Work Text:
I. 1968
It's not enough.
Oh, it's satisfying at first. To sit there in the crisp, cold wind and just play, unencumbered by politics and pretense and a burden upon her shoulders that whispers in her ear about all her fuck-ups. Grigori and Yuri and Anton are all deeply appreciative, admiring of her play, but not fawning. They do not see Beth Harmon, pretty American girl with a shit ton of problems, but a fellow chess player, one that will kick their ass if they're not paying attention.
Yuri is perhaps the best, the others a few steps behind, but there is a reason they all play chess in the park and not on a grand stage. She defeats them all, merciless and respectful of the fact that they will show her no quarter in return should she not give them the courtesy of being taken seriously.
She considers it a vacation, even if most people would take theirs in warmer climes, rather the harshness of Moscow and Beth intends to enjoy every minute.
Every minute, though, is limited when you are under the watchful auspices of both the KGB and your own government, and soon enough, Fletcher comes forward as Beth is shaking Anton's hand.
“I'm sorry, Miss Harmon,” he says discreetly, obviously trying not to sound deeply irritated at her and failing miserably. “But we really must be getting back. You have a flight in the morning that we cannot be late for.”
Beth smiles, turning to the others. “Well, it has been an honor,” she says. “Truly, you are so wonderful.”
“The honor was ours,” Grigori says. His cracked smile beams across his entire face. “You are a magnificent player.”
Fletcher makes a small noise in his throat and Beth gets the picture. No compliment batting back and forth until the stars comes out and he has to less diplomatically force her away.
She bows once more, smiles, and turns to leave. They're walking, a black car following at a distance, instead of swiftly escorting her away, because Beth is going to savor every last minute she has here, every glimpse she gets of another world that isn't hers, but perhaps could have been, given a change in circumstances.
What would an Elisabeth Harmon have been like over here? Would she have her own Shaibel, someone to take her in and teach her? Would the Soviet orphanages have recognized what she could do for them and used her accordingly, or would she have been just another thin face in a line of forgotten children? Would she have fucked up her life so completely or would she not have even had the freedom to do that?
What would it have been like to have met the others sooner, Luchenko and Girev and--
Borgov.
That would have been... interesting.
“That was unwise,” Fletcher says. “You know we have a rigid itinerary, everything carefully planned out and--”
“I know,” Beth replies, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “But look at this way. I'm sure you can spin this as the State Department letting your average Soviet see the graciousness of the American players, who value all men as equal.”
Fletcher's mouth twists slightly. It's amusing to watch him try to maintain his composure in the face of such utter disregard for whatever plans he and his cronies have cooked up. “Fine,” he says. “Just make sure when you hit the hotel to go straight to bed. No more excursions.”
“I promise,” Beth says, not intending it in the slightest.
Because she's still wired, still riding the high that came from the match. There's a thrill to winning against an opponent that requires all your focus and motivation to defeat. It's a thrill that even alcohol and drugs can't match, not that she can really do comparisons these days. She's clean and sober, keenly aware of all her shortcomings now that the fog's been lifted.
She's also bored. Her body is thrumming with excitement and she needs to release it, needs to—well, she doesn't really have many options. She can't drink, can't take drugs, can't fuck some French model to take the edge off. Hiring someone is an option, of course, but not really – there's a time and a place for everything and Moscow in the winter is not it.
“Miss Harmon,” she hears, and she looks up.
Borgov's standing there in the same hallway. He does not appear to be tired either, a curious gleam in his eyes.
“I couldn't sleep,” she says.
“I see,” he says, and Beth realizes she has the answer standing right in front of her. It's a reckless answer, one that comes with way too many risks and Fletcher will probably have a heart attack by the time it's all done.
It's perfect.
“Can I come in?”
She's peeked into his room before, of course, watching him consult with his seconds. At the time, she perceived the advantage to it – people he could actually play against in person rather than talk to on a tinny phone line that the KGB was no doubt tapping all the time. That Benny and the boys proved to be so helpful is a miracle she won't question, but it's not one she intends to rely upon. Everyone has their own life and you can't expect someone to be on beck and call for you.
Beth supposes it's not surprising that Borgov also seems to be alone now. Perhaps he has his own Fletcher, lurking around the corner, telling him that associating with the American girl is a terrible idea and he should just get some rest as well, although Borgov seems like someone more inclined to follow that advice. Still, he has surprised her lately.
It's funny, Beth thinks. She used to think of him as so utterly boring and methodical, a machine more than a man that just crushes you with his play. But there are elements of unpredictability to him, something that every now and then catches just enough of her attention that she can't just dismiss him. Even winning against Borgov, she suspects, won't be enough for her to fully grasp the man.
But it's a damn good start.
Borgov's hands are carefully setting up the board, moving pieces back to their original position. He motions for her to sit and she sweeps her skirt over he knees, gracefully takes her seat.
“Surely you've grown tired of this,” he says. “I would think that after that game, you might wish to take a break from playing me.”
Beth shakes her head, laughs. “You accepted,” she says. “If anyone would have wanted to take a break from me,” she says, “I would think it would be you. I have been told that I can quickly wear upon a person.”
His answering smile is gentle, something that softens the coolness of his face. “I should hope not,” he says. “I do look forward to our matches, Miss Harmon.”
“As do I,” she says and she moves forward a pawn.
Borgov counters with his own, as he does when she brings out her knight, and her bishop sweeps across the board, coming right into his territory. She's invading his space, letting him know that she's here, not shying away anymore.
But Borgov isn't backing down either, taking her gambits and ruthless moving forward as well.
“Marshall,” she murmurs. It's an incredibly aggressive move from him, something that doesn't quite line up with the perception she had have of him before. She would have maybe expected a standard Morphy Defense, or perhaps an attack along those lines. Clearly, she has more to study on him.
Borgov does not deny it as he captures her pawn. There are no clocks in this room, no notation or time limits to document this, but Beth knows she will remember this game when so many others have faded from memory.
She temples her chin in her hands and takes his pawn in return.
