Ethan left his apartment just after sunrise. He had no destination in mind, only the urge to walk for hours, which he hoped would silence the noise in his head. As he went out onto the porch, a passing uncertainty made him feel the molding above the door to see if his spare key was still there. It was. He reached up to put it back, then reconsidered, and slid it into his pocket instead.
He crossed the Manhattan Bridge on foot, then passed into a secret city, one that was his alone. Above Houston, the grid became abruptly rational, short blocks going north, long blocks east and west. When he tried to envision the path he was tracing, he saw that it resembled a knight’s tour. You began at a random position on the board, then visited each square once, only to end up, like his own tangled thoughts, at precisely the same place as before.
For the last twenty years of his life, he remembered, Duchamp claimed to have given up art for chess, while working all the while on a secret installation. This was usually interpreted as a massive deception, but perhaps it had been nothing but the simple truth. Duchamp had said, “I am retiring to play chess,” and after his death, the world had been surprised by his final masterpiece, never suspecting that the two projects were one and the same.
As he walked past Washington Square, where chess hustlers would soon gather at their tables of stone, Ethan found himself imagining a game of chess that spanned the globe. Duchamp had not been the only player in those circles. Crowley had also been obsessed with chess. So had Lenin. Perhaps the real game had begun years before, at the Cabaret Voltaire, and had lasted beyond Lenin’s death, when a chessboard had been entombed along with his body.
There was a chessboard in Étant Donnés as well. Beneath the installation, invisible to casual viewers, a linoleum floor bore a checkered pattern in black and white squares. The floor had been part of Duchamp’s original plan, and had been faithfully transferred from his apartment to the museum, even though it formed no visible part of the tableau. It was repeatedly mentioned in the instructions for assembly, but no one knew why the artist had deemed it so essential. Unless, Ethan thought now, it was nothing less than a hint on how to read the work itself.
He reached Park Avenue and headed north. If the installation was a chess problem in disguise, the next step was to figure out the names of the players. It struck him again that there was one place where those names might have been found, but he had thrown his best chance away. The memory made his face hot. He had ruined things with Maddy. The only way to regain her trust was to show that his fears had been justified, but he had no chance of proving this without her.
Or almost no chance. There was, in fact, another possibility, a way to get the information on his own. It involved a certain amount of risk, and would force him to expose himself more than he might have liked, but as he thought about it now, it seemed to him that it was his only real option remaining.
He gradually became aware that he had wandered into a familiar neighborhood. His legs had taken him all the way to the office, which meant that he had walked almost seven miles. He stood before the building, wondering if he should go in, until his legs, which had brought him this far, made this decision as well. Using his key card, he let himself inside.
Five minutes later, he was on the street again. Feeling not entirely himself, he headed for his second destination, which was three long blocks away. When he arrived at the gallery’s gilded doors, he rang the bell. Part of him knew that no one would be here so early, especially on the weekend, and he was already feeling his resolution falter when he heard the door unlock.
It opened. Ethan looked into the gray eyes of the man standing inside the threshold, then heard himself speak. “You don’t know me, but my name is Ethan Usher. I work with Maddy Blume—”
“I know who you are,” Lermontov said, his voice concerned. “Is Maddy all right?”
“That depends.” Ethan paused, nearly retreated, but something in the other man’s expression encouraged him to continue. “I know it must seem strange. But if you care about Maddy, you’ll listen to what I have to say.”
Lermontov regarded him for a second, as if deciding whether to let him in. At last, he stood aside. “Come. We’ll talk in my office.”
Ethan went into the gallery. Around them, the lights had been turned down, the gallerina’s counter deserted, as if awaiting the return of its resident goddess. In the rear office, Lermontov sat down at his desk, on which a number of index cards were arranged. “What can I do for you?”
As Ethan took a seat, he noticed that a velvet curtain had been hung across one wall. The words began to come more easily. “It’s about Maddy. Has she tried to contact you since last night?”
“No,” Lermontov said. “She came to see me on Wednesday afternoon, but I haven’t spoken to her since. What’s this all about?”
