The Flanders Panel

“I must say,” he added with an ambivalent, almost coquettish look on his face, “that the feeling of being gradually cornered by you became genuinely exciting, really. Something… almost physical, if you’ll allow me that word. Although, admittedly, you’re not exactly my type.” He remained absorbed in thought for a few moments, as if trying to decide exactly how best to categorise Munoz, but then appeared to abandon the attempt. “With the final moves I realised that I was becoming the only possible suspect. And you knew that I knew… I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying that it was from that moment that we began to draw closer to each other. Wouldn’t you agree? The night we spent sitting on a bench opposite Julia’s building, keeping watch with the aid of my flask of cognac, we had a long conversation about the psychological characteristics of the murderer. By then, you were almost sure I was your opponent. I listened with rapt attention as you explained, in response to my questions, the relationship of the known hypotheses on the pathology of chess. Except one, of course. One that you didn’t mention until today but which, nevertheless, you were perfectly aware of. You know which one I mean.”

Munoz nodded, a calm, affirmative gesture. Cesar pointed at Julia.

“You and I know, but she doesn’t. Or at least not everything. We should explain it to her.”

Julia looked at Cesar.

“Yes,” she said, feeling tired and irritated with both of them. “Perhaps you’d better explain what you’re talking about, because I’m beginning to get thoroughly fed up with all this bloody matiness.”

Munoz kept his eyes fixed on Cesar.

“The mathematical aspect of chess,” he replied, unaffected by Julia’s ill humour, “gives the game a very particular character, something that specialists would define as anal sadistic. You know what I mean: chess as a silent battle between two men, evocative of terms such as aggression, narcissism, masturbation… and homosexuality. Winning equals conquering the dominant father or mother, placing oneself above them. Losing equals defeat, submission.”

Cesar raised one finger, demanding attention.

“Unless, of course,” he pointed out politely, “that is the real victory.”

“Yes,” said Munoz. “Unless victory consists precisely in demonstrating the paradox: inflicting defeat upon oneself.” He looked at Julia for a moment. “You were right in what you said to Belmonte: the game, like the painting, was accusing itself.”

Cesar gave him a surprised, almost joyful, look.

“Bravo,” he said. “Immortalising oneself in one’s own defeat; isn’t that it? Like old Socrates when he drank the hemlock.” He turned towards Julia with a triumphant air. “Our dear friend Munoz knew all this days ago, Princess, but didn’t say a word to anyone, not even to you or me. Finding myself conspicuous by my absence in my opponent’s calculations, I modestly assumed that he must be on the right track. In fact, once he’d talked to the Belmontes and could finally discount them as suspects, he had no further doubts about the identity of the enemy. Am I right?”

“You are.”

“May I ask you a rather personal question?”

“Ask and you’ll find out.”

“What did you feel when you finally hit on the correct move, when you knew it was me?”

Munoz thought for a moment.

“Relief,” he said. “I would have been disappointed if it had been someone else.”

“Disappointed to have been wrong about the identity of the mystery player? I wouldn’t want to exaggerate my own merits, but it wasn’t that obvious, my friend. Several of the characters in this story weren’t even known to you, and we’ve been together only a couple of weeks. You had only your chessboard to work with.”

“You misunderstand me,” replied Munoz. “I wanted it to be you. I liked the idea.”

Julia was looking at them, incredulity written on her face.

“I’m so glad to see you two getting along so well,” she said sarcastically. “If you like, later on we can all go out for a drink, pat each other on the back and tell each other what a laugh we’ve all had over this.” She shook her head, as if trying to recover some sense of reality. “It’s incredible, but I feel as if I were in the way here.”

Cesar gave her a look of pained affection.

“There are some things you can’t understand, Princess.”

“Don’t call me Princess! Besides, you’re quite wrong. I understand it all perfectly. And now it’s my turn to ask you a question. What would you have done that morning in the Rastro, if I hadn’t noticed the spray can and the card and I’d just got into that car with its tyre made into a bomb and started the engine?”

“That’s ridiculous.” Cesar seemed offended. “I would never have let you.”

“Even at the risk of betraying yourself?”