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Reykjavík — August 10, 1972
Your first memory is in black and white.
Your life begins with the chess board. You remember liking the look of the knights, much more detailed than any other pieces in the set your mother owned. As the years go by, your favourite piece changes from knight to bishop to pawn to whichever piece that catches your attention the most in a game. You’ve cycled through the entire board God knows how many times now. These days, you have a soft spot for rooks.
You’re not a good chess player. You’ve done your fair share of tournaments, usually finishing in the middle of the pack. But then again, being good has never been a prerequisite to love. All that is ever required of you is an all-consuming obsession, and that you have in spades.
To you, chess is a simple board game. It’s also the reason you know you exist.
“It’s Vietnam or Korea,” says Molokov. “Or the Taiwan Strait. Or Tibet— Actually, scratch that last one.”
He is sitting in the chair of the American, his finger idly playing with the small flag on his side, starred and spangled — according to him, the design is overcompensating. Who needs 50 stars? You are tempted to agree with him, but he will interpret that as you supporting the USSR, so you simply roll your eyes. Surprisingly, you find yourself sitting on the opposite side, in the chair of the Russian. He’s black and you’re white; fitting with his pinstriped charcoal suit and your gaudy white dress coat.
Unlike you, Molokov is an excellent player. Before you know it, he’s got firm control of the middle of the board, his plan executed with an ease you wouldn’t have expected coming from him. But then again, you didn’t know what to expect from him. You didn’t even know that he could play until a moment ago, when he invited you for a match.
You would have said no to a private meeting under any other circumstances. You should have said no. But it is chess that he is offering, and you’ve never been good at abstinence.
Plus, you’ve always been curious about his skill, considering how often you’ve seen him around. Botvinnik’s replaced by Petrosian’s replaced by Spassky, but the second remains the same. Usually lurking just off to the fringe of the tournament, Molokov turns the stage into his own panopticon; he watches the players more than the matches, pulling apart their expressions and body languages instead of analysing their openings. With him, every micro-movement is accounted for. The way he measures his player feels like he’s appraising a cut of meat at the butcher, speculating if this will be worth the effort; if this time, maybe just maybe, his prey will be digestible.
Molokov, you suddenly realise, looks at you in a similar fashion.
“It’s a simple board game,” you repeat, more self-conscious of how you pronounce your sentence, then you make your move. There’s no need for words, this way. Only the degree of confidence with which you make a play.
The game is not timed, which is a shame as you do not know how long you’ve sat here with him. Not that you have any places to be right now. You don’t know about Molokov, but the decision to ditch the clock was a mutual one: he apparently likes to take his time, and you hate being rushed.
You wonder how he will perform under pressure. You will get another game with him, and then you will find out.
“It’s a proxy war,” replies Molokov after a beat.
“It’s chess,” you hiss back, surprising yourself with the venom in your words. He gestures to the glass of water by your side; you take a large gulp, grimacing at the stale taste. You do not apologise for the rude gesture, as it is warranted. He’s earned your scorn with that remark.
Worse still, you can tell he means what he’s said.
Unlike you, Molokov doesn’t love chess. Maybe that’s why he gets under your skin so easily. He derives the appropriate amount of enjoyment from pulling off a good move — the smirk when he outplayed you is infuriating but familiar, and you think he can appreciate the beauty of the game when he congratulates his players, but you know he wouldn't give a single fuck if chess were to disappear tomorrow. He’d simply move on to the next playing field like “whoop-di-do, excuse me, coming through,” whereas you’d kill yourself.
You think.
He puts you in check. “Why can’t it be both?”
“The same reason why you don’t mix coffee and arsenic together.”
A fleeting look passes over Molokov’s face, deceptively complicated. Like he wants to reminisce and correct you at the same time. In the end, he merely smiles at you with something close to understanding.
You sigh. “Never mind that, please.”
Molokov, at least, has the decency to do what you asked. “You can’t deny the influence this tournament has then,” he continues smoothly. There’s no doubt that he catches your begrudging look of agreement, for his smile widens. His teeth are sharp. You think he wants to tear into you; you think you would let him, with how this game has been going. You hope he has poisoned the glass of water actually.
“It is absurd,” you say when you’re sure your voice is steady, “that a chess game can cause World War III.”
Molokov chuckles, a hushed sound. “The world has gone mad, yes.” He suddenly sighs, wistful. “Poor Spassky, of course. We will have to prepare better for the next championship. The USSR has grown too compliant in its lead.”
Despite yourself, your shoulders tense. Your eyes flicker around the auditorium; the space is empty, most of the lights switched off. No reporters lurking around, at the very least, though you can’t say anything about potential wiretaps or spies.
“Don’t worry. There’s no one listening in.”
You take his words for it and focus back on the board. It’s harder to concentrate now. “You sound sure of Trumper’s victory,” you say, half a question. “We’re only 13 games in.”
“Strip Trumper of his American values and misdemeanours and, unfortunately, you’ll get a brilliant chess player.” Molokov smiles a rare, genuine smile that turns bitter at the edge. “Meanwhile, Spassky has little fight left in him.”
