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Mr
.
Booth
was
leaning
back
in
his
rumpled
suit
with
his
eyes
half
closed
.
Beth
sat
stiffly
in
the
back
of
the
long
car
,
looking
out
the
window
on
her
side
.
There
was
nothing
threatening
about
the
way
Moscow
looked
;
she
could
have
been
entering
any
large
city
.
But
she
could
not
loosen
up
inside
.
The
tournament
would
start
the
next
morning
.
She
felt
totally
alone
,
and
frightened
.
*
*
*
Her
teacher
at
the
University
had
talked
about
how
Russians
drank
tea
from
glasses
,
straining
it
through
a
lump
of
sugar
held
between
the
teeth
,
but
the
tea
served
in
this
big
dark
parlor
of
a
room
was
in
thin
china
cups
with
a
Greek
key
design
in
gold
.
She
sat
in
her
highbacked
Victorian
chair
with
her
knees
pressed
together
,
holding
the
saucer
with
the
cup
and
a
hard
little
roll
on
it
and
tried
to
listen
attentively
to
the
director
.
He
spoke
a
few
sentences
first
in
English
and
then
in
French
.
Then
English
again
:
the
visitors
were
welcome
in
the
Soviet
Union
;
games
would
begin
promptly
at
ten
o
’
clock
each
morning
;
a
referee
would
be
assigned
to
each
board
and
should
be
consulted
in
the
event
of
any
irregularity
.
There
would
be
no
smoking
or
eating
during
play
.
An
attendant
would
accompany
players
to
the
rest
rooms
should
the
need
arise
.
It
would
be
proper
to
raise
one
’
s
right
hand
in
such
an
event
.
The
chairs
were
in
a
circle
,
and
the
director
was
on
Beth
’
s
right
.
Across
from
her
sat
Dimitri
Luchenko
,
Viktor
Laev
and
Leonid
Shapkin
,
all
dressed
in
well
-
tailored
suits
and
wearing
white
shirts
and
dark
ties
.
Mr
.
Booth
had
said
Russian
men
dressed
as
though
their
clothes
came
from
a
nineteen
-
thirties
Montgomery
Ward
catalogue
,
but
these
men
were
soberly
dapper
in
expensive
gray
gabardine
and
worsted
.
Those
three
alone
—
Luchenko
,
Laev
and
Shapkin
—
were
a
small
pantheon
next
to
which
the
entire
establishment
of
American
chess
would
stammer
in
humiliation
.
And
on
her
left
was
Vasily
Borgov
.
She
could
not
bring
herself
to
look
at
him
,
but
she
could
smell
his
cologne
.
Between
him
and
the
other
three
Russians
was
an
only
slightly
lesser
pantheon
—
Jorge
Flento
from
Brazil
,
Bernt
Hellström
from
Finland
and
Jean
-
Paul
Duhamel
from
Belgium
,
also
wearing
conservative
suits
.
She
sipped
her
tea
and
tried
to
appear
calm
.
There
were
heavy
maroon
draperies
at
the
tall
windows
,
and
the
chairs
were
upholstered
in
maroon
velvet
trimmed
with
gold
.
It
was
nine
-
thirty
in
the
morning
and
the
summer
day
outside
was
splendid
,
but
the
draperies
here
were
tightly
closed
.
The
Oriental
carpet
on
the
floor
looked
as
if
it
had
come
from
a
museum
.
The
walls
were
paneled
in
rosewood
.
An
escort
of
two
women
had
brought
her
here
from
the
hotel
;
she
had
shaken
hands
with
the
other
players
,
and
they
had
been
seated
like
this
for
a
half
hour
.
In
her
huge
,
strange
hotel
room
the
night
before
a
water
tap
was
dripping
somewhere
,
and
she
had
barely
slept
.
She
had
been
dressed
in
her
expensive
navy
-
blue
tailored
dress
since
seven
-
thirty
,
and
she
could
feel
herself
perspiring
;
her
nylons
encased
her
legs
in
a
warm
grip
.
She
could
hardly
have
felt
more
out
of
place
.
Every
time
she
glanced
at
the
men
around
her
,
they
smiled
faintly
.
She
felt
like
a
child
at
an
adult
social
function
.
Her
head
ached
.
She
would
have
to
ask
the
director
for
aspirin
.
And
then
quite
suddenly
the
director
finished
his
speech
,
and
the
men
stood
up
.
Beth
jumped
to
her
feet
,
rattling
her
cup
on
its
saucer
.
The
waiter
in
a
white
cossack
blouse
who
had
served
the
tea
came
running
up
to
take
it
from
her
.
Borgov
,
who
had
ignored
her
except
for
a
perfunctory
handshake
at
the
beginning
,
ignored
her
now
as
he
crossed
in
front
of
her
and
walked
out
the
door
the
director
had
opened
.
The
others
followed
,
with
Beth
behind
Shapkin
and
in
front
of
Hellström
.
As
they
filed
out
the
door
into
a
carpeted
hallway
,
Luchenko
stopped
for
a
moment
and
turned
to
her
.
“
I
’
m
delighted
you
are
here
,
”
he
said
.
“
I
look
forward
keenly
to
playing
you
.
”
He
had
long
white
hair
like
an
orchestra
conductor
’
s
and
wore
an
impeccable
silvery
necktie
,
beautifully
knotted
under
a
starched
white
collar
.
The
warmth
in
his
face
was
unquestionable
.
“
Thank
you
,
”
she
said
.
She
had
read
of
Luchenko
in
Junior
High
;
Chess
Review
wrote
of
him
with
the
kind
of
awe
that
Beth
felt
now
.
He
had
been
World
Champion
then
,
losing
to
Borgov
in
a
long
match
several
years
ago
.
They
walked
down
the
hall
a
good
distance
before
the
director
stopped
at
another
door
and
opened
it
.
Borgov
went
in
first
,
and
the
others
followed
.
