The Queen's Gambit

by Walter Tevis

  “Maybe you’re right,” one of them said.

  “I know I’m right. And Beth here thinks the same way I do. The pawn move’s too weak.”

  “The pawn works only if he plays his bishop,” Beth said, feeling better.

  “Exactly!” Benny said. He was wearing jeans and some kind of loose white blouse. “How about some skittles, Beth?”

  “I was on my way for coffee,” she said.

  “Barnes’ll get you coffee. Won’t you, Barnes?” A big, soft-looking young man, a grandmaster, nodded assent. “Sugar and cream?”

  “Yes.”

  Benny was pulling a dollar bill out of his jeans pocket. He handed it to Barnes. “Get me some apple juice. But not in one of those plastic cups. Get a milk glass.”

  Benny set the clock by the board. He held out two pawns concealed in his hands, and the hand Beth tapped had the white one. After they set up the pieces Benny said, “Would you like to bet?”

  “Bet?”

  “We could play for five dollars a game.”

  “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

  “Here it comes.” Beth saw Barnes hurrying across the room with a glass of juice and a white Styrofoam cup.

  “Okay,” she said. “Five dollars.”

  “Have some coffee,” Benny said, “and I’ll punch your clock.”

  She took it from Barnes, had a long drink and set the half-empty cup on the coffee table. “Go ahead,” she said to Benny. She felt very good. The spring morning outdoors was all right, but this was what she loved.

  He beat her with only three minutes on his clock. She played well but he played brilliantly, moving almost immediately each time, seeing through whatever she tried doing to him. She handed him a five-dollar bill from the billfold in her pocket and set up the pieces again, this time taking the black ones for herself. There were four other players standing nearby now, watching them.

  She tried the Sicilian against his pawn to king four, but he wiped it away with a pawn gambit and got her into an irregular opening. He was incredibly fast. She had him in trouble at midgame with doubled rooks on an open file, but he ignored them and attacked down the center, letting her check him twice with the rooks, exposing his king. But when she tried to bring a knight into it for mate, he sprang loose and was at her queen and then her king, catching her finally in a mating net. She resigned before he could move in for the kill. She gave him a ten this time and he gave her the five back. She had sixty dollars in her pocket and more money back at the room.

  By noon there were forty or more people watching. Most of the players from the tournament were there along with some of the spectators who regularly attended the games, college students and a group of men who might have been professors. She and Benny kept playing, not even talking now between games. Beth won the third one with a beautiful save just before her flag dropped, but she lost the next four and drew the fifth. Some of the positions were brilliantly complex, but there was no time for analysis. It was thrilling but frustrating. She had never in her life been beaten so consistently, and although it was only five-minute chess and not serious, it was an immersion in quiet humiliation. She had never felt like this before. She played beautifully, followed the game with precision and responded accurately to every threat, mounted powerful threats of her own, but it meant nothing. Benny seemed to have some resource beyond her understanding, and he won game after game from her. She felt helpless, and inside her there grew a quiet sense of outrage.

  Finally she gave him her last five dollars. It was five-thirty in the afternoon. A row of empty Styrofoam cups sat by the board. When she got up to leave, there was applause and Benny shook her hand. She wanted to hit him but said nothing. There was random applause from the crowd in the room.

  As she was leaving, the man she had played the first of the week, Phillip Resnais, stopped her. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “Benny plays speed chess as well as anyone in the world. It doesn’t really mean a lot.”

  She nodded curtly and thanked him. When she went outside into the late-afternoon sunlight, she felt like a fool.

  That night she stayed in her room and took tranquilizers. Four of them.

  She felt rested in the morning, but stupid. Mrs. Wheatley had once described things as looking askew; that was how they looked to Beth when she awoke from her deep, tranquilized sleep. But she no longer felt the humiliation she had felt after being beaten by Benny. She took her pill bottle from the bedstand drawer and squeezed the top on it tight. It would not do to take any more. Not until the tournament was over. She thought suddenly of Thursday, the day she would play Benny, and she tensed. But she put the pills back in the drawer and got dressed. She ate breakfast early and drank three cups of strong coffee with it. Then she took a brisk walk around the main part of the campus, playing through one of the games from Benny Watts’s book. He was brilliant, she told herself, but not unbeatable. Anyway, she wouldn’t play him for three more days.

  The games started at one and went on until four or five in the afternoon. Adjournments were finished either in the evening or the morning of the next day. By noon her head was clear and when she started her one o’clock game against a tall, silent Californian in a Black Power T-shirt, she was ready for him. Although he wore his hair in a kind of Afro, he was white—as all of them were. She answered his English Opening with both knights, making it a four-knights game, and decided against her normal practice to trade him down to an endgame. It worked beautifully, and she was pleased with her handling of the pawns; she had one on the sixth and one on the seventh rank when he resigned. It was easier than she had expected; her endgame study with Beltik had paid off.

  That evening Benny Watts joined her at the cafeteria table while she was eating her dessert. “Beth,” he said, “it’s going to be you or me.”

  She looked up from her rice pudding. “Are you trying to psych me out?”

