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It was too late to go down to Beth’s game.
Alma felt guilty about it, but it would be worse to walk in late and make a scene. Or at least she told herself it would be. She soaked in the bath until it got cold. It didn’t make much difference to the lingering sense of dissatisfaction clinging to her skin. But what did, other than a drink, and it was too early for that. She was determined it was too early for that today.
She dressed and went downstairs and outside, but no matter what she said to Beth about adventure; without Manuel the city just, didn’t have the same luster or maybe she didn’t really like adventures as much as she’d told Beth she did, so she went back indoors.
The piano in the lobby still looked inviting. The piano always did. There was no one there to hear her. And more importantly, no Alston there to stop her.
She settled herself at the bench. It still gave her a little twinge of guilt, but she caught the eye of a passing concierge, who nodded, so she told herself that was permission, and got started. The first notes were the hard ones, the ones where she was entirely sure she would be told to stop making a scene. But no one did, and she could just play and it was just nice. By the time people began to gather, she’d settled into a rhythm and it didn’t bother her. And they were a good audience, quiet, and undemanding.
Alma just about jumped out of her skin when she looked up between pieces and realized a man was standing next to the bench. She hadn’t noticed him walk up.
“Apologies,” he said quietly, with a Russian accent. She was fairly sure it was a Russian accent.
“Oh,” she said, “no, don’t mind me. Am I making too much noise.”
He shook his head, “you play - very well.”
Now that she was over the shock and could actually get a look at him, he was handsome. Solidly built and serious looking.
There were a lot of men around this hotel, most unaccompanied, of course, for some of them, she imagined, Mexico City probably resembled Denver. It was the one thing she really worried about, with Beth. Most of the time Alma was fairly sure that Beth was more of an adult that she was. Certainly, she was riding Beth’s coat tails all around the world more than she was really accompanying her. But about this one thing, about the way men are with women - with girls - Beth was still a very young girl.
She wondered what this one wanted. Now that she was looking for it, she could see his wedding ring where he was resting his hand against the piano. But what did that prove, she was wearing one as well and it wasn’t worth much.
She didn’t think she would mind entirely, if that was what he wanted. He was good-looking, and it wasn’t like she had anyone else waiting for her. And he seemed nice.
But he was wearing a wedding ring.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you know Liebestraum No. 3?” he asked softly.
“I do, yes.” It wasn’t a difficult piece.
“Would you, please. It is a favourite of my wife’s.”
His wife?
Maybe he really missed her. Some people had to actually like their wives, she supposed, or they wouldn’t write so many romance novels.
“No problem,” Alma said.
“Thank you,” said her new friend, with a solemn little nod.
He walked over to a chair and settled down, and she straightened her back and started to play.
There was some applause when she finished, she’d amassed something of a crowd. Without anyone here to have opinions about it, having a crowd to play for actually felt quite nice.
One beautiful, elegantly dressed woman in particular, came up to her.
“That was lovely,” she said, “its one of my favourite pieces.”
Oh.
“Thank you,” said Alma, “actually, your husband asked me to play it for you.”
She smiled sunnily back at her husband, who had been walking over after her, and now had stopped to look betrayed in Alma’s direction.
“Oh I’m sorry,” Alma said, “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a secret.”
“Don’t worry,” said the woman, “Vasily can’t keep a secret for long, I would have got it out of him by morning anyway.”
“Are you here to play —“ Vasily’s wife asked.
There was a long pause while Alma first processed that she’d just been asked if she was travelling to play professionally and then realized that the pause at the end of the sentence had been a delicate request for her name.
“I’m Alma,” she said, “and, no, I don’t play professionally, I’m just — just visiting.”
Without the immediate surroundings of the tournament it was suddenly embarrassing to admit she was there with Beth. That if she said it, somehow it would be obvious to everyone that Beth didn’t really need her, and what she was really doing was trailing after her teenage daughter because she didn’t like being left alone in her house.
“Well, then we are extremely lucky to have caught you. I’m Marya. How are you finding Mexico?”
“Its exciting,” said Alma, “its my first trip out of the States,” she admitted, “but I’m hoping to travel more now,” she added, which had seemed like an improvement in her head but came out sort of pitiful.
“That’s wonderful,” said Marya, “you must enjoy it before you become jaded and travelling becomes routine.”
Vasily leaned over and murmured something in Russian — she was almost certain it was Russian.
“Don’t listen to her, she only has this problem because she’s a terrible cynic,” said Marya.
