strawberries and vanilla ice cream, with black coffee. Conversation
was desultory. Alexander apologized for the clutter of lumber, saw-horses,
reinforcing steel, and mesh. He pointed out the extent of the new terrace and
indicated where repair work was being done on the foundations. “If the
contractor had done his work properly to begin with,” he grumbled, “all this
mess could have been avoided.”
The reference,
thought Ann, was to Martin Jones.
After a second
cup of coffee, Alexander slapped his hands down on the table. “Since you’re
interested in chess, I imagine you’d like to see my den.”
Ann looked at
Jehane, but her face was completely neutral.
“I’m a collector
or sorts,” Alexander went on. “I believe I have the finest set of chess
portraits and photographs extant.”
Ann dutifully
rose to her feet. Alexander nodded to Jehane. “A delightful lunch, my dear.” Ann
hastily echoed the compliment. Jehane smiled faintly.
Cypriano led Ann
to his den, a large room at the rear of the house. One wall was covered with
drawings and photographs of chess masters of every age and physiognomy. There
was Sammy Reshevsky perched on a high stool; the autocratic Dr. Tarrasch; Paul
Morphy, leaning languidly over a piano like a young Oscar Wilde. Capablanca,
suave and handsome, faced a brooding Alekhine; Frank Marshall stared off to the
left; Tchigorin peered to the right. There were dozens of group photographs,
including a two-foot by three-foot enlargement depicting the participants of
the great AVRO tournament, with autographs beside each figure.
Alexander darted
back and forth, pointing, declaiming, expounding. When he had exhausted the
wall photographs he drew out albums of classic scores, autographed by the
competitors. In a cabinet he drew Aim’s attention to a group of trophies, cups,
and medals. “My own small achievements.” Another case held books in six
languages.
“Can you read
all these?” asked Ann in wonder.
“Oh, yes. I know
German, Russian, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Serbian, a
smattering of Chinese and Arabic—I’m what is known as a natural linguist.”
Ann expressed
her astonishment, and Alexander nodded his massive head in satisfaction. “I was
trained for the bar,” he said, “but I have always preferred music and chess.
Hence”—he held out his hands—“you see me. No pauper, but by no means a rich
man. Luckily I have a shrewd head for investments.”
He took Ann to
another cabinet, which contained perhaps two dozen sets of chessmen, in a
number of styles and materials: wood, stone, ivory, pewter. “Notice these,” said
Alexander, “. . . Hindu, of the eighteenth century. And these, once used by Ruy
Lopez himself. Which reminds me . .
. yes, before I forget. Among your father’s
effects you will find a handsome set of chessmen, which at one time belonged to
me, and which he acquired under circumstances that are irrelevant. I’d like the
set back, and I think he would want it so. I am naturally willing to pay any
reasonable valuation you put upon it.”
Could this have
been the motive for the invitation? Why else? Ann temporized. “I’m still not in charge
of my father’s estate.”
Alexander’s eyes
snapped. “Your father’s possession of the set came as the result of a joke.”
“I really can’t
make any commitments,” said Ann. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cypriano, but so far I haven’t
had time to think.”
He marched to the
door of the den; the conducted tour was over. He had clearly hoped for an
affirmative answer. After escorting Ann to the living room, he excused himself,
saying that he had an important letter to write.
Even with
Cypriano gone, the atmosphere seemed to cool in a manner Ann could not define.
Jehane was as charming as ever, but the cordiality was gone. Ann presently took
her leave. Her hostess accompanied her to the car and expressed the hope that
Ann would call again. Ann proposed that she should telephone her on the
was desultory. Alexander apologized for the clutter of lumber, saw-horses,
reinforcing steel, and mesh. He pointed out the extent of the new terrace and
indicated where repair work was being done on the foundations. “If the
contractor had done his work properly to begin with,” he grumbled, “all this
mess could have been avoided.”
The reference,
thought Ann, was to Martin Jones.
After a second
cup of coffee, Alexander slapped his hands down on the table. “Since you’re
interested in chess, I imagine you’d like to see my den.”
Ann looked at
Jehane, but her face was completely neutral.
“I’m a collector
or sorts,” Alexander went on. “I believe I have the finest set of chess
portraits and photographs extant.”
Ann dutifully
rose to her feet. Alexander nodded to Jehane. “A delightful lunch, my dear.” Ann
hastily echoed the compliment. Jehane smiled faintly.
Cypriano led Ann
to his den, a large room at the rear of the house. One wall was covered with
drawings and photographs of chess masters of every age and physiognomy. There
was Sammy Reshevsky perched on a high stool; the autocratic Dr. Tarrasch; Paul
Morphy, leaning languidly over a piano like a young Oscar Wilde. Capablanca,
suave and handsome, faced a brooding Alekhine; Frank Marshall stared off to the
left; Tchigorin peered to the right. There were dozens of group photographs,
including a two-foot by three-foot enlargement depicting the participants of
the great AVRO tournament, with autographs beside each figure.
Alexander darted
back and forth, pointing, declaiming, expounding. When he had exhausted the
wall photographs he drew out albums of classic scores, autographed by the
competitors. In a cabinet he drew Aim’s attention to a group of trophies, cups,
and medals. “My own small achievements.” Another case held books in six
languages.
“Can you read
all these?” asked Ann in wonder.
“Oh, yes. I know
German, Russian, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Greek, Serbian, a
smattering of Chinese and Arabic—I’m what is known as a natural linguist.”
Ann expressed
her astonishment, and Alexander nodded his massive head in satisfaction. “I was
trained for the bar,” he said, “but I have always preferred music and chess.
Hence”—he held out his hands—“you see me. No pauper, but by no means a rich
man. Luckily I have a shrewd head for investments.”
He took Ann to
another cabinet, which contained perhaps two dozen sets of chessmen, in a
number of styles and materials: wood, stone, ivory, pewter. “Notice these,” said
Alexander, “. . . Hindu, of the eighteenth century. And these, once used by Ruy
Lopez himself. Which reminds me . .
. yes, before I forget. Among your father’s
effects you will find a handsome set of chessmen, which at one time belonged to
me, and which he acquired under circumstances that are irrelevant. I’d like the
set back, and I think he would want it so. I am naturally willing to pay any
reasonable valuation you put upon it.”
Could this have
been the motive for the invitation? Why else? Ann temporized. “I’m still not in charge
of my father’s estate.”
Alexander’s eyes
snapped. “Your father’s possession of the set came as the result of a joke.”
“I really can’t
make any commitments,” said Ann. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cypriano, but so far I haven’t
had time to think.”
He marched to the
door of the den; the conducted tour was over. He had clearly hoped for an
affirmative answer. After escorting Ann to the living room, he excused himself,
saying that he had an important letter to write.
Even with
Cypriano gone, the atmosphere seemed to cool in a manner Ann could not define.
Jehane was as charming as ever, but the cordiality was gone. Ann presently took
her leave. Her hostess accompanied her to the car and expressed the hope that
Ann would call again. Ann proposed that she should telephone her on the
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