The Queen's Gambit

by Walter Tevis

  She spent about an hour a night on her homework and made As. But homework meant nothing to her. It was the five or six hours of studying chess that was at the center of her life. She was enrolled as a special student at the university for a class in Russian that met one night a week. It was the only schoolwork that she paid serious attention to.

  SEVEN

  Beth puffed, inhaled and held the smoke in. There was nothing to it. She handed the joint to the young man on her right, and he said, “Thank you.” He had been talking about Donald Duck with Eileen. They were in Eileen and Barbara’s apartment, a block off Main Street. It was Eileen who had invited Beth to the party, after the night class.

  “It’s got to be Mel Blanc,” Eileen was saying now. “They’re all Mel Blanc.” Beth was still holding the smoke in, hoping that it would loosen her up. She had been sitting on the floor with these college students for half an hour and had said nothing.

  “Blanc does Sylvester, but he doesn’t do Donald Duck,” the young man said with finality. He turned around to face Beth. “I’m Tim,” he said. “You’re the chess player.”

  Beth let the smoke out. “That’s right.”

  “You’re the U.S. Women’s Champion.”

  “I’m the U.S. Open Co-Champion,” Beth said.

  “Sorry. It must be a trip.” He was red-haired and thin. She had seen him sitting in the middle of the classroom and could remember his soft voice when they recited Russian phrases in unison.

  “Do you play?” Beth did not like the strain in her voice. She felt out of place. She should either go home or call Mrs. Wheatley.

  He shook his head. “Too cerebral. You want a beer?”

  She hadn’t had a beer since Las Vegas, a year before. “Okay,” she said. She started to get up from the floor.

  “I’ll get it.” He pushed himself up from where they were sitting on the carpet. He came back with two cans and handed her one. She took a long drink. During the first hour the music had been so loud that conversation was impossible, but when the last record ended no one replaced it. The disk on the hi-fi against the far wall was still turning, and she could see the little red lights on the amplifier. She hoped no one would notice and play another record.

  Tim eased himself back down next to her with a sigh. “I used to play Monopoly a lot.”

  “I’ve never played that.”

  “It makes you a slave of capitalism. I still dream about big bucks.”

  Beth laughed. The joint had come back her way, and she held it between her fingertips and got what she could from it before passing it to Tim. “Why are you taking Russian,” she said, “if you’re a slave of capitalism?” She took another swallow of beer.

  “You’ve got nice boobs,” he said and took a drag. “We need another joint,” he announced to the group at large. He turned back to Beth. “I wanted to read Dostoevsky in the original.”

  She finished her beer. Somebody produced another joint and began sending it around. There were a dozen people in the room. They’d had their first exam in the evening class, and Beth had been invited to the party afterward. With the beer and marijuana and talking to Tim, who seemed very easy to talk to, she felt better. When the joint came up again, she took a long drag on it, and then another. Someone put on a record. The music sounded much better, and the loudness didn’t bother her now.

  Suddenly she stood up. “I ought to call home,” she said.

  “In the bedroom, through the kitchen.”

  In the kitchen she opened another beer. She took a long swallow, pushed open the bedroom door and felt for a light switch. She could not find it. A box of wooden matches sat on the stove by the frying pan, and she took it into the bedroom. She still could not find a switch, but on the dresser was a collection of candles in different shapes. She lit one and shook out the match. She stared for a moment at the candle. It was a lavender upright wax penis with a pair of glossy testicles at its base. The wick came from the glans, and most of the glans had already melted away. Something in her was shocked.

  The telephone was on a table by the unmade bed. She carried the candle with her, sat on the edge of the bed, and dialed.

  Mrs. Wheatley was a bit confused at first; she was dazed from either TV or beer. “You go on to bed,” Beth said. “I’ve got a key.”

  “Did you say you were partying with college students?” Mrs. Wheatley said. “From the university?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, be careful what you smoke, honey.”

  There was a marvelous feeling across Beth’s shoulders and on the back of her neck. For a moment she wanted to rush home and embrace Mrs. Wheatley and hold her tight. But all she said was, “Okay.”

