Fortunately, she concluded, she was only a hireling. The decision lay with the owner, with Menchu and the man from Claymore’s, Paco Montegrifo. She would do whatever they decided. Although, when she thought about it, given the choice, she would prefer to leave things as they were. The inscription existed, they knew what it said, and it was therefore unnecessary to reveal it. After all, the layer of paint that had covered it for five centuries was part of the painting’s history too.

The notes from Lester Bowie’s saxophone filled the studio, cutting her off from everything else. Gently she ran the solvent-soaked cotton wool along Roger de Arras’s profile, near his nose and mouth, and once more she immersed herself in her scrutiny of those lowered eyelids, the fine lines betraying slight wrinkles near his eyes, their gaze intent on the game. She gave her imagination free rein to pursue the echo of the ill-fated knight’s thoughts. The scent of love and death hung over them, the way the steps of Fate hovered over the mysterious ballet performed by the black and white pieces on the squares of the chessboard, on his own coat of arms, pierced by an arrow from a crossbow. And in the half-light a tear glinted, a tear shed by a woman apparently absorbed in reading a book of hours (or was it the Poem of the Rose and the Knight?), a tear shed by a silent shadow next to the window, recollecting days of sunlight and youth, of burnished metal and tapestries, recalling the firm footsteps on the flagstones of the Burgundy court of the noble-browed warrior, with his helmet under his arm, at the height of his strength and fame, the haughty ambassador from that other man, whom she was advised, for reasons of state, to marry. And the murmur of court ladies and the grave faces of courtiers, her own face blushing when his calm eyes met hers and when she heard his voice, tempered in many battles, full of that singular assurance found only in those who know what it is to cry out the name of God, their king or their lady as they ride into battle against an enemy. And the secret that lay in her heart in the years that followed. And the Silent Friend, her Final Companion, patiently sharpening his scythe, standing near the moat by the East Gate preparing to fire his crossbow.

The colours, the painting, the studio, the sombre music of the saxophone filling the room seemed to circle her. She stopped working and sat with her eyes closed, feeling dizzy, trying to breathe deeply, steadily, to shake off the momentary panic that had run through her when, confused by the perspective in the picture, she began to feel that she was actually inside the painting. It was as if the table and the players had suddenly shifted to her left and she had been thrust forward across the room reproduced in the painting, towards the window next to which Beatrice of Burgundy sat reading; as if she had only to lean out a little over the window ledge to see what lay below, at the bottom of the wall: the moat at the East Gate, where Roger de Arras had been shot in the back by an arrow.

It took her a while to regain her composure, and she only really did so when she lit a match and held it to the cigarette she had in her mouth. She found it hard to hold the match steady, for her hand was trembling as if she’d just touched the face of Death.

“It’s a chess club,” Cesar said as they went up the steps. “The Capablanca Club.”

“Capablanca?” Julia looked warily through the open door. She could see tables inside with men leaning over and spectators grouped around them.

“Jose Raul Capablanca,” Cesar said, by way of explanation, clasping his walking stick beneath one arm as he removed his hat and gloves. “Some people say he was the best player ever. There are clubs and tournaments named after him all over the world.”

They went in. The club consisted of three large rooms, filled by a dozen tables, at almost every one of which a game was in progress. There was an odd buzz, neither noise nor silence, but a sort of gentle, contained murmur, slightly solemn, like the sound of people filling a church. A few players and spectators looked at Julia with incredulity or disapproval. The membership was exclusively male. The place smelled of cigarette smoke and old wood.

“Don’t women ever play chess?” asked Julia.

Cesar offered her his arm before they went in.

“I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest,” he said. “But they obviously don’t play here. Perhaps they play at home, between the darning and the cooking.”

“Male chauvinist!”

“Hardly an appropriate epithet in my case, my dear. Anyway, don’t be horrid.”

They were welcomed in the hallway by a friendly, talkative gentleman of a certain age, with a bald, domed head and a carefully trimmed moustache. Cesar introduced him to Julia as Senor Cifuentes, the director of the Jose Raul Capablanca Recreational Club.

“We have five hundred members on our books,” he told them proudly, pointing out the trophies, certificates and photographs adorning the walls. “We also sponsor a nationwide tournament.” He paused before a glass case containing a display of various chess sets, old rather than antique. “Nice, eh? Although here, of course, we use only the Staunton set.”

He had turned to Cesar as if expecting his approval, and the latter felt obliged to adopt an appropriately serious expression.

“Of course,” he said, and Cifuentes rewarded him with a friendly smile.

“Wood, you know,” he added. “No plastic.”

“I should hope not.”

Cifuentes turned to Julia.

“You should see it here on a Saturday afternoon.” He looked around contentedly, like a mother hen inspecting her chicks. “It’s a fairly average day today: keen players who leave work early, pensioners who spend the whole afternoon playing. And, as you’ve no doubt noticed, there’s a pleasant atmosphere here. Very…”

“Edifying,” said Julia, without thinking. But Cifuentes seemed to find the adjective appropriate.

“Yes, that’s it, edifying. As you can see, there are a number of younger men. That one over there, for example, is quite remarkable. He’s only nineteen but he’s already written a hundred-page study on the four lines of the Nimzo-Indian Defence.”

“Really? Nimzo-Indian? It sounds very…” – Julia searched desperately for the right word – “definitive.”

“Well, I don’t know about definitive,” Cifuentes replied honestly. “But it’s certainly significant.”

Julia looked to Cesar for help, but he merely arched an eyebrow, as if expressing a polite interest in the conversation. He was leaning towards Cifuentes, his hands behind his back holding both stick and hat, apparently enjoying himself hugely.

“Some years ago,” added Cifuentes, pointing at the top button of his waistcoat with his thumb, “I added my own little grain of sand.”

“Really?” said Cesar, and Julia gave him a worried look.

“Yes, believe it or not,” Cifuentes said, with false modesty. “A subvariant of the Caro-Kann Defence, using two knights. You know the one: knight three bishop queen. The Cifuentes variant, it’s called,” he added, looking hopefully at Cesar. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Naturally,” replied Cesar with great aplomb.

Cifuentes smiled gratefully.

“I can assure you it would be no exaggeration to say that in this club, or recreational society, as I prefer to call it, you’ll find the best players in Madrid, and possibly in all Spain.” Then he seemed to remember something. “By the way, I’ve found the man you need.” He scanned the room, and his face lit up. “Ah, there he is. Come with me, please.”

They followed him through one of the rooms, towards the rear.

“It wasn’t easy,” said Cifuentes as they approached. “I’ve spent all day turning it over in my mind. But then,” he half-turned towards Cesar with an apologetic gesture, “you did ask me to recommend our best player.”