You wait for him to continue, but nothing comes. No favour, no bribe. It seems like, in the years that you’ve only been vaguely aware of his existence, he’s learned to navigate your moods. You entertain the thought of him writing a manual of how to handle the Arbiter for whoever he’s working for, then you wonder how much of the conversation today was scripted if that was the case. It’s very possible that he’s chosen his metaphor based on how much it will irritate you, for he is a good player.
You ask him about it when the two of you reach the endgame.
“You couldn’t care less about anything that’s not chess,” Molokov replies, easy. “You didn’t come to your father’s funeral. I don’t think you even know that you have a sister.”
You didn’t, and you don’t.
He has definitely penned a folder about you then. Perhaps feeling flattered is an unusual response, but you find that you are. “What else?” you ask, curious despite yourself.
“What else is there to say?” asks Molokov. “You love chess, end of story. It’s almost romantic, really.”
That wrangles a bark of laughter from somewhere deep inside you. “Romantic?”
“Sure,” says Molokov. “If you let anything happen to the game, your world would end. This is why blackmails and threats of imprisonment or torture are ineffective, and promises of money or land are insulting. Nuclear warfare, in the same vein, means nothing to you either. And if nothing happened to the game you love, your world would end with chess. You’ll be fine either way once tomorrow comes.”
His words take a moment to process. “And you consider that romantic?”
Molokov shrugs, half-inviting you to try and find out. You think he only extends the invitation because he is betting on you saying no. It’s a reasonable assumption — he considers himself unrelated to chess, which means he considers himself as existing outside of your jurisdiction. And you would have said no under any other circumstances, but now you know Molokov as a chess player first, a shrewd second second. Perhaps the recontextualisation is a blunder on his part; more likely it’s a countergambit.
You play into it anyway, accepting his sacrifice as you try to drag up any bit of information that you have on Aleksandr Molokov. You’ve heard whispers of a wife, but there is a notable absence of a wedding band on his leech finger. You know he is, more or less, the one at the helm of the Soviet entourage, but you know none of his orders. The champions, Spassky and those who came before, don’t have much to say about him in interview or conversation, but you can make a reasonable assumption about the nature of those relationships — something along the line of a ready-to-go executioner and his charge of willing, chess playing… things.
Ah, there’s another reason why he vexes you.
Besides the small personal revelation, you’ve ended with no more than when you started. He’s handed you a pawn laced with arsenic, and you can only be glad that the clock is not running; clearly, he has been keeping track of the matches as well.
The point is, you’ve got absolutely nothing on Molokov, whereas he knows details of your life that you yourself are unaware of. You’re the one overlooking the game, but he is the one perceiving you. Is that romantic? You don’t have any experience to use as a guideline, but what you do have is a sudden need to know more about the man who is playing chess with you.
You make what is potentially your final move then, desperately keeping your king out of check. There’s a chance that he’s missed the checkmate, but if you have seen it, so has Molokov. So it’s the end — and if you’re being honest, it has been the end for you about four moves ago, but you’ve never liked resigning.
You should have, for Molokov resigns instead, toppling his king with a simple nudge of the hand.
The course of action catches you so off guard that all you can do is blink at him owlishly, your poker face and impartial attitude all but thrown out of the window. He cleans up the board while you’re catatonic, putting everything back in its place with such reverence that you instinctively know he’s mocking you; only then do you snap out of it, closing your gaping mouth with a click.
“It was a good game,” Molokov says. He stands up then, the legs of his chair scraping across the floor, its sound gratingly loud.
You take off your glove before shaking his hand. His skin is dry and rough. Despite completing the usual, quick up-down-up motion, he doesn’t let go; you make no attempt to pull away either. You’re voluntarily laying yourself supine on the table, holding your breath for his appraisal.
His gaze is exquisitely sharp and expertly clean, a coroner’s scalpel. He’s performing the first of many autopsies on the man known as the Arbiter.
There’s an opportunity here, somewhere. “Would I?” you ask.
The silence hangs. You startle when Molokov pulls you toward him; your soft underbelly digs against the edge of the table, cold despite the layers of clothing. This close, you catch the exact moment his eyes flash, glinting in recognition when he catches what you’re asking then fading to an impish glee as he thinks over his answer. You might be glad that he no longer considers you prey, though this pose certainly implies some form of predatory behaviour.
Aleksandr leans closer. For a moment it looks like he might kiss you.
You swallow back your desperation and force yourself to breathe, slow and deep.
“Of course you would,” Aleksandr says with a smile.
Air goes down the wrong way; you splutter, quickly turning away from him as you cough up nothing. “Fuck,” you manage.
His hand squeezes yours, like he’s fortifying you. “I do not suggest arsenic as the way to go, though,” he jokes, voice lighter now. “Something faster acting for you, I think. Actually, we should skip the poison in general. How does me shooting you sound?”
He’s managed to rip a real laugh from you now. It’s an expression of amazement or joy or both that you have no choice but to submit to, that leaves you cackling like a maniac in an empty auditorium with him laughing along at a lower register. “That sounds just fine,” you say through the bout. It’s the truth. You will chain him to chess by proxy.
You’re going to obsess over this for at least a week, you just know it.