The Black King, chapter 1
Feb. 21st, 2021 05:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scripsiLast fanfic of the day and the back-log is gone.
Title: The Black King
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 1/?
Word Count: 2916
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: None so far. As this is a work in progress it may change.
Summary: In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. In December 1991 the Soviet Union was dissolved. And in March 1992 Beth Harmon went to Russia to look for her past.
This fic can be read as a standalone, but it is written as a sequel to Taking the White Queen.
The fic on AO3
Oh mon amour/Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour/De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour/Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aime. Jacques Brel
Beth Harmon was uncharacteristically nervous. She had been standing in her hotel room staring at the telephone for a good fifteen minutes now, willing herself to lift the receiver. Ridiculous really, that a piece of putty-colored plastic could hold such fascination. When she finally could bring herself to use it, the rotary dial felt heavy under her fingers, and they slipped; she had to re-dial twice.
One signal, then two, three, and someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line.
“Vasily Borgov speaking.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her voice sounded like a stranger. “It’s Beth.”
Silence. She had time to think he wouldn’t say anything, that he would just quietly put the receiver down, and don’t pick it up again, no matter how many times she rang.
“Beth.” His voice had warmed a little.
“I’m here, in St. Petersburg. I want to see you.”
There was another silence. What was he thinking? She had thought about this for months, but for Borgov this phone call must have come as a complete surprise.
“Do you know where I live?”
“No.”
He gave her an address and a few directions. “Can you come later today?”
“I can come at once.”
“Still impatient, I hear.”
“No, Vasily, I’m not. I have been waiting for twenty years.”
She could hear him breathe out slowly. “You are right. Very well, come now.”
Beth put down the receiver, and then, her legs gave way under there and she sat down heavily on the bed. So close now, closer now than she had ever dared to hope.
Beth had spent Christmas with Jolene and her family, as she had done so many times over the years. She could never be bothered to do much celebration on her own, but Jolene did her best to compensate for the bleak Christmases they had spent together at Methuen. Jolene made Christmastime a veritable orgy in decorations, food, and family. Beth loved it, even if it exhausted her. She played chess with Jolene’s four children, who ran a betting pool on who she could beat the quickest and allowed Jolene to dictate what she should do and eat. But when the news came the Soviet Union had dissolved, she slipped away to her room. Unnoticed, she thought, but after a few minutes Jolene came in and sat down beside her on the bed.
“Are you OK, hon?”
“I’m going to Soviet, well Russia now, guess, as soon as possible.”
“To look for him?”
“Yes.”
Jolene put her arm around her. “Do you think it would be such a good idea? It’s been a long time. You don’t even know if he wants to see you.”
“He must!” Beth could hear her voice rising and took a deep breath to calm herself. “He must. He owes me an explanation if nothing else.”
“I still think it would be better to keep it in the past. And he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken then. Have you considered he might be bald or toothless now? Or,” Jolene patted her own flat tummy, her tone indicating this would be the very worst. “Paunchy.”
Beth couldn’t help laughing. “I guess it will be easier to put it behind me then.”
And now, a few months later, she was on her way to see Vasily Borgov again. Beth carefully checked herself in the mirror. She looked good; she knew what. There was nothing wrong with her figure; she was curvier than when she was twenty, but her waist was still narrow. She had chosen a dark green shirtwaist dress in soft silk, clinging and flowing at all the right places, her waist accentuated by a black leather belt. Her hair, which reached past the shoulder blades, was cut to frame her heart-shaped face with tapering lengths around it and a shaggy bang. It was still the same rich red as always, even if the color nowadays was slightly enhanced by regular visits to a very expensive hairdresser. Her face was good too, even if forty had come and gone. The lines were a little softer, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but artful makeup made sure you had to look very carefully to see them. And really, twelve years of sobriety and a sensitive redhead’s lifelong habit to avoid the sun was simply the best to get good skin. No, she was quite pleased with how she looked. Beth had changed, but she was sure Borgov already knew; she had been photographed in enough chess magazines over the years; she had been on the front of one just a few months ago. It was fundamentally unfair, she felt, that she did not know what Vasily looked like now.
Thirteen short nights spread over two years and nearly seven months, that was as long as their relationship had lasted. They could only meet during chess tournaments, and only a night or two, after it had ended. Never during; they never needed to discuss that chess came first, that was a given. But when it was all over, late at night, Borgov would quietly knock on her door. So little time together to make love, talk and play chess, and; Beth had still been falling in love when it ended.
