Chapter Text
They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom
For trying to change the system from within
I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them
First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin
Leonard Cohen, First we take Manhattan
/the night between 'Talking Chess' and 'Endgame'/
'Get a grip.'
The words hung in the heavy, thick air as Anatoliy looked to his side.
The place was called a park.
In the scrawled note, in the tourist guide, in every of those few instances either of them had heard of it - it was always described as one.
It was more of an enormous square though, with sparse groups of people scurrying through the vast emptiness - especially now, with the curtain of rain flooding it relentlessly. Under the sickly-looking trees surrounding the area, stood Freddie Trumper, the former world chess champion, trying to simultaneously wrestle open a pocket chess set - a small, chintzy piece of plastic - while retaining a grip on an equally chintzy, slippery umbrella. Anatoliy Sergievskiy, his successor, looked at him quizzically from a few feet away, tightening his grip on the leather briefcase he held.
'Win for chess,' mumbled Freddie again, emphasizing the last word. He was focused on fumbling with the board. 'Look… It's the dumbest mistake, I swear, thought you Russkies kicked kids out of your chess schools for that kind of thing…'
Anatoliy stood still, not quite sure as to what to do. First, reading this odd letter, written in messy handwriting on a page torn out of a hotel Bible (stationery wouldn't be enough, now would it?) - and, moreover, treating it seriously by stepping out of the room in this weather. He also made a grievous error of not walking away the moment he saw Trumper obviously waiting for him - this entire dumb scheme of sending an anonymous note via room service… was anybody else capable of being this needlessly overdramatic, given the circumstances? The third lapse of judgement was allowing himself to speak to him, not simply accepting the advice, strange as it was, and leaving. As obvious as these mistakes were, he suddenly felt excused - in his mind, among the entangled thoughts of families, lovers and countries, a light turned on - getting King's Indian wrong? Something Vigand had to study for years, getting to know each line, each variation? He had to have these memorized at this point. Memorizing things is what he had built his entire career on…
'He's going to try and keep the opening textbook, he doesn't want you to have an advantage and he can't lose this time, so in case you and your second haven't been paying attention and of course you — '
The thread, as thin as it was, snapped immediately.
'Don't,' said Anatoliy, his voice sharp again.
'No, you have to play this through, there's something I thought of…'
Silence. Stern look.
'Let's... Let's just sit down somewhere. I'll show you.'
Quirked eyebrow. Loud exhale.
Freddie looked around helplessly, as if he suddenly remembered the pouring rain.
'Why don't we just go… come with me, Sergievskiy.'
Make that the fourth error, thought Anatoliy as he followed Freddie into the hurricane of a city that engulfed them, with its tangled streets, awash with people, noise, heat and rainwater.