On board Beth declined a drink from the stewardess. When she had gone back down the aisle, Beth opened her purse and took out one of her new bottles of green pills. She had spent three hours the day before, after signing the papers, going from farmacia to farmacia, buying the limit of one hundred pills in each.
The funeral was simple and brief. A half-hour before it began, Beth took four green pills. She sat in the church alone, in a quiet daze, while the minister said the things ministers say. There were flowers at the altar, and she was mildly surprised to see a pair of men from the funeral home step up and carry them out as soon as the minister had finished. Six other people were there, but Beth knew none of them. One old lady hugged her afterward and said, “You poor dear.”
She finished unpacking that afternoon and came down from the bedroom to fix coffee. While the water was coming to a boil she went into the little downstairs bathroom to wash her face and suddenly, standing there surrounded by blue, by Mrs. Wheatley’s blue bathroom rug and blue towels and blue soap and blue washcloths, something hot exploded in her belly and her face was drenched with tears. She took a towel from the rack and held it against her face and said, “Oh Jesus Christ” and leaned against the washbasin and cried for a long time.
She was still drying her face when the phone rang.
The voice was male. “Beth Harmon?”
“Yes.”
“This is Harry Beltik. From the State Tournament.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah. I hear you dropped one to Borgov. Wanted to give condolences.”
As she laid the towel on the back of the overstuffed sofa she noticed a half-finished pack of Mrs. Wheatley’s cigarettes on its arm. “Thanks,” she said, picking up the package and holding on to it tightly.
“What were you playing? White?”
“Black.”
“Yeah.” There was a pause. “Is something wrong?”
“No.”
“It’s better that way.”
“What’s better?”
“It’s better to be Black if you’re going to lose it.”
“I suppose so.”
“What’d you play? Sicilian?”
She gently set the package of cigarettes back on the chair arm. “Ruy Lopez. I let him do it to me.”
“Mistake,” Beltik said. “Look, I’m in Lexington for the summer. Would you like some training?”
“Training?”
“I know. You’re better than me. But if you’re going to play Russians, you’ll need help.”
“Where are you?”
“At the Phoenix Hotel. I’m moving to an apartment Thursday.”
She looked around the room for a moment, at the stack of Mrs. Wheatley’s women’s magazines on the cobbler’s bench, the pale-blue drapes on the windows, the oversized ceramic lamps with the cellophane still wrapped around their yellowing shades. She took in a long breath and let it out silently. “Come on over,” she said.
He drove up twenty minutes later in a 1955 Chevrolet with red-and-black flames painted on the fenders and a broken headlamp, pulling up to the curb at the end of the patterned-brick walk. She had been watching for him from the window and was on the front porch when he got out of the car. He waved at her and went to the trunk. He was wearing a bright-red shirt and gray corduroy pants with a pair of sneakers that matched the shirt. There was something dark and quick about him, and Beth, remembering his bad teeth and his fierce way of playing chess, felt herself stiffen a little at the sight of him.
He bent over the trunk and lifted out a cardboard box, clearly heavy, tossed the hair out of his eyes and came up the walk. The box said HEINZ TOMATO KETCHUP in red letters; it was open at the top and filled with books.
He set it on the living-room rug and unceremoniously took Mrs. Wheatley’s magazines from the coffee table and slipped them into the magazine rack. He began taking books out of the box one at a time, reading off the titles and piling them on the table. “A. L. Deinkopf, Middle Game Strategy; J. R. Capablanca, My Chess Career; Fornaut, Alekhine’s Games 1938–1945; Meyer, Rook and Pawn Endings.”
Some of them were books she had seen before; a few of them she owned. But most were new to her, heavy-looking and depressing to see. She knew there were a great many things she needed to know. But Capablanca had almost never studied, had played on intuition and his natural gifts, while inferior players like Bogolubov and Grünfeld memorized lines of play like German pedants. She had seen players at tournament after their games had ended, sitting motionless in uncomfortable chairs oblivious to the world, studying opening variations or middle-game strategy or endgame theory. It was endless. Seeing Beltik methodically removing one heavy book after another, she felt weary and disoriented. She glanced over at the TV: a part of her wanted to turn it on and forget chess forever.
“My summer’s reading,” Beltik said.
She shook her head irritably. “I study books. But I’ve always tried to play it by ear.”
He stopped, holding three copies of Shakhmatni Byulleten in his hands, their covers worn with use, frowning at her. “Like Morphy,” he said, “or Capablanca?”
She was embarrassed. “Yes.”
He nodded grimly and set the stack of bulletins on the floor by the coffee table. “Capablanca would have beaten Borgov.”
“Not every game.”
“Every game that counted,” Beltik said.
She studied his face. He was younger than she remembered him. But she was older now. He was an uncompromising young man; every part of him was uncompromising. “You think I’m a prima donna, don’t you?”
He permitted himself a small smile. “We’re all prima donnas,” he said. “That’s chess for you.”
When she put the TV dinners in the oven that night, they had two boards set up with endgame positions: his set with its green and cream squares, its heavy plastic pieces; her wooden board with its rosewood and maple men. Both sets were the Staunton pattern that all serious players used; both had four-inch kings. She hadn’t invited him to stay for lunch and dinner; it had been understood. He went to the grocery store a few blocks away for the food while she sat musing over a group of possible rook moves, trying to avoid a draw in a theoretical game. While she made lunch he lectured her about keeping in good physical shape and getting enough sleep. He had also bought the two frozen dinners for supper.
“You’ve got to stay open,” Beltik said. “If you get locked into one idea—like this king knight pawn, say—it’s death. Look at this…” She turned to his board on the kitchen table. He was holding a cup of coffee and standing, frowning down at the board, holding his chin with the other hand.
“Look at what?” she said, irritated.
He reached down, picked up the white rook, moved it across the board to king rook one—the lower right-hand corner. “Now his rook pawn’s pinned.”
“So what?”
“He’s got to move the king now or he gets stuck later.”
“I see that,” she said, her voice a little softer now. “But I don’t see—”
“Look at the queenside pawns, way over here.” He pointed to the other side of the board, at the three white pawns interlinked. She walked over to the table to get a better look. “He can do this,” she said, and moved the black rook over two squares.
Beltik looked up at her. “Try it.”
“Okay.” She sat down behind the pieces.
In half a dozen moves Beltik had gotten his queen bishop pawn to the seventh rank and queening it was inevitable. It would cost the rook and the game to stop it. He had been right; it was necessary to move the king when the rook had come across the board. “You were right,” she said. “Did you figure it out?”