In Vienna, in 1971 the knock didn’t come. Beth was disappointed, but not worried. It was not strange if he couldn’t get away unseen every time. Then came the next tournament, and again he didn’t come. She haunted the hotel lobby the next day, carefully staging a chance meeting, but Borgov’s eyes had been as cool as his handshake when he thanked her for an interesting tournament. There was nothing in his demeanor, and Beth analyzed every movement, every word, on the plane home, which divulged they had ever been more to each other than rivals.
Why had he ended things like this? Beth’s imagination ran rampant. Had he grown tired of her? Had she been too young, too immature, too impatient? Or had she only ever been a conquest, nothing more than a pretty body, and when he had taken what he wanted he had just thrown her away like a piece of garbage? Perhaps she had wounded his pride one time too many? The more times they had played against each other, the more often she won. He had always seemed proud of her, but in the end, it may have got to him. Perhaps she had become too much for his dignity; too much of a threat to be anything else than a rival. Or was there something altogether scarier behind his rejection? Had he been found out and forbidden to see her again? Fueled by every agent movie she had ever seen, Beth conjured up images of grim-faced KGB-men, dark cells, and violence. Had he been threatened? Hurt? They were just chess players, surely on the big political scale, they weren’t that important. If he has been told to stay away from her, could he really protest it?
Her thoughts went round and round, some days thinking one thing, the next entertaining an alternative theory. It hurt to think he had fallen out of love with her, may never have loved her at all, but it hurt more to think he may have gotten into trouble because of her. She was desperately unhappy, and in the end, she told Jolene everything. Her friend, forever practical, though she had just been dumped.
“And not in a nice way either.”
“You don’t know him,” Beth protested.
“True. But do you? Really?”
Beth felt she did. With Vasily, she had felt loved, cared for; important. She just couldn’t believe it had been meaningless to him when it had meant so much to her. But she couldn’t be certain, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It even affected her chess playing. She had not won the World Championship in 1970, which was annoying, but not a complete surprise. But that she didn’t win it in 1972 was unexpected, and she took it hard.
A year later, in Moscow, Beth got a partial explanation. She had been drinking tea in the hotel lounge, watching Borgov’s unresponsive back leaving the room as Luchenko sat down beside her.
“I have been asked to give you something.”
He provided a chess piece from a pocket and put it in her hand. Beth looked down at it and her eyes filled with tears when she saw it was a black king, and she knew who it was from. Luchenko patted her arm in sympathy.
“You are not the only one who suffers. But will you let an old man give you a piece of advice?”
Beth smiled at him. “Of course.”
“Let it go now. You are young, and you have your whole life ahead. Don’t dwell on what you must have known had no future.”
“But he didn’t even say goodbye.”
“He has now.”
Alone in her room, Beth studied the black king. It was nothing like the one Borgov had given her when she won the Moscow Invitational. That had been a generic wood piece; they had played all the chess games with the same kind of pieces. What made it memorable for her was what it represented. She kept it with the mementos of her other victories, proudly displayed at the best spot. This black king was very different. It was carved in ebony, which made it heavy compared to its size. It was beautiful, and Beth imagined the white pieces would be made from ivory. It was old too, something which an antique dealer later confirmed, telling her it was from the 18th century, and of Dutch origin. A complete set would also be valuable. Beth supposed she probably should keep it safe on a shelf, but she found she felt at a loss if she didn’t carry it with her. It stood by her bedside table at night, and by day she carried it in her pocket or handbag.
In 1972, Beth finally won the World Championship. She played black against Borgov, and it was a tough game. But she wanted not only to win; she needed to win, and she did. When she shook Borgov’s hand after, he bowed slightly.
“Well played, Miss Harmon.”
It was the last time Beth saw him. Soon after it was announced, Vasily Borgov was retiring. With him completely out of reach, Beth decided she should follow Luchenko’s advice and go on with her life. In retrospect, she often wondered how she could not have realized she did so in the most disastrous way possible, but it had seemed the easiest at the moment. Benny Watts was attractive, they liked each other; he loved chess, and then there was the bonus of New York. They spent a year quarreling and making up, while her drinking intensified at the same rate as his gaming. In the end, it took them longer and longer to reconcile and eventually they parted with relief, and went back to being friends. They never really got out of the habit of disagreeing; Beth couldn’t remember a phone conversation that hadn’t ended with one of them slamming down the receiver in anger.
