‘There’s another lesson, kid,’ Edgar announced quietly. ‘Eliminate the simple mistakes. And that ain’t as simple as it sounds.’
John continued to play every day in the park after school. He hustled other players under the watchful eye of Edgar. He spent all of the money he earned on chess books. Within a month he had entered his second tournament, won two games and drew one. When the next list of ratings was published he found that his was 1,703.
John quickly discovered that top-level chess required serious study, a thorough knowledge of what had been tried before, and constant attention to new lines being tried in the latest important tournaments. Finding nothing that interested him more than chess, John devoted all of his time to chess, buying, borrowing—and, on one occasion, stealing—every book and magazine he could find on the subject. In four months he had won his first tournament. A week later Edgar was killed, run over by a beer truck as he was crossing a street on his way to the park.
John dropped out of school on his sixteenth birthday to devote his full time to chess. It was six months before his mother became aware of the fact, and then her only concern was that he provide his own support. He moved into a small walk-up apartment, supporting himself through a series of odd jobs and the income from small-stakes games in local New York City chess clubs.
When he was seventeen he won the US Open and was automatically granted his international grand master title. Seeds of bitterness planted years before flowered under the pressure of having to earn an adequate living. A recognised master of his chosen profession, it was difficult for John to find the rent money each month.
Within a few months he had had his first taste of international competition. The USCF, under the directorship of Tom Manning, had recognised John’s talent and undertaken a programme of sponsorship to introduce him to world chess at the highest levels. John found it a profoundly distressing experience. The Russians, John discovered, played as a team, something he could neither understand nor accept. To John, chess was the purest form of individual endeavour. While a scorekeeper might tally the points scored by a number of individuals from a certain group, they were still, as far as John was concerned, individuals when they sat down to play. The idea that one player might conspire to help another was anathema to John, yet this was precisely what the Russians did, and John could not forgive them for it.
Since more than half of all the grand masters in the world were Russians, there were always many Russians in the top tournaments They used their numbers to control the outcome of the matches, accepting easy draws against one another, saving their physical and mental energies for all-out struggles against opponents from other countries. It was a practice that John could not tolerate. His appearances at the international tournaments became more and more infrequent.
At the same time John was beginning to pay a price for the years of pressure, isolation and single-minded dedication to his goal; frustrated, a terrible rage had become his constant companion. He found he could not tolerate distractions of any kind, and he refused to play under any conditions that did not exactly suit him. Soon he was not playing at all.
The USCF, which had been pinning its hopes for the world championship on John, shifted its attention to another young, promising player—Henry Palmer.
John, embittered and alone, retired from competition. For three years he isolated himself in his apartment, venturing out only to earn money at whatever jobs he could find, struggling with the private demons that threatened to destroy him. He suffered when Henry Palmer won the United States Championship, exulted when Palmer lost the North American Interzonals. And he sensed, deep within himself, that both feelings were equally unhealthy.
John made his final important discovery in these lonely years; without chess, he was nothing. Nothing. He defined himself through the game. And he had to be champion of the world.
At the age of twenty-four he went back into active competition. In the same year Yevgeny Petroff emerged as the new world champion. It would take John almost a decade of constant struggle with stiff competition, cautious tournament directors and—most of all—himself to emerge as the challenger.
FOUR
John lived out of his apartment like some men live out of a suitcase. There were no pictures or photographs on the walls of the small, sparsely furnished apartment; nothing of a personal nature except, perhaps, for the hundreds of trophies and plaques stacked haphazardly in the corners of the rooms. Chess sets and books filled the bookshelves, spilling out on the floor. There was a large, magnetic demonstration board set up against the wall next to an unmade, convertible sofa-bed. Food wrappers and empty coffee containers littered the floor by the table where John and Henry sat, next to the one window in the apartment. They had been analysing games for close to five hours. Henry’s eyes were marbled with red, and the muscles in his face were tense with fatigue. John seemed inexhaustible.
Both men stared intently at the board in front of them. Suddenly Henry reached out and advanced a knight. ‘Then this on the seventh move,’ he said.
John shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘He did it at La Parma in ’68.’
‘And drew. By now Petroff has something better.’
Henry, unconvinced, continued to study the possibilities of the position. Finally he moved a bishop up in support of the knight. John quickly brought his queen into play on the rook file. They made a few more moves, then Henry tipped over his king.
‘You’re right,’ Henry said after a pause. ‘It doesn’t work.’
Both men made notes, then John began to set up a new situation. ‘Incidentally,’ he said without looking up from the board, ‘I’m sorry about some of the things I said this afternoon.’
Henry glanced up, surprised. An apology from John Butler was rare. ‘That business about Petroff really doesn’t bother you?’
‘I don’t intend to let it bother me. I don’t want to be a hero.’ John suddenly laughed. ‘Henry, you still don’t understand that I’d rather be world champion than be liked.’
It seemed to be an understatement to Henry, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he rose from the table and stretched. ‘I’ve had it, John. I can’t see.’
