Jennifer duBois - A Partial History of Lost Causes

“I remember,” said Ivan. He flecked ash into the tray. “You’re the chess prodigy, right?”

Aleksandr turned his face to the side. “I’m just at the academy.”

“I read about you some,” Ivan said. “You’ve been doing well.”

“Thank you,” said Aleksandr, then didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t want it to seem as though he had come only to be congratulated on his success.

“Please, please, sit down,” said Ivan. “Join us. Nikolai Sergeyevich, would you be so kind as to order the young man some vodka?” Nikolai gave Aleksandr a long, appraising look and disappeared into the smoky hallway, leering mildly at a few young women at the next table on his way out. “So. Aleksandr Kimovich. You’re liking the city so far?” Ivan smiled as though he were a Soviet ambassador trying to win over the dictator of a third-world socialist state.

“It’s very nice,” said Aleksandr.

At this, Ivan laughed. When he sucked his cigarette, his face turned to glinting angles and sharp edges. He raised his eyebrow. “Your apartment gives you no trouble?”

“No,” said Aleksandr, although he sometimes wished it did. He sometimes wished that the steward or one of the other tenants would burst into his damp room, with its flickering and tenuous light, to see what he was doing. The winter had been so lonely that the encroachment of anybody, for any reason, would have been welcome.

“Where’s the other one?” said Aleksandr. He remembered the third in Ivan’s trio, the one who looked the scruffiest, who’d said that they liked to study real history.

“Misha.” Ivan stopped and ticked his long fingers against his chin. “You have a very good memory to remember poor Misha.”

“Thank you,” said Aleksandr. He did have a very good memory, though, as Andronov always told him, his greatest strength in chess was in forgetting what he’d remembered and doing something else altogether.

Nikolai returned with a tray of Stoli, swirling and crystalline in the light. Aleksandr thanked him, and Nikolai said nothing. Ivan raised his glass and clinked it against Nikolai’s. “To Misha,” said Ivan.

Nikolai drank without toasting. Aleksandr picked up his vodka and examined it. In the glass, the light made chords of blue rainbows.

“What?” said Ivan. “Do you not have this in the east? It’s to drink.”

“I realize.” It tasted acerbic; Aleksandr pressed his lips together and swallowed some water. Ivan scoffed.

“What do you do with your time there?” said Nikolai.

“It’s not as cold there. There are other things to do.” Aleksandr gulped the rest of the shot to show them that he could, and Ivan handed him another.

“Our friend Misha,” said Ivan, “has unfortunately gotten himself into a little bit of trouble.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Aleksandr. The tendons in his neck were starting to unfurl slightly, and he wanted to look around the café some more. The ceiling was high and cavelike, strung with glowing lightbulbs the color of absinthe. Above the bar, bottles glinted with fish-belly silvers. The man in the wheelchair was still ranting to himself, puncturing the air with his cigarette tip.

“Who is that man?” said Aleksandr. “Who is he talking to?”

“You’re odd,” said Ivan. “Your priorities are odd.”

“Alcohol isn’t good for my game,” said Aleksandr. He was starting to be sorry he’d come. “It makes me fuzzy. It dulls my memory. Chess is all memory. Memory and imagination.”

“Memory and imagination are both technically illegal,” said Ivan. “Do you want us to order you a beer, then?”

“The beer is water,” said Nikolai. “Don’t insult the man. The beer’s not suitable for infants.”

They passed another shot glass to Aleksandr, and he rolled it between his fingers. The glass felt clean, and when it was full, it was just about the weight of a king in a good set. Nikolai produced a cigar from his pocket and lit it with a Saigon Café matchbook. The cigar made sweet swirls in the air. Aleksandr’s head felt as if it were attached by a string connected to the ceiling and was dangling above his torso, moving in tandem with his gestures, manipulated by an unseen puppeteer.

“What happened to Misha?” said Aleksandr. It was hard to form words. He was coursing with a silly relaxation, a pleasant absence of energy that left only a few things thinkable: taking deep gulps of the cinnamon smell of the cigar, watching the green lights bob like buoys on a dark ocean.

“Well,” said Ivan. “Misha got stupid, Aleksandr Kimovich. And I’m going to tell you this so you don’t get stupid, too.”

“Okay,” said Aleksandr stupidly. His tongue was clumsy in his mouth.

“Because, to tell you the truth, you don’t seem like the sharpest individual,” said Ivan.

“No,” said Nikolai. “He doesn’t.”

“I know you’re a brilliant chess mind,” said Ivan. “This is what the newspapers tell me. And I believe what the newspapers tell me, always.”

“Always,” said Nikolai.

“But you can be good at one thing and not so good at other things,” said Ivan.

“Or you can be good at one thing and not so good at any other thing,” said Nikolai.

“Misha got stupid,” said Ivan. “He got stupid. He disseminated falsehood. He made statements that are not officially recognized as truth.”

“He circulated defamatory statements about the Soviet state and system,” said Nikolai.

“Oh?”

“He signed a petition,” said Ivan, “and he’s been thrown in a psikhushka. We don’t know when he’ll be back.” He rubbed his temples, his fingers fluttering against his dark hair.

“He’s an idiot,” said Nikolai. When he turned toward the light, his scars became aubergine thumbprints across his face.

“The point is,” said Ivan, “in seriousness, there is something of that in you, I think, and I hope you won’t mind me saying so. Don’t do what people ask you, unless they are from the competent organs. Don’t violate the traffic laws.”

“I don’t have a car,” said Aleksandr.

“Don’t grant favors. Don’t make assumptions. I trust you were in the Komsomol?”

Aleksandr shook his head. “You don’t really have to in Okha. It’s such a tiny town. Why, were you?”

“Everybody was,” said Ivan curtly. He raised his eyebrows at Aleksandr and pulled his mouth into a tight line. “All the decent students.”

“I see,” said Aleksandr. His head was starting to clear, and the green lamps were becoming dull orbs that pulsed against the inside of his eyelids. Nikolai and Ivan started talking about music, and then about women, and then about the invasion of Afghanistan and how many months it might take the Soviet army to subdue its dusty, uncultivated landscape and people. Aleksandr hadn’t been following the story much, although he’d glimpsed headlines as he flipped his way to the chess coverage — an “interventionist duty,” it was called, and “an invitation from the socialist brethren of Afghanistan”—and he bobbed in and out of listening. He was thinking about Misha, in psychiatric prison for having bad luck. He thought of the countless incomprehensible papers he’d encountered in his efforts to get to Leningrad, how many he’d signed without reading, without understanding. He went to find the bathroom.

Near the door, the man in the wheelchair was still talking to himself. “Motherfuckers,” he was saying, punching the air with his cigarette. His head was down against his chest, as though he were telling secrets to his breastbone. The man’s legs were shriveled and mostly missing, and his face had an odd flatness to it. When he lifted his head into the light, Aleksandr could see that he was missing teeth, too, which wasn’t unusual but which contributed to the man’s overall look of unnerving concavity. He looked like a person who’d been taken apart entirely and then put back together wrong. “Fucking motherfuckers,” the man said again, and looked straight at Aleksandr. “Don’t trust them.” The green café lights gave him a radioactive glow.