The rest of the 70s went by in a bit of a blur. Beth stayed away from the pills, but not the booze. She found it easier and easier to fall back on alcohol and refused to listen to anyone who tried to tell her she needed to check it. In 1980 she lost the World Championship, and she realized that if she didn’t pull herself together now, it may never happen. She was only thirty-two and should be in her prime, not been talked about as a has been. And she succeeded. She had Jolene and Townes to support her; she found a good psychiatrist, and when the urge to drink felt overwhelming, Beth found it helped to clutch a small black chess piece in her hand.
Beth won back her title in 1982, met Marc, a French sports journalist at the award ceremony, fell in love and moved to Paris, and got married. Five of the six years they spent together were among the best of her life. She rarely thought of Vasily Borgov anymore, and the black king had joined the other king on her trophy shelf. On the occasions she was reminded of him, it was easier to ignore how her heart still ached at the thought of him. And, to be honest, she had been so young; it would probably not have worked out even if they could have had a normal relationship. Perhaps it wouldn’t even have lasted as long as it did. She told herself Vasily Borgov was a closed chapter in her life, and as long as she and Marc were happy, it wasn’t difficult to believe that.
During 1987 her marriage fell apart. Beth didn’t understand what was wrong until Marc, during one of their arguments, cried out that she always put chess first.
“Of course I do”. Beth said because it was the truth. Belatedly, when she saw Marc’s face, she realized she had hurt him. But what could she do? Nothing mattered more to her than chess, and she couldn’t change that. Suddenly she thought of what Borgov had told her, the first time that had actually talked with each other.
“And in the end, chess is the only thing that will prevail. The love before any other loves. And believe me, even if you say nothing, those you love will know they can never be first, and in the end, they will resent you for it.”
So Beth put her hand on Marc’s arm and said she was sorry, and she was, but that it would probably be better if she moved out.
She stayed in Paris after the divorce. Life, when everything settled, was good. She was still one of the best chess players in the world. A long time ago she and Alma had followed how the interest of her bank account grew; Beth had learned since then and invested her money well, and it allowed her a pleasant lifestyle where her main indulgence was her wardrobe and good food. She had her friends, and, on occasion, lovers. And, slowly, she realized she was thinking of Borgov more than she had done in many years. She might have told herself he didn’t matter anymore, but she knew she had only lied to herself.
On a tournament in 1988, she asked Girev about him. Wasn’t it only natural to inquire after a formal rival? She didn’t think anyone would care; it had been years, after all.
“So, what does Borgov do nowadays?”
“Gives chess lessons. Writes about chess. If you can get him to talk, he talks about chess.” Girev laughed. “Basically, what I will do in twenty years’ time.”
Beth wanted to ask more. Was he happy? Did he live alone? Did he ever speak about her? But those questions would have sounded too strange, so she didn’t mention Borgov again. From time to time she read about him in chess magazines, but it was always articles about his past glories, not on his current life. When the Berlin wall fell, and the Cold War started to thaw, Beth occasionally toyed with the idea of trying to find him. But she hesitated; if he had been forbidden to continue their relationship, she didn’t want to risk his safety, even if it seemed unlikely after all this time.
But now the Cold War was over, the Soviet Union was no more, and Beth was in Russia, and soon she would meet Vasily Borgov again. She felt like the last half of her life had been folded away; her nerves as raw as if it was days since Luchenko had given her the black king. It felt like it was just days after, not years. It was too late to back off now, and after a last glance in the mirror, Beth put on a coat, grabbed her purse, and left.
Borgov lived on a street that must have been very elegant in the last breaths of the Russian Empire. Large houses with large windows; the kind with rooms with polished floors and high ceilings. Now it was a trifle shabby, but on the whole, well kept. There was no elevator; Beth walked up a marble staircase to the second floor and stopped at the right door. There she stopped, unable to move. She was nervous; almost scared of what was awaiting her on the other side. He was over sixty now; all of Jolene’s predictions could have come true. But wouldn’t that be good? It had been over between them for twenty years, and the only reason she hadn’t been able to let it go was because there had been no proper closure. Beth would get that now; she would see him, and she would know there were only ashes left of what they had once had. They would talk a little, they would say their goodbyes, she would shake his hand and leave. Free from him at last, free to finally forget about him.
Beth took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
Title: The Black King
Fandom: The Queen’s Gambit
Rating: Mature
Chapters: 1/?
Word Count: 2916
Characters: Beth Harmon, Vasily Borgov
Pairings Beth Harmon/Vasily Borgov
Warnings: None so far. As this is a work in progress it may change.
Summary: In November 1989 the Berlin Wall fell. In December 1991 the Soviet Union was dissolved. And in March 1992 Beth Harmon went to Russia to look for her past.
