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Vasily Borgov was the same age as Benny Watts.
As far as Beth could tell, Benny did not cope with this well. He’d spent his life constantly compared to the Russian prodigy, never managing more than the rare draw against his Cold War chess rival.
“Do you know what he said when my book came out?” Benny groused. “We were in fucking Bulgaria for the Olympiad, and a reporter asked if he was going to write a book, too, and what does he say? ‘In Russia, we do not write books until we have something worth saying.’ Like my book’s just some vanity exercise. It informs people, Harmon, you know that. And chess here isn’t like chess in the USSR. We don’t have the luxury of only focusing on the game—we gotta hustle, which means writing the books and doing the press shit.”
Beth let him rant as he made pancakes for dinner. She’d been in New York these past three weeks to train, and between games of "workman-like chess" and scouring old chess magazines, all Benny seemed to talk about is Vasily Borgov. How he'd never seen him smile. How he used to be shorter than Benny, but then suddenly shot up half a foot and was now two inches taller. Not that it mattered, he’d always add. But it was the one thing I had on him, you know? The Russian and his perfect fucking plays.
Beth didn’t disagree with that assessment. Borgov was technically flawless. Frustratingly, indubitably, technically flawless. The youngest World Champion in history, only eight years older than Beth, but miles and miles ahead.
Not that Beth couldn’t play catch-up, but she had been so humiliated in Mexico, her best nowhere near good enough. It hadn’t helped that he had caught her staring at him the day before in Chapultepec Zoo. She had been surprised to see him there and was wondering where his KGB shadows were when he suddenly turned towards her and met her gaze. His eyebrows were dark as soot in the pale light of the exhibit, and when Borgov raised a brow, bemused by Beth’s staring, she flushed and ran away.
It hadn't been because he was good-looking. (That had been Alma’s opinion, cooing to Beth over a “tall, dark, and handsome” Vasily Borgov, who had just walked past them in the lobby. She hadn’t known who Borgov was, and when Beth had told her, completely mortified, all Alma had done was hum contemplatively.)
No, Beth was a professional. She’d worked past her childish infatuation with Townes, and she was a woman now. Eighteen years old, with a new look and a new wardrobe, chess skills freshly honed and ready to face down Borgov in Paris.
He had been the one to stare after she answered the reporter’s question in Russian. It hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds, but Beth could feel the weight of his eyes on her, and she smiled, satisfied. She could play mental games, too.
But Borgov didn’t seem fazed by her revelation that she spoke Russian. If anything, it seemed to draw him towards her, which had not been Beth’s intent. He took breakfast at the same time as her, giving her a polite nod from his table as she stood in line at the buffet. Several times, she spotted him at the boards, looking over her games with a considering furrow on his brow. He had even watched her play, and as she soundly beat her opponent, she saw a small smile flicker across Borgov’s (admittedly attractive) face.
Perhaps having him around wasn’t such an awful burden to bear.
But then Beth had let Cleo drag her down, and seeing Borgov’s disappointed face across from her made Beth want to crawl right back into the bottle and never come out. She had not only made a spectacle of herself but had also disrespected her esteemed competitor, whose blue eyes could see right through her. He could see it all, could see how she was wasting her opportunities and throwing away her talent, and he would never be able to respect her again. She wouldn't be able to respect herself, either.
Somehow, in spite of her drunken antics, Beth still managed to snag an invite to the Moscow Invitational. Perhaps the USSR wanted a triple-crown performance from Borgov, giving him a third chance to quash his young American foe. Whatever the reason, she accepted the invitation, and Jolene had given Beth the kick in the rear she needed to reinvent her life. That meant more sleep and less shopping, more exercise and less withdrawing into herself, and no more drinking or drugs of any kind. (Minus the cigarettes, which Beth promised she'd work on later.) It was hard, but if not now, when? Beth was nineteen, and at nineteen, she still had a chance to turn her life around. (And for her body to recover, relatively unscathed.)
At the opening ceremony in Moscow, Borgov gave her a scrutinizing once-over when he shook her hand.
“I am prepared,” Beth said in Russian, feeling tired but sharper than she had in ages, and he nodded approvingly.
“I look forward to our game,” Borgov responded in English, and she smiled.
A week later, he was the one smiling.
“Take it, it’s yours,” he murmured, his voice warm. He handed Beth his king, and as they stood, he lowered his lips to the back of her hand. His soft gaze never left hers, and she laughed, floating on air as her eyes glistened with tears. He pulled her in for a gentle hug, bringing the two of them together, and Beth was surprised by her instinct to settle further into his embrace.
The next morning, while she was still in her robe and was getting ready to pack, Mr. Booth knocked on her door and said that Vasily Borgov had left something at the front desk for her.
Intrigued and mostly decent, Beth opened the door and was greeted by the sight of a white rose and an envelope. The contents have been officially deemed safe, Mr. Booth said, and he seemed strangely pleased, leaving Beth alone to inspect the contents of the envelope. Inside was the address for V. Borgov and an invitation to play correspondence chess. She would play white, of course, and perhaps she would have dinner with him in Rome later that year?
Thus began the courtship of Vasily Borgov and Beth Harmon.