Денис Власов - Five tales of mystery

Arthur R. Berg was a very wealthy man. He was a renowned businessman in his field. He achieved his goals by any possible means. Yet, this story is not about how he achieved dizzying success in financial affairs, and his brilliant business acumen, but about the fantastic misadventure caused by his mad passion for painting. This enthusiasm was expressed in collecting original paintings by famous artists. As a person who saw any deal from a commercial point of view, his love for art was automatically considered by others to be an effective investment. But, to Berg, art was more than money framed on a wall. An educated man, perceptive of culture, and a connoisseur of fine arts, he regarded a piece of art to the highest degree of its manifestation. For the past 17 years, he had gathered an impressive collection. To store it, an enormous mansion-gallery was made available in London, where he spent most of his free time. There, he got an aesthetic pleasure alone with his grand collection. In complete quiet, he wandered from one room to another, beheld full palettes of works by great masters, and admired the elegance of the portraits and the flourish within the landscapes. He could stand for hours in front of a picture of some genius, just getting a grasp at every stroke.

For Berg, a picture was like a book to be read, and which he was eager to read over and over again. Sometimes, he got so lost in the exhibits that he daydreamed himself into scenes from picnics in meadows to cavalry clashes on battlefields. Occasionally, he visited major exhibitions only for the sake of one picture, to understand and meditate about.

One day, in a large antique shop, he saw a picture of medium size, behind the counter, of a young, beautiful lady from what he gathered was a higher secular society in the early 19th century. She was in a luxury dress, in a chair. Her features were angel-like. A small table in front of her featured a chessboard. Her opponent was a gentleman in a tuxedo. But he was on the couch opposite, and thoughtfully held the white king in his left hand, pondering and not knowing where to retreat under the pressure of the young socialite. The game was in full swing, and by the position of the pieces on the board it could be judged that the priority in the struggle belonged to the young lady.

The painter managed to capture the gleam in her eyes, on the cusp of victory. Near the chessboard was a bunch of papers that seemed to be financial documents, and it could be assumed the game was not for the curiosity of the onlookers gathered, but for the documents. The bystanders were exclusively men, and the occasion was some dinner party. Berg was almost spellbound by the picture, and said almost aloud, “I’d give anything in the world just to play a game of chess with this stunningly beautiful creature.”

At that moment, a manager of the shop was passing by, and Berg pulled him by his sleeve nervously and demanded, “How much is this picture? I am buying it now.”

“Sorry, but this picture isn’t for sale,” the manager replied coldly. “What do you mean, not for sale? Then why is it on the display?”

“You are not the first person in our antique shop who would like to see this work of art in a collection. This picture is not for sale. Let me explain: The picture is our charm. It has been here since we started this business. As long as we have it, we believe our family business will only thrive. So, no,” the manager said in a cool tone.

“Who started your business? I want to see him and have a talk,” Berg almost screamed, as a man not accustomed to the word “no”.

“To see her,” the manager corrected, and pointed to the lady in the picture. “Baroness von N is the founder of our antique trading house.”

“Now I see,” Berg said.

“This is the only image of her. The artist is unknown.” With that, the manager moved on.

Berg left the shop in deep thought. For the rest of the night, the picture haunted his mind. The next morning he came back to the shop, still trying to persuade the manager, this time in his office.

“Look, if I can’t buy this painting, can it be rented for a certain period of time? For the period it’s leased, the picture will be insured. I guarantee one hundred percent prepayment. You are a businessman, and I offer the most preferential terms. I believe nothing will happen to your family business if this ‘charm’ is out of your respected shop. Give me a week, or a month. Unlike what you think, the painting’s absence will bring you only a good profit. What do you say to my proposal?”

“Hmm, I find this deal rather strange. You are the first person to offer to rent a picture from our antique shop. I’d understand it if you were a museum, but you, it seems, are not going to set it to any display, I hope? The manager looked at Berg rather queerly.

“I assure you, I’m not. I need it only to satisfy my own aesthetic needs.” Berg smiled. After a short but agonizing silence, the manager said,

“Well, the transaction will be forwarded to our legal department. But” – he pointed out expressly – “the lease term is one week. One hundred percent down payment, insurance at your expense. And, yet, I find your proposal extremely eccentric.”

“Maybe you're right. But I love art,” a contented Berg replied.

The transaction was executed properly, and a week later the painting was hung in the living room of Berg’s country mansion. For the past five days, the admirer of fine arts spent all of his free time with the painting. He fell in love with the image of the lady, and sometimes he even talked to her. It came to a point where a similar chair and a table with a chessboard were brought to the same living room. All of Berg’s thoughts were devoted to the beautiful lady in the picture.

On the sixth day, Berg returned late to his country house after a hectic day, and sent away all the staff and security guards for the weekend. After dinner, he went to the living room to wish “Good night” to his beloved, as he’d done in the five previous days. He felt a deep melancholy. He did not want to part with her, but kept in mind that according to the contract, the picture should be returned to the owner the following day. The clock struck midnight. He went closer to the picture, and started to examine the very familiar features of the baroness’ beautiful face. All of a sudden, a thud on the windowpane brought him back to reality with a fright. What on earth? Alarmed, he went to the window. Drawing open the blind, Berg saw in the moonlight only dark trunks of trees in the grounds, and a cloudless sky lit with bright stars. Not a soul. Perhaps it was a bird , he assured himself. What a beautiful full moon . There he was standing, admiring the moon and contemplating the night quietness for about five minutes, when suddenly he heard a low, velvet voice from behind his back:

“Would you like a game of chess?”

It was a feminine voice. Inhuman panic and fear gripped Berg. He was too scared to turn around.

“Would you like a game of chess?” the voice insisted.

Berg slowly turned around, and saw the replica chair was occupied by Baroness von N in the same dress from the picture. Smiling, she invited him by pointing to the table with the chessboard. The chess pieces had been placed. Automatically, he glanced at the picture – the chair was empty there. “You have little time. Either you play, or I’m leaving,” the baroness said. Berg was horrified. His heart was beating faster, and his face was sweating. He wiped his face fiercely, and slowly walked over to the couch opposite the chair, sat on the edge of it, and stared at the guest. His trembling hand made the first move of white pawn from the king one square forward.