Twenty-five moves later, she takes the draw that he offers. It's a well-fought one on both their parts, though Beth can see several places where she made little mistakes, stupid things she can kick herself for.
“I'm not surprised you refused my offer earlier,” Borgov says, studying the board as Beth leans back in her chair, cracking a yawn. “You knew you were in a position to win.”
“They say you never offer draws,” Beth says. “But you've had many more than I have.” It's a fair number, actually, far more than his reputation would suggest, and she wonders if cultivating the appearance of a man who will ruthlessly trample you is useful for intimidating people into giving up instead of fighting.
“I will not offer them,” he says. “But it seems foolish when you're losing not to maneuver yourself into a situation to where you can at least come out even.”
Beth frowns. “But you're playing to win,” she points out. “You're not playing to not lose.”
Borgov chuckles. “You are still young, Miss Harmon,” he says. “Not a child, but you have not learned everything yet. Sometimes you have to accept the position that you are in.”
“No,” Beth says. “If I'm going to lose, I'm going to go down swinging, not taking up the charity of someone else.”
“And yet you took my draw,” Borgov counters. “You could have dragged this on for twenty more moves and forced me to take you out.”
“Maybe I was getting bored,” she says. “Maybe I realized that it wasn't worth it when I had already beaten you today.”
“You did,” he says, inclining his head. “Quite masterfully.”
He's not pressing her, forcing her to answer the question that she can't explain. He's being gracious, considerate, not forcing her to admit that the reason she took the draw was that she was curious what would have happened if she had done it back then. If Beth Harmon had been less sure of herself, had taken the easy way and smiled as she shook Borgov's hand, letting everyone save face.
The pieces across the board have always been her enemy, her opponent to be vanquished. She's beginning to wonder if the same is true of the person who moves them.
She stands up abruptly. “I need to get back,” she says. “Otherwise I don't think they'll ever let me come back to Moscow again.”
Borgov stands up as well, extends his hand. She shakes it. “I look forward to playing against you again,” he says. “Perhaps in warmer climes.”
“Yes,” Beth agrees. “Somewhere sunny.”
She's yawning and red-eyed when Fletcher comes to collect her. She slips on a pair of sunglasses over her eyes and leans back against the leather of the upholstery. The heat makes her even sleepier and she wonders what the papers will say if they have to carry her out of the car.
“Please tell me you didn't do anything stupid,” Fletcher says. “I told you to just stay in your room and go to sleep.”
“Don't worry,” Beth says. “I just slept with a few dozen KGB agents and made sure they took pictures but I'm sure it will all work out in the end.”
Fletcher mumbles something under his breath. “At least you won,” he says. “There are a number of people who want to meet with you when you get back. Don't be surprised if they schedule a few exhibition matches for you to show off.”
Politics, Beth thinks. It always comes down to that and it's frankly the dumbest thing of all, dumber even than if she had gone out and slept with the first person to take her up on that offer.
“Well, I'm not going to do it immediately,” Beth says. “I think I've earned a little bit of my own time to do what I want.”
“I believe that's what you've been doing all along here,” Fletcher points out dryly. “Or do you call running off to play chess with old men in the park a state-sponsored activity?”
“Just wake me up when we get there,” Beth says, closing her eyes. “I'll smile at all the cameras and make sure to say very nice, flattering things about how lovely it's all been but how much I miss my home country and I can't wait to get home to America.”
“You do that,” Fletcher says, and Beth puts her sunglasses back over her eyes.
Soon, she will be stumbling out of this car and board a plane, leave Moscow and the Soviet Union and all the people that speak her language, the game that runs her blood, to return home and be forced to talk to those that don't. There will be the boys and Jolene, all the people she cares about, but she can't deny that there's a part of her that knows it's not home either.
Home is on a board and it always resets.
II. 1969
It drops with a thud on her lap and Beth looks up.
“Nice picture,” Jolene says. “You can really tell who the photographer thought was more photogenic.”
Beth snorts. “It wouldn't be hard against him,” she says pointedly. “Not even a close match.”
She tosses the copy of Life aside. All things being said, it is a pretty good shot of her, smiling demurely as Nixon shakes her hand. It's too bad she didn't even have a few mushrooms on her, though, because that entire experience would have really been enhanced by some high quality hallucinogens. As it was, she could hardly believe that the same person who'd puked up pills in a bathroom was allowed anywhere near the White House.
“You should frame that,” Jolene says. “Put it right on your wall. I'm sure the boys will come running once they know what a good, loyal American girl you are.”
“No,” Beth says. “I'll leave that one to you and—Ted? Todd?”
“Fuck that.” Jolene scoots in next to her, puts her head on Beth's shoulder and Beth leans against her. “I'm too good for him.”
“Not going to argue about that one,” Beth says. “Especially not with a lawyer.”
“Damn straight,” Jolene says. She's warm against Beth, a reminder of everything Beth had waiting for her when she got back. It makes all the bullshit she's had to go through since she got back worth it.
Beth hums softly, thinks she might fall asleep on top of Jolene, which wouldn't exactly be fair to her. Jolene's had to carry her for so long, fucked-up life with all her messy drama and insane decisions while dealing with her own bullshit.
“So what's next then?” Jolene pokes her a little bit. “Another championship? I assume they're at least funding you now that you've won.”
“You'd think that,” Beth says. “But I guess I won't be going to the sunny sands of Tunisia anytime soon.”
“Tunisia?” Jolene looks at Beth, blinking.
“World Championship,” Beth says, shrugging. “Evidently even though my FIDE score is one of the goddamn best around, there are rules about this kind of thing.”
“That's bullshit,” Jolene snorts. “Well, fuck them. Who are they even going to get to play that's anywhere as good as you?”
There are a number of names on the tip of her tongue. Lauring will probably be there, Geller too, and Reshevsky. She can't be mad that Reshevsky's going to be the one representing the U.S., but she's not exactly thrilled either. Men in suits all playing each other soberly because Miss Beth Harmon is too unpredictable for those assholes to deal with.
