The Flanders Panel

Julia felt a profound sense of irritation. At moments of crisis Cesar always slid into his vicious viper mode, aggressively slanderous. But she didn’t want to give way to her ill humour by arguing with him, least of all in front of Munoz.

“It might also,” she replied, feigning patience after mentally counting to ten, “have been someone who, on seeing me come out of the gallery, decided to make himself scarce.”

“It seems very unlikely to me, my dear. Really it does.”

“You probably would have thought it unlikely that Alvaro would turn up with his neck broken, but he did.”

Cesar pursed his lips as if he found the allusion an unfortunate one, at the same time indicating Julia’s plate.

“Your lasagne is getting cold.”

“I don’t give a damn about the lasagne. I want to know what you think. And I want the truth.”

Cesar looked at Munoz, but the latter, utterly inscrutable, was still kneading his ball of bread. Cesar rested his wrists symmetrically on either side of his plate, and stared at the vase containing two carnations, one white, one red, that adorned the centre of the tablecloth.

“Maybe you’re right.” He arched his eyebrows as if the sincerity demanded of him and the affection he felt for Julia were waging a hard-fought battle. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Well, there you are; I’ve said it.” His blue eyes looked at her calmly, tenderly, stripped of the sardonic mask they’d worn before. “I must admit that the car’s being there does worry me.”

Julia threw him a furious look.

“May I know then why you’ve spent the last half-hour playing the fool?” She rapped impatiently on the table with her knuckles. “No, don’t tell me. I know already. Daddy didn’t want his little girl to worry, right? I’d be far better off with my head buried in the sand like an ostrich. Or like Menchu.”

“You won’t solve anything by hurling yourself on people who just happen to look suspicious. Besides, if your fears are justified, it might even be dangerous. Dangerous for you, I mean.”

“I had your pistol.”

“I hope I don’t come to regret giving you that derringer. This isn’t a game, you know. In real life, the baddies have pistols too. And then play chess.”

As if Munoz were doing a stereotyped impression of himself, the word “chess” seemed to breach his apparent apathy.

“After all,” he murmured to no one in particular, “chess is essentially a combination of hostile impulses.”

Cesar and Julia looked at him in surprise. What he’d just said had nothing to do with the conversation. Munoz was staring into space, as if he’d not quite returned from some long journey to remote places.

“My dear friend,” said Cesar, somewhat peeved by the interruption “far be it from me to doubt the blazing truth of your words, but we’d be most grateful if you could be more explicit.”

Munoz continued rolling the ball of bread round and round in his fingers. Today he was wearing an old-fashioned blue jacket and a dark green tie, but the ends of his shirt collar, crumpled and none too clean, curled upwards as usual.

“I don’t know what to say.” He rubbed his chin with the back of his fingers. “I’ve spent the past few days going over and over it all.” He hesitated for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “Thinking about our opponent.”

“As has Julia, I imagine. As have I. We’ve all been thinking about the wretch.”

“It’s not the same thing. Calling him a ‘wretch’ presupposes a subjective judgment… That won’t help us at all, and it could even divert our attention from what is really important. I try to think about him through the only perspective we have at the moment: his chess moves. I mean…” He passed a finger over the misted surface of his wine glass, from which he had drunk nothing, as if the gesture had made him lose the thread of his brief speech. “The style of play reflects the personality of the player. I think I’ve said that to you before.”

Julia leaned towards him, interested.

“You mean that you’ve spent the past few days seriously studying the murderer’s personality?” Do you think you know him better now?“

The vague smile appeared, fleetingly, on Munoz’s lips. But Julia saw that he was deeply serious. He was never ironic.

“There are many different types of player.” His eyes were looking at something in the distance, a familiar world beyond the walls of the restaurant. “Apart from style of play, each player has his own peculiarities, characteristics that distinguish him from other players: Steinitz used to hum Wagner while he played; Morphy never looked at his opponent until the final moment of the game… Others mutter in Latin or in some invented language. It’s a way of dispelling tension, of keeping alert. A player might do it before or after moving a piece. Almost everyone does something.”

“Do you?” asked Julia.

Munoz hesitated, embarrassed.

“I suppose I do.”

“And what’s your peculiarity as a player?”

Munoz looked at his fingers, still kneading the ball of bread.

“We’re off to Penjamo, one j no aitches.”