  “See you in the morning,” Mrs. Wheatley said.

  Beth sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the music from the living room, and finished her beer. She hardly ever listened to music and had never been to a school dance. If you didn’t count the Apple Pi’s, this was the first party she had ever been to. In the living room the song ended. A moment later, Tim sat on the bed beside her. It seemed perfectly natural, like the response to a request she had made. “Have another beer,” he said.

  She took it and drank. Her movements felt slow and certain. “Jesus!” Tim whispered in mock alarm. “What’s that purple thing burning there?”

  “You tell me,” Beth said.

  ***

  She panicked for a moment as he pushed himself into her. It seemed frighteningly big, and she felt helpless, as if she were in a dentist’s chair. But that didn’t last. He was careful, and it didn’t hurt badly. She put her arms around his back, feeling the roughness of his bulky sweater. He began moving. He began to squeeze her breasts under her blouse. “Don’t do that,” she said, and he said, “Whatever you say,” and kept moving in and out. She could barely feel his penis now, but it was all right. She was seventeen, and it was about time. He was wearing a condom. The best part had been watching him put it on, joking about it. What they were doing was really all right and nothing like books or movies. Fucking. Well, now. If only he were Townes.

  Afterward she fell asleep on the bed. Not in a lovers’ embrace, not even touching the man she had just made love with, but sprawled out on the bed with her clothes on. She saw Tim blow out the candle and heard the door close quietly after him.

  When she awoke, she saw by the electric alarm clock that it was nearly ten in the morning. Sunlight came around the edges of the bedroom window blinds. The air smelled stale. Her legs were prickly from her wool skirt, and the neck of her sweater had been pressed against her throat, which felt sweaty. She was ferociously hungry. She sat on the edge of the bed a minute, blinking. She got up and pushed open the kitchen door. Empty bottles and beer cans were everywhere. The air was foul with dead smoke. A note was fastened to the refrigerator door with a magnet in the shape of Mickey Mouse’s head. It read: “Everybody went to Cincinnati to see a movie. Stay as long as you like.”

  The bathroom was off the living room. When she had finished showering and had dried herself, she wrapped a towel around her hair, went back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. There were eggs in a carton, two cans of Budweiser and some pickles. On the door shelf was a Baggie. She picked it up. Inside was a single, tightly rolled joint. She took it out, put it in her mouth and lit it with a wooden match. She inhaled deeply. Then she took out four eggs and put them on to boil. She had never felt so hungry in her life. She cleaned up the apartment in an organized way, as if she were playing chess, getting four large grocery bags to put all the bottles and butts in and stacking these on the back porch. She found a half-full bottle of Ripple and four unopened beer cans in the debris. She opened a beer and began vacuuming the living-room carpet.

  Hanging over a chair in the bedroom was a pair of jeans. When she had finished cleaning she changed into them. They fit her perfectly. She found a white T-shirt in a drawer and put it on. Then she drank the rest of her beer and opened another. Someone had left a lipstick on the back of th
e toilet. She went to the bathroom and studying herself in the mirror, reddened her lips carefully. She had never worn lipstick before. She was beginning to feel very good.

  ***

  Mrs. Wheatley’s voice sounded faint and anxious. “You might have called.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”

  “I wouldn’t have minded…”

  “Anyway, I’m all right. And I’m going to Cincinnati to see a movie. I won’t be home tonight either.”

  There was a silence at the other end of the line.

  “I’ll be back after school Monday.”

  Finally, Mrs. Wheatley spoke. “Are you with a boy?”

  “I was last night.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Wheatley’s voice sounded distant. “Beth…”

  Beth laughed. “Come on,” she said. “I’m all right.”

  “Well…” She still sounded grave, then her voice became lighter. “I suppose it’s all right. It’s just that—”

  Beth smiled. “I won’t get pregnant,” she said.

