Checkmate
Outside the window, it’s dark and freezing and the wind is blowing. It’s so pleasant to sit wrapped in a blanket with a book in hand. Veronica’s studying for an examination in commercial law. Despite the fact that all of these facts, definitions and types of contracts drive her mad, she’s as proud as one can be. Finally, she’s decided to cross that bridge — to commence her postgraduate studies. Two years after graduating from university she again feels a part of something truly valuable and significant.
With this beautiful reflection in mind Veronica rises to fetch something indispensable. Deep in thought, she takes a few paces from the living room towards the bedroom and awakening realizes that she’s forgotten the reason for getting up in the first place. She’s exceptionally distracted today, weirdly all in a dither. Standing near the entrance door, she suddenly hears dead silence, which, after a moment, turns into a rattle in her ears.
Freaked out, Veronica notices that she’s all alone in here. Similar to the time when she was a little girl, this thought automatically turns on her sleeping imagination. Before her eyes now she can behold enormous grayish ocean with white skies and a huge submarine emerging slowly from the water…
This image has always haunted her and evoked unspecified anxiety. Immediately after the ship, just like any other time, a knife blade flashes, heading inevitably for her breasts. Veronica hisses out in pain as usual and covers her breasts with hands. She curls up deep inside. Where do these visions come from? She’s never comprehended their origin, they simply accompany her like her own shadow. Veronica knows all too well what is going to happen next. With superhuman strength she’s going to disperse the black clouds and defeat her emotions by sound reasoning supported by radio or television which efficiently kills silence and provides one with a solid sense of safety.
All of a sudden, in this silence, Veronica can hear a light and melodious sound, like a piano play-knocking at the door. It’s so delicate that at first she thinks it is just an illusion. But then, it repeats. She couldn’t have made a mistake, especially that she’s standing motionless close to the entrance door. With no reason at all, panic surges through her, forcing her to think quickly. She looks at the lock. Thank God, it’s on. She calms down considerably, believing in the quality of the Gerda brand. Gerda locks won’t let anybody in. It’s safe.
Veronica starts wondering why she’s gotten so damned scared. The terrace house she lives in is equipped with an intercom. More than a few times though she’s had the opportunity to witness that when someone’s really determined they can get into the building without a key, for example, fly repellents or absent-minded neighbours. On many occasions, Veronica has herself forgotten her key and called others, begging for help. Who could that possibly be? Family and friends usually contact her well in advance before dropping by, or at least use the intercom, letting her tidy up her flat to avoid embarrassment. No, it can’t be anyone she knows. Leaflets, ads, bills, the poor at such a late hour? Out of the question!
Suddenly, it dawns on her that, most of all, the manner of knocking at the door made her freak out! If it had been a solid, decisive sound or simply the door bell, Veronica would have just taken a look through the peephole without a second thought and just opened the door with a broad smile on her face. Who knocks in this exceptionally light, subtle manner…tapping twice the same fragment of…Chopin? Yes, that was Chopin! Who? The postman? Her brother? It’s true that joking is his speciality, but Veronica would rather suspect him of banging “If it hadn’t been for Cotton-Eyed Joe, I’d been married long time ago.” And the piece she’s just heard was…FUNERAL MARCH!
Veronica starts to tremble upon drawing this terrifying conclusion. On the other side of the door there’s someone mentally imbalanced, someone extremely dangerous. Although after the two attempts of getting into the flat, dead silence has ruled on the other side, Veronica feels instinctively that he’s still standing there, waiting patiently.
The peephole…that’s right! All that needs to be done is just taking a look through the peephole and then everything would become clear! Unfortunately, she can’t do it, she doesn’t want to dare to do it, she doesn’t feel strong enough. Veronica feels all paralysed, incapable of moving an inch. As if the brain blocked her reflexes in order to protect itself against another trauma. Her subconscious whispers that if she decides to use this goddamned peephole, another horror picture will be added to her personal gallery of panic art, another horror picture that will haunt her at very bad moments, just like the submarine and the knife. No, that’s not the thing that Veronica is yearning for, hell no!
* * *
Outside the window, it’s dark and freezing and the wind is blowing. It’s so pleasant to sit wrapped in a blanket with a book in hand. Veronica’s studying for an examination in commercial law. Despite the fact that all of these facts, definitions and types of contracts drive her mad, she’s as proud as one can be. Finally she’s decided to cross that bridge — to commence her postgraduate studies. Two years after graduating from university she again feels a part of something truly valuable and significant.