“It doesn't matter,” Beth says. “There's always the next one.” 1972, which will give her enough time to get back into their good graces, bow and scrape and smile politely and pretend she gives a shit about anything other than the board in front of her and crushing her opponents.
“In the meantime,” Jolene says, “you could always make some money hustling some rich assholes. I know a few people who'd pay good money to have themselves stomped upon by a pretty white girl.”
“Ah, you think I'm pretty,” Beth says and she kisses Jolene's cheek. “I feel so flattered.”
Jolene kisses her back and it's nice and comforting and way more than Beth deserves, she thinks. Not that she won't take it. Beth's learned to take every advantage that you're given.
Predictably, Borgov beats Stepanian and Beth wishes she would have been able to put money down on the 1969 World Chess Championship, but it turns out it's easier to bet on ponies than it is to bet on pawns. No one wants to take that action, especially not from her.
It's closer than Beth might have guessed and there are a few people who were analyzing that Stepanian would have taken it, but Beth's not surprised that Borgov had the edge. Like her, he was more motivated, more driven to win and even if half those games ended in draws, it's a convincing enough victory.
“It should have been you,” Benny says, hanging out on the balcony next to her. “You should have been the one up there.”
“Nice of you to say,” Beth says, letting the night air bring up goosebumps. She should go in to get a jacket but that would mean conceding that it was a bad idea to come out here in a sleeveless dress and Beth does not concede anything. “We both know, though, that I haven't exactly earned it.”
Inside, she can hear Harry and the others laughing. He's probably getting crushed by Max or Mike right now, unless he's gotten over his terrible tendency to overlook his rooks.
“Well, there's always nationals later this year.”
Beth hums noncommittally, her eyes flicking up towards the stars.
“Don't tell me you're not doing those,” Benny says incredulously. “After what you pulled off in Moscow, I know they're begging to have you play.”
“Yeah, they are,” Beth says. “But maybe I'm not begging to play them.”
Benny's jaw drops. “Are you kidding me?
Beth turns to Benny. “It's just—don't you think it's sometimes all a dog and pony show?”
“Playing chess?”
“Of course not,” Beth says. “But we have to go through so much bullshit just to be able to do anything these days.”
Benny sighs, lets his head slump onto his arms. “I get it,” he mumbles. “You know you can just tell them no.”
Beth shakes her head. “It's not that easy,” she says. “Benny, don't take this the wrong way, but you're a dime a dozen.”
“I can't see how I would take that the wrong way,” Benny says wryly. “Thanks for that.”
“Not like that,” Beth says. “But if you lose, if you win, whatever you do, there's not a microscope on you. If Benny Watts loses a match, well, it's a tough break for him, but maybe he'll do better next time. Beth Harmon loses a match and maybe it's time to look at how women do in chess and why aren't there more female grandmasters and it's such a shame she's letting down all the little girls out there by not being a better representative.”
“Oh,” Benny says. “Yeah, okay, I see that.”
“Yeah,” Beth says. “So as nice as it's been to have the playing field mostly unopposed, it would be nice to have someone else take the heat a little.”
Benny patted her on the back. “Good luck,” he says. “I can't imagine where they'll find another Beth Harmon.”
“You're lucky, Townes,” Beth says, unlocking her door. “I've turned the dogs on all the other reporters who've come banging at my door.”
“You don't have any dogs,” Townes says, grinning at her. “Just that evil cat.”
Her truly malevolent cat, Alekhine, hisses at Townes and darts off to the corner of the apartment, hiding behind a potted fern. She's a vicious thing that hates everyone, pukes up anything she eats, and will rip things to shreds if she's the least bit displeased. Beth positively adores her.
“You know you're off to a great start,” she says. “Keep insulting my cat and I'll let her at your pants.” She glances pointedly towards where he keeps one of his most prized possessions.
Townes crosses his legs. “Fine,” he says. “I give. I'm at your mercy.”
Beth sits down across from him. “Just so long as we have that straight,” she says. “No points for guessing why you're here,” she says.
“The Nationals,” Townes says. “I just—why?”
“What did they tell you?” Beth asks. “Did they say that I was a crazy lady who asked for more money and threatened to walk if I didn't get that?”
“Not exactly,” Townes says, shifting uncomfortably. “At least not in those words.”
“That's funny,” Beth says. “That's exactly how I heard it from them.”
“Well, I knew it wasn't the truth,” Townes says. “Beth Harmon wouldn't walk because she felt she needed more cash or fame. I'm pretty sure you got that just from doing that Vogue cover.”
Beth glances at her wall. It is a pretty nice cover, she has to admit, with everything shot at the most flattering angles. It makes her look like someone glamorous, someone you can admire but never ever touch. It's perfect.
“It wasn't that,” she says softly. “Quite the opposite.”
Townes' pen is already out, his notepad dotted with ink. He'll be fair to her, she knows, but like everyone else, he'll never quite understand her. Chess to him is a game, not a religion. Someone like him knows the prayers, but he's not a disciple. If he can quit it, he will never understand what it's like to have it in your blood.
“Which means?” he prompts, when she's silent for a minute.
Her cabinets are filled with empty glasses, dusty from lack of use. There's a bottle of whiskey in the back of her closet. She never opens it, but she doesn't toss it either. It's a reminder that there's always an escape, even if she refuses to take it. “They wanted me to be their savior,” she says. “To smile and do the press junkets and get a new audience in and be grateful for the scraps they've given me.”
“17,000 is hardly scraps,” Townes points out.
“Oh, I don't care about the money,” Beth says. “But it's a nice scapegoat for them to use. That I'm a greedy bitch that's selling out their game because I just want to play the game and not have to worry about whether or not I'm setting a good example for everyone else.”
Townes is writing furiously. “You can quote me,” Beth adds. “Exact words and all.”
“I might,” Townes says. “Though I think I'll leave a few of the more choice words out.”
“As long as you throw in possible accusations of me being too close to the Soviets and maybe I might have communist sympathies. It doesn't play as well now as it might have a decade ago, but it'll definitely sell you more papers..”
“No,” Townes says, without looking up. “Because then I'd have to disclose my connections and then before you know it, we're all getting sent away for treason.”
