactly the sort of car Roland would enjoy owning, and she was astounded and hurt when he showed no enthusiasm for it, referring to it, through some perverse logic of his own, as the bird cage. Pearl was an excellent cook. She devoted a great deal of effort to the concoction of imaginative meals, accompanied by the right wines. Roland took polite note of her efforts, but again and again he hurt her by wolfing down half a loaf of French bread with a can of sardines or a chunk of cheese an hour or two before dinner.
But Pearl had redoubled her efforts. It was evident, for example, that Roland enjoyed informality. Pearl bought a gay red-checked tablecloth, a pair of saucy ceramic candelabra in the form of roosters, and milkglass goblets; and she served him a dinner the pièce de résistance of which was duck stuffed with wild rice, raisins, and glacé fruit, the whole garnished with oranges. Roland made no comment, but during dinner he appeared more than usually thoughtful. The next day he announced that he was going off by himself for a week or two.
Pearl was too stunned to expostulate. She pretended understanding. Roland departed and never came back.
About this time Alexander Cypriano, making another survey of the foundation, discovered that the crack in the foundation had widened. He probed with a hacksaw blade and could find no reinforcing steel in the concrete. This was too much. He strode into the house and, before Jehane knew what he was up to, telephoned Pearl and told her of the sorry state of the building. Pearl agreed in a dreary voice that of course she took complete responsibility for the soundness of the house, and she had driven out to Inisfail, inspected the crack, and said she would see that appropriate repairs were made. She stayed for dinner, and in her state of depression drank a great deal more than was usual for her. Jehane wanted her to spend the night, but Pearl insisted on leaving. On the way down the hill she ran off the road and was killed.
She died intestate, and Roland automatically inherited. After the death of her late husband, Rex Orr, Pearl had entrusted her investments to the Property Management Department of The California and Pacific Bank; and the Probate Court, taking cognizance of this fact, as well as of the circumstances of Pearl’s marriage, appointed the bank administrator of the estate. Hence six months would have to elapse before Roland Nelson could assume complete control.
If Roland felt guilt or grief, he gave no indication, though he attended the funeral decently dressed in a dark suit. Alexander took occasion to mention the faulty foundation and the fact that Pearl had undertaken to set matters right. Roland pointed out that as yet he had no title to the estate, that he was without financial resources of any kind—in fact, he was penniless. He ascertained the name of the contractor—Martin Jones—and said he would see if an adjustment would be made.
Roland kept his promise. He spoke to Martin Jones, but the sole result was that Roland went to work for Jones as a laborer.
To this point Jehane had been speaking in a soft unaccented voice, with an air of detachment. Now she became uncomfortable, twining her fingers, frowning out the window. “These are things I do not like to talk about. I’m sure you’ve suspected that Roland and I . . . well, frankly, we had been lovers. I use the word in a general sense, because I have no idea what emotion, if any, Roland felt. He never told me, and I never asked. I’m not even sure what kind of emotion I felt.” Jehane pondered a moment. “The relationship was confused, and yet perfectly simple. I’m sure I was no more than a superficial incident in his life.” She shrugged, and made an attempt to return to her previous detachment.
“The thing started when I first met Roland five years ago. You’re wondering, what of Alexander? How is it that I obviously feel no guilt—that I can talk about it this way to perfect strangers? The fact is, Alexander and I have no physical relationship. We never have had. Before we were married he explained his . . . well, views, and I made no objection.
I think I was even relieved. I had been married once before, to a . . . well, I’ll merely say that I agreed to Alexander’s proposal. And our marriage hasn’t worked out too badly. I’m a sister to him, an aunt, a mother. Psychologically, perhaps physically, he is not virile. I hasten to say that he has no peculiar inclinations; it’s just that sex means nothing to him. I suppose the situation seems remarkable. Anyway, Alexander was fully aware of my relationship with Roland, and made no complaints.”
Jehane’s voice took on a tone of sad amusement. “Eventually, for some mysterious reason, Alexander became annoyed. It may be because Roland and I were too casual about our affair. In any event, Alexander insisted that the relationship come to an end. I obeyed him, at least until I decided whether or not to stay married to him. Roland just shrugged.
“A month or so later he married Pearl, and I saw very little of him—although he telephoned, asking me to meet him. Naturally I refused. When Roland left Pearl, he called me again and asked me to go to Ireland with him, of all places. Why Ireland? Who knows? Anyway, I said ‘no.’ and Roland became angry. He’d already written off his marriage to Pearl, and he thought of Alexander as a petulant child. There was no arguing with him. I simply refused.”
“Pearl was killed,” Jehane went on, “and Roland became moody. He rented an old house from Martin Jones and cut himself off from everyone. His whole life seemed to be in flux; he was determined to make some sort of change, but hadn’t decided exactly how to go about it.” Jehane laughed wryly. “Perhaps I’m projecting my own feelings into Roland, because this was exactly the frame of mind I was in. Why didn’t I leave Alexander and go to live with Roland? First, there was Alexander; second, I was afraid. I’m sure Roland would have become bored with me, just as he became with Pearl. And this takes us back to the cracked foundation and the mortgage. . . .”