Alma was briefly extremely confused, before she realized that Marya was translating what Vasily had just said.
It must have shown on her face because Marya grinned at her and added, “you’ll get used to it.”
“You’re very good at that,” Alma said, trying to cover the gap.
“Its my job,” said Marya, “so I’ve had a lot of practice, and its easy with someone you know well.”
“You’re a translator?” Alma asked, “professionally I mean. That seems so exciting.”
“Yes,” said Marya, “and an interpreter.”
Alma didn’t know what the difference was, and was too embarrassed to ask.
“Its so convenient that Vasily needs an interpreter for work,” Marya, “this way, we make some sad faces to the consulate about family life and we only get shipped to different countries in opposite directions once or twice a year.”
There was a break in the conversation while Marya relayed what they’d just said back to Vasily. Alma wondered what it was like, routinely having conversations via another person. It had been strange enough, being here and walking down the street and not being able to understand most of what was being said (high school Spanish had been a long time ago), but Manuel had spoken excellent English, and most of the hotel and restaurant staff she’d spoken to had spoken enough English for her to fumble along by herself if she’d needed to.
But Vasily could really be saying anything, and Marya could be telling him just about anything back, couldn’t she? He would not be any the wiser and neither would she. She wouldn’t have wanted to only speak through her husband, she’d never get a word in edgewise. Maybe Beth? Beth would probably make her sound smarter at least.
She didn’t think Marya was making anything up though. Trusting people she barely knew never ended well for her, no matter how many times she kept doing it, but Marya and Vasily just seemed trustworthy. They leaned towards each other, even when they were both talking to her. Like sunflowers. A couple who acted like that must trust each other, and so surely that meant she could trust them too?
They had settled into a conversation about music, and Alma thought she might actually be getting the hang of this interpreter business (just like Marya said she would) when there was burst of yelling behind her and Alma turned to see two boys, one about the age her boy would have been, and one a little older, careening through the hotel lobby.
“Excuse me,” said Vasily, via Marya, “I am going to make sure my son isn’t being a completely bad influence on Georgi.”
He walked over to them and Alma tensed in anticipation of one or both boys getting a cuff around the ear, but Vasily just bent down slightly and spoke quietly to them for a while, resting a hand on each of their shoulders.
Eventually he seemed to be finished with whatever he had to say, pulled the younger boy into quick, one-armed hug, and then straightened both boys’ collars before shooing them back towards the elevator.
“They have promised to only create chaos at a tolerable volume, if they can have the evening to themselves, but I can retrieve Kolya - Nikolai” - Vasily, said, and Marya amended with a quick glance in Alma’s direction, “if you’d rather he join us for dinner.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Marya, “we should give them a chance to read those comic books. They’ve put such a lot of work into smuggling them.”
“Alright, you can decide what we should do about dinner, and I will make sure the children eat food that includes vegetables before we go,” said Vasily, and then he turned and followed to two children.
Alma once again, felt like she’d missed something.
“Those are, your boys?” she asked tentatively, knowing that wasn’t quite right, but also not able to figure out what else could be going on.
“Nikolai - the smaller, and noisier one - is ours,” said Marya, “Georgi is here for the tournament and Vasya - Vasily, is keeping an eye on him, since its his first time out of the country. He is very protective of the young chess players.” She said with a fond little smile on her face.
“Didn’t his mother want to come with him?” Alma asked.
“I think she probably did,” said Marya, “but Georgi is the oldest of six, and the logistics are just impossible. And it would just be terrible, don’t you think to leave them to puzzle all this out,” she punctuated that with a flap of her hand back towards the bustle of the chess tournament.
Alma thought guiltily of the tournament Beth had missed in Las Vegas because she’d caught yet another virus and Beth would have had to go alone. Thought even more guiltily of that first tournament she’d hardly known about until Beth came home afterwards with a hundred dollar cheque.
It seems so slipshod all of a sudden, that a young girl should be put in that situation. This little Russian boy could have adults, real adults who understood about chess and pawn structures and time controls, and all the other things that Beth swam through and she was adrift in, to look out for him and show him how things work. So how was it fair that, other than those two college boys, who really only qualified as adults as a courtesy, she had watched adult chess player after adult chess player, recoil from Beth in total consternation.
“Still,” said Alma, “it must be stressful, being handed an extra child when you’re travelling, even if you do travel a lot.”
