“My summer’s reading,” Beltik said.
She shook her head irritably. “I study books. But I’ve always tried to play
it by ear.”
He stopped, holding three copies of
Shakhmatni Byulleten in his hands,
their covers worn with use, frowning at her. “Like Morphy,” he said, “or
Capablanca?”
She was embarrassed. “Yes.”
He nodded grimly and set the stack of bulletins on the floor by the coffee
table. “Capablanca would have beaten Borgov.”
“Not every game.”
“Every game that counted,” Beltik said.
She studied his face. He was younger than she remembered him. But she
was older now. He was an uncompromising young man; every part of him
was uncompromising. “You think I’m
a prima donna, don’t you?”
He permitted himself a small smile. “We’re all prima donnas,” he said.
“That’s chess for you.”
When she put the TV dinners in the oven that night, they had two boards
set up with endgame positions: his set with its green and cream squares, its
heavy plastic pieces; her wooden board with its rosewood and maple men.
Both sets were the Staunton pattern that all serious players used; both had
four-inch kings. She hadn’t invited him to stay for lunch and dinner; it had
been understood. He went to the grocery store a few blocks away for the
food while she sat musing over a group of possible rook moves, trying to
avoid a draw in a theoretical game. While she made lunch he lectured her
about keeping in good physical shape and getting enough sleep. He had also
bought the two frozen dinners for supper.
“You’ve got to stay
open,” Beltik said. “If you get locked into one idea—
like this king knight pawn, say—it’s death. Look at this…” She turned to
his board on the kitchen table. He was holding a cup of coffee and standing,
frowning down at the board, holding his chin with the other hand.
“Look at what?” she said, irritated.
He reached down, picked up the white rook, moved it across the board to
king rook one—the lower right-hand corner. “Now his rook pawn’s
pinned.”
“So what?”
“He’s got to move the king now or he gets stuck later.”
“I see that,” she said, her voice a little softer now. “But I don’t see—”
“Look at the queenside pawns, way over here.” He pointed to the other
side of the board, at the three white pawns interlinked. She walked over to
the table to get a better look. “He can do this,” she said,
and moved the
black rook over two squares.
Beltik looked up at her. “Try it.”
“Okay.” She sat down behind the pieces.
In half a dozen moves Beltik had gotten his queen bishop pawn to the
seventh rank and queening it was inevitable. It would cost the rook and the
game to stop it. He had been right; it was necessary to move the king when
the rook had come across the board. “You were right,” she said. “Did you
figure it out?”
“It’s from Alekhine somewhere,” he said. “I got it from a book.”
Beltik went back
to his hotel after midnight, and Beth stayed up for
several hours reading the middle-game book, not setting up the positions on
a board but reviewing them in her imagination. One thing bothered her, but
she did not let herself dwell on it. She could not picture the pieces as easily
as she had when she was eight and nine years old. She could still do it, but
it was more of an effort and sometimes she was uncertain about where a
pawn or a bishop belonged and had to retrace
the moves in her mind to
make sure. She played on doggedly into the night, using her mind and the
book only, sitting in Mrs. Wheatley’s old television-watching armchair in T-
shirt and blue jeans. Every now and then she would blink and look around
her, half expecting to see Mrs. Wheatley sitting nearby with her stockings
rolled down and her black pumps on the floor beside her chair.
Beltik was back at nine the next morning, with half a dozen more books.
They had coffee and played a few five-minute games on the kitchen table.
Beth won all of them, decisively, and when they had finished the fifth game
Beltik looked at her and shook his head. “Harmon,” he said, “you have
really got it. But it’s improvisation.”
She stared at him. “What the hell,” she said. “I wiped you out five
times.”
He looked back across the table at her coolly
and took a sip from his
coffee cup. “I’m a master,” he said, “and I’ve never played better in my life.
But I’m not what you’re going to be up against if you go to Paris.”
“I can beat Borgov with a little more work.”
“You can beat Borgov with a lot more work. Years more work. What in
hell do you think he is? Another Kentucky ex-champion like me?”
“He’s World Champion. But—”
“Oh, shut up!” Beltik said. “Borgov could have beaten both of us when
he was ten. Do you know his career?”
Beth looked at him. “No, I don’t.”
Beltik got up from the table and walked purposively into the living room.
He pulled a green-jacketed book from the stack next to Beth’s chessboard
and brought it to the kitchen, tossing it on the table in front of her.
Vasily
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