Silence in the Hall

The Fifth Round

Il quinto turno

For thirty years Davit Kapanadze had been running chess tournaments, and in thirty years he had learned that you do not recognise a cheat by his moves, but by his hands. Someone with something to hide touches his face, his ear, his pocket; he gets up too often, and he comes back too quickly. Davit had fetched players out of toilets with telephones in the cisterns, he had confiscated a shoe with a vibration motor in its sole, and once, in Tbilisi, he had sent a grandfather out of the hall who was giving his grandson signals from the audience with a handkerchief. He was not proud of it. He was only thorough.

Da trent'anni Davit Kapanadze arbitrava tornei di scacchi, e in trent'anni aveva imparato che chi bara non lo si riconosce dalle mosse, bensì dalle mani. Chi ha qualcosa da nascondere si tocca il viso, l'orecchio, la tasca; si alza troppo spesso e torna troppo in fretta. Davit aveva fatto uscire giocatori dalle toilette nelle cui cassette di scarico erano nascosti telefoni, aveva requisito una scarpa nella cui suola era alloggiato un motorino vibrante e una volta, a Tbilisi, aveva allontanato dalla sala un nonno che, dal pubblico, faceva cenni al nipote con un fazzoletto. Non ne andava fiero. Era soltanto meticoloso.

The Batumi Open was to be his last tournament. He had informed the federation in the spring, in a short letter without giving a reason, because he did not know himself exactly which one he should have given. He was sixty-three, his knees no longer liked the long days, and every Sunday his daughter called from Berlin to ask whether he did not finally want to do something else. What that was supposed to be, however, she could not tell him either.

Il Batumi Open doveva essere il suo ultimo torneo. Lo aveva comunicato alla federazione in primavera, con una breve lettera senza alcuna motivazione, poiché lui stesso non sapeva con esattezza quale indicare. Aveva sessantatré anni, le sue ginocchia non reggevano più quelle lunghe giornate e sua figlia lo chiamava ogni domenica da Berlino per chiedergli se non volesse finalmente fare qualcos'altro. Cosa dovesse essere, tuttavia, non sapeva dirglielo nemmeno lei.