‘Let’s go back to the regiment for news of our friends.’
‘On that very subject I’m pleased to find you still in one piece. Antoine, Irenee and I have been looking for you everywhere.’
‘I was knocked out by a musket butt,’ Margont lied.
‘Before returning to the regiment, I’m going to take you somewhere. But first I want to tell you what Colonel Delarse has been up to. The farce began as soon as the fighting had ended. The colonel wanted an interpreter. While everyone was scurrying around trying to find one for him, he was moving from one prisoner to another trying to make himself understood, because patience isn’t his strong point. Dozens of people were staring at him goggle-eyed, not understanding a word. He was shouting: “Where is Lieutenant Nakalin? Lieutenant Nakalin, you ignorant peasants!” In the end they found a Russian trumpeter who spoke French.’
‘Why didn’t they get a Polish lancer to act as an interpreter?’
Lefine looked up to the heavens. ‘They’d brought the colonel at least fifteen of them but he sent them all packing. He’s no longer on speaking terms with the Poles. He thinks they waited too long before charging to extricate us from the green coats.’
Margont gritted his teeth.
‘Well, yes. It is pretty stupid, of course,’ Lefine concluded.
‘As he can’t blame it on bad luck, he’s blaming it on the Poles. It’s a typical reaction. The Russians, Prussians and Austrians have been doing the same thing for centuries. So then what happened?’
‘In a nutshell, the Russian translated but they were still no better off. Would the colonel give up? No chance. He then did the rounds of the hospitals. He didn’t find out anything about the mysterious Nakalin, so off he went to walk around the battlefield with his musician, questioning the wounded who hadn’t yet been picked up.’
‘Does your story have an ending? I should remind you that you’re not being paid for wasting your breath.’
‘The colonel eventually found his Nakalin. His horse had been disembowelled by a cannonball and had fallen over, trapping his rider’s leg. I’m taking you to them. They’re playing chess.’
The scene was unreal, absurd. Whilst all around them men were limping about or supporting their bleeding companions, Colonel Delarse and his Russian lieutenant were playing chess. Each seated on a box, they were moving their pieces whilst the grass about them was strewn with remains: sabres, shakos, bayonets, cannonballs, knapsacks, muskets.
‘No sooner has he emerged from one slaughter than he’s rushing into the next,’ muttered Margont.
French officers were watching the game, which cannot have helped the concentration of the Russian, a solitary red pawn surrounded by fifteen or so dark blue pawns. Nakalin was barely twenty. His dark curly hair was dishevelled and his uniform speckled with blades of grass. He had a disconcerting way of playing. He almost never looked at the chessboard and when it was his turn, his startled look gave the impression that he was seeing the position of the pieces for the first time. He would immediately seize one of them and move it somewhere else. You could have sworn that his decisions were totally random. He would look away before he had even finished placing his bishop or his knight and would once more immediately lose himself in contemplation of the flood of wounded. Colonel Delarse seemed puzzled. He would think long and hard but when he placed his fingers on a piece, it was to play it. ‘A piece touched is a piece played’: he adhered strictly to the rules. When attacked by the queen, the Russian responded by moving his knight, without even a cursory glance at the chessboard. Margont was fascinated by the fact that this man was capable of memorising the game so well that he could play in his head. Delarse took the knight and smiled. Not for long. The Russian had conceded the centre of the board but, when he unleashed his attack to the side, his moves considerably restricted Delarse’s room for manoeuvre.
‘Mate within six moves,’ Nakalin announced.
Delarse was shocked. He lost within four.
‘Checkmate. There was a better combination,’ the Russian declared soberly.
‘Let’s have another game!’ exclaimed Delarse, who was already lining up his troops again.
‘I’m tired. I’ve been wounded.’
‘Are you conceding the return match?’
‘“Concede” and “surrender” are words that have no equivalent in the Russian language when the motherland is at war.’
Delarse began a new game but the lieutenant did not move a single piece. After a few minutes Delarse stood up in annoyance.
‘Very well. You’ve won the game with the little wooden soldiers. But I’m the one who won the game out there on the plain! The battlefield is strewn with green pawns and red knights.’
At last the Russian came to life. His cheeks reddened and his expression became more animated.
‘Yes, but that particular game is not over yet …’
Delarse turned towards one of his captains. ‘I want him to be well treated! See that he has a tent, blankets and proper food. Because when I defeat him I don’t want him to be able to say he was in a weakened state. Let him have a chess set as well! I don’t want him claiming that he was prevented from practising.’
The colonel then strode quickly towards Margont.
‘So, Captain! You are dishevelled and badly shaven. Why do you look like a beaten man?’
‘I apologise, Colonel. But thanks to us the Russian army had a close shave.’
‘When one has wit, one should put it to better use than trying to be clever.’
‘By playing chess, for example?’
Delarse turned round to watch Nakalin, who was being led away by two soldiers. The Russian was walking with his arms folded, as if out for a stroll.
‘What an odd character! I might as well have been playing on my own.’
‘True indeed. It seemed as if everything around him was more interesting than the game: the singing of the birds, the cloud formations, the weather …’
‘He’ll escape.’
‘Worse than that, it’s as if we haven’t even captured him. Colonel, may I enquire how you met him?’
‘He’s a well-known chess player. He was born into the Ukrainian nobility and leads a dilettante life. He does nothing, has no interests, forgets to attend dinners he’s been invited to … He lives only for chess. But what a player he is! He has beaten Tsar Alexander himself, the Emperor of Austria, General Bagration, General Kutuzov … Here’s an amusing anecdote about the latter. That crafty old fox Kutuzov was being given a hard time when he ‘accidentally’ knocked the chessboard on to the floor. He apologised, explaining that the loss of an eye in the war had affected his sense of distance. But to Kutuzov’s chagrin, Nakalin declared that it didn’t matter, picked up all the pieces and put them back exactly as they were. Kutuzov was then beaten soundly by his opponent. How I would have liked to see his face that day! I know all this because I’m a member of several chess clubs. Nakalin has acquired such a reputation that he spends his whole life being invited to various European courts and by keen chess players. His travels are paid for and he goes from palace to stately home – a very nice life. He’s the only person in the world to have defeated as many generals as the Emperor. But in his own field. Unfortunately, his successes are more of a curse than a blessing because it is increasingly difficult to rouse him from the apathy he’s helplessly sinking into. One match is not enough to stimulate him. He needs to play against ten opponents at a time and be literally surrounded by chessboards. Or else play blindfolded, with a friend whispering the other player’s moves in his ear. He cannot do anything except play chess. Not even be a real soldier because he was accepted into the Guard and given a commission only because he beat Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovitch.’
Colonel Delarse’s face clouded over with regret. If only he had managed to beat Nakalin! Then, indirectly, he would have demonstrated his superiority over all the others: the Tsar, Kutuzov, Bagration, Emperor Francis I …
The man was wandering amongst the bodies, the air pungent with gunpowder, burning and blood. Everywhere there were bodies lying on the grass. And yet he felt at ease. It was as if this charnel house had become his true home. He told himself that he was going mad but it was a madness he revelled in.
He thought again about all those years it had taken him to discover his liking for death. One part of him had had to fight night and day against these desires before finally giving in, utterly exhausted. Or perhaps it was because of the war. He had witnessed so much killing … Differences and limits seemed more and more blurred.