“Mutually assured destruction.”
“Exactly.” Townes caps his pen. “Well, if it's any consolation, I think you'll have a little competition soon.”
“Who?” Beth asks.
Townes leans forward. “Did you follow this year's Junior Championships at all?
Anastasia Kvasova's picture stares up at her. She's a brown-haired, solemn girl of just 18, who stares at the camera with a determined look upon her face. If they're going for looks, Beth probably edges her out, but Kvasova's young. She has time to grow.
Her results, on the other hand, are already fairly convincing.
She dominated this year, winning an International Master title, crushing her competition. That her country even put her in a position to do so was a testament to how convincing her skill must have been. True, Gaprindashvili was doing quite well, but the Russians weren't exactly playing her up as Beth's counterpart, leaving Beth in a field of one.
And now... Kvasova must know who she is. Must have been made aware of the American girl that proceeded her, of the one that showed them up in Moscow. And the Russians responded by accepting the gambit and moving forwards their own piece.
A pawn to be made into a queen.
“Kvasova,” Beth murmurs, resting her chin upon her hands. She sees the board stretch out before her, pieces moving in new arrangements and wonders.
“Not since Borgov,” Townes said, “has a Soviet won a World Junior Championship.”
Whether she liked it or not, Beth thought, all roads kept drawing her back to Moscow.
To Borgov.
“Fuck,” she says and Alekhine digs her claws into Beth's leg, upset at being jostled from her preferred perch. “How the fuck do I get back into Worlds?”
III. 1970
“It was a good game,” Borgov says, capturing one of Beth's pawns. “Lauring put up much more of a fight than I was anticipating. You and he are to be commended.”
“I don't think you should be that gracious about losing,” Beth says, scowling. “I can't imagine your people are that happy with you or Stepanian.”
“We won overall,” Borgov says, shrugging. “It was to prove the superiority of the Soviet players and it did so.”
“Not by much,” Beth says, moving her rook up. “One point difference. Hardly a commanding statement.”
“It will be taken as such.” Borgov's eyes flick from the board to Beth's just for a second, then back. “The strength of the pawns do not matter if the game is won.”
Beth narrows her eyes, then looks around. Once again, Borgov is left to his own devices, the reporters and fellow players and even a few shady men in suits now disappeared from view. Not for the first time, she has the deepest suspicion that there are things going on below the surface that she's not been made aware of.
“I suppose so,” Beth says cautiously, carefully backing her knight away. “All that matters is the win.”
“Still, you must be pleased even if your team lost,” Borgov says easily. “You won the most definitively out of everyone on your side.”
“Yeah, it was great,” Beth says. “They're giving me a car for it.” It's a cute little Beetle that's way too tiny for anyone else to fit in and Jolene's already giving her shit for it.
“Ah, capitalism,” Borgov says. “Winning does not matter unless it is accompanied by some form of financial consideration.”
“It has its perks,” Beth agrees, then decides to swerve while she has him there in front of her. “So Anastasia Kvasova?”
Borgov's hand pauses for a moment in the process of putting down a piece. He sets it down carefully. “Yes,” he says. “She is doing quite well for herself.”
“They said not since you,” Beth says. “I must confess, I'm a bit surprised that they were so willing to promote her, given they already have Gaprindashvili.”
“Your increased presence in this world has changed matters,” Borgov's taken more command of the board and Beth has this increasing, terrible feeling that she's going to lose. Fuck. She should have taken his knight. “In the face of your success, they are more willing to take risks in areas they would not normally have.”
It's a pity they're stuck in here, followed and virtually trapped by their fellow governments into being good and sober representatives. Well, Beth is followed, given a chaperone that's a little less easy to dodge than Fletcher. She's seen Borgov out with his wife, seemingly with a little more breathing room, though perhaps that's an illusion.
Still, there's things she'd like to ask him, words she cannot directly say in a room she would not be surprised to find out is bugged. As much as everyone agreed to play nice in Belgrade, it just means that they're polite to each other.
“Poor Girev,” Beth says lightly. “He can't have taken that well.”
“Girev is not on the same level as her,” Borgov says. “He knows that.”
“Are you?” Beth asks.
“Yes,” Borgov says, and puts her into check.
“Am I?”
Borgov makes one last move. “You are,” he says. “But she has far more room to grow than either of us.”
Checkmate.
“Mallorca,” Jolene says over the crackle on the phone. “You better get a nice tan out of all of this. No sitting inside and keeping as white as your pieces.”
“You know they watch me like a hawk,” Beth says. “But I do intend to actually get out here. Providing I can dodge all of those damn reporters.”
“They're still on you,” Jolene's voice is sympathetic, even a little angry. “You weren't the one that forced Benko to step down. He offered.”
He was kind about it, even gracious, Beth thought. He had every right to go, to tell Beth to go to hell while he went to Spain and instead he went to Euwe and offered himself up on a silver platter.
She could see the side-eyes from some of the players in the room, men that probably believed she didn't deserve the break she'd been given.
Maybe she hadn't. But she'd earn it back, show them that it wasn't wasted upon her. If nothing else, she needed to know if she could make it to the end, run the gauntlet like she had in Moscow to face...
Well, she suspected Borgov. Hoped, if she wanted to admit it.
“It doesn't matter,” Beth says. “They'll have to eat their words when I'm crushing my opponents.”
Jolene's laugh crows over the phone and Beth laughs too. “I'll send you a postcard,” she says.
“You better get me more than that,” Jolene says.
“You know I will.” Beth's already packaged some truly hideous tourist trap souvenirs, along with a very carefully packaged blown glass vase that's just as gorgeous as Jolene. “I'll be back before you know it.”
They hang up and Beth takes a sip from the sadly non-alcoholic lemonade at her side.
It's a nice day out, unseasonably warm for November, and she has ass to kick before she can sun by the pool and show off her bikini. If nothing else, she's pretty sure that'll buy her some good publicity in the papers as a lovely example of the latest chess players. Either that, or piss them off royally for cheapening the game.
Win, win.
And she does win. Keeps winning.
