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Vasily Borgov had merely gone to the bar for hot water.
It was past midnight, and he could not ring for room service. Even if he could have, the practice always seemed wasteful to him. To call, to request that someone come up to his room merely to bring hot water for the tea bags he brought with him always. Did he not have two working legs? Zhenya had insisted that she would not be bothered by accompanying him, but as she was already prepared for bed and he was not, he told her to stay and rest.
And so he had made his way downstairs to the first floor to the still-open bar, a tin of black tea in hand, only to be greeted by the sight of Elizabeth Harmon deep in her cups and on the arm of some man in a dark turtleneck sweater.
He studied her for a moment from across the room. Even from here he heard her sparkling laughter, saw the hand she rested gently on the man’s bicep. The stoic young woman who had steadfastly stared him down not but a few days earlier was nowhere to be found.
They were due to have their rematch the following afternoon. Why was she still out carousing at this hour? Pinpricks of annoyance began sparking through Borgov’s skull. Well, it was no matter. Certainly she was allowed to have her fun, although it would be to her detriment. He walked to the bartop several seats down from the pair, flagged down a bartender, and requested a cup and some hot water. As he waited for the kettle to come to a boil, he could not stop his eyes from wandering to Elizabeth Harmon.
On one of these wanderings, his eyes met hers.
He did not expect her to recognize him. Why should she? Yes, they had stared at one another that first day, but that was with the bright light of the morning sun streaming through the hotel’s tall windows. Here, in the dim atmosphere of the hotel bar, with her vision swimming in alcohol, he could hardly think she would know him from Adam.
Her already-large eyes widened.
“Vasily Borgov?”
The alcohol had coarsened her voice, taken her typical careful diction and roughed it with sandpaper. There were not many patrons at this time of night, but whoever was left was roused by the noise. He caught a few curious stares and walked over to her, lest her shouting raise more attention.
“Miss Harmon,” he greeted her curtly. He nodded but kept his hand firmly in his pocket, the other still holding the blue and black tin.
Her mouth moved without sound as though trying to capture her words before she exclaimed, “Come, join us!”. The man at her side frowned, glancing between the two of them.
“Beth, I do not think-” he started.
Borgov kept the same stoic face as ever. ““I cannot. I am here to collect some hot water.” He raised the tin in his hand as an explanation.
Then, of all things, Elizabeth Harmon rolled her eyes. He was so used to her carefully controlled stare and the measured tone of her voice that the childish gesture startled him. “Mr. Borgov. I have always wanted to ask you some questions, but it always had to be through interpreters and journalists and whoever else. I would like to talk with you. Please stay with me.” To emphasize her point, she patted the barstool beside her.
He needed to leave.
He really, truly needed to leave.
Aside from the fact that he was scheduled to face the very American seated before him in just over 12 hours’ time, it would be hell if anyone else caught wind of this. How would it look, the world’s foremost chess player, a man in his late thirties fraternizing with the young, drunk American champion? Zhenya might understand, but the press would have a field day with it, to say nothing of his own government.
Borgov regarded her, the determined expression on her face, the slight line of sweat along her brow.
And yet, how could he leave her? Remarkable a chess player though she was, she was still a young woman by herself in a foreign country, with only some Parisian wastrel for company. He eyed the lines of her burgundy dress, saw how the hemline had ridden higher on her pale thighs. It would be as though he were throwing a lamb to the slaughter.
He sighed and took the seat beside her. At this distance he could smell a faint aroma of anise. “Very well. I will take one drink.”
The man at Miss Harmon’s side made a noise of displeasure, and she whipped toward him. “Do you know who this is?”
“He is a Mister Borgoff. You know each other?”
“He’s the current World Chess Champion. Stay if you like, but if you’re going to be a jerk, you can leave.”
The Frenchman’s eyebrows raised, and he opened his mouth to speak, but as his eyes jumped between Elizabeth and Borgov, he seemed to think better of it and grabbed the wineglass in front of him to sit down at a table a few meters away.
