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- Уолтер Тевис
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On
Saturday
morning
she
spilled
wine
on
her
kitchen
chessboard
,
and
on
Monday
she
bumped
into
the
table
by
accident
and
sent
some
of
the
pieces
falling
to
the
floor
.
She
left
them
there
,
picking
them
up
only
on
Thursday
,
when
finally
the
young
man
came
by
to
mow
the
lawn
.
She
lay
on
the
sofa
drinking
from
the
last
bottle
in
her
case
and
listened
to
the
roaring
of
his
power
mower
,
smelling
the
grass
cuttings
.
When
she
had
paid
him
,
she
went
outside
into
the
grass
smell
and
looked
at
the
lawn
with
its
clumps
of
cuttings
.
It
touched
her
to
see
it
so
altered
,
so
changed
from
what
it
had
been
.
She
went
back
in
,
got
her
purse
and
called
a
cab
.
The
law
did
not
permit
deliveries
of
wine
or
liquor
.
She
would
have
to
get
another
case
on
her
own
.
Two
would
be
smarter
.
And
she
would
try
Almadén
.
Someone
had
said
Almadén
burgundy
was
better
than
Paul
Masson
.
She
would
try
it
.
Maybe
a
few
bottles
of
white
wine
,
too
.
And
she
needed
food
.
Lunches
came
from
a
can
.
The
chili
was
pretty
good
if
you
added
pepper
and
ate
it
with
a
glass
of
burgundy
.
Almadén
was
better
than
Paul
Masson
,
less
astringent
on
the
tongue
.
The
Gibsons
,
though
,
could
hit
her
like
a
club
,
and
she
became
wary
of
them
,
saving
them
until
just
before
passing
out
or
,
sometimes
,
for
the
first
drink
in
the
morning
.
By
the
third
week
she
was
taking
a
Gibson
up
to
bed
with
her
on
the
nights
she
made
it
upstairs
to
bed
.
She
put
it
on
the
nightstand
with
a
Chess
Informant
over
it
to
keep
the
alcohol
from
evaporating
,
and
drank
it
when
she
woke
up
in
the
middle
of
the
night
.
Or
if
not
then
,
in
the
morning
,
before
going
downstairs
.
Sometimes
the
phone
rang
,
but
she
answered
it
only
when
her
head
and
voice
were
clear
.
She
always
spoke
aloud
to
check
her
level
of
sobriety
before
picking
up
the
receiver
.
She
would
say
,
“
Peter
Piper
picked
a
peck
of
pickled
peppers
,
”
and
if
it
came
out
all
right
,
she
would
take
up
the
phone
.
A
woman
called
from
New
York
,
wanting
her
on
the
Tonight
Show
.
She
refused
.
It
wasn
’
t
until
her
third
week
of
drinking
that
she
went
through
the
pile
of
magazines
that
had
come
while
she
was
in
New
York
and
found
the
Newsweek
with
her
picture
in
it
.
They
had
given
her
a
full
page
under
“
Sport
.
”
The
picture
showed
her
playing
Benny
,
and
she
remembered
the
moment
it
was
taken
,
during
the
game
’
s
opening
.
The
position
of
the
pieces
on
the
display
board
was
visible
in
the
photograph
,
and
she
saw
that
her
memory
was
right
,
she
had
just
made
her
fourth
move
.
Benny
looked
thoughtful
and
distant
,
as
usual
.
The
piece
said
she
was
the
most
talented
woman
since
Vera
Menchik
.
Beth
,
reading
it
half
-
drunk
,
was
annoyed
at
the
space
given
to
Menchik
,
going
on
about
her
death
in
a
1944
bombing
in
London
before
pointing
out
that
Beth
was
the
better
player
.
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
.
It
was
noontime
,
and
she
put
a
pan
of
canned
spaghetti
on
to
heat
before
reading
the
rest
of
the
article
.
The
last
paragraph
was
the
strongest
.
At
eighteen
,
Beth
Harmon
has
established
herself
as
the
queen
of
American
chess
.
She
may
be
the
most
gifted
player
since
Morphy
or
Capablanca
;
no
one
knows
just
how
gifted
she
is
—
how
great
a
potential
she
holds
in
that
young
girl
’
s
body
with
its
dazzling
brain
.
To
find
out
,
to
show
the
world
if
America
has
outgrown
its
inferior
status
in
world
chess
,
she
will
have
to
go
where
the
big
boys
are
.
She
will
have
to
go
to
the
Soviet
Union
.
Beth
closed
the
magazine
and
poured
a
glass
of
Almadén
Mountain
Chablis
to
drink
with
her
spaghetti
.
It
was
three
in
the
afternoon
and
hot
as
fury
.
And
the
wine
was
getting
low
;
only
two
more
bottles
stood
on
the
shelf
above
the
toaster
.
*
*
*