John, still absorbed in the position on the board, nodded absently.
‘You want me to come around tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’
Henry turned and walked from the apartment. John sat at the table for another half hour, then rose and took a small pocket chess set from a shelf. He sat down in an over-stuffed armchair, reached up behind him and turned on a standard lamp.
The persistent ringing of the bell reached down and tugged at John’s consciousness. He awoke slowly, already thinking of moves, positions, games of chess he had played and read about stretching back through the years. The ringing continued. John slowly sat up in the chair. The pocket chess set fell off his lap and onto the floor. He picked up the phone and, when he heard a dial tone, hung up and went to the door.
The girl standing in the hall was a few inches over five feet, olive-skinned, dark and beautiful. Her black hair was parted in the middle and drawn back tightly in a style that was either very old or very new. Her eyes were large and, on the surface, very calm; somewhere in their depths, pride burned with a steady flame. Her suit was a chic basic black, highlighted by a ruffled beige blouse. She carried a small purse in one hand and a slim, soft leather case under her arm.
‘Mr Butter?’
She spoke with a pronounced Russian accent that, spoken as it was outside the confines of a chess tournament hall, John found vaguely disorienting. He nodded sleepily.
‘My name is Anna Petroff,’ the girl said evenly.
John ran his fingers through his tousled hair and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He felt as though he had been woken in the middle of the night, but the colour of the light in the hall told him that it was almost noon. ‘Petroff?’
‘Yes,’ the girl said curtly. ‘But I’ve disturbed you. I’m s
orry, I’ll come back later.’ She bowed slightly and turned to leave.
‘Just a minute. You said your name was Petroff?’
The girl stopped and gazed at him levelly. The pride in her eyes touched her voice. ‘Yes, Mr Butler,’ she said slowly, ‘Yevgeny is my brother.’
Still fighting off the lingering cobwebs of sleep, John searched for connections that seemed just beyond his grasp. ‘What do you want?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Butler, but not in the hall. I’ll come back when it’s more convenient.’
‘No, it’s all right.’ John stepped aside. ‘Please come in.’
The girl walked past him and John caught a whiff of the scent she was wearing; it was light, expensive and somehow perfectly matched the girl’s cool, poised manner.
John motioned towards the armchair, ‘Uh, sit down. Just give me a minute to wake up.’
Anna Petroff sat down in the chair, crossed her legs and rested the leather case in her lap. John went into the bathroom, splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. Next he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. By the time he returned to the living-room he was fully awake and was becoming very suspicious.
‘What’s this all about?’ John asked coldly.
Anna opened the leather case and withdrew a sheaf of papers that had been stapled together. ‘I have something to give you,’ she said, rising and handing the papers to John.
John glanced at the letterhead on the front page. It was written in Russian. He felt the muscles in his stomach flutter. ‘It’s “Moscow” something. I can’t read the rest of the printing, or the handwriting.’
‘It’s the Moscow Institute. The handwriting is my brother’s. It’s just his name.’
John flipped over to the next page which was covered with typed symbols. The margins were filled with lengthy notations in the same handwriting seen on the first page. John glanced up,
‘I can read this,’ John said warily. ‘These are chess games,’
‘Yes, Mr Butler, those are chess games.’
John, still studying the symbols, absently turned and walked over to the table by the window. He set up the chess pieces, then quickly played through the first few moves noted on the first sheet. He hesitated, then played them through again. Finally he casually tossed the manuscript on a chair and turned back to Anna. He felt a sense of release, of triumph, almost as though he had ventured into a dark cave and emerged safely once again.
‘Whoever played this game is an amateur,’ John said, his voice laced with a trace of contempt. ‘I’ve played white against this system hundreds of times. Black’s eighth move will lose. It’s all wrong.’
‘Is it?’ Anna asked coolly. ‘I understood you could read enough Russian to follow the analysis.’
‘I can make it out. But I don’t have to read the analysis to know that the eighth move is bad.’
‘Why don’t you read it anyway?’
There was a challenge in the girl’s voice that could not be denied. John shrugged, then went back to the table. He sat down and smoothed the first page of the manuscript open before him. The notes were printed, and John had little trouble reading them. Over the years he had taught himself to read chess-related material in Russian, Spanish, French and Italian. He received—and pored over—fifty chess publications a month.
He skimmed through the first page of analysis notes quickly. He stopped and frowned when he came to a sentence at the bottom of the page. It didn’t appear to make any sense; it went against the body of knowledge that had built up around the Ruy Lopez opening over the past twenty years. The eighth move had to be a mistake, and yet …
John set up the pieces and slowly played up to the eighth move. He looked at the position and shook his head. Still, he continued on with the analysis, playing up to the twentieth move. Suddenly he felt uncomfortable; there was something wrong. What had seemed like a disastrous eighth move for black had led to a position where black enjoyed a small but palpable advantage in space and mobility. Black had given up two pawns, but already John could see where the material would be recaptured, with an even greater advantage. Incredible as it seemed, the analysis indicated an entirely new line in the opening, and it led to a clear win for black.