As he left, Elizabeth Harmon’s anger dissipated. She signaled to the bartender, requesting “two Deaths in the Afternoon, please,” before resting an elbow on the bartop and facing Borgov. “Cleo told me that they’re famous for these, so we have to try them.”
Borgov was familiar with neither Cleo nor the cocktail. In short order, the bartender returned with two full champagne flutes, the liquid inside bubbling and viridescent. He sniffed and the scent of anise wafted in even more strongly.
Elizabeth seemed equally perturbed by the drink. “It’s, um…”
“Champagne and pastis,” the bartender supplied helpfully before moving on to another patron.
“Have you had this before?” he inquired.
“Can’t say I have.” She sipped at the drink, a slight moue of distaste gracing her lips. “Can’t say I really care for it, either.”
Borgov took a careful sip, the champagne bubbling away on his tongue and leaving only the sharp taste of the pastis. It was not altogether unpleasant, and he was reminded, absurdly, of his mother’s pryaniki. He watched as Elizabeth continued to sip at her drink, and he smiled slightly to himself as she soldiered on despite her apparent distaste for the flavor.
They sat in silence for a few minutes as the clattering of glasses and the buzz of tipsy conversation surrounded them. Thankfully, what attention they had gathered at Elizabeth’s earlier outburst had petered out, as no one seemed particularly interested in the sight of two adults drinking at a bar.
Her glass drained and courage gathered, Elizabeth Harmon began to speak to him. “So, what brings the great Vasily Borgov to this lovely bar at such an hour?”
Borgov once again raised the tin in his hand. He laid it on the bar and pushed it toward her, allowing her to pick up the container and trace the delicate whorl with her thin fingers. “I came down to find some hot water, as I said earlier.”
“You’re a big tea drinker, then?”
“It is calming.” They sat for a few moments more as Elizabeth continued to study the design with its gold trim and foreign lettering. She would not look at him. Whatever questions she may have held, they were not forthcoming. The silence had been peaceful before, but now that the space had been breached, Borgov found himself curious. “Why are you here?”
Now he could see her chocolate-brown eyes under the furrowed brow of her petulant glare. “I’m here because I’m the best chess player in America, Mr. Borgov.”
He could not help but smile wryly. Miss Harmon treated conversations as though they were a battle to be won, a general in this as in all things. “Yes, you are correct. I suppose I meant - why are you here at this bar? By yourself?”
Her slim shoulders hunched in slightly. “I wasn’t here by myself. I was with Cleo, and then with…whatshisface,” punctuating the gesture by waving in the vague direction of the man from before.
Whoever this Cleo was, she was assuredly not here now. Neither, for that matter, was anyone else. Had Elizabeth Harmon come alone to Paris? The Americans were always so miserly when it came to their chess delegations - it was entirely possible she had no support from her government, the national chess association, or even a local club. He could not recall facing any other Americans at the tournament.
Then, another recollection - a vague remembrance of Zhenya mentioning how the young American’s mother had been found dead just after Mexico.
Elizabeth stared at her half-empty cocktail, her eyes glassy and unfocused. It was pitiable, though Borgov sensed she would spurn any condolences he might offer. He scrambled for something, anything to say, working against his body’s natural inclination towards remaining quiet.
“How did you find the game?”
She startled, as if pulled involuntarily from a memory. “Huh?”
“The game. Chess. How did you start playing?”
Elizabeth’s face still held that melancholy look. “Mister Shaibel. He was a janitor at Methuen.”
So many unfamiliar names. “Methuen?”
“Where I grew up, before Alma.”
It was an odd sensation, to have someone not look at him but almost through him, as though he were an immaterial entity. She did not offer any further details, and Borgov did not know if she was aware of the extent he knew of her upbringing. The KGB had informed him of some details, as though that would influence how he played against her, but the specifics had been deemed unimportant.
Suddenly, her eyes sharpened. “So how did you get into chess?”