“Oh, not really, we do travel a lot, and like I said, Vasily does make it his business to keep an eye on the younger players,” said Marya, cheerfully.
“It must be tiring though, you husband just, bringing home children for you,” Alma said, even though she had begged for Alston to do exactly that, for years.
“But he doesn’t bring them to me,” said Marya, Alma was sure she was staring back at her, “Like I said, Vasily makes it his business to mind the younger players. And Vasily spends a lot of time with Nikolai anyway when I’m busy. He’s always been very protective of my work. And Nikolai is such a friendly boy, he seems to enjoy it, new people in and out. To the great chagrin of his grandparents, who would love it if he would stay with them instead. I have no idea how he manages this, but I will just be happy he does not take after his awkward parents.”
Alma thinks she has probably never met a less awkward person, than Marya.
“So you get to travel all over?” Alma offered, trying to change the subject, “with your job?”
“I’m sorry to say,” said Marya, “you get used to it, especially when you come back to the same places. Sometimes I walk to work, sometimes I get on a plane.” She punctuated the statement by weighing the two options in one hand, like they were the same.
“I never really got to work,” Alma admitted, “I think it seems exciting to go to work at all.”
Marya, very graciously, did not make fun of her for it.
Vasily reappeared then, with his hands precariously full of cups. Marya rolled her eyes and took one from him, he handed Alma the other. It was coffee. For a minute, Alma thought she might hate Marya, with her pretty clothes and her exciting job, her handsome, attentive husband and her healthy son.
They moved away from the piano and sat down to drink their coffee and chatted about music, and about travel and Mexico. Alma didn’t say very much, and was happy that way, Marya and Vasily were interesting and friendly, and had already been to all the international tournaments Beth was planning to go to and seemed happy to give her hints about all the travel.
“It is such a relief to find someone who knows all this,” Alma admitted to them, “I always find these things out after Beth does, and I feel like a terrible parent. I’m, um, I’m travelling with Beth Harmon. She’s my daughter.”
She probably should not be admitting it to two virtual strangers, but Vasily just brushed it off. Literally, with a little wave.
“Well,” said Marya, “this is a just a terrible American problem,” she paused and added, “he’s right you know. Its why American chess players are nearly never adults.”
Vasily added something involved that made Marya laugh before she relayed it.
“Of course, the American players have the most delightful conspiracy theories about why they constantly lose. But I will share a now a valuable Soviet state secret —“ Marya paused for so long that Alma nearly believed that she really was going to share something she should not and then she said, “— we earn an adult living so we can afford to practice and teach like real adults, instead of scrambling between tournaments.”
Alma wondered, vaguely, if she should try to get a job, of if that would give the game away about Alston, and completely missed the next part of the conversation.
“It will be good to meet Miss Harmon,” Vasily was saying when she started paying attention again, “her gameplay is interesting. And Georgi said she was nice. You would not believe some people’s manners with children.”
“Oh believe me,” said Alma, “I’ve seen them.”
She didn’t really trust herself to pick up tone, in Russian, but Vasily had smiled when he’d said he looked forward to meeting Beth and they had all shared a sympathetic eye-roll about grown adults who could not be polite to teenagers, and for the first time ever Alma felt like some people were on her side.
“Well,” said Marya, “it is settled. You must come for dinner with us, and you must bring Beth. Its always nice to have company when you are a new traveller.”
“Thank you,” Alma replied, a little bit vaguely.
The conversation meandered along after that and Marya was just relating a very funny story involving Vasily and a potted plant, which Vasily was tolerating good-naturedly, when Alma caught sight of Beth walking through the lobby, and waved to get her attention.
********
Beth found Mrs. Wheatley in the lobby looking cheerful and well-rested, which was good, and about two feet away from Borgov, which was definitely bad. She froze, not sure whether to run away immediately or to try to rescue Mrs. Wheatley first, when Mrs. Wheatley, waved at her and called “Beth, we’re over here,” as though this was all totally normal.
She was not going to let Borgov know she was afraid of him. That was the last thing she needed. She clenched her fists, and straightened her back, and walked over.
“There you are,” said Mrs. Wheatley, “I’m sorry I missed your game, but I came down so late, and then I found the piano…”
“Its fine,” said Beth.
Mrs Wheatley looked briefly dubious.
“Its fine,” Beth said again, “really. It wasn’t a long game, anyway. Anyway, we should-”
Mrs. Wheatley cut her off, “and this is Vasily and Marya, we were going to have dinner. You could come too,” she said, “if you like.”