  At noon she put the rest of the eggs in a pot to boil and turned on the hi-fi. She had never really listened to music before, but she listened now. She danced a few steps in the middle of the living room, waiting for the eggs. She would not let herself get sick. She would eat frequently and drink one beer—or one glass of wine—every hour. She had made love the night before, and now it was time to learn about being drunk. She was alone, and she liked it. It was the way she had learned everything important in her life.

  At four in the afternoon she walked into Larry’s Package Store, a block from the apartment, and bought a fifth of Ripple. When the man was putting it in the bag, she said, “Do you have a wine like Ripple that’s not so sweet?”

  “These soda-pop wines are all the same,” the man said.

  “What about burgundy?” Sometimes Mrs. Wheatley ordered burgundy with her dinner when they ate out.

  “I’ve got Gallo, Italian Swiss Colony, Paul Masson…”

  “Paul Masson,” Beth said. “Two bottles.”

  That night at eleven she was able to get undressed by being careful. She had found a pair of pajamas earlier and she managed to get them on and to pile her clothes on a chair before getting into bed and passing out.

  No one had come back by morning. She made scrambled eggs and ate them with two pieces of toast before having her first glass of wine. It was another sunny day. In the living room she found Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons.” She put it on. Then she began drinking in earnest.

  ***

  On Monday morning Beth took a taxi to Henry Clay High School and arrived ten minutes before her first class. She had left the apartment empty and clean; the owners had not yet returned from Cincinnati. Most of the wrinkles had hung out of her sweater and skirt, and she had washed her argyle socks. She had drunk the second bottle of burgundy Sunday night and slept soundly for ten hours. Now, in the taxi, there was a dim ache at the back of her head and her hands trembled slightly, but outside the window the May morning was exquisite, and the green of the young leaves on trees was delicate and fresh. By the time she paid and got out she felt light and springy, ready to go ahead and finish high school and devote her energy to chess. She had three thousand dollars in her savings account; she was no longer a virgin; and she knew how to drink.

  There was an embarrassed silence when she came home after school. Mrs. Wheatley, wearing a blue housedress, was mopping the kitchen floor. Beth settled herself on the sofa and picked up Reuben Fine’s book on the endgame. It was a book she hated. She had seen a can of Pabst on the side of the sink, but she did not want any. It would be better not to drink anything for a long while. She had had enough.

  When Mrs. Wheatley finished, she set the mop against the refrigerator and came into the living room. “I see you’re back,” she began. Her voice was carefully neutral.

  Beth looked at her. “I had a good time,” she said.

  Mrs. Wheatley seemed uncertain what attitude to take. Finally she allowed herself a small smile. It was surprisingly shy, like a girl’s smile. “Well,” she said, “chess isn’t the only thing in life.”

  ***

  Beth graduated from high school in June, and Mrs. Wheatley gave her a Bulova watch. The back of the case read “With love from Mother.” She liked that, but what she liked better was the rating that came in the mail: 2243. At the school party, several other graduates offered Beth surreptitious drinks, but she refused. She had fruit punch and went home early. She needed to study; she would be playing her first international tournament, in Mexico City, in two weeks, and after that came the United States Championship. She had been invited to the Remy-Vallon in Paris, at the end of the summer. Things were beginning to happen.

  EIGHT

  An hour after the plane crossed the border, Beth was absorbed in pawn-structure analysis and Mrs. Wheatley was drinking her third bottle of Cerveza Corona. “Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I have a confession to make.”

  Beth put the book down, reluctantly.

  Mrs. Wheatley seemed nervous. “Do you know what a pen pal is, dear?”

  “Someone you trade letters with.”

  “Exactly! When I was in high school, our Spanish class was given a list of boys in Mexico who were studying English. I picked one and sent him a letter about myself.” Mrs. Wheatley gave a little laugh. “His name was Manuel. We corresponded for a long time—even while I was married to Allston. We exchanged photographs.” Mrs. Wheatley opened her purse, rummaged through it and produced a bent snapshot which she handed to Beth. It was a picture of a thin-faced man, surprisingly pale-looking, with a pencil-thin mustache. Mrs. Wheatley hesitated and said, “Manuel will be meeting us at the airport.”

