Уолтер Тевис - The Queen's Gambit

When Mrs. Wheatley finished, she set the mop against the refrigerator and came into the living room. “I see you’re back,” she began. Her voice was carefully neutral.

Beth looked at her. “I had a good time,” she said.

Mrs. Wheatley seemed uncertain what attitude to take. Finally she allowed herself a small smile. It was surprisingly shy, like a girl’s smile. “Well,” she said, “chess isn’t the only thing in life.”

Beth graduated from high school in June, and Mrs. Wheatley gave her a Bulova watch. The back of the case read “ With love from Mother .” She liked that, but what she liked better was the rating that came in the mail: 2243. At the school party, several other graduates offered Beth surreptitious drinks, but she refused. She had fruit punch and went home early. She needed to study; she would be playing her first international tournament, in Mexico City, in two weeks, and after that came the United States Championship. She had been invited to the Remy-Vallon in Paris, at the end of the summer. Things were beginning to happen.

An hour after the plane crossed the border, Beth was absorbed in pawn-structure analysis and Mrs. Wheatley was drinking her third bottle of Cerveza Corona. “Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I have a confession to make.”

Beth put the book down, reluctantly.

Mrs. Wheatley seemed nervous. “Do you know what a pen pal is, dear?”

“Someone you trade letters with.”

“Exactly! When I was in high school, our Spanish class was given a list of boys in Mexico who were studying English. I picked one and sent him a letter about myself.” Mrs. Wheatley gave a little laugh. “His name was Manuel. We corresponded for a long time—even while I was married to Allston. We exchanged photographs.” Mrs. Wheatley opened her purse, rummaged through it and produced a bent snapshot which she handed to Beth. It was a picture of a thin-faced man, surprisingly pale-looking, with a pencil-thin mustache. Mrs. Wheatley hesitated and said, “Manuel will be meeting us at the airport.”

Beth had no objection to this; it might even be a good thing to have a Mexican friend. But she was put off by Mrs. Wheatley’s manner. “Have you met him before?”

“Never.” She leaned over in her seat and squeezed Beth’s forearm. “You know, I’m really quite thrilled.”

Beth could see that she was a little drunk. “Is that why you wanted to come down early?”

Mrs. Wheatley pulled back and straightened the sleeves of her blue cardigan. “I suppose so,” she said.

“ Si como no? ” Mrs. Wheatley said. “And he dresses so well, and opens doors for me and orders dinner beautifully.” She was pulling up her pantyhose as she talked, tugging fiercely to get them over her broad hips.

They were probably fucking—Mrs. Wheatley and Manuel Córdoba y Serano. Beth did not let herself visualize it. Mrs. Wheatley had come back to the hotel at about three that morning, and at two-thirty the night before. Beth, pretending to be asleep, had smelled the ripe mix of perfume and gin while Mrs. Wheatley fumbled around the room, undressing and sighing.

“I thought at first it was the altitude,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “Seven thousand three hundred and fifty feet.” Sitting down at the little brass vanity bench, she leaned forward on one elbow and began rouging her cheeks. “It makes a person positively giddy. But I think now it’s the culture.” She stopped and turned to Beth. “There is no hint of a Protestant ethic in Mexico. They are all Latin Catholics, and they all live in the here and now.” Mrs. Wheatley had been reading Alan Watts. “I think I’ll have just one margarita before I go out. Would you call for one, honey?”

Back in Lexington, Mrs. Wheatley’s voice would sometimes have a distance to it, as though she were speaking from some lonely reach of an interior childhood. Here in Mexico City the voice was distant but the tone was theatrically gay, as though Alma Wheatley were savoring an incommunicable private mirth. It made Beth uneasy. For a moment she wanted to say something about the expensiveness of room service, even measured in pesos, but she didn’t. She picked up the phone and dialed six. The man answered in English. She told him to send a margarita and a large Coke to 713.

“You could come to the Folklórico,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I understand the costumes alone are worth the price of admission.”

“The tournament starts tomorrow. I need to work on endgames.”

Mrs. Wheatley was sitting on the edge of the bed, admiring her feet. “Beth, honey,” she said dreamily, “perhaps you need to work on yourself . Chess certainly isn’t all there is.”

“It’s what I know.”

Mrs. Wheatley gave a long sigh. “My experience has taught me that what you know isn’t always important.”

“What is important?”

“Living and growing,” Mrs. Wheatley said with finality. “Living your life.”

With a sleazy Mexican salesman? Beth wanted to say. But she kept silent. She did not like the jealousy she felt.

“Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley went on in a voice rich with plausibility. “You haven’t visited Bellas Artes or even Chapultepec Park. The zoo there is delightful. You’ve taken your meals in this room and spent your time with your nose in chess books. Shouldn’t you just relax on the day before the tournament and think about something other than chess?”

Beth wanted to hit her. If she had gone to those places, she would have had to go with Manuel and listen to his endless stories. He was forever touching Mrs. Wheatley’s shoulder or her back, standing too close to her, smiling too eagerly. “Mother,” she said, “tomorrow at ten I play the black pieces against Octavio Marenco, the champion of Brazil. That means he has the first move. He is thirty-four years old and an International Grandmaster. If I lose, we will be paying for this trip—this adventure—out of capital. If I win, I will be playing someone in the afternoon who is even better than Marenco. I need to work on my endgames.”

“Honey, you are what is called an ‘intuitive’ player, aren’t you?” Mrs. Wheatley had never discussed chess playing with her before.

“I’ve been called that. Moves come to me sometimes.”

“I’ve noticed the moves they applaud the loudest are the ones you make quickly. And there’s a certain look on your face.”

Beth was startled. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.

“Intuition doesn’t come from books. I think it’s because you don’t like Manuel.”

“Manuel’s all right,” Beth said, “but he doesn’t come by to see me .”

“That’s irrelevant,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “You need to relax . There’s not another player in the world as gifted as you are. I haven’t the remotest idea what faculties a person uses in order to play chess well, but I am convinced that relaxation can only improve them.”

Beth said nothing. She had been furious for several days. She did not like Mexico City or this enormous concrete hotel with its cracked tiles and leaky faucets. She did not like the food in the hotel, but she did not want to eat alone in restaurants. Mrs. Wheatley had gone out for lunch and dinner every day with Manuel, who owned a green Dodge and seemed to be always at her disposal.

“Why don’t you have lunch with us?” Mrs. Wheatley said. “We can drop you off afterward and you can study then.”

Beth started to answer, when there was a knock at the door. It was room service with Mrs. Wheatley’s margarita. Beth signed for it while Mrs. Wheatley took a few thoughtful sips and stared out the window at the sunlight. “I really haven’t been well lately,” Mrs. Wheatley said, squinting.