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He
looked
back
across
the
table
at
her
coolly
and
took
a
sip
from
his
coffee
cup
.
“
I
’
m
a
master
,
”
he
said
,
“
and
I
’
ve
never
played
better
in
my
life
.
But
I
’
m
not
what
you
’
re
going
to
be
up
against
if
you
go
to
Paris
.
”
“
I
can
beat
Borgov
with
a
little
more
work
.
”
“
You
can
beat
Borgov
with
a
lot
more
work
.
Years
more
work
.
What
in
hell
do
you
think
he
is
?
Another
Kentucky
ex
-
champion
like
me
?
”
“
He
’
s
World
Champion
.
But
—
”
“
Oh
,
shut
up
!
”
Beltik
said
.
“
Borgov
could
have
beaten
both
of
us
when
he
was
ten
.
Do
you
know
his
career
?
”
Beth
looked
at
him
.
“
No
,
I
don
’
t
.
”
Beltik
got
up
from
the
table
and
walked
purposively
into
the
living
room
.
He
pulled
a
green
-
jacketed
book
from
the
stack
next
to
Beth
’
s
chessboard
and
brought
it
to
the
kitchen
,
tossing
it
on
the
table
in
front
of
her
.
Vasily
Borgov
:
My
Life
in
Chess
.
“
Read
it
tonight
,
”
he
said
.
“
Read
the
games
from
Leningrad
1962
and
look
at
the
way
he
plays
rook
-
pawn
endings
.
Look
at
the
games
with
Luchenko
and
with
Spassky
.
”
He
picked
up
his
near
-
empty
coffee
cup
.
“
You
might
learn
something
.
”
*
*
*
It
was
the
first
week
in
June
and
japoncia
blazed
in
bright
coral
outside
the
kitchen
window
.
Mrs
.
Wheatley
’
s
azaleas
had
begun
to
bloom
and
the
grass
needed
mowing
.
There
were
birds
.
It
was
a
beautiful
week
of
the
best
kind
of
Kentucky
spring
.
Sometimes
late
at
night
after
Beltik
had
left
,
Beth
would
go
out
to
the
backyard
to
feel
the
warmth
on
her
cheeks
and
to
take
a
few
deep
breaths
of
warm
clean
air
,
but
the
rest
of
the
time
she
ignored
the
world
outside
.
She
had
become
caught
up
in
chess
in
a
new
way
.
Her
bottles
of
Mexican
tranquilizers
remained
unused
in
the
nightstand
;
the
cans
of
beer
in
the
refrigerator
stayed
in
the
refrigerator
.
After
standing
in
the
backyard
for
five
minutes
,
she
would
go
back
into
the
house
and
read
Beltik
’
s
chess
books
for
hours
and
then
go
upstairs
and
fall
into
bed
exhausted
.
