Work Text:
April 1964
Anatoly sits in the windowsill of his hotel room, looking out at the people on the sidewalks below and the cars driving by. He’s been there for a good half hour, just watching, his calculating eyes taking in and processing everything happening outside that window just like they do at a blitz. He doesn’t realize he has a wistful look on his face.
Molokov can’t blame him, really. Calcutta looks and feels entirely different from home, and it’s nothing Anatoly has ever experienced before.
“You have a big day tomorrow,” Molokov says, coaxing. He’s got the board set up for some exercises on a little table on the other side of the room. Nothing too strenuous. He’s going to be tired after the flight. “You’re running out of time to prepare, you know.”
Anatoly only briefly glances back into the room behind him, so much less appealing than the world outside it. “Can’t we go look around? Just for an hour or two?” he asks, and he’s not even trying to hide it anymore. “I’ll practice after that, I promise.”
Molokov shares a private smile with himself—it isn’t as if Anatoly is looking at him. It can be easy to forget, sometimes, how young he is. Skinny, awkward, subtly headstrong Anatoly Sergievsky has the potential to become one of the greatest chess players in the country, if not the world. It’s the only reason they’re here today. His country sees his potential, and is doing everything in its power to foster his skill—he and dozens of other young Soviet chess masters.
For the past few years, Molokov has only seen Anatoly when he needs to travel. He’s gotten to know him while sitting next to him on planes, while sharing hotel suites with him, while playing games of chess with him all over the globe. He has others that handle his day-to-day training, that are better at chess than Molokov is, and Molokov has other work to do. Very soon, if Anatoly continues to progress at the rate he has been, that is likely to change—Molokov is likely to find himself with a permanent charge, and Anatoly will be on the narrow path to the top of the top. It will be a heavy burden to bear.
But right now, Anatoly isn’t quite there yet. Right now, he’s 16, and he wants to go sightseeing.
“Come sit down,” Molokov says, a little more forcefully this time. He doesn’t expect arguments yet, but he still braces himself for one every time. Anatoly has gotten bolder the older he gets. “We’ll look around after you’ve won this tournament.”
Anatoly shoots him a glare. “That’s what you said last time, too,” he says. “And we never did. Just hotels and convention halls and airports. What is the point in coming to these places only to never leave the hotel?”
He’s so young. So intelligent, but he has no idea what his future has in store. It won’t always be like this. Someday, Molokov thinks, he’ll miss it.
“We are here to represent our homeland on the international stage,” Molokov says. “We all have our own talents, and it is our duty to use those talents to serve the Union. Your talent is chess.”
He gestures to the chess board in front of him, making eye contact with Anatoly as he does so. “Surely nothing can be more important to you than that.”
Here, Molokov has him. Anatoly’s gaze shifts, and he glares down at the carpet. “No,” he lies. He isn’t even good at it yet.
Molokov smiles, but is careful not to laugh. The boy’s pride is fragile. “Wonderful. Come, sit,” he says, leaning back in his rickety hotel chair. “We will look around the city once the tournament is over, whatever the outcome. I give you my word.”
Anatoly eyes him suspiciously as he sits across from him, like he’s trying to decide whether he can trust Molokov or not. He can’t, but in this particular, Molokov is telling the truth. The world outside this hotel room is vast, and Anatoly has that look in his eye—curiosity, fascination, longing. Molokov remembers being young. The last thing he needs is for his charge to make a bumbling effort toward sneaking out to explore on his own. Better for him to be supervised, at least.
But, there is danger in that, too. Molokov has seen it all before. Once Anatoly gets a taste of the wider world, it will be increasingly difficult to bring him home again.
That will be a problem for tomorrow. Today, they play chess. Molokov’s job is to guide him, and to teach him who he is meant to be. All he can do now is hope it will be enough.