Уолтер Тевис - The Queen's Gambit

That was a surprise. They hadn’t talked about Russia, or chess, since getting in the car. “As my second?”

“Whatever. I can’t afford to pay expenses.”

“You want me to pay them?”

“Something will turn up. While you were interviewed by that magazine, I talked to Johanssen. He said there wouldn’t be any Federation money for seconds.”

“I’m only thinking about Paris,” she said. “I haven’t decided to go to Moscow yet.”

“You’ll go.”

“I don’t even know if I’m going to stay more than a few days with you. I have to get a passport.”

“We can do that in New York.”

She started to say something but didn’t. She looked at Benny. Now that blankness had left his face, she felt warmer toward him. She had made love to two men in her life, and it was hardly making love; if she and Benny went to bed together, there would be more to it. She would see there was more to it. They would be in his apartment by midnight; maybe something would happen there. Maybe he would feel differently at home.

“Let’s play chess,” Benny said. “I’ll be White. Pawn to king four.”

She shrugged. “Pawn to queen bishop four.”

“N,” he said, using the letter for “knight.” “K-B3.”

“Pawn to queen three.” She wasn’t sure she liked this. She had never shared her interior chessboard before, and there was a sense of violation in opening it to Benny’s moves.

“P to Q four,” Benny said.

“Pawn takes pawn.”

“Knight takes.”

“Knight. King bishop three.” Actually it was easy. She could look at the road ahead and at the same time see the imaginary chessboard and the pieces on it without difficulty.

“N to Q-B3,” Benny said.

“Pawn to king’s knight three.”

“P to B four.”

“P to B four.”

“The Levenfish,” Benny said dryly. “I never liked it.”

“Play your knight.”

Suddenly his voice was like ice. “Don’t tell me what to move,” he said. She pulled back as if stung.

They drove in silence for a few miles. Beth watched the gray steel divider that separated them from the oncoming lanes. Then, as they were coming to a tunnel, Benny said, “You were right about the knight on B-3. I’ll put it there.”

She hesitated a moment before speaking. “Okay. I’ll take the knight.”

“Pawn takes,” Benny said.

“Pawn to king five.”

“Pawn takes again,” Benny said. “Do you know what Scharz says about that one? The footnote?”

“I don’t read footnotes,” Beth said.

“It’s time you started.”

“I don’t like Scharz.”

“I don’t either,” Benny said. “But I read him. What’s your move?”

“Queen takes queen. Check.” She could hear the sullenness in her voice.

“King takes,” Benny said, relaxing now at the wheel. Pennsylvania rolled by. Beth forced him to resign on the twenty-seventh move and felt somewhat better for it. She had always liked the Sicilian.

There were plastic bags full of garbage in the entryway to Benny’s apartment and the light overhead was only a dirty bare bulb. It was a white tile hallway and as depressing at midnight as the toilet in a bus station. There were three locks on Benny’s front door, which was painted red and had some impenetrable word like “ Bezbo ” written on it in black spray paint.

Inside was a small and cluttered living room with books piled everywhere. But the lighting was pleasant when he got the lamps on. One end of the room was a kitchen, and near it was a door going off to the bedroom. There was a grass rug and no sofa and chairs—just black pillows to sit on with lamps beside them.

The bathroom was orthodox enough, with a floor made of black-and-while tile and a broken handle on the hot-water tap. There was a tub and shower with a black plastic curtain. She washed her hands and face and came back into the living room. Benny had gone into the bedroom to unpack. Her bag was still on the living-room floor next to a bookcase. She walked over to it and looked wearily at the books. They were all on chess—all five shelves of them. Some were in Russian and German, but they were all on chess. She walked across the hard little rug to the other side of the room where there was another bookcase, this one made of boards resting on bricks. More chess. One whole shelf was Shakhmatni Byulleten going back to the nineteen-fifties.

“There’s room in this closet,” Benny shouted from the bedroom. “You can hang up when you want to.”

“Okay,” she said. Back on the turnpike she had thought they might make love when they got here. Now she wanted only to sleep. And what was she supposed to sleep on? “I thought I was going to get a sofa,” she said.

He came into the doorway. “I said ‘living room.’” He went back to the bedroom and returned with a bulky-looking thing and some kind of pump. He flipped it out in the middle of the floor and began pedaling the pump with his foot, and after a while it puffed up and became an air mattress. “I’ll get sheets,” Benny said. He brought them out of the bedroom.

“I’ll do it,” she said and took them from him. She didn’t like the looks of the mattress, but she knew where her pills were. She could get them out after he fell asleep, if she needed to. There would be nothing to drink in this apartment. Benny had not said so, but she knew.

She must have fallen asleep before Benny did, since she forgot about the pills in her luggage. She awoke to the sound of a klaxon outside—an ambulance or fire truck. When she tried to sit up she could not; there was no edge of the bed to hang her legs over. She pushed herself up and stood, wearing pajamas, and looked around. Benny was standing at the sink counter with his back to her. She knew where she was, but it looked different by daylight. The siren faded and was replaced by the general traffic sounds of New York. One blind was open and she could see the cab of a big truck as close as Benny was, and beyond it taxis weaving past. A dog barked intermittently.

Benny turned and came over to her. He was holding out a big cardboard cup to her.

“Chock Full O’ Nuts,” the cup read. Something seemed very strange about this. No one had ever given her anything in the morning—certainly not Mrs. Wheatley, who was never up before Beth had eaten her breakfast. She took the plastic top off and tasted the coffee. “Thanks,” she said.

“Dress in the bedroom,” Benny said.

“I need a shower.”

“It’s all yours.”

Benny had set up a folding card table with a green and beige chessboard on it. He was arranging the pieces when she came into the living room. “Okay,” he said, “we’ll start with these.” He handed her a roll of pamphlets and magazines wrapped with a rubber band. On top was a small pamphlet with a cheap paper cover reading “The Hastings Christmas Chess Congress—Falaise Hall, White Rock Gardens,” and under this, “A Record of Games.” The pages inside were dense with type, smudgily printed. There were two chess games on a page, with boldface captions: Luchenko—Uhlmann; Borgov—Penrose. He handed her another, titled simply Grandmaster Chess . It was much like the Hastings booklet. Three of the magazines were from Germany, and one was from Russia.

“We’ll play through the Hastings games,” Benny said. He went into the bedroom and came back with two plain wooden chairs, setting one on each side of the card table near the front window. The truck was still parked outside and the street was full of slow-moving cars. “You play the white pieces and I’ll play Black.”

“I haven’t had breakfast…”

“Eggs in the fridge,” Benny said. “We’ll play the Borgov games first.”