Beth really needed some time to process that statement but she wasn’t about to let anyone know that, so she held out a hand and said, “hello, Grandmaster,” in Russian.
She’d hoped that speaking Russian would convince Borgov to back off but he didn’t seem remotely bothered, he just took her hand and shook it like they were standing over a chess board, “Vasily Ivanovich,” he said, “pleased to meet you at last.”
His wife, she assumed it was his wife, on the other hand looked totally delighted, “Marya Sergeyevna,” she said, “your accent is quite good.”
“Thank you,” Beth ground out. She turned back to Mrs. Wheatley, “I can’t go out. I’m playing Grandmaster Borgov tomorrow, I need to study.”
She looked pointedly from Mrs. Wheatley, to Borgov, and back. There was a beat and then she she could see her traitorous mother finally put it together.
The Borgovs were whispering to each other while she talked. No, it was just Borgov’s wife whispering to him. There was an excruciating pause while he whispered back to her.
“You should come to dinner,” said Marya — no, said Borgov, via his wife, “you should not stew over a match all night. Its not healthy and you will not play better for it.”
It had taken Beth a second to figure out what was going on, and then she spent another moment trying to figure out if she’d seen Mrs. Borgova - Marya Sergeyevna - during the tournament. And then she figured out that what she recognized was her voice, she’d heard recorded interviews with Borgov, with his voice in Russian and hers in English.
She stopped glaring at Mrs. Borgova and went back to glaring at Borgov, “I’ll keep that in mind,” she ground out, in English, and heard Mrs. Borgova repeat it in Russian under her breath.
How dare he. How dare this obnoxious, self-satisfied lump of a man give her advice. Like she was some student. She was going to beat him so thoroughly tomorrow he’d never give advice to anyone ever again.
If Borgov noticed her tone, he didn’t show it, so Beth figured it was probably fifty-fifty. Or maybe less, since Mrs. Wheatley, who spoke English just fine missed it completely.
“It sounds like a good idea,” she said, smiling obliviously.
********
Alma was either very relieved, or very humiliated, but she didn’t know which, which was an odd position to be in.
She had realized, obviously, that she was inviting Beth to dinner with a Russian chess player, and she had seen how enough older chess players behaved when Beth walked up to them to worry about it. It would have been funny, all those adult men recoiling in terror from a teenage girl, if that teenage girl wasn’t her daughter.
But Vasily seemed as entirely pleased to be introduced to Beth as he’d been to hear about her.
Beth, on the other hand, had not look pleased to be introduced to Vasily. If she had realized that she wasn’t speaking to a Russian chess player but the specific Russian chess player who Beth talked about all the time, and was afraid to play, she might have thought twice about the invitation.
But how could she have?
How could she possibly have put this friendly, gentle man together with a chess player even Beth thought was menacing?
“Well,” she said to Marya, to fill the silence, “you mentioned a restaurant you thought we should visit.”
She tried desperately to apologize silently to Beth with her eyes, but she didn’t think Beth saw, she was glaring at Borgov like it might make him leave - or possibly catch on fire.
They set off, Beth trailing just a bit, still a teenager and clearly not entirely on board with the plan, and out of the corner of her eye Alma could see two other men in dark suits, start moving at the same time. At first it just seemed like a coincidence, but as they moved down the street she could see the same two dark suits. She turned, to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, and Marya put a hand on her arm and quietly said “oh, just ignore them, its what we do, they’re used to it. Maybe it will make them feel useful, to protect us against such ferocious Americans.”
She smirked just a little while she said it, and rested a hand on Alma’s arm like she was inviting Alma into her joke, and then exchanged a look and a laugh with Borgov, as though this is all a shared, running joke they all had together.
For the first time, it really caught up to Alma, that her new Russian friends are not just Beth’s chess rivals, but Soviets. Communists. They were going to go to dinner with communists and being followed by honest to god Russian spies. From the KGB.
For a second she thought she might not be on board with the plan any more either. But she’d made it that far. It would probably make a good story for when they get home, she told herself.
Marya led them down a side street which Alma would never have thought to go down, even if she’d been brave enough, and into the restaurant.
It was a tiny little place, just a few tables crammed close together in a dimly lit space.
A waiter hustled over.
“Mr. Borgov,” he said, looking pleased in the slightly frantic way that overwhelmed people do, “Mrs. Borgov.”
Borgov frowned down at the man, looking suddenly forbidding.
