Shadows of Berlin полностью

Tyrell seemed oblivious to it. He was suddenly talkative. She had encouraged him to tell her about the game, how it had played out in his head, and he seemed, in fact, not to need much encouragement. “You know, I could see it,” he tells her. “Yaakov’s trap—­classic Italian game, ’cause the man likes it quiet. But I could suddenly see it, six, maybe seven moves out.”

When they cross West Fourth, a middle-­aged couple passes by them from the opposite direction, and the quick probe of their eyes appears synchronized. Tyrell, however, doesn’t even blink. Maybe it’s that he is so accustomed to ignoring that kind of snap-­judgment glance from people. A Black man, a white sidewalk.

There are no signs over any of the entrances to this bar. An upshot, he says, of its early days as a speakeasy. And the feeling now is that if you don’t know how to get in, maybe you don’t belong there.

Exclusive, she says.

He shrugs. But it’s clear to her that he likes the idea of getting into an exclusive joint. Of an outsider belonging. He takes her into a courtyard and through an unobtrusive door. The Garden Door he calls it. Inside, the place is crowded with tables but not many patrons. “We’re early,” he tells her. “It’s usually packed in here.” And she can’t tell whether he’s disappointed or relieved.

“Grab a table,” he says. “I’ll get us a couple of drafts. Uh, you have a preference?”

“No,” she tells him. “You pick.”

She slips into a corner table tucked into a long upholstered banquette and takes out her cigarettes. The lighting is diffuse, intimate. The walls around her are plastered with the dust jackets of famous novels and portraits of famous writers. She lights up as Tyrell returns with two tall glasses.

He raises his beer as the foam sinks to the bottom in a stream of bubbles. “Cheers,” he offers.

She raises her glass to meet the salute. “To the victor of Washington Square,” she toasts, and Tyrell smiles in a modestly dignified way. He really is an excessively handsome man, this Mr. Williams. It’s easy to see why Naomi is so crazy for him. But when Rachel tries to coax more about the game from him—­How long have you been playing chess, Mr. Williams?—­something has changed. Their connection has become more stilted, more self-­conscious.

He shrugs and tells her how he first learned the game from his stepdad when he was six. He grins as he recalls the first time he beat the man. How his stepdad didn’t speak to him for days, but then how Tyrell would spy him studying the chess books after supper, and finally the chess board came back out. “You’re black.” He imitates his stepdad’s gruff voice. “And I thought—­‘Well, I believe I know that by now, Pap.’” He laughs at the story, and so does Rachel. But something has definitely changed. For both of them. Sharing this booth, separated by beer glasses, suddenly words don’t seem to come so easily. She inhales smoke and glances up at the rafter beams lined with framed book covers.

“You like this place,” she says.

“Yeah, I guess it holds its appeal for me. I read all the time growing up. For a minute or two, when I was in high school, I even thought maybe I’d like to be a writer.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Sent out some stories to some magazines. But, you know, they were all about growing up back in Chisolm,” he says. “In any case, stories about Negroes from the neighborhood were not at the top of the list for publication,” he says, and then he smiles without mirth. “Or maybe I just stank at writing. That could be true too.”‘ He shifts the concentration toward her. “So. You’re an artist, I hear. A painter.”

“That is what you hear?”

“Naomi says you’re very talented.”

“Naomi likes encouraging people.”

“Yes,” he must admit with half a smile as he pulls his pack of Chelseas from his shirt pocket. “She does at that.” He lights up and then there’s that silence again, awkward and gawky, separating them and yet coiled with its own brand of urgings. “Do you feel uncomfortable?” he asks her.

“Uncomfortable?”

“Sitting here in public. Sharing a booth with a Black man.”

“No. I simply feel uncomfortable in the world. The oysvurf.”

“More Yiddish,” he half smiles tolerantly. “What’s that one mean?”

“Like an autseyder, only worse. An outcast. An oysvurf is a person with a dead soul.”

Tyrell looks concerned at this. He doesn’t say anything, but what can someone say to that? And why did she say it in the first place? Maybe it’s the beer. The beer she is drinking has hit her. Not like a hammer, but it’s hit her. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that it’s mugged her. A popular word. It’s given her a quick punch in the head and robbed her of her ability to properly defend herself against the world. She lights another cigarette, only to have Tyrell point out that she’s got one burning in the ashtray.