Jennifer duBois - A Partial History of Lost Causes

“Come with me,” said Andronov.

Aleksandr shrugged at Oleg, who started to put away his pieces. Aleksandr followed Andronov down the hall to his office, where Andronov plopped into a chair. “Sit,” he said. Aleksandr did.

Between them was Andronov’s antediluvian desk, overrun with wedges of chess books and creaking antique sets. Under different circumstances, it would have been interesting to explore Andronov’s office — in particular, it would have been interesting to see what breathlessly admiring notes about Aleksandr were contained in Andronov’s vast collection of papers. But today was not the day, and Aleksandr was beginning to understand, as he vainly tried to get Andronov to look at him, that there might never be one.

Andronov threw a copy of Literaturnaya Gazeta toward Aleksandr. “So,” he said. “I see you’ve been talking to the press.”

“Well, technically, the press was talking to me.”

“I see you offer some opinions about the skill level of your peers here at the academy.”

“They asked me!”

Andronov shoved a wheezing set toward Aleksandr. “Play,” he said.

“I’m white?”

“Play.”

Aleksandr opened with a sedate Nimzo-Indian Defense. A ritualized, bloodless exchange of pieces soon followed. Andronov hemmed; his hands grew inky and his forehead shiny, and Aleksandr saw that he was not committing to a pawn structure. Occasionally, he muttered tensely into the game, as though it were the chessboard’s audacious attitude that he’d found fault with, not Aleksandr’s.

“After this,” said Andronov at last. “Where will you go?”

“Go? What are you talking about?” Aleksandr felt a dry contraction in his throat that squeezed its way down his body. If he pretended not to understand, maybe he wouldn’t have to. They were headed for a draw here, he figured.

Andronov positioned his fat elbows on the books, where their dimples winked at Aleksandr menacingly. “After you beat me, where will you go? You think you can stay here after this? You think we’ll participate in a farce like that?”

“Oh,” said Aleksandr. “Do you think I’ll beat you?” But he was starting to worry. Andronov had sailed his bishop to h2, ignoring that Aleksandr could trap the bishop — he’d corner it between pawns, and its power would be squandered for the duration.

“Could I, I don’t know,” said Aleksandr. “Could I help, maybe?” He flicked his pawn to g3, buttressing Andronov’s bishop in its own prison.

“Help? With what? The cleaning? You want to do the laundry? You want to be our washerwoman?” He drew his h pawn forward, harnessing small arms.

“I mean maybe I could teach?”

At this, Andronov’s elbows descended onto the table with a meaty crash. “Teach? You want to teach here? You see, tovarish, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. That arrogance. Nobody can stand it. Nobody could stand it before, and nobody can stand it now.”

Aleksandr backtracked his king diagonally before he spoke. “I’m not trying to be arrogant,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t really have anywhere else to go during the days.”

“Find somewhere, if you’re so smart.” Andronov advanced his pawn once more. He was hoping to secure the bishop’s release. Aleksandr could see damp swirls of sweat coursing down his neck.

Aleksandr realized then that he was angry. He usually didn’t realize he was angry until it was too late, but today he was making a note of it as it was happening. Andronov seemed to tremble in his vision, and he heard the sound of an animal crashing through the forest somewhere in the very back of his head. He moved his king laterally. It breathed down the neck of Andronov’s bishop.

“I thought being successful was a good thing,” he said. He was keeping his voice neutral. He was making declarative statements. “I thought it would reflect well on the school. I thought you’d be — pleased.” He’d almost said “proud.”

“Pleased? No, tovarish.” Andronov pulled at his temples, took off his glasses, and looked up at Aleksandr for the first time, maybe ever. His eyes were like little pearls in the endless nude folds of an oyster. “I’m neither pleased nor displeased by the successes or failures of my students. I’m here only to run an efficient chess academy, and your presence is not conducive to that.” Andronov’s bishop retreated by one square, futilely, and Aleksandr realized for the first time how badly Andronov had not wanted to lose.

“I see,” said Aleksandr. He took Andronov’s bishop with his king.

“Good,” said Andronov. “Then we’re in agreement. You will be gone by this afternoon.” He gave a nod, disturbing his chins. The game, it seemed, was at an end.

Aleksandr walked out into the hallway and looked up at the high arching ceiling. Stingy, dirty-looking light streamed in through the great windows, giving the room a constant feeling of impending indoor rain. It was true he hadn’t really learned anything here. But he’d liked the feeling of doing what he came to Leningrad for; he’d liked, too, the anesthetizing psychic disappearance he experienced when he beat the other men. He hadn’t woken up excited to go to the academy, but at least he’d woken up knowing where he would go. He could not imagine a life in Leningrad without it. He could not understand what it would look like, how his days would organize themselves, what would prompt him to get out of bed or how anybody would know whether he was alive or what would keep him here at all, come to think of it. Surely there would be other tournaments, other successes ahead, but without the academy, there was nothing concrete tethering him to Leningrad. He could float away — into outer space, up into the hoary slopes of the forbidding north, back to Okha to kill the chickens for his mother. There was nothing keeping him here or anywhere. And in the absence of an excuse to be elsewhere, Aleksandr found himself heading to the bar across the street.

After an hour of drinking and self-pity, Aleksandr realized that the man sitting next to him was staring. Aleksandr pretended to crack his neck so as to get a look at him. When he turned, he caught the man’s eye. His gaze was patient, and Aleksandr wondered how long he had been sitting there. “Cigarette?” said the man.

He was well groomed, though his nails were stained with cataracts of yellow nicotine, and his breath, when he leaned close, reminded Aleksandr of his own mortality. The man was an apparatchik.

“I don’t smoke,” said Aleksandr, moving slightly away.

The man stared at Aleksandr bemusedly for a moment. His nose was running in a way that made Aleksandr nervous. “You don’t smoke,” he said. “Of course you don’t smoke. I feel I’ve read this about you.”

For a buoyant moment, Aleksandr flattered himself that the man meant he’d read this about Aleksandr in the paper. But of course not.

“In my file,” said Aleksandr. He’d known he probably had a file — it was even a little gratifying; it meant something about his game. But to hear it mentioned in public was startling. Its existence was understood but indecent, like the mechanics of human reproduction.

“Myself, I don’t drink,” said the man cheerfully. “So we’re both deviant.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Not on the job, anyway. Even that’s unusual enough, though.” He leaned back; the miserly neon bar light made a corona around his head. “You drink, for example.”

“I’m starting to need to.”

“Alcoholism is a disease of capitalism.” The man stubbed out his cigarette. “Anyway, you’re young.”

“I’m nineteen.”