“My wife,” he said, in clear, slightly rehearsed-sounding English, “should be addressed as Dr. Borgova, please.”
The poor waiter looked like a rabbit staring down a hunting dog, “D-doctora Borgova,” he stammered, “right this way.”
They got settled at the table, Vasily pulled Marya’s chair out for her, and then, unexpectedly Alma’s for her. Out of the corner of her eye Alma could see Beth scrambling into her seat, as if in terror of his European manners.
Alma busied herself with the menu, and wondered what she should order to make a good impression.
A second waiter came over to take drink orders, she ordered a margarita. Vasily ordered water. Marya smiled and joined her in a drink, but she was sure there was a delay.
“You don’t drink?” she asked Vasily — Borgov, mildly.
“Not while I’m working,” Borgov said.
“Oh,” Alma replied, she fumbled for a less mortifying direction for the conversation, “I didn’t realize you had a degree?” she said to Marya.
“Two actually,” said Marya, cheerfully, and launched into a description of her studies like Alma hadn’t just made a fool of herself, only interrupting herself to order food from the waiter who had come over to her directly without even looking at Vasily, let alone Alma or Beth. It was such a relief. Marya was such a relief.
Alma looked around while Marya was ordering, just meaning to get a better look at the place, but she couldn’t help it, her eyes were drawn to the spies, who had taken up residence at a table in the corner. The Borgovs seemed to be as good as their word about entirely ignoring them, but Alma just couldn’t. It was eerie.
The food arrived set in the centre of the table for them to help themselves.
They all served themselves in turn.
Borgov, holding a bowl full of some sort of vegetable, which Beth had already passed over, turned to Beth, like he had something to say, then seemed to think better of it, and set the vegetable back on the table. Alma had the strangest feeling he’d been about to put it on her plate, over her objections. He probably did that to his son. But she shook herself out of that line of thought and reminded herself that she had only known this man for a few hours and she didn’t really know anything about him.
She should probably be the one putting vegetables on Beth’s plate.
But how could she; when she had only taken few bites, for appearances; when Beth was the one paying for most of the food they were eating?
********
Beth sat at the table in silence, glowering over the rim of her coke glass, while Borgov and his wife chattered away.
They had been talking about Georgi Girev, which was whatever, and that had somehow turned into Alma gossiping about Beth faking sick from school to go to chess tournaments, so Beth was probably going to have to murder everyone at the table, and now they were just — listing chess prodigy after chess prodigy, which was nearly enough to put Beth of playing against Russians for life. Did you even count as a chess prodigy if Vasily Borgov had been giving you lessons for years?
“So what?” she cut into the conversation, in Russian. It was rude to Mrs. Wheatley, but the whole situation was her fault anyway so Beth did not care, “they find a chess prodigy in Russia and they just ship them to you in a box?”
“Yes, well, I can keep them in check,” said Borgov, in suddenly clear English.
Beth couldn’t quite bring her hand up to her mouth in time to completely stifle a laugh. She glared furiously at him, to let him know how much she didn’t think he was funny, but he just gave her a self-satisfied smirk, like a big horrible cat who had eaten someone’s canary.
“Please do not encourage him,” said Marya, like Beth was somehow responsible for this, and wouldn’t have preferred that Borgov, with his unwanted advice and his unwanted jokes, was somewhere very far away. Preferably another country, or the moon.
“I’m not encouraging anyone,” said Beth.
Mrs. Wheatley laughed. She actually laughed. Was she drunk?
Borgov didn’t seem to notice, he was busy staring at his wife like a dope because she hadn’t laughed at his crappy joke. He had not stopped making eyes at her all evening. It was genuinely embarrassing verging on gross. Beth was beginning to wonder if Borgov actually had a brain at all, or if he just had chess boards printed on the inside of his empty skull.
********
The evening had not exactly started off well, but she had manage not to humiliate them, and Beth had seemed to not be holding the situation against her at first, but the conversation about chess players had seemed to irritate her. And Alma desperately wanted this to not be another mistake she had made.
“You are very like her. Your daughter,” Marya said to her, without any warning.
“My - ?”
“Elizabeth Harmon. Your eyes and the way you carry yourself.”
“Its actually Wheatley,” Alma admitted, “Beth is adopted.”
Which is — not a secret exactly — but not something she typically drew attention to. But she had to. She couldn’t take credit for Beth, it would not be right.