With this beautiful reflection in mind, Veronica rises to fetch a nail file and starts to giggle. She’s proud as a peacock because of her ambitious goals in life and, then, goes all out to find any excuses releasing her from this utter boredom: she’s already made two coffees — one black, the other one with milk and sugar. She’s also had some tea with lemon, and eaten an apple and a banana, which has led to an unbearable stomachache! Now the time has come for a beauty parlour — she’s put on hair conditioner, face mask, and at the moment she’s s l o w l y walking to fetch a nail file as the universal truth holds that nails have to be well taken care of! Unquestionably!
Amused, she takes a few paces from the living room towards the bedroom, when, suddenly, near the entrance, she can hear a light and melodious sound, like a piano play-knocking at the door. It’s so delicate that at first she thinks it is just an illusion. But then, it repeats. Without a second thought, as if trying to scare away a persistent fly, she swings open the door.
“Good evening, I’m John Smith, and I adore the structure of a checkerboard, and you?”
Immediately, her legs become cotton. Her knees bend under the weight of her body. It’s gotten dark before her eyes, she loses her balance and has to use a wall as a support to avoid collapsing on the floor. Nanoseconds make her realize it was a huge mistake to open this goddamned door so carelessly. Before her now she can see a …clown holding with gallantry a cap in both hands. He’s medium height, rather slim. His clothes — jacket, trousers, shirt, tie — everything he’s wearing presents an ideal black and white checkerboard.
He’s standing impeccably straight, wearing the characteristic make-up, with a powdered face and smile stretching from ear to ear. His hair is glued to his skull with brilliantine, displaying a parting in the middle. Disgusting is this sleazy artificial smile of his showing two uneven rows of big yellow teeth. His eyes seem even more frightening: popped up, light-blue, motionless, empty. And the voice — low, hoarse, full of secrets, and these absurd words making a rhetoric question.
In self-defence, Veronica jerks at the door, striving to close it. However, he turns out quicker and incredibly strong. He enters the flat forcefully and before she manages to even think, the door is already locked, her hands blocked and mouth covered with his palm. He throws her on the bed collapsing on it together with her. He holds her arms with his legs and takes out a checkered handkerchief from his pocket and pushes it into her mouth. From the same pocket he pulls out two strings. First, he tightens her hands, then her legs. Veronica seems to be losing her senses. She trembles, feeling sweat flood her whole body, her face, she cries, wriggles around, knowing at the same time that the end has come, that she stands no chance at all and no rescue is about to come. She wants to die now, right off, she’s longing for it as she knows far too well that the luxury of a quick and painless death is out of her reach.
The guest places her on her back and tears off her clothes. Next, as if preparing for a grand deed, he takes off his jacket, tie and unbuttons half of the shirt disclosing a small but clear tattoo on the chest — a submarine emerging slowly from the ocean. A knife blade flashes in the lamplight and the hoarse voice sounds, “We don’t want them to interfere with the creation of ideal checkerboard structure, do we?”
Veronica looks at his face — the same smile, though his eyes have changed completely — now they’ve acquired a peculiar glow of admiration and excitement. Huge sweat drops on his face. She refuses to process the meaning of his words and shuts her eyes as forcefully as she can, feeling how quickly and dexterously her nipples get cut off, first the right, then the left one. Veronica passes out because of pain and mind-blowing fear.
She comes round with no idea how long she was lying unconscious. Veronica has a terrible pain in her chest and abdomen, recognizes the stink of blood and burning. She’s never felt that weak, it was so hard for her to breathe. She lays her eyes on him sitting to her right. The guest seems so calm, so fulfilled. Clearly he’s been waiting for her to regain consciousness. Once their eyes meet, his trace a path down her breasts and belly. He starts talking.
“You’ll be delighted to known the checkerboard is nearly perfect: the squares are ideal, every second one is black, each of them was burnt with a lighter by me, personally, but…” Here he raises his voice “…this blood! It spoils the effect! It runs so quickly that I cannot manage to wipe it out! No one has ever seen a checkerboard with red square sides, right?”
Veronica looks down but darkness is all that can be seen, she feels like vomiting, but finds no more strength to do anything. She passes out for this one last time hearing,
“Alright, in a minute I’ll take care of the legs and the face. That’ll be it! The whole checkerboard will be accomplished. Fuck! With the colour of red!”