“It’s something that she and I are working on together. I’m not sure how much she’s told you, but we’ve been looking into the study that was stolen from Archvadze. At this point, our theory is that the theft had something to do with the painting’s connection to the Rosicrucians—”
“Yes, I know. Maddy explained this to me. I’ve already told her everything I can.”
“I’m not sure if that’s entirely true.” Reaching into his pocket, Ethan removed the page that he had copied out at the office. “This is a list of clients who have done business with your gallery in the past. I can’t be sure about all of them, but I believe that at least some of the names are fake. Either your clients have given you false information, or you’re deliberately concealing their identities.”
Lermontov studied the list. His face did not change. “And why would I do that?”
“To protect them,” Ethan said. “If their real names were known, they’d be exposing themselves to the same risks as Archvadze. But there’s something else going on. One of your clients isn’t what he seems.”
Ethan saw a flicker of doubt pass across Lermontov’s eyes. If a name had occurred to him, however, the gallerist did his best to hide it. “I’m still not sure what you expect me to say.”
“Let me help you, then. The man I’m looking for is probably Russian. He’s wealthy, but the source of his income is unclear, and his tastes are selective and eccentric. At various points, he would have expressed interest in Duchamp and the Dadaists, especially those associated with Monte Verità. And he’s very interested in Étant Donnés.” Ethan looked across the desk at Lermontov. “I think you already know the man I have in mind. If you want to help Maddy, you’ll tell me.”
Lermontov put the list down. He seemed suddenly more frail than before. “What does Maddy think of all this?”
“She trusts you,” Ethan said. “She doesn’t believe that you would mislead her, even if you had a good reason for doing so. And she doesn’t need to know that the name came from you. If he appears anywhere else in the public record, I can say that I found him on my own.”
Lermontov was silent for a moment. Then, looking away, he said, “I do care about Maddy. You may have trouble understanding why. I thought that my silence would protect her, but—” He turned back to Ethan. “Perhaps I was wrong. Because I think I know the man you want.”
Ethan saw that a great effort lay behind each of the gallerist’s words. “Who is he?”
“A client. One with whom I have recently discussed the sale of a certain painting.” Lermontov glanced uneasily at the velvet curtain. “See for yourself. It will be easier to explain if I show you.”
Ethan rose from his chair. As he went to the curtain, he found that his exhilaration had been touched with a strange sense of pity. For all his reassurances, he knew that it would be impossible to protect Lermontov entirely, so it was with a feeling of unexpected regret that he drew the curtain aside.
For a moment he looked, confused, at what had been revealed. There was no painting. The wall behind the curtain was blank.
Behind him, there was a short, sharp detonation, like the burst of a single firecracker. A handful of red pigment struck the wall at the level of his heart. Ethan regarded it with surprise, as if it were a hasty work of abstract expressionism. Then, looking down, he saw the ragged hole in his own chest.
He turned. Lermontov stood by the desk, a gun in his hand. Ethan tried to take a step forward, warmth gushing from between his fingers, then found that he was going to fall. Before he could hit the floor, Lermontov caught him in his arms, which were very strong, and lowered him to the ground.
Lermontov’s voice was soothing and calm. “Gently, now. Let yourself go. It will only be a moment like any other—”
Ethan stared up at Lermontov. The moments of his life, which had once seemed infinite, had dwindled to fewer than ten. He tried to speak around the blood in his throat, but no words came. He felt the countdown continue, three seconds left, now two, and before he was ready, it was over.
Silence in the gallery. Lermontov waited until he was sure that Ethan was dead. Then he got to his feet.
There was blood on his hands. He shook out his pocket square and wiped them off.
Looking down at the body, he considered what to do next. One phone call would be enough to sink it into the river. Then he reflected that it might be possible to put it to better use.
He looked at the wall where the blood had splashed. At the height of the boy’s chest, near the center of the starburst, the bullet, which had passed cleanly through the body, had left a perfect hole.
Reaching out, he put his hand over the mark, thinking. Then he drew the curtain shut.