The reflecting of his question back on him should not have come as a surprise, but it had. “I was introduced to it as a young boy by my grandfather.” In his surprise, the truth of the matter slipped through.
She cocked her head to the side in confusion. “I thought you were selected for the Soviet training program? You faced off against a dozen adult players and won?”
Now it was Borgov’s turn to be bewildered. “How do you know about that?” The story was commonly known throughout the USSR and most of Europe, but there was no reason for her to know such details.
“It was in your book!” At his raised eyebrows she laughed, that sparkling tinsel dancing along Borgov’s spine. “Did you not think I’d read it? I told you, I’ve been studying all your old games!”
A genuine smile emerged at that. “Ah, yes, you said that, but I did not know you read the book.”
“I did, as did half of the Soviet Union at least, I’d wager.”
She wasn’t entirely wrong; the book had been a best-seller. “The training program is also true. It was there that my skills were honed with many other boys my age and where I proved my abilities. But it was my grandfather who first showed me the game.” At her look of confusion, he shrugged. “He ran into some troubles with the government later on, and so it was not prudent to include him.” She did not need to know the details, this little American devushka.
Beth rolled her empty glass between her palms. “Were you ashamed of him?”
“Not ashamed, but it could not be published.”
They lapsed into silence for another minute as she chewed on his words. Did Americans know of the political realities of their world? It was simply inescapable fact to every Soviet citizen regardless of age, save for the youngest children, but perhaps the Americans lived in a fantastical world without the overbearance of their government. Or, just as likely, they simply did not see it, so shielded as they were.
He swallowed another bitter mouthful, the bubbles having largely died down. Alcohol had a penchant for making him pensive. As he set down the glass, Elizabeth began speaking, and once again caught him off guard.
She squinted, regarding his face closely. “Wait a minute. You’ve been speaking to me this whole time in English!”. She pointed a finger at him accusingly, the gesture’s impact only somewhat undercut by the swaying of her arm. “You’ve always had a translator!”
Borgov shrugged and drained the last of his drink, the liquid and words swirling on his tongue. “My wife has always translated for me at these tournaments. English is not an easy language.” He smiled lightly. “Or perhaps I have been speaking Russian. You know the language, do you not?”
“My Russian isn’t that good.” She rolled her eyes again, to Borgov’s amusement. The solemnity from a few moments ago dissolved as easily as fog on an early morning.
“Just good enough to use at interviews?”
She laughed again, and Borgov felt distantly triumphant. “Did that surprise you? I hope so!”
Borgov adopted a mask of sternness, though the sparkle in his eye softened the charade. “If you are hoping to surprise me, it is better done on the board, rather than in words.”
“Oh, just you wait.”
Borgov was about to reply when the bartender returned to gather their empty glasses. “Apologies for the interruption - did you still want the hot water, Mr. Borgov?” Borgov startled slightly, having entirely forgotten his premise for coming downstairs. It was a bit late for tea, but it would be senseless to have come all this way just to abandon his main purpose.
“Yes, I will. And -” he looked at Elizabeth and gestured toward the tea tin. At her slight nod, he continued, “-two cups, if possible.”
The bartender brought him the cups and water as requested, and he spent a moment filling them, placing the tea bags carefully in and glancing at his watch. For many years now Zhenya had poked fun at his precision, how his punctuality materialized in even the smallest matters. After precisely four minutes, he slid the teacup over to Elizabeth and tasted from his own, savoring the complexity of the brew.
Elizabeth lifted the cup to her lips, her aristocratic lips forming a circle as she blew slightly on the steaming water before taking a sip and remarking, “I don’t drink much tea, so I don’t have much to judge on, but it’s good. I like it.”
It should not have pleased Borgov to have the approval of this American, and yet he found lips involuntarily turning upwards at her remarks.
