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“
Not
even
Borgov
.
”
Sometimes
chess
would
keep
her
awake
at
night
for
hours
.
It
was
like
Methuen
,
except
that
she
was
more
relaxed
and
not
afraid
of
sleeplessness
.
She
would
lie
on
her
mattress
on
the
living
-
room
floor
after
midnight
with
New
York
street
noises
coming
in
through
the
open
bay
window
and
study
positions
in
her
mind
.
They
were
as
clear
as
they
had
ever
been
.
She
did
not
take
tranquilizers
,
and
that
helped
the
clarity
.
It
was
not
whole
games
now
but
particular
situations
—
positions
called
“
theoretically
important
”
and
“
warranting
close
study
.
”
She
lay
there
hearing
the
shouts
of
drunks
in
the
street
outside
and
mastered
the
intricacies
of
chess
positions
that
were
classic
in
their
difficulty
.
Once
during
a
lovers
’
quarrel
where
the
woman
kept
shouting
,
“
I
’
m
at
my
fucking
wit
’
s
end
.
At
my
wit
’
s
fucking
end
!
”
and
the
man
kept
saying
,
“
Like
your
fucking
sister
,
”
Beth
lay
on
her
cot
and
came
to
see
a
way
of
queening
a
pawn
that
she
had
never
seen
before
.
It
was
beautiful
.
It
would
work
.
She
could
use
it
.
“
Up
your
ass
,
”
the
woman
shouted
,
and
Beth
lay
back
exulting
and
then
fell
pleasantly
asleep
.
*
*
*
They
spent
their
third
week
repeating
the
Borgov
games
and
finished
the
last
of
them
after
midnight
on
Thursday
.
When
Beth
had
done
her
analysis
of
the
resignation
,
pointing
out
how
Borgov
could
avoid
a
draw
,
she
looked
up
to
see
Benny
yawning
.
It
was
a
hot
night
and
the
windows
were
open
.
“
Shapkin
went
wrong
in
midgame
,
”
Beth
said
.
“
He
should
have
protected
his
queenside
.
”
Benny
looked
at
her
sleepily
.
“
Even
I
get
tired
of
chess
sometimes
.
”
She
stood
up
from
the
board
.
“
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
.
”
