The Queen's Gambit

by Walter Tevis

Beth’s disposition was all right, as far as anyone could see, but she was glad to get the little pill. It loosened something deep in her stomach and helped her doze away the tense hours in the orphanage.

“Girls don’t play chess.”

Something in her life was solved: she knew about the chess pieces and how they moved and captured, and she knew how to make herself feel good in the stomach and in the tense joints of her arms and legs, with the pills the orphanage gave her.

All of the tension was gone, and what Beth felt inside herself was as wonderful as anything she had ever felt in her life.

“To him who in the love of nature holds/communion with her visible forms, she speaks a various language,”

Her mind was luminous, and her soul sang to her in the sweet moves of chess.

She loved his voice; she loved the way he said it.

She walked into the tournament room at exactly eleven, and the people standing stopped talking when she came in. Everyone looked at her. She heard someone whisper, “Thirteen fucking years old,” and immediately the thought came into her mind, along with the exultant feeling the whispered voice had given her: I could have done this at eight.

She looked at his face. “You need a rest.” He smiled down at her. “What I need, Harmon, is some of your talent.”

She began reading aloud: “‘With some people chess is a pastime, with others it is a compulsion, even an addiction. And every now and then a person comes along for whom it is a birthright. Now and then a small boy appears and dazzles us with his precocity at what may be the world’s most difficult game. But what if that boy were a girl—a young, unsmiling girl with brown eyes, brown hair and a dark-blue dress? “‘It has never happened before, but it happened recently.

“But, Beth,” Mrs. Wheatley said, “it makes you a celebrity!” Beth looked at her thoughtfully, “For being a girl, mostly,” she said.

If only he were Townes.

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.

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, 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.”

“If you win, what will you do afterward?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.” “If you’re World Champion at sixteen, what will you do with the rest of your life?” He still looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said.

Sex, with its reputation for complexity, was refreshingly simple.

The U.S. Championship would be in three weeks; it was time it was won by a woman. It was time she won it.

“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.”

“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.

She looked at Benny. Now that blankness had left his face, she felt warmer toward him. She had made love to two men in her life, and it was hardly making love; if she and Benny went to bed together, there would be more to it. She would see there was more to it. They would be in his apartment by midnight; maybe something would happen there. Maybe he would feel differently at home.

She beat the three of them with time to spare. When it was over, Benny didn’t say anything. He went to the bedroom, got his billfold, took three tens out of it and handed them to Beth. “Let’s do it again,” Beth said. There was a bitterness in her voice; hearing the words, she knew it could have meant sex: Let’s do it again. If this was what Benny wanted, this was what he would get. She began setting up the pieces.

“It’s time for bed.” “Not so fast,” Benny said. He looked at her for a moment and smiled. “Do you still like my hair?” “I’ve been trying to learn how to beat Vasily Borgov,” Beth said. “Your hair doesn’t enter into it.” “I’d like you to come to bed with me.”

Being in bed with a man was really all right. Making love had been all right too, although not as exciting as she had hoped. Benny hadn’t said much. He was gentle and easy with her, but there was still that distance of his. She remembered a phrase from the first man she had made love with: “Too cerebral.” She turned toward Benny. His skin did look good in the light; it seemed almost luminous. For a moment she felt like putting her arms around him and hugging him with her naked body, but she restrained herself.

“Do you want to play another?” Benny shrugged and turned away. “Save it for Borgov.” But she could see he would have played her if he had thought he could win. She felt a whole lot better.

“I want her out of here. I’m selling the house.” Beth looked at him for a moment before speaking. “Then sell it to me,” she said. “What are you talking about?” Wheatley said. “I’ll buy it. I’ll pay you whatever your equity is.” “It’s worth more than that now.” “How much more?” “I’d need seven thousand.” She knew his equity was less than five. “All right,” she said. “You have that much?” “Yes,” she said. “But I’m subtracting what I paid for burying my mother. I’ll show you the receipts.” Allston Wheatley sighed like a martyr. “All right,” he said. “You two can draw up the papers. I’m going back to the hotel.” He walked over to the door. “It’s too hot in here.” “You could have taken off your coat,” Beth said.

Mrs. Wheatley had been a good mother; she had not intended to die and leave her.

She had flirted with alcohol for years. It was time to consummate the relationship.

And what did being women have to do with it? She was better than any male player in America. She remembered the Life interviewer and the questions about her being a woman in a man’s world. To hell with her; it wouldn’t be a man’s world when she finished with it.

She would drink less, taper off. Maybe she would feel like calling McAndrews after a drink. She poured herself a glass of chablis and began sipping it, and it healed her like the magic medicine it was.

She drank half of it in one long swallow and stood waiting until she could feel it. Then she finished the glass and poured another. A person could live without chess. Most people did.

She smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you.” What she wanted to say was, “I love you.”

What she wanted was to be traveling with Benny Watts. She hadn’t even been able to get hold of Benny the night before; his line was busy the first two times she dialed and then there was no answer.

She missed Benny, not Townes.

This was not the attack chess she had made her American reputation with; it was chamber-music chess, subtle and intricate.

“I have gone over your games at this tournament.” He paused. “You are a marvel, my dear. I may have just played the best chess player of my life.”

“Go beat him.”

There was an hour and a half on her clock; she had the time to do it and do it right.

“It’s your game.” He pushed back his chair, stood up, and then reached down and picked up his king. Instead of setting it on its side he held it across the board to her. She stared at it. “Take it,” he said.