Уолтер Тевис - The Queen's Gambit

Mrs. Wheatley was in bed but awake. She blinked at Beth from the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Hi, sweetie.”

“I thought we could have lunch,” Beth said. “I don’t play again until tomorrow.”

“Lunch,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “Oh my.” And then; “How did you do?”

“He resigned after thirty moves.”

“You’re a wonder,” Mrs. Wheatley said. She pushed herself carefully up in bed until she was sitting. “I’m feeling wonky, but I probably need something in my stomach. Manuel and I had cabrito for dinner. It may yet be the end of me.” She looked very pale. She got out of bed slowly and walked to the bathroom. “I suppose I could have a sandwich, or one of those less inflamed tacos.”

The competition at the tournament was more consistent, vigorous and professional than anything Beth had seen before, yet its effect on her, once she had got through the first game after a near-sleepless night, was not disturbing. It was a smoothly run affair, with all announcements made in both Spanish and English. Everything was hushed. In her game the next day she played the Queen’s Gambit Declined against an Austrian named Diedrich, a pale, esthetic young man in a sleeveless sweater, and she forced him to resign in midgame with a relentless pressure in the center of the board. She did it mostly with pawns and was herself quietly amazed at the intricacies that seemed to flow from her fingertips as she took the center of the board and began to crush his position as one might crush an egg. He had played well, made no blunders or anything that could properly be called a mistake, but Beth moved with such deadly accuracy, such measured control, that his position was hopeless by the twenty-third move.

Mrs. Wheatley had invited her to have dinner with her and Manuel; Beth had refused. Although you didn’t eat dinner in Mexico until ten o’clock, she did not expect to find Mrs. Wheatley in the room when she came back from shopping at seven.

She was dressed but in bed with her head propped up against a pillow. A half-finished drink sat on the nightstand beside her. Mrs. Wheatley was in her mid-forties, but the paleness of her face and the lines of worry in her forehead made her look much older. “Hello, dear,” she said in a faint voice.

“Are you sick?”

“A bit under the weather.”

“I could get a doctor.”

The word “doctor” seemed to hang in the air between them until Mrs. Wheatley said, “It’s not that bad. I just need rest.”

Beth nodded and went into the bathroom to wash up. Mrs. Wheatley’s appearance and behavior were disturbing. But when Beth came back into the room, she was out of bed and looking lively enough, smoothing the covers. She smiled wryly. “Manuel won’t be coming.”

Beth looked inquiringly at her.

“He had business in Oaxaca.”

Beth hesitated for a moment. “How long will he be away?”

Mrs. Wheatley sighed. “At least until we leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I’ve never been to Oaxaca, but I suspect it resembles Denver.”

Beth stared at her a moment and then laughed. “We can have dinner together,” she said. “You can take me to one of the places you know about.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Wheatley said. She smiled ruefully. “It was fun while it lasted. He really had a pleasant sense of humor.”

“That’s good,” Beth said. “Mr. Wheatley didn’t seem very amusing.”

“My God,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “Allston never thought anything was funny, except maybe Eleanor Roosevelt.”

In this tournament each player played one game a day. It would go on for six days. Beth’s first two games were simple enough for her, but the third came as a shock.

She arrived five minutes early and was at the board when her opponent came walking up, a bit awkwardly. He looked about twelve years old. Beth had seen him around the ballroom, had passed boards where he was playing, but she had been distracted, and his youth hadn’t really registered. He had curly black hair and wore an old-fashioned white sport shirt, so neatly ironed that its creases stood out from his thin arms. It was very strange, and she felt uncomfortable. She was supposed to be the prodigy. He looked so damned serious .

She held out her hand. “I’m Beth Harmon.”

He stood, bowed slightly, took her hand firmly and shook it once. “I am Georgi Petrovitch Girev,” he said. Then he smiled shyly, a small furtive smile. “I am honored.”

She felt flustered. “Thanks.” They both sat, and he pressed the button down on her clock. She played pawn to queen four, glad to have the first move against this unnerving child.

It started out as a routine Queen’s Gambit Accepted; he took the offered bishop pawn, and they both developed toward the center. But as they got into the midgame it became more complex than usual, and she realized that he was playing a very sophisticated defense. He moved fast—maddeningly fast—and he seemed to know exactly what he was going to do. She tried a few threats, but he was unperturbed by them. An hour passed, then another. The move numbers were now in the thirties, and the board was dense with men. She looked at him as he was moving a piece—at the skinny little arm stuck out from the absurd shirt—and she hated him. He could have been a machine. You little creep, she thought, suddenly realizing that the adults she had played as a child must have thought the same thing about her.

It was afternoon now, and most of the games were finished. They were on move thirty-four. She wanted to get this over with and get back to Mrs. Wheatley. She was worried about Mrs. Wheatley. She felt old and weary playing this tireless child with his bright dark eyes and quick little movements; she knew that if she made even a small blunder, he would be at her throat. She looked at her clock. Twenty-five minutes left. She would have to speed up and get forty moves in before her flag dropped. If she didn’t watch it, he would have her in serious time pressure. That was something she was in the habit of putting other people in; it made her uneasy. She had never been behind on the clock before.

For the last several moves she had been considering a series of trades in the center—knight and bishop for knight and bishop, and a rook exchange a few moves later. It would simplify a good deal, but the problem was that it made for an endgame and she tried to avoid endgames. Now, seeing that she was forty-five minutes behind him on the clock, she felt uncomfortable. She would have to get rid of this logjam. She picked up her knight and took his king’s bishop with it. He responded immediately, not even looking up at her. He took her queen’s bishop. They continued with the moves as though they had been predetermined, and when it was over, the board was full of empty spaces. Each player had a rook, a knight, four pawns and the king. She brought her king out from the back rank, and so did he. At this stage the king’s power as an attacker became abruptly manifest; it was no longer necessary to hide it. The question now was one of getting a pawn to the eighth rank and promoting it. They were in the endgame.

She drew in her breath, shook her head to clear it and began to concentrate on the position. The important thing was to have a plan.

“We should perhaps adjourn now.” It was Girev’s voice, almost a whisper. She looked at his face, pale and serious, and then looked back at the clock. Both flags had fallen. That had never happened to her before. She was startled and sat stupidly in her chair for a moment. “You must seal the move,” Girev said. Suddenly he looked uncomfortable and held up his hand for the tournament director.