Time elapsed and their conversation naturally turned towards their common connection. They spoke of openings and endgames, gambits and feints, historical players and notable past games. Everything was couched in generalities - no reason to give away good strategy when they had a game so close at hand, after all - but Borgov felt awake and invigorated in a way almost foreign to him.
How rare a delight it was to be able to speak to another player, especially someone outside the Soviet Union, so freely. Though she was still quite green, Elizabeth had a sharpness to her mind that, with the right cultivation, poised her for greatness. Her petite frame and tailored clothing belied a formidable talent.
Finally, though, a natural lull in their conversation arrived. The dregs of the tea swirled at the bottom of his cup though he could divine no foretelling.
She stared at her similarly empty cup.
“Do you ever wonder if you’ve given too much of yourself to the game?”
Whether from the late hour or the alcohol or something else he could not say with any certainty, but Borgov could not see the mental path that had led Elizabeth to her question.
“In what way?”
She frowned. “Are you a real person, outside of the game?”
The question was nonsensical, the madness of it apparent from his expression. Of course he was a real person, did playing chess render one an alien?
Elizabeth huffed in frustration, her body becoming more animated in its inability to convey her sentiments. “There was a boy - a couple of boys, actually. Benny and Townes.”
Had these boys been at Methuen? Childhood companions of hers?
“You played Benny before.”
Ah, then, fellow chess competitors. If this man, Benny, had faced him before then he must have been reasonably skilled, though Borgov could not draw a face to the name.
“We argued over your games, you know.” She laughed. “He talked about you after the first time we had sex!”
He raised his eyebrows at that. In vino veritas indeed. How much had she had to drink? Surely she would not divulge so much were she in her right mind.
Another thought pounced suddenly, viciously upon him.
Unless of course, she meant to confuse him, to throw him off tomorrow’s game. Perhaps she wanted him to picture her writhing under some anonymous American while she played him tomorrow. He trailed his eyes along the curve of her neck down to the modest neckline of her dress and shook his head slightly. No, she was a cunning creature, but not such a deceptive one. Her fights were taken in the open and on their familiar, shared battlefield. She would not resort to such tricks. Regardless, if she was telling him of her sex life, then that was as good a signal as any that their time together should come to a close.
She continued on, oblivious to his roiling thoughts. “Can you believe it? We were laying in bed not even five minutes after finishing and it came back to the same sixty-four squares and opening moves.” She laughed again, the tinsel sharpening into staccato jabs. “It just made me think of - there are whole worlds out there that I don’t know. What would I be, if I didn’t have chess?” She rested her hand on her palm. Borgov was struck with just how young, just how at sea she appeared. How contradictory she was, to have both lived through such tragedy and still be so cloistered.
Borgov, unsure how to approach her question, remembered his remarks from the opening interview. “I have given my life to the game. I will die with my head on the chessboard, hm?”
“Is it worth it?” she whispered.
He would not do her the dishonor of unthinkingly answering her question. Vasily Borgov was the greatest player in the world, a champion for his country and a representation of the might of the Soviet Union. His prowess had provided him with a career and a good life for his family and the adoration of a nation. It had also earned him a lifetime of scrutiny from his government. He had missed his son growing up with his frequent travels and the pressure of the championship was an albatross across his neck that he had worked doggedly to keep in place. Lesser players than he had been driven to drink and smoke and gamble.
Had it been worth it?
He did not wish to look at her, but the weight of his words demanded it. Her large eyes with their unerring focus locked on his, and at this distance he could see that her chest stayed still, her breath held in anticipation of his words.
“It is worth it, but it is not without its costs.”
Elizabeth nodded as his words landed, resigned but not maudlin. He commended her restraint - she was known as a live wire, and would do well to keep that spark as it lent to her relentless prowess, but over-emotionality at the thought of her future would only invite in more harm.
On the topic of inviting more harm, he looked again at his watch, noting the late hour.
“I think it is time we return to our rooms, Elizabeth Harmon.”
She crossed her arms and laid them on the bar, resting her head atop them. “That’s okay, you go. Thank you for the conversation, though.”