  Beth had no objection to this; it might even be a good thing to have a Mexican friend. But she was put off by Mrs. Wheatley’s manner. “Have you met him before?”

  “Never.” She leaned over in her seat and squeezed Beth’s forearm. “You know, I’m really quite thrilled.”

  Beth could see that she was a little drunk. “Is that why you wanted to come down early?”

  Mrs. Wheatley pulled back and straightened the sleeves of her blue cardigan. “I suppose so,” she said.

  ***

  “Si como no?” Mrs. Wheatley said. “And he dresses so well, and opens doors for me and orders dinner beautifully.” She was pulling up her pantyhose as she talked, tugging fiercely to get them over her broad hips.

  They were probably fucking—Mrs. Wheatley and Manuel Córdoba y Serano. Beth did not let herself visualize it. Mrs. Wheatley had come back to the hotel at about three that morning, and at two-thirty the night before. Beth, pretending to be asleep, had smelled the ripe mix of perfume and gin while Mrs. Wheatley fumbled around the room, undressing and sighing.

  “I thought at first it was the altitude,” Mrs. Wheatley said. “Seven thousand three hundred and fifty feet.” Sitting down at the little brass vanity bench, she leaned forward on one elbow and began rouging her cheeks. “It makes a person positively giddy. But I think now it’s the culture.” She stopped and turned to Beth. “There is no hint of a Protestant ethic in Mexico. They are all Latin Catholics, and they all live in the here and now.” Mrs. Wheatley had been reading Alan Watts. “I think I’ll have just one margarita before I go out. Would you call for one, honey?”

  Back in Lexington, Mrs. Wheatley’s voice would sometimes have a distance to it, as though she were speaking from some lonely reach of an interior childhood. Here in Mexico City the voice was distant but the tone was theatrically gay, as though Alma Wheatley were savoring an incommunicable private mirth. It made Beth uneasy. For a moment she wanted to say something about the expensiveness of room service, even measured in pesos, but she didn’t. She picked up the phone and dialed six. The man answered in English. She told him to send a margarita and a large Coke to 713.

  “You could come to the Folklórico,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “I understand the costumes alone are worth
the price of admission.”

  “The tournament starts tomorrow. I need to work on endgames.”

  Mrs. Wheatley was sitting on the edge of the bed, admiring her feet. “Beth, honey,” she said dreamily, “perhaps you need to work on yourself. Chess certainly isn’t all there is.”

  “It’s what I know.”

  Mrs. Wheatley gave a long sigh. “My experience has taught me that what you know isn’t always important.”

  “What is important?”

  “Living and growing,” Mrs. Wheatley said with finality. “Living your life.”

  With a sleazy Mexican salesman? Beth wanted to say. But she kept silent. She did not like the jealousy she felt.

  “Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley went on in a voice rich with plausibility. “You haven’t visited Bellas Artes or even Chapultepec Park. The zoo there is delightful. You’ve taken your meals in this room and spent your time with your nose in chess books. Shouldn’t you just relax on the day before the tournament and think about something other than chess?”

  Beth wanted to hit her. If she had gone to those places, she would have had to go with Manuel and listen to his endless stories. He was forever touching Mrs. Wheatley’s shoulder or her back, standing too close to her, smiling too eagerly. “Mother,” she said, “tomorrow at ten I play the black pieces against Octavio Marenco, the champion of Brazil. That means he has the first move. He is thirty-four years old and an International Grandmaster. If I lose, we will be paying for this trip—this adventure—out of capital. If I win, I will be playing someone in the afternoon who is even better than Marenco. I need to work on my endgames.”

  “Honey, you are what is called an ‘intuitive’ player, aren’t you?” Mrs. Wheatley had never discussed chess playing with her before.

  “I’ve been called that. Moves come to me sometimes.”

  “I’ve noticed the moves they applaud the loudest are the ones you make quickly. And there’s a certain look on your face.”

  Beth was startled. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.