Okay, she loses once because Lauring is a beast of a player and she can see why Borgov lost to him. He's a complicated player, one that feints and plays traps and the game goes on for over 50 moves, until his rook checkmates her and she has to smile and congratulate him on a a good game.
Still, she's at the top when it's all over, and it's good to see the same people side-eyeing her now looking at her with respect and recognition.
There's a flash of bulbs when she steps outside.
“How does it feel to have won the Interzonal championship?” one reporter asks. She can see Townes smirking behind him, mouthing 'dumbest question ever' but Beth Harmon is a gracious winner who does not want to get lectured, so she pastes on a smile.
“Amazing,” she says. “I am so grateful for all the opportunities I have been provided to get here.”
“Your road here was a bit controversial,” another reporter yells. “Do you feel that you deserve to have been given this chance at the expense of another person?”
Asshole, she thinks, and her eyes get sharp. “I think Benko does not regret this, considering how it all turned out. My record here speaks for itself and I will continue to prove why I'm considered to be one of the best players in the world.”
The best, she'd like to say, but shit like that gets a headline and what's charming and self-confident in a man is a lecture from some fucking asshole for her.
There's a few more questions, a lot of fake smiles, and then they're dispersing, leaving Townes behind to wander up to her. “Congratulations,” he says. “They're probably always going to ask you this, though.”
“I'm sure they will,” Beth says, taking his arm as they walk through the streets. Her heels clatter along the pavement, a nice clacking noise that reminds her of pieces being put away. “And they can go to hell. I've shown them that I earned it.”
“You did,” Townes agrees. “Next stop, Candidates.”
“Don't remind me,” Beth says. “They haven't told me who I'm facing it yet. Probably Luchenko or maybe Tarasov.”
“Who you'll crush,” Townes says. “You already did it in Moscow.”
“Sure,” Beth says easily, steering around a lamp post. “And then it's more semifinals and pictures and endless interviews for another year before I get to Worlds' and challenging Borgov.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” Beth snaps.
“Nothing,” Townes says innocently. “So are you going to proposition him before or after you beat him?”
Beth nearly trips and Townes steadies her. “I'm not planning on sleeping with him,” Beth says. “I just want to play him.”
Townes shakes his head. “And if I believed that, I wouldn't know you as well as I do,” he says. “Beth, he's considerably older than you, he's married, and he's a Soviet. Do you know how terrible it would be to have a relationship with him?”
“Of course I do,” Beth says.
“That's why,” Townes responds. “I may not be a current chess player, but even I can see when someone's made their opening move and they're just calculating the best way to get the opposing player to submit.”
He's not—he's right, she thinks, which deeply frustrates her. “You assume he wants to play,” Beth says. “He might just decide to forfeit and leave the game.”
“Oh Beth,” Townes says and his voice is warm in the chill December air. “You have to know how brilliant a player you are.”
“Tell me it's a terrible idea,” Beth says, sinking back into her couch. Her pajamas slide along it, silk on leather and as nice as Mallorca was (and it was very very nice), there's something to be said for having all your favorite things right at your fingertips.
“It is,” Jolene agrees. “One of the worst you've ever had and there's a long list of them.”
“So why aren't you telling me not to do it?” Beth kicks her legs up, admires the red polish on her toes that Jolene just applied. Red on white, blood on a piece of paper, a scarlet letter that the newspapers would have a field day with.
“Because I know better than that,” Jolene says. “Once you've set your mind on something, the only thing that's going to change it is figuring out you don't want it after all. And I can't see that happening here.”
“Fuck.” Beth rests her arm over her eyes. “Well, nothing's going to happen anytime soon,” she says. “There's still Candidates and World's and I'm not going to fuck that up for me.”
Jolene sits down in front of the couch, propping her head against it. Alekhine comes up and kneads at Jolene's legs until she picks her up, plops her down. For some reason, Alekhine adores Jolene, probably because she recognizes that Jolene is one of the few people that keeps Beth from fucking her life up too badly and wants to reward that.
That, and the food that Jolene sneaks her when she thinks Beth isn't looking, which is why Alekhine turned from a too skinny kitten into a plump, self-satisfied monster that calculates even more terrifyingly than Beth does.
“Just be careful,” Jolene says. “I know you're not going to just blindly wander into doing this, but I don't want you to get hurt.”
There's a ring on Jolene's finger, something diamond that glitters and sparkles and reminds Beth that neither one of them really is unattached to anything. Jolene's attachment is nice and sweet and utterly boring and devoted to Jolene for a variety of reasons, some of which Beth actually approves of.
Beth's is chess. It always has been, it always will be, and anyone who recognizes this is already one step ahead of everyone else when it comes to her.
“I won't,” Beth says. “Besides,” she adds, shrugging, “maybe I'll get lucky and I'll lose early enough that I can just get a jump start on the rest of this.”
“You better not,” Jolene snorts. “Do you know how much money I've put into you? You lose now, and I'll make you play in Central Park until you get it back.”
Beth grins, nestles into the couch, and plots her next move.
IV. 1971
Vancouver is a disappointment.
Not because she lost, because that was never going to happen, not when so much was at stake. Beth crushes Tarasov 6-0 and proceeds to get headlines left and right that pontificate about how “this feat is unparalleled in modern chess” and “is the future of chess female?”
Beth particularly enjoys the latter article, written by Townes, who clearly is out to just stir up shit and get a number of angry letters written to him. Beth cuts out every single one and pastes it into a scrapbook, just for fond memories later on.
No, it's a disappointment because it's all well and good to be playing in another country, but while Lauring is off in Morocco and Stepanian is in Spain, Beth is in Canada, realizing that she's bored out of her goddamn mind.
“Seriously,” Beth says. “I'm about to set something on fire.” It's a lovely day here, the sun shining brightly through the windows of the little coffee shop. There are a few people that shoot them covert looks, though it being Canada, they're all too polite to do anything more than that.
“Please don't,” Townes says. “My editor is still having conniptions about that letter you sent in.”
“What letter?” Beth says, sipping her coffee. “I don't recall anything under my name.” She bats her eyes at Townes, who rolls his own and looks grumpily at his cup.