John knew that, had he been playing white in this game, his ninth move would have been almost automatic. He would have fallen into the trap, and he would have lost.
John quickly skimmed through the rest of the manuscript, his hands flying over the board, making the noted moves Then he went back to the beginning and replayed each game, reading the accompanying analysis with great care. In each game, one set of moves—sometimes the black set, other times white—virtually leaped out at him from the page; they were his games, his favourite lines. But the answering lines were totally new—deadly effective. John felt a sudden surge of conflicting emotions; consternation, excitement, and the beginnings of self-doubt. His mouth was suddenly dry.
He did not hear the kettle whistling, and his concentration was only broken when Anna appeared at his side. She was carrying two cups of steaming coffee.
‘I don’t know how you like your coffee,’ Anna announced. ‘I found milk, but no sugar.’ She made no attempt to hide the satisfaction in her voice, and the sound rasped against John’s nervous tension. He swivelled round in his chair.
‘Where did you get these?’
Anna raised her eyebrows in mock earnestness. ‘The cups? They were in your dusty cupboard.’
John felt anger flush through him, burning like acid in his blood. He turned away quickly, wrestled his emotions down to an acceptable level, then turned round again. He took the cups from Anna and set them down on the table.
‘I meant where did you get these.’ He pointed to the manuscript.
‘How and where I got them is unimportant.’
‘Your brother did these analyses?’
Anna walked around the table and sat down across from John. She picked up one of the cups of coffee and sipped at it, her gaze levelled at John over the rim. Once again her eyes hid more than they revealed.
‘He had help, naturally,’ Anna said evenly, after a long pause, ‘Yevgeny and six of our top grand masters sat for five months with a computer. Those opening lines are the result. As you can see, every one of those innovations is aimed at you, based on the records of your games.’ She lowered the cup and smiled, displaying a row of even, white teeth. ‘Yevgeny is ready for you, Mr Butler.’
The smile and the girl’s position at the table across from him made John uncomfortable. Like Arnett, she appeared to be presenting herself as an opponent, challenging John to a game he did not understand. John rose and leaned forward on the table.
‘Why did you give these to me?’
‘I’m not prepared to tell you that.’ Anna took another sip of coffee, then set the cup down. ‘Perhaps one day I will ask something of you.’
‘Not a chance. You’ll tell me what you want now or forget about it.’
‘No, Mr Butler, I will tell you nothing,’ Anna said with an equanimity that John found infuriating. ‘But, whether or not I ever ask you for a favour in return, and whether or not you refuse, the papers are still yours. And you know now exactly how valuable they are. Because of the conditions under which my brother is forced to play, very few of his games are ever published, even inside Russia. On the other hand, Yevgeny and every other player in the world has hundreds of your games and analyses by everybody under the sun. In addition, Yevgeny has the full support and resources of our government, at least for his chess efforts. No, Mr Butler, those papers are what you Americans might refer to as a gold mine. You’ll keep them, and you’ll study them, because those papers will tell you exactly how Yevgeny is preparing for your match.’
John got up and paced around the room nervously. Anna watched him and knew he was shaken. After a few moments he stopped and turned back to her.
‘Any innovative move in the opening from a grand master requ
ires thought,’ John said tightly. ‘I’d have found the answer over the board.’
‘Maybe. But not without using up a lot of time on your clock, time that you could scarcely afford. But then it doesn’t really make much difference in my opinion.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Those analyses are just standard preparation. Yevgeny doesn’t need the new moves, Mr Butler. He’ll beat you anyway.’
John’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘The world’s first female grand master! What do you know?’
‘I know my brother,’ Anna said quietly.
‘And that kind of reasoning, lady, is why there aren’t any women grand masters!’ John took a deep breath and tried to back off from his anger. His first thought had been that the girl’s visit was some kind of psychological ploy. But the analysed games and the new moves were real, too high a price to pay for an ephemeral psychological edge.
His failure to solve the problem posed by Anna’s presence prodded John’s anger once again. ‘What the hell is this all about? How did you get here? Someone smuggle you out of Russia?’
Lights from some inner source danced in the girl’s eyes. ‘My, my, Mr Butler, you do get excited when someone suggests you’re not as good as you think you are.’ The colour in Anna’s eyes shifted to a darker hue. ‘Don’t believe everything you read in The Daily News, Mr Butler. Most Russian citizens are as free to travel as the people in this country; freer, in some cases. Also, my government doesn’t hold what my brother does against me.’
‘Where does that leave you?’
‘On the East River. I’m a member of my country’s mission to the United Nations.’
John made no effort to hide his surprise. ‘Then you’re a party member?’
‘Of course.’
‘The papers must have been smuggled out.’
‘Yes.’
Something in the girl’s voice tripped a warning signal in John’s brain, and he welcomed it. The girl’s response had been a millisecond too quick; she was too self-assured, too confident. Her manner was a mask, and for the first time John thought he had caught a glimpse of the face behind it.
King's Gambit Page 4