  He laughed. “No. I can beat you without that.”

  She went on eating and said nothing.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t trying to hustle you.”

  She took a sip of coffee. “You weren’t?”

  “I just wanted some action.”

  “And money,” Beth said. Although that wasn’t the point.

  “You’re the best player here,” he said. “I’ve been reading your games. You attack like Alekhine.”

  “You held me off well enough yesterday.”

  “That doesn’t count. I know speed chess better than you. I play a lot of it in New York.”

  “You beat me in Las Vegas.”

  “That was a long time ago. You were too wrapped up in doubling my pawns. I couldn’t get away with that again.”

  She finished her coffee in silence while he ate his dinner and drank his milk. When he had finished, she said, “Do you go over games in your head when you’re alone? I mean, play all the way through them?”

  He smiled. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  ***

  She permitted herself to watch television in the lounge of the Student Union Building that evening. Benny wasn’t there, although a few of the other players were. She went back to her room afterward, feeling lonely. It was her first tournament since Mrs. Wheatley died, and she missed her now. She took the endgame book from the collection on the desk and began studying. Benny was all right. It had been nice of him to talk to her that way. And she had gotten used to his hair by now; she liked it long, the way it was. He had really very good-looking hair.

  She won Tuesday’s game, and Wednesday’s. Benny was still playing when she finished on Wednesday and she walked over to his table and saw in a moment that he had it all but won. He looked up at her and smiled. Then he made the word silently with his mouth: “Tomorrow.”

  There was a children’s playground at the edge of the campus. She walked to it by moonlight and sat on one of the swings. What she really wanted was a drink, but that was out of the question. A bottle of red wine, with a little cheese. Th
en a few pills and off to bed. But she couldn’t. She had to be clear in the morning, had to be ready for the game against Benny Watts at one o’clock. Maybe she could take one pill and go to bed. Or two. She would take two. She swung herself back and forth a few times, listening to the squeaking of the chain that held the swing, before heading purposively back to the dormitory. She took the two pills, but it still was over an hour before she could sleep.

  ***

  Something in the deferential manner of the tournament directors and the way the other players looked at her told her that the attention of the tournament had focused on this game. She and Benny were the only players who had come this far without even a draw. In a round robin there was no precedence of boards; they would play at the third table in the row that began at the classroom door. But attention was centered on that table, and the spectators, who had already filled the seats and now included a dozen people standing, all became quiet as she seated herself. Benny came in a minute after she did; there was whispering when he arrived at the table and sat down. She looked over at the crowd, and a thought that had been present in her mind suddenly solidified itself: the two of them were the best players in America.

  Benny was wearing his faded denim shirt with a silver medallion on a chain. His sleeves were rolled up like a laborer’s. He was not smiling, and he looked a good deal older than twenty-four. He glanced briefly at the crowd, nodded almost imperceptibly to Beth, and stared at the board as the tournament director signaled for the games to begin. Benny was playing the white pieces. Beth punched his clock.

  He played pawn to king four, and she did not hesitate; she replied with pawn to queen bishop four: the Sicilian. He brought out the king knight, and she played pawn to king three. There was no point in using an obscure opening against Benny. He knew openings better than she. The place to get him would be in the middle game, if she could mount an attack before he did. But first she would have to get equality.

  She felt a sensation she had felt only once before, in Mexico City playing Borgov: she felt like a child trying to outsmart an adult. When she made her second move, she looked across the board at Benny and saw the quiet seriousness of his face and felt unready for this game with him. But it wasn’t so. She knew in part of herself that it wasn’t, that in Mexico City she had overwhelmed a string of professionals before wilting in the game with Borgov, that she had beaten grandmaster after grandmaster in this tournament, that even when she had been playing the janitor at Methuen Home as an eight-year-old she had played with a solidity that was altogether remarkable, altogether professional. Yet she felt now, however illogically, inexperienced.

  Benny thought for several minutes and made an unusual move. Instead of playing the queen pawn, he pushed the queen bishop pawn to the fourth rank. It sat there, facing her queen bishop pawn, unsupported. She looked at it for a minute, wondering what he had in mind. He might be going for the Maróczy Bind, but doing it out of the normal sequence. It was new—something probably planned especially for this game. She suddenly felt embarrassed, aware that although she had gone through Benny’s game book, she had prepared nothing special for today and had approached it as she always approached chess, ready to play by intuition and attack.

  And then she began to see that there was nothing sinister about Benny’s move, nothing she could not handle. It became clear to her that she did not have to play into it. She could decline the invitation. If she played her knight to queen bishop three, his move might be wasted. Maybe he was only fishing for a quick advantage—as though playing speed chess. She brought her knight out. What the hell, as Alma Wheatley would say.

  Benny played pawn to queen four; she took the pawn, and he retook with his knight. She brought out the other knight and waited for him to bring out his. She would pin it when he did and then take it, getting doubled pawns. That queen bishop pawn move of his was costing him, and although the advantage wasn’t much, it was certain.