He took stock of the rest of the room, noted that the Frenchman from earlier had not vacated his spot. Foolish girl. What did she have to gain from staying here?
“Now, Lizochka.”
He hadn’t meant for the command to slip from his tongue, the familiarity in no way justified. Luckily, Elizabeth had not cottoned onto his misstep. She hiccuped and hairline rose as if she were surprised at her own drunkenness. “Okay, fine. You’re probably right. Lead the way, Mr. Borgov.”
He stowed his tin in the pocket of his coat and took her by the crook of her elbow lest she trip over her own ankles. They carefully walked over to the elevator. Silently, Borgov was glad that Elizabeth’s state was so apparent. To any onlooker, he was merely a gentleman escorting a young lady to her room. Elizabeth tapped on the button for the third floor, and together they came to her room near the end of the hallway. She struggled through the items of her purse before triumphantly returning with the room key, but just as she slid it into the keyhole, he spoke.
“Miss Harmon.”
She faced him again slowly, eyes reluctantly raising to meet his, but he would not be able to leave without saying his piece, the thoughts brewing since the end of their conversation.
“You must be better than what they expect of you.”
Her brows furrowed and her mouth opened as if to reply, but Borgov simply nodded and walked away from her and towards his own room.
After a moment, he heard the click of the lock opening and the rustle of her dress, but he did not turn to look.
She still lost, of course.
Elizabeth Harmon’s skills had sharpened considerably since their match in Mexico City, but he was Vasily Borgov, the reigning World Chess Champion and greatest chess player of his age, even when he was operating with less sleep than usual.
Besides, his opponent was also suffering from sleep deprivation and what was surely an unfortunate hangover, judging from the state of her rumpled dress and mussed hair. Her skin lacked the rosy flush of the previous night, the glow replaced by a slight sallowness.
Her eyes were a storm, that same petulant rage flashing through them as had emerged during their bout in Mexico. It reminded Borgov that for all her talents, she was still a young woman in the early days of her career. In her ire, she did not even shake his hand before storming off, the mint green tassels at her collar whipping furiously around.
Borgov sighed heavily. He should have insisted they retire earlier in the evening than they had, and though it would not have saved Elizabeth Harmon’s match, it might have prevented it from being such a thorough thrashing.
Regardless, he had won, but as he was surrounded by the congratulations of his fellow grandmasters, he could not help but wonder at where Elizabeth had run off to.
Borgov and Zhenya were packing their bags when they spied the note sliding under their door.
She looked at him quizzically and he shrugged, walking over to pick it up. It could be from anyone - the hotel, their handlers, another one of the tournament contestants. He picked up the paper, the cardstock plain and slightly yellowed. He turned it over in his hand and, not recognizing the handwriting or seeing a signature, opened the door to see if the sender was still there.
At the end of the hallway he spied a flash of crimson hair and a pair of slim legs clad in denim turning the corner and fleeing out of sight.
Ah, so the note from Miss Harmon. Why might she wish to leave him a message, and why not speak to him directly? Was she embarrassed of her conduct?
He read over the note, with its blue ink and sprawling script.
Thank you for the tea and for your words. I am better than this. I look forward to facing you in Moscow.
“Anything important, zolotse?”
Hearing his wife speak shook Borgov from his reverie. “Just a note from one of the other competitors.” His wife raised an eyebrow at that, but went back to folding her clothes. It was odd, he knew, for him to receive any personal correspondence from any fellow players, and certainly not as notes slid under doors. Nevertheless, she let it go, leaving his personal affairs as his own business.
He reread the note, an apology implicit in the wording. Alas, she was talented, but so young. How many promised upstarts had he seen stumble and fall at the feet of their own personal demons? He could do nothing but hope that she overcame her inner turmoils.
He reread the note for a third time, and as he did so, he inhaled and swore the faint scent of anise clung to the paper.
She was better than this. He looked forward to facing her in Moscow.