The Flanders Panel

“In chess too,” he said at last, “there’s a limit to the forecasts one can make. The best possible move, or the most probable one, is the one that leaves one’s opponent in the least advantageous position. That’s why one way of estimating the expediency of the next move consists simply in imagining that move has been made and then going on to analyse the game from your opponent’s point of view. That means falling back on your own resources, but this time putting yourself in your enemy’s shoes. From there, you conjecture another move and then immediately put yourself in the role of your opponent’s opponent, in other words, yourself. And so on indefinitely, as far ahead as you can. By that, I mean that I know where I’ve got to, but I don’t know how far he’s got.”

“According to that reasoning,” Julia said, “isn’t he most likely to choose the move that will do most damage to us?”

Munoz scratched the back of his neck. Then, very slowly, he moved the white bishop to square d3, placing it near the black queen. He seemed absorbed in deep thought while he analysed the new situation.

“One thing I’m sure of,” he said at last, “is that he’s going to take another of our pieces.”

XI Analytical Approaches

Don’t be silly. The flag is impossible, hence it can’t be waving. The wind is waving.

Douglas R. Hofstadter

The sound of the telephone made her jump. Unhurriedly, she removed the solvent-soaked plug of cotton from the corner of the painting on which she was working – a stubborn bit of varnish on a tiny area of Ferdinand of Ostenburg’s clothing – and put the tweezers between her teeth. Then she looked distrustfully at the telephone by her feet on the carpet, wondering if, when she picked it up, she would once again have to listen to one of those long silences that had become the norm over the last couple of weeks. At first she’d just held the phone to her ear without saying anything, waiting impatiently for some noise, even if only breathing, that would indicate life, a human presence, at the other end, however disquieting that might be. But she found only a void, without even the dubious consolation of hearing the click of the phone being put down. It was always the mystery caller – male or female – who held out longest. Whoever it was simply stayed there, listening, showing no sign of haste or concern about the possibility that the police might be tapping the phone to trace the call. The worst thing was that the person who telephoned her had no idea that he was safe. Julia had told no one about the calls, not even Cesar or Munoz. Without quite knowing why, she felt ashamed of them, humiliated by the way they invaded her privacy, invaded the night and the silence she had so loved before the nightmare began. It was like a ritual violation, without words or gestures, repeated every day.

When the phone had rung for the sixth time, she picked it up, and was relieved to hear Menchu’s voice at the other end. Her relief lasted only a moment, however, for Menchu was extremely drunk. Perhaps, Julia thought with some concern, she had something stronger than alcohol in her blood. Raising her voice to make herself heard above the buzz of conversation and music, half of her phrases stumbling into incoherence, Menchu told Julia that she was at Stephan’s and then recounted some confused story involving Max, the Van Huys and Paco Montegrifo. Julia didn’t understand, and when she asked her friend to explain again what had happened, Menchu burst into hysterical laughter. Then she hung up.

The air was heavy, cold and damp. Shivering inside her cumbersome three-quarter-length leather coat, Julia went down to the street and hailed a taxi. The lights of the city slid across her face in flashes as she nodded now and again in response to the taxi driver’s unwanted chatter. She leaned her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. Before leaving, she’d switched on the electronic alarm and locked the security door, turning the key twice in the lock. At the downstairs door she couldn’t help casting a suspicious glance at the grid next to her bell, afraid of finding another card there. But she found nothing. The invisible player was still pondering his next move.

There were a lot of people at Stephan’s. The first one she recognised was Cesar, sitting on a sofa with Sergio. The young man was nodding, looking charming, his tousled blond hair over his eyes, as Cesar whispered something to him. Cesar was sitting with his legs crossed, smoking. The hand holding the cigarette rested on his knee; he waved the other in the air as he spoke, close to his protege’s arm but never quite touching it. As soon as he saw Julia, he got up and came to meet her. He didn’t seem surprised to see her there at that hour, with no make-up on and wearing jeans.