Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Ain’t no crime, brutha. Ain’t no crime.” Tyrell is grinning as he counts through the money he’s just won from a skinny Negro youth in a plaid coat. “Next victim,” he calls out. But then his expression stiffens as Rachel sits down on the bench opposite him.

“You’re different here,” she observes.

Tyrell observes her as if from a distance, then stuffs the money into the pocket of his short-­waisted jacket. “Is that right? Different from what, Mrs. Perlman?”

“Different from when you were in Naomi’s apartment. You speak differently. I didn’t hear you say ‘ain’t’ once while you were eating chicken Kiev.”

And now he chuckles mildly to himself at this lady’s nerve. “No, you did not,” he must agree. “That’s because I was around a bunch of white people.”

“Otherwise, you say ‘ain’t’?”

“Otherwise, I’m myself.”

“Tyrell-­Who-­Says-­Ain’t.”

“Sometimes I’m him, yeah.”

“Do you say it when you’re with Naomi?”

“Are you driving at something, Mrs. Perlman?”

“Please call me Rachel.”

“Nah, I don’t think I will,” he answers. “Are you trying to make a point?”

“I’m not,” she answers. “I’m just curious. My guess is you’re different with different people. I know something about that. I think it’s a trait we share. Being an ‘autseyder’ we would call it in Yiddish. A person on the outer edge of things.”

“Same in English. An outsider.”

“Yes, the same.”

Tyrell studies her for a moment with a kind of blunt, hammer-­heavy gaze. “Look, Mrs. Perlman. We met once. That’s it. Let’s not pretend we’re friends. Okay? If you don’t mind, I’ve got bills to pay, and I’ve gotta make some money,” he tells her. “So unless you’ve got five dollars you feel like parting with…” he says.

Rachel gazes back at him. She produces her cigarettes and then opens her bag and pulls out her matches. Lights up with a cupped match flame.

“Uh, Mrs. Perlman…”

“So you said five dollars?” she asks, cigarette fluttering from her lip as she frets through a wad of bills. “That’s one, two,” she counts.

Shaking his head with limited tolerance. “Mrs. Perlman.”

“Three, four, and that’s five.” Digging coins from her change purse.

Tyrell stares at her thickly. “You’re not serious,” he tells her.

Offering it. “What? My money’s no good here?”

Again a stare, and then, “All right.” He nods. “All right, Mrs. Perlman. If this is the way you want it. Hold on to your money. I trust you to pay up when you lose.”

“Okay,” says she, depositing the bills and change into her coat pocket. “You must explain to me the use of the clock, though, before we begin.”

His voice is bemused. “Oh, we’re not using the clock, Mrs. Perlman. You’re in no way ready for the clock. Just a friendly little game.” He snaps up two pawns, one white, one black, mixes them about, and holds out his fists. “Your choice,” he tells her.

“This one,” she says and points.

Tyrell opens the chosen fist, revealing a small white pawn. “You’re white,” he tells her. “That means you have the advantage.”

They shake hands before beginning, because it’s what opponents do apparently. American women don’t shake hands, with men or even each other, but everybody in Germany is trained to do so from childhood, so Rachel thinks nothing of it. Also she likes his grip. Pleasantly firm. The games commences, but of course she is immediately lost, nudging pieces outward. What goes where?

“No, no,” Tyrell corrects, half smiling with a kind of mildly alarmed indulgence. “That’s not,” he says, “how the knight moves.”

“I know, but I can never remember correctly.” Rachel frowns. “It’s a capital L, isn’t it? A knight moves like a capital L?”

“Two spaces, then one space at a corner angle.”

“Ah, azoy dos iz rikhtik,” she reminds herself. “So two,” she says, repositioning the small wooden horse, “and then one.”

Tyrell flattens his expression. “You sure you wanna do that?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe not?”

The man grinds up a few words at the back of his jaw before he answers. “No. No, Mrs. Perlman. I assure you, you don’t want to do that. Not unless it’s your intention to lose your bishop. You see? Your knight’s the only protection your bishop has from being taken by my queen.”

“Okay. Well, that’s too bad. But I moved. Vos iz geshen, iz geshen,” she concludes, removing her bishop from its square and replacing it with Tyrell’s queen.

“Aw, now see, you don’t do that either,” he corrects her. “You don’t touch your opponent’s pieces unless you’re taking them. Not ever.”

“Ah. Sorry. My mistake,” Rachel says. “There’s certainly no shortage of rules in this game.”

Tyrell sighs. “Let’s quit this, shall we, Mrs. Perlman? Just keep your money.”

“Does that mean you’re surrendering?”

“Resigning, not surrendering. And no. I’m not resigning. But this is getting ridiculous, don’t you agree?”

“So do you despise my husband?”

Tyrell blinks, but other than that, he doesn’t move. “Despise? No. I don’t think I despise anyone.”

“Even though he was terribly insulting to you? I would despise him if I were in your shoes.”

“Which, by the way, Mrs. Perlman, you will never be.”