  But he did not bring out the knight. Instead he took hers. Clearly he didn’t want the doubled pawn. She let that sink in a moment before retaking. It was astounding; he was already on the defensive. A few minutes before, she had felt like an amateur, and here Benny Watts had tried to confuse her on the third move and had put himself in trouble.

  The obvious thing was to take his knight with her knight pawn, capturing toward the center. If she took the other way, with her queen pawn, he would trade queens. That would prevent her from castling and would deny her the queen she loved for quick attack. She reached her hand out to take the knight with the knight pawn and then brought it back. Somehow the idea of opening the queen file, shocking though it was, looked attractive. She began to study it. And gradually it began to make sense. With an early queen trade, castling would be irrelevant. She could bring the king out the way you did in the endgame. She looked across at Benny again and saw that he was wondering why she was taking so long with this routine recapture. Somehow he looked smaller to her. What the hell, she thought again and took with the queen pawn, exposing her queen.

  Benny did not hesitate; he took her queen with his and punched the clock smartly. He did not even say “Check.” She took with her king as she had to, and he pushed up the other bishop pawn to protect his king pawn. It was a simple defensive move, but something in her exulted when he did it. She felt naked with no queen this early in the game, yet she was beginning to feel strong without it. She already had the initiative, and she knew it. She pushed her pawn to king four. It was not an obvious move at this stage, and the soundness of it warmed her. It opened up the diagonal for her queen bishop and held his king pawn to the fourth rank. She looked up from the board and around her. All the other games were intently in progress; the spectators were hushed, watching. There were more people standing, and they were standing where they could see the game she was playing with Benny. The director came by and made the move on the display board in front of their table, pushing the king pawn to king four. The spectators began to take that in. She looked to the other side of the room and out the window. It was a beautiful day, with fresh leaves on the trees and an impeccably blue sky. She felt herself expand, relax, open up. She was going to beat him. She was going to beat him soundly.

  The continuation she found on the nineteenth move was a beautiful and subtle wonder. It sprang to her mind full-blown, with half a dozen moves as clear as if they were projected on a screen in front of her, her rook, bishop and knight dancing together down in his king’s corner of the board. Yet there was no checkmate in it or even an advantage in material. After her knight came to queen five on the twenty-fifth move and Benny was forced merely to push a pawn because he could do nothing to defend, she traded rook and knight for rook and knight and brought her king to queen three. Although the pieces and pawns were equal, it was only a matter of counting moves. It would take twelve for him to get a pawn to the eighth rank and queen it, while she could do it in ten.

  Benny made a few moves, bringing his king out in the hopeless attempt to take off her pawns before she took away his, but even his arm as it moved the king was listless. And when she took his queen bishop pawn, he reached out and toppled his king. There was silence and then quiet applause. She had won in thirty moves.

  As they were leaving the room Benny said to her, “I never thought you’d let me trade queens.”

  “I didn’t either,” she said.

  ELEVEN

  After the ceremony Saturday evening, benny took her to a bar in town. They sat in a back booth and Beth drank her first beer and ordered another. They both tasted delicious. “Easy,” Benny said. “Easy.” He had not finished his first.

  “You’re right,” she said and slowed down. She felt high enough already. No losses. No draws. Her last two opponents had offered draws in midgame, and she had refused.

  “A perfect score,” Benny said.

  “It feels good,” she said, meaning the victory, but the beer felt good too. She looked at him more closely. “I appreciate the way you’re taking it.”
>
  “A mask,” he said. “I’m raging inwardly.”

  “It doesn’t show.”

  “I should not have played that goddamned bishop pawn.”

  They sat silently for a while. He took a thoughtful sip of beer and asked, “What are you going to do about Borgov?”

  “When I go to Paris? I don’t even have a passport.”

  “When you go to Moscow.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t they deliver the mail in Kentucky?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “The Moscow Invitational. The U.S. winner is invited.”

  “I want another beer,” she said.

  “You didn’t know that?” Benny looked shocked.

  “I’ll get the beer myself.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She went up to the bar and ordered another bottle. She had heard of the Moscow Invitational but knew nothing about it. The bartender brought her the beer, and she told him to get another. When she came back to the table, Benny said, “That’s too much beer.”

  “Probably.” She waited for the foam to settle and took a swallow. “How do I get to Moscow if I go?”

  “When I went, the Federation bought my ticket and a church group put up the rest.”

  “Did you have a second?”

  “Barnes.”

  “Barnes?” She stared at him.

  “It would be tough to be in Russia alone.” He frowned. “You shouldn’t drink beer like that. You’ll be washed up at twenty-one.”

  She set down the glass. “Who else will be playing in Moscow?”

  “Four other countries and the four top Russians.”

  That would mean Luchenko and Borgov. Possibly Shapkin. She did not want to think about it. She looked at him quietly for a minute. “Benny, I like the way your hair looks.”

  He stared at her. “Sure you do,” he said. “What about Russia?”

  She took another drink of beer. She did like Benny’s hair and his blue eyes. She had never thought of him sexually before, but she was thinking that way now. “Four Russian chessplayers,” she said, “is a lot of Russian chess players.”