“I know,” Marya, said smoothly, “and yet. There are a lot of gifts we can get from our parents, yes?”
“Oh, I’m not sure,” said Alma, “Beth is very independent.”
“And here you are,” said Marya, “giving concerts, in Mexico.”
“No, I was just dabbling,” Alma said, “it was nothing.”
“It was excellent,” Vasily suddenly cut in, very solemnly, “and we are all very grateful.”
Alma very rarely talked about her playing to anyone. It has always been extremely — personal — for a lot of reasons. But she is determined that she will talk about this. She will find someone to tell about the time a Soviet chess Grandmaster said she was a good pianist.
“I am surprised your husband is not here,” Vasily continued, “I would hate to miss it, if it were me.”
It is such a kind thing for him to say but it popped her good feelings like a soap bubble.
“No, he can’t really make it to these things,” said Alma, frantic for an excuse, this only kept working if she could come up with something, “his job keeps him very busy, traveling all over, you know?”
“I am very sorry,” said Vasily, who seemed to be happier to try out his English as the evening wore on, “He must miss you. I hate to travel without my wife. ”
Vasily - she supposed she should think of him as Borgov - was frowning deeply, seemingly in genuine distress for the apparent plight of Alston, or rather, the plight of the man he imagined Alston to be.
Alma tried to imagine being married to the man Borgov imagined Alston to be, instead of the one he was. The one who was dedicated to his job but missed his wife and daughter. Who would probably have call them at the end of the day, and asked to hear about Beth’s games, and about Mexico, who would want to hear her play when he got home from a trip.
It was a nice thought.
It didn’t bear any resemblance to reality, but it was a nice thought.
The conversation wound down as they ate dessert until Vasily, who had, until then, seemed entirely happy to let Marya take the lead, glanced down at his watch and briskly gestured for the cheque, which he paid before Alma could figure out what he was doing, let alone form an opinion about it.
“It’s late, and you have a match tomorrow,” said Marya, to Beth. Vasily hadn’t said anything, but she had a tone in her voice like she was translating anyway, or maybe like she just knew this as well as her husband.
They walked back to the hotel without much conversation, and Alma didn’t even worry about the spies who were following them, except for once, when she caught them in the corner of her eye when they turned a corner, and she thought that didn’t count. She was sure if she really thought about it on the plane home she could make them sound like a good story to her neighbours.
In the hotel lobby Marya did something Alma had only seen done on TV, and wished them good night by taking their shoulders and then kissing the air on each side of their cheeks. Vasily nodded to her, and held his hand out, intently, to Beth.
“Good luck tomorrow,” he said, “I am looking forward to it.”
Beth straightened up. She had looked like a sulking teenager for most of the evening. She didn’t look like a teenager now. She looked like a US Champion. She answered in Russian and Vasily smiled.
********
“That went well,” Mrs. Weatley said vaguely, after they, finally, parted company with the Borgovs and headed towards their rooms.
“I am still mad you sprung Borgov on me,” Beth said. And then regretted it when Mrs. Wheatley flinched, “but, I’ve decided I’ll probably forgive you,” she had to add, hastily, when she realized she didn’t want to have a fight, “since you didn’t know who he was.”
“I swear we mostly talked about the piano before you arrived,” Mrs. Wheatley assured her again, with an odd look in her eyes.
And then she added, “but I thought he seemed nice?”
Sometimes Beth thought that Mrs. Wheatley was more of a child than she was.
He seemed nice? Borgov seemed nice? And then she wondered why she kept ending up moping around in her housecoat wondering why some man had run out on her again.
Mrs. Wheatley turned to her, and placed her hands on her shoulders, and looked in her eyes, very seriously. “Beth,” she said, “you know more about chess than I ever will, and if you say that Mr. Borgov is a terrifying chess player then I believe you without question.”
She paused, and took a deep breath, “but I am your mother, even though goodness knows I leave a lot to be desired, and it means something to me, that there are people out there who are pleased to see you coming.”
Well, maybe she was not being totally fair. Borgov hadn’t been a creep. Actually he had been polite. Even if he was a Soviet robot. A Soviet robot who thought making puns counted as being friendly. But if was going to run out on his wife like an asshole he probably wouldn’t stare at her like a sap. God that had been so unbearable. And, well, Mrs. Wheatley didn’t play chess, did she? How was she to know he was a Soviet robot?
“Mom,” Beth said, “you, don’t.”
“What.”
“Leave a lot, to be desired.”