Alexander had become preoccupied with a book he was writing—a critique of ancient Hindu chess— and seemed to forget the cracked foundation.
In March, Roland came into control of Pearl’s estate, including the mortgage on the Cyprianos’ house. The event prompted Alexander to make another inspection of the foundation; the crack had widened still further. Alexander at once composed a formal letter to Roland. He stated that the house had been bought with a warranty of sound construction, that Pearl had undertaken to honor this warranty, and Alexander now called upon Roland to perform in like manner. Jehane expected that Roland would throw the letter away.
But Roland appeared at the house on the evening of the day he received the letter. Alexander showed him the foundation, Roland took a cursory look, and they returned inside. Roland took the mortgage from his pocket, slapped it down on the table. “I’ll play you a game of chess,” he told Alexander. “I put up the mortgage—if you win, you can have it and make your own repairs.”
“And what do I put up? If I lose?”
“Jehane.”
Alexander’s eyebrows rose. “Jehane?”
“Exactly. She’s nothing to you but a housekeeper. If you lose, you can get yourself another.”
Alexander had snorted; then, contemplating the mortgage, he massaged his chin and gave an excited
laugh. “Very well. I agree to your terms.”
Jehane, standing to the side, had turned slowly and gone out on the deck to stand in the gathering dusk. Through the window she could look down into the living room. Alexander brought forth the Morphy Presentation set—a sign that he regarded the game as highly important. The two men seated themselves, the beautiful old pieces were set up. Alexander held out his closed fists, Roland touched one of them. He drew White.
Alexander Cypriano waited placidly while Roland Nelson considered his opening. If Roland played his usual game, it would be the Ruy Lopez, a King’s Gambit, the ancient Evans’s Gambit, perhaps the Colle System, or some nameless dramatic irregularity which Roland might attempt on the spur of the moment. Alexander had few fears for the outcome. Whenever he concentrated on his close, careful game he defeated Roland; he expected no other outcome now.
Roland studied the board for two minutes. Alexander sat quietly. The chess pieces facing each other had come to life, each with its distinctive personality.
Roland played knight to KB3; Alexander smiled faintly and played pawn to Q4. Roland played pawn to QKt3. Alexander shrugged, played pawn to QB4. Roland played pawn to K3; Alexander, knight to QB3; and Roland fianchettoed his bishop.
Alexander finally made a comment. “I see you have advanced in your thinking by perhaps sixty years.”
“When I play chess for fun, I play my game,” said Roland. “When I play to win, I play your game.”
“We shall see.”
The game proceeded, infinitely cautious. Alexander exchanged pawns, and presently knights, but the game stayed even. Alexander maintained an imposing pawn mass in the center, while Roland’s pieces had greater mobility. Jehane watched from the deck for perhaps half an hour; tension seemed to ride the hunched backs of the two men in the room below. She turned suddenly and looked out toward the Pacific, where a peaches-and-cream sunset had faded to afterglow. Up the dark slopes of Mount Tamalpais there were occasional twinkles of light; out across the valley twinkled others—snug homes, and farmsteads, and a wan cluster where Inisfail lay.
Jehane turned back to the chess game. Alexander was reaching out; he made a move in his ponderous way, which somehow conveyed remorseless inevitability. He seemed calm and confident. Roland brooded. . . . A crisis was imminent: this Jehane could see, and it seemed to augur badly for Roland. Jehane turned away again. Her emotions could not be defined, or perhaps they constituted a single emotion that had never before existed.
She walked down the deck and went into her bedroom.
The game proceeded. Alexander with almost contemptuous disdain postponed castling in order to maintain his momentum—a strategy that yielded fruit when he forced an exchange of bishops, leaving Roland’s king-side defenses in precarious balance. Then Roland suddenly thrust forth his queen.
“Check,” he said.
Alexander studied the situation. The threat was not particularly alarming. In fact, it seemed pointless. He advanced a pawn, blocking the critical diagonal and attacking the queen. But Roland, rather than retreat his queen, moved out his knight. If Alexander took the queen, Roland would fork king and queen. Alexander chewed his lower lip and prudently moved his queen. Roland checked with his knight, and on the next move won a pawn that Alexander’s retreat had left unguarded. The crisis eased. Roland was a pawn up, but the advantage was balanced by Alexander’s king’s rook, which had seized an open file.
Jehane, in her room, tried to read. The words blurred. Her ears strained for sounds from the living room. She went back out on the deck. From what she could see of the board, the game seemed even. Looking down at the two men, she felt a great pity for both. Each in his own way was a helpless child, as helpless as one of the pieces on the chessboard, which now breathed such a defiant imitation of life.