“Ellen Haskins,” Townes says. “Wrote that maybe certain players should realize that while the king might be the most important piece in chess, it's the queen that has all the power, so they should stop hiding behind everyone and take a risk.”
“Terrible chess advice,” Beth says. “See, this is why women shouldn't play.”
Townes almost chokes on his own coffee and Beth reaches over to pat him on the back. “You know,” he says, wiping his mouth, “they're punishing Tarasov for losing to you.”
There's a twinge in Beth, perhaps of guilt or recognition of her part in this, but she can't regret winning. Everyone knows the stakes going in. “They shouldn't,” she says. “They know how good I am at chess.”
“They do,” Townes agrees, “and with Kvasova getting the grandmaster title, they can't say they don't have one of their own.”
“Interesting,” Beth says, setting down her cup. “I still haven't played her.”
She's not blind to the whispers, the speculation about that. While there's a part of her that's irritated that of course, it comes down to pitting two women against each other, she also knows that Borgov speaks about Kvasova with a certain wariness.
Borgov is packing away the pieces, the soothing sounds of pieces clacking against each other lulling Beth into a quiet stupor. She's been replaying the game in her head, so she's startled for a moment, when he breaks the silence and says, “I was surprised by you. I am not surprised by Kvasova.”
Beth's hand picks up one of the few pieces remaining on the board, the black queen. She turns it in her hand. “I suppose after me, you could hardly be surprised by anyone.”
“They didn't think you could beat me,” Borgov says. “You were too erratic, unpredictable, and you had... problems,” he adds delicately.
It's a very diplomatic way to put it, Beth thinks, and rather sweet of him. “I still do,” she says.
“Perhaps,” Borgov says. “But I knew better. You could not beat me if you did not try, but once you put your mind to it, I knew it was inevitable. So is Kvasova.”
“She's that good,” Beth says. She's only read about Kvasova in brief articles, bits of paper that she translates and pores over.
“She is,” Borgov says. “They've tried finding many girls like you to show that the Soviets are better than the Americans at developing talent. Kvasova is their finest success.”
Beth's hand places the black queen on the table, her hand brushing Borgov's as he goes to pick it up. The touch lingers, neither person letting it go. It could be thought of as a mistake and maybe in the morning, Beth will convince herself that she has blundered into the wrong move, has overestimated the strength of her position.
But tonight, in the room in Zagreb, with Borgov's face intently staring at her, his dark eyes glittering, she thinks that she has just stumbled across the best variation to any opening move.
“I think there's a few bets out on when you will,” Townes offers up. “In case you're wondering, I'm putting down for 1975 when the next Worlds hits.”
“I should get in on that action,” Beth says thoughtfully. “Maybe I'll put myself down for 1978 and just refuse to play in 1975. I can make up an excuse.”
“I never should have told you that,” Townes says. “You would do that, just out of spite.”
“Of course I would,” Beth says. “Haven't you read the papers? I'm a very demanding, capricious woman who will walk away if my demands aren't met.”
“I didn't write that,” Townes says. “Don't blame me for that one.”
“Don't worry,” Beth says. “I'm sure you say nothing but nice things about me. Just like all of my friends.”
“You'd be surprised,” Townes says. “You're surprisingly popular with a large section of the Soviet players.”
“Probably not Kvasova, though,” Beth says. “I guarantee she will never like me.”
Townes looks away, but she can see him struggling to bite his tongue, try not to bring up the speculation from less scrupulous papers that there can be only one grandmaster in the world, that now that the Russians have minimized Gaprindashvili, relegated her to world champion with the asterisk of woman, Harmon will be next on Kvasova's hit list.
Which is ridiculous, Beth thinks, because it's not about being the only one. It's about--
“I won't like her either,” Beth says softly. “You never like what you see in a mirror.”
“They could have at least sent me to Moscow,” Beth says.
Benny sounds distracted, a cacophony of noise in the background indicating that he's not alone. “You're honestly complaining about this? You just kicked the shit out of Lauring without breaking a sweat and you're upset that you're in Denver?”
“It's dull,” Beth says. “I might as well have taken up that offer and played chess in San Francisco if I wanted to be stuck in the U.S.”
“Jesus,” Benny says. “And here I am, playing regionals with guys named Steve while you're complaining about not getting another paid holiday while you crush the best players in the world.”
It's hot in the room and Beth's opened up the windows to let the stagnant air try to circulate. “I would have thought you might have appreciated me going back to Moscow. You could have called up again and given me advice.”
“Not that you need it anymore,” Benny says. “I think that's pretty clear.”
“Not advice then,” Beth says. “Maybe moral support?” She kicks off her heels, rests on the bed, cradling the phone to her ear. One of the good things about getting this far is that the quality of the rooms keeps improving, which is great because she's not about to wander around Denver in her spare time, letting reporters stalk her while she goes to stare at a few mountains or wade in a river.
God, it's so boring here. What she wouldn't have given to have made them relocate the semifinals to Denmark. She'd give up home field advantage, which has never been a problem for her, for being able to shop in Copenhagen or go to Tivoli Gardens and get a new kind of thrill.
“You'll always have our support,” Benny says. “You know that even if we're not on the phone.”
“Even if I make a really terrible decision?” She loosens her blouse, unbuttons it, and slinks out of it until she's lying there on cool cotton sheets, just soaking in the summer heat. Beth prefers the crisp clarity of the snow, but sometimes, it's nice to just be warm.
Benny laughs. “Even then, though if you're going to do what I think you're going to do, I would just like to make sure you don't tell me about it. I really don't want to know.”
“You've been talking to Townes?”
“Maybe?” Benny says cagily. “He might have mentioned a potential endgame. “
“Christ,” Beth says. “Does everyone know?”
There's a cough and the line goes dead.
That's probably a no, but Beth is really beginning to hate how predictable she is to people. She's supposed to be the one that makes irrational, seemingly random moves that pay off the line, not moves that everyone seems to have noted with a clock set up for when it's going to happen.
“Goddamnit,” Beth says, and looks for a box of matches.
The article falls out of the envelope and Beth picks it up.
“Harmon Beats Stepanian in Buenos Aires, Set For Worlds'” screams the headline and it's just as unreal in her hands as it is in print, ink smudging her fingers. Even after she had played the final game, standing up and accepting Stepanian's surprisingly genuine congratulations, she still couldn't believe that she had stormed her way to where she was.
Sometimes, it feels like a fever dream, something she had in the middle of a high, and that she'll wake up on cold bathroom tile and realize that the last few years haven't happened. It would make more sense than Beth Harmon being one step away from World Champion and being allowed to have it.
That's why the paper is so important. It tells her that it's real.
There's no return address, but the stamps tell it all and she's honestly amazed that Borgov was even able to get this out of his country. Maybe if he was still in Vancouver, she would have been less surprised (and how strange is that, to have been in the same city, perhaps even the same hotel, only months apart, both knowing of their inevitable reunion across a board).
There's another scrapbook for these articles and it joins the rest, crumpled pieces of paper smoothed over that all bear her name and her triumphs. She'd return the favor except that Beth has never been good at holding onto things she wants to keep.
Besides, Borgov has apparently kept a low profile, only popping up to win that tournament in Canada and come in third, behind Stein and...
Kvasova.
Beth has a book for her, too, though it is more of an envelope, a slim thing that she has no doubt will outgrow its modest confines. Kvasova is too driven to stay a footnote in history and even if her government might have qualms about letting her be one of the faces of it, if she keeps winning, they won't have a choice.
They didn't with Beth and she knows that's the part that pisses them off the most.
There are few pictures of her in it, unsmiling ones, including one next to Borgov, who seems positively jovial next to her. If Beth were to fan them out, she could see the changes as Kvasova's hair gets shorter, her face sharpens and loses its baby softness, and the look in her eyes changes to something more pointed, a challenging glare at the camera.
Beth could admire that, even if she is unsettled by that same glance in the mirror.
Her gaze returns back to the picture of Borgov. When the clippings first started coming, she had known exactly who would have sent them and why. The State Department might have viewed it as a threat, or a challenge, but Beth knew it was more than that. It was a promise, something that said, we will meet again. We will settle this.
We will play to the very end. No forfeits here. No walking away.
V. 1972
She's tempted to walk away as soon as gets there.
Oh, she knows what she promised, but that was when it was Borgov vs Harmon, a rematch for the two of them, a chance to play two dozen games against someone who knew what it was like to breathe chess.
Rekjavik is not this.
It is the “Match of the Century.” It is “East Against West.” It is the “White Queen vs Black King.” It is symbolism draped in politics with an audience who doesn't understand it in the slightest except that they want one country to win so the other one loses.
It is all bullshit and Beth is tempted to blow it all up.
She makes ridiculous demands. She asks for specific chess sets, skips the opening ceremony, asks for more money than she thinks they will give her. She wants to see how far they will go, how long they will take this façade before they decide to just cut their losses and try to get rid of her.
They do not. They agree to all her demands, get the money doubled, even have Kissinger call her and tell her in a croaky old voice that she needs to do this for the good of the country. The last almost makes her laugh directly into the phone receiver, because appealing to her patriotism is possibly the dumbest thing they could have done.
But they are desperate, they are weak, and they want her so badly that it is Beth who concedes, who shows up in a wide-brimmed white hat and impossibly high heels, dimpling at everyone and being promptly inundated with dozens of marriage proposals from truly horrific men.
“It's appalling,” Beth says the first night. “To think that any of them think they stand a chance with me.”
There's crying in the background and Jolene's voice murmuring quietly. “Sorry,” she says. “Regina's getting fussy because she's teething.”
She's a good mother, Beth thinks, but she could have guessed that. She took care of Beth well enough and she knows the mistakes everyone else makes. She's got a few more months before she goes back to work. “It's all right,” Beth says. “You don't have to apologize for having a life.”
“Damn straight,” Jolene says. “Especially when you should apologize for losing that way. The first game, Beth.”
Beth winces, but it's true. She could have played to a draw in the 39th or possibly 40th move, but that's the wall that still remains in her mind. To her, a draw is a weakness, a move used for politics, not play. That's what she told Sports Illustrated, at any rate, and wasn't that a lovely bit of controversy to tide her over throughout the year.
“Don't worry,” Beth assures her. “I promise it won't happen the next game.”
“Good.”
“Because I'm just going to not go.”
She can hear the squawk over the other end of the line and Beth stifles a smile. “Are you crazy? No, don't tell me. I know that you are. What are you thinking?”
I'm thinking that it's not worth all this insanity. I'm thinking that I should have just kept playing Borgov in his room instead in front of a bunch of cameras, all pretending that they give a shit about the game. I'm thinking that if I get one more damn call from Kissinger, I'm going to take the next plane out of Iceland and never look back.
All these thoughts run through Beth's head, but all she says is, “If I win, the United States wins. If I lose, it's because they never should have left someone like me represent them when they have so many other better people.”
Jolene's voice comes low over the phone. “Listen here,” she says quietly. “Take the next game off if you have to. Get your head together, freak them out a little. But you go back. You finish this, you win it, because if you think I don't understand what it's like to be the example that has to be perfect for everyone else like you that's trying to break through, you really are goddamn insane.”
Beth swallows. She listens to the soft sound of breathing on the other line, of a baby's coo. She can feel the fire of Jolene radiating over the lines, a burning flame that scorches her even in the cold Icelandic weather.
“You're right,” she says. “I'll finish it.”
“That's my girl,” Jolene says. “And then fuck the Russian while you're at it.”
It's Beth's turn to sputter and she drops the phone.
“You shouldn't have been able to win that one,” Borgov says. He's quiet, resigned.
Beth's surprised that she's been able to get into his room, but maybe his government has given up as well, decided that anything she does is inevitable. Perhaps they hope that he can convince her to go over to their side, give them two queens instead of one.
It won't happen.
But this will.
Her hand brushes against his back and he turns, rueful. The shock has faded from him now, leaving his eyes tired.