She wandered down into the living room just in time to see Roland move a pawn forward and lean back in his chair, tension gone.
Alexander stared down at the board. He reached, his hand heavy. When he moved, Roland almost casually nudged his queen forward. Alexander’s jaw dropped; he glanced at Roland in utter disbelief. He took the queen with a pawn, and Roland moved a knight. “Check.” The black king fled. Another knight’s move. “Check.” The black king stood at bay, isolated from its queen by the pawn that had captured the white queen. The black king backed into the rook’s square, and again the white knight loped forward.
“Checkmate.”
Alexander’s face was a pale mask of fury. He seized the black king and hurled it across the room. Then he jumped to his feet and turned on Jehane. “Pack your clothes,” he snarled. “I’ve lost the game.”
Jehane, standing in the shadow, shook her head. She spoke in a slow, calm voice. The words seemed to hang in mid-air. “I’m not yours to give. If either of you had asked me, this silliness would never have been played out.”
Nothing more was said. Jehane’s husband sat stunned; her lover seemed exhausted. Cypriano slowly packed the chessmen into their compartments. He picked up the black king, brushed it with his sleeve and stowed it away with the others. Then he shut the case and handed it to Roland.
Roland took the case, expressionless. He went to the door, where he turned. He then tore the mortgage into eight pieces and laid the scraps gently on a table. And departed.
Alexander Cypriano from that moment had played no more chess. “And,” said Jehane, “never again did I set eyes on Roland.”
CHAPTER 7
“That,” said Jehane, “is the story of what happened to the mortgage. I’m sorry it took so long, but I could hardly explain it any other way. . . . If you will examine the black king, you’ll notice that the crown is bent.”
“I noticed,” said Ann.
Jehane made a gesture toward their glasses. “Sherry?”
Ann and Tarr both accepted.
“Roland was a strange man,” said Jehane. “I’m sure I did what was right. Neither of us would have gained—though Roland might still be alive, which I suppose could be considered a gain. Things happened as they had to happen. Now that he’s dead, I notice the gap he leaves, but I feel no grief. Certainly not as much as Pearl would have felt.”
“Out of sheer curiosity, Mrs. Cypriano,” asked Tarr in a peculiarly respectful voice, “what are your plans?”
Jehane smiled. “Perhaps you’ll think me perverse, but I have an urge to go to Ireland. I don’t know what I’ll find there, but I think I’ll be going soon.”
“With your husband?” asked Ann.
“No.”
Ann rose. “Thank you for being so honest.”
“I had no choice. You would have thought us thieves otherwise.”
In San Rafael, Tarr lured Ann into a coffee shop. He ordered two hamburgers and a milkshake, explaining that he had not yet had lunch. Ann ordered coffee, in spite of Tarr’s insistence that she eat. “Have a sandwich, or a sundae, or pie. Shoot the works. It’s on me.”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“You’re dieting?”
“Not at the moment.”
“I’m relieved. It would be a terrible mistake. Every one of your pounds is important. There’s not one wasted.”
“I suppose you intend that as a compliment,” said Ann. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m not the heavy-handed lout I seem.”
“You don’t seem heavy-handed,” said Ann. “Just light-headed.”
Tarr grinned and ate his hamburgers. Presently he said, “Now you know what happened to the mortgage.”
Ann shuddered. “If I were Jehane I’d have hated him.”
“And Alexander wants his chess set back—which is rubbing it in.”
“He’s willing to pay for it, or so he says.”
“Everyone is so fair,” said Tarr cynically. “But somewhere among the group is a blackmailer.”
“Why ‘among the group’? It seems to me it might have been practically anyone.”
“The blackmailer took great pains to con
ceal his identity—which argues that he, or she, is someone your father knew well. I’d certainly like to talk to your mother.”
“You probably can in a day or so.”
Tarr looked up. “How come?”
“Her letter said as much.”
“Oh, the letter.” Tarr seemed to lose interest. He leaned back in the booth. “You’re a wealthy gal now. A poor slob of a cop doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
Ann laughed. “Which slob did you have in mind?”
“I was referring to Inspector Tom Tarr. I have scruples, but luckily they don’t stand in the way of living off my wife.”
“My father tried it,” said Ann. “He didn’t seem to like it.”
“I’m of a different temperament. More independent.”
“More independent?”
“Certainly. Your father couldn’t figure out how to adapt.”
“You’re confusing ‘independence’ and ‘hypocrisy.’ ”
“There may be a difference,” conceded Tarr. “Still, it all seems simple enough to me. Pearl served roast duck with oranges, admittedly a vile concoction, when he wanted bread and cheese. Why not tell her so in a nice way, instead of suffering so dramatically? He’d have had his bread and cheese; his wife would be happy. It seems to me your father was being unnecessarily difficult.”
“He was a hard man to live with, no doubt about it.”
“Now me, I’m not. If I wanted bread and cheese, everybody within twenty miles would know it, including: my wife.”