“Tell me no,” Beth says. “Tell me that I'm making a mistake and I'll walk away from this too.”
He doesn't. “Lyudmilla knows,” Borgov says instead, his mouth twisting into a smile that doesn't match the look in his eyes. “We knew from the beginning that we would never come first for each other.”
Beth thinks she can understand that. No matter how much she loves everyone around her, loves Jolene's fierce loyalty and Townes' perceptive acceptance, the boys' eager devotion, they will never be the thing she values the most.
Her true love will always break her heart, will crush it into millions of pieces, and still she will keeping crawling back to it, even at her lowest, over shards and splinters and set the board up once again, let her blood spill over it until it is dyed in Beth's name.
It is the same for Borgov, she knows, and Lyudmilla no doubt understands that. “She has her own... interests,” Beth says.
“She does,” Borgov confirms. “I do not ask her about hers any more than she asks me about mine. But we know.”
He carefully leans down, places his mouth over Beth's. It is a gentle kiss, no fierce passion behind it at first, but it feels like a stratagem finally clicking into place, something that opens up behind it and soon, it is deeper and Beth's hands are clutching his arm.
They break away eventually, Borgov looking over. The room could be bugged. This could all be some elaborate set-up to expose either one of them to future blackmail.
Beth finds that she really doesn't care. Let them try to take her down. She'll outplay, outmaneuver every last one of them and come out on top.
Her arms reach up around Borgov, draw him down, and she is luring him out even as he accepts the bait, lets his king come out of hiding and be devoured by the queen.
There is an easiness to sleeping with him. They have studied each other enough on the boards that it seems natural to know how he's going to move, where she needs to move her fingers to make him respond. It's not a speed match either, both drawing this out as long as possible, neither willing to concede that there needs to be an end.
But there is and she sleeps until she's roused early in the morning by light and the knowledge that she cannot stay.
“I'll see you soon,” Beth says.
She doesn't see him at the end.
“We're sorry,” Euwe says. “He resigned by telephone and left.”
So he was the one that ran away, Beth thinks. Well, she can't be upset about that. She got everything she wanted after all. The wins, the title, even her secondary strategem. Everything worked out for her in the end.
“That's fine,” Beth replies, smiling brightly. “It doesn't change the outcome.”
“No, it doesn't.”
But other things change.
“They're going to hold a day for you,” Benny says on the phone, cheers in the background. “Beth Harmon Day they're calling it in New York.”
“Great,” Beth says. “Remind me to not be there for that.”
“Beth,” Benny says.
She'll be there.
She won't accept the offers, though, won't sell herself out for a few dollars. They all want a piece of her now, want her to break bits off and auction them to the highest bidder, because she's America and America won.
“I saw you on Bob Hope,” Jolene says. “And Johnny Carson. Pretty soon I'll have to schedule an appointment just to talk to you.”
“You'll never have to do that,” Beth says. “I promise you that my datebook will always be open.”
“Maybe mine won't,” Jolene says, but she can tell Jolene is smiling as she says it. “You know I've got a pretty demanding client that wants all my attention when I'm home.”
There's a picture of Regina in a little fuzzy sweater on Beth's fridge and it's one of the most goddamn adorable things Beth has ever seen.
She stays inside more often, since every time she goes out, there's the inevitable recognition and throngs of people mobbing her. It's not like Moscow, where it was carefully managed, every encounter kept at an appropriate distance until the end. But even that was cushioned in snow and a game, a respect that kept all focused on what mattered.
Here, they don't even know what she did, just that she did it for the U.S.
“You've turned down a number of games,” Townes says. He's petting Alekhine, who's finally warmed up to him, leaving a fair number of cat hairs all over his pristine black coat. “They can't all be terrible offers.”
They're not, she thinks, but my chess is terrible.
She won the last game, yes, but the six before that were draws. Beth took the coward's way out, let Borgov drown an inch at a time instead of letting them have a proper battle. She became what she railed against – a hypocrite who denounced the very method she employed.
The whiskey looks more tempting each day.
Beth throws open her windows one spring day, lets the breeze clear out the stale air in the apartment and checks her mail. The invitations have become less, though they still remain, and there will always be bills which she will eventually pay when she feels like it.
There's an envelope there, too, a padded water-stained thing with stamps and a scribbled address. It's hard to know when it was mailed to her.
She slits it open.
A black king falls to the floor.
So does a white queen.
Something in Beth opens up and she begins to laugh until she's doubled over from the sheer hilarity of it all.
Alekhine hides under the table while Beth goes over to the phone.
Kissinger does owe her after all, and she's already calculating the best way he can pay her back.
VI. 1975
“You didn't have to wear black,” Beth says, smiling while she nods her head towards the photographer. “Just because they want you to do it doesn't mean you have to listen to them.”
“I like wearing black,” Kvasova says, her own smile far tighter. “I see no reason to not do this if I am also in agreement with my country.”
It's deeply amusing, but Beth fights the urge to laugh because she's fairly sure Kvasova would murder her if she did it. Plus, she's the current World Champion. She has to set an example for the younger generation.
“I thought about pulling out,” Beth says. “Just think. You could have been the World Champion without ever having to play me.”
Kvasova's eyes narrow. “You would have forfeited your title just for petty reasons?”
Beth shrugs. “I might have,” she says. “But I'm sure you would have an excellent replacement for me.”
That alone might have been enough to convince her to do it. Let the mystique envelop her name, let people speculate what a match between Kvasova and herself would have been like, while Kvasova would have no doubt defended the integrity of her title with the same rigor she used to destroy her opponents in getting to it.
Kvasova's hands are tightly clenched around the silverware and Beth can only be grateful it's not a glass.
“Of course,” Beth says, “I was talked out of it by wiser, more experienced heads.”
“Traitor,” Kvasova snaps and oh, that's fun too.
She's so pleased that she listened to Borgov, let him convince her in Paris to just concede and play it through.
It really is going to be such a memorable World Championship, and she'll make Kvasova work for it right to the end.
It's the least she can do for her.