This fic can be read as a standalone, but it is written as a sequel to Taking the White Queen.
The fic on AO3
Oh mon amour/Mon doux, mon tendre, mon merveilleux amour/De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour/Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aime. Jacques Brel
Beth Harmon was uncharacteristically nervous. She had been standing in her hotel room staring at the telephone for a good fifteen minutes now, willing herself to lift the receiver. Ridiculous really, that a piece of putty-colored plastic could hold such fascination. When she finally could bring herself to use it, the rotary dial felt heavy under her fingers, and they slipped; she had to re-dial twice.
One signal, then two, three, and someone lifted the receiver at the other end of the line.
“Vasily Borgov speaking.”
Her mouth was suddenly dry, and her voice sounded like a stranger. “It’s Beth.”
Silence. She had time to think he wouldn’t say anything, that he would just quietly put the receiver down, and don’t pick it up again, no matter how many times she rang.
“Beth.” His voice had warmed a little.
“I’m here, in St. Petersburg. I want to see you.”
There was another silence. What was he thinking? She had thought about this for months, but for Borgov this phone call must have come as a complete surprise.
“Do you know where I live?”
“No.”
He gave her an address and a few directions. “Can you come later today?”
“I can come at once.”
“Still impatient, I hear.”
“No, Vasily, I’m not. I have been waiting for twenty years.”
She could hear him breathe out slowly. “You are right. Very well, come now.”
Beth put down the receiver, and then, her legs gave way under there and she sat down heavily on the bed. So close now, closer now than she had ever dared to hope.
Beth had spent Christmas with Jolene and her family, as she had done so many times over the years. She could never be bothered to do much celebration on her own, but Jolene did her best to compensate for the bleak Christmases they had spent together at Methuen. Jolene made Christmastime a veritable orgy in decorations, food, and family. Beth loved it, even if it exhausted her. She played chess with Jolene’s four children, who ran a betting pool on who she could beat the quickest and allowed Jolene to dictate what she should do and eat. But when the news came the Soviet Union had dissolved, she slipped away to her room. Unnoticed, she thought, but after a few minutes Jolene came in and sat down beside her on the bed.
“Are you OK, hon?”
“I’m going to Soviet, well Russia now, guess, as soon as possible.”
“To look for him?”
“Yes.”
Jolene put her arm around her. “Do you think it would be such a good idea? It’s been a long time. You don’t even know if he wants to see you.”
“He must!” Beth could hear her voice rising and took a deep breath to calm herself. “He must. He owes me an explanation if nothing else.”
“I still think it would be better to keep it in the past. And he wasn’t exactly a spring chicken then. Have you considered he might be bald or toothless now? Or,” Jolene patted her own flat tummy, her tone indicating this would be the very worst. “Paunchy.”
Beth couldn’t help laughing. “I guess it will be easier to put it behind me then.”
And now, a few months later, she was on her way to see Vasily Borgov again. Beth carefully checked herself in the mirror. She looked good; she knew what. There was nothing wrong with her figure; she was curvier than when she was twenty, but her waist was still narrow. She had chosen a dark green shirtwaist dress in soft silk, clinging and flowing at all the right places, her waist accentuated by a black leather belt. Her hair, which reached past the shoulder blades, was cut to frame her heart-shaped face with tapering lengths around it and a shaggy bang. It was still the same rich red as always, even if the color nowadays was slightly enhanced by regular visits to a very expensive hairdresser. Her face was good too, even if forty had come and gone. The lines were a little softer, and there were faint wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, but artful makeup made sure you had to look very carefully to see them. And really, twelve years of sobriety and a sensitive redhead’s lifelong habit to avoid the sun was simply the best to get good skin. No, she was quite pleased with how she looked. Beth had changed, but she was sure Borgov already knew; she had been photographed in enough chess magazines over the years; she had been on the front of one just a few months ago. It was fundamentally unfair, she felt, that she did not know what Vasily looked like now.
Thirteen short nights spread over two years and nearly seven months, that was as long as their relationship had lasted. They could only meet during chess tournaments, and only a night or two, after it had ended. Never during; they never needed to discuss that chess came first, that was a given. But when it was all over, late at night, Borgov would quietly knock on her door. So little time together to make love, talk and play chess, and; Beth had still been falling in love when it ended.
In Vienna, in 1971 the knock didn’t come. Beth was disappointed, but not worried. It was not strange if he couldn’t get away unseen every time. Then came the next tournament, and again he didn’t come. She haunted the hotel lobby the next day, carefully staging a chance meeting, but Borgov’s eyes had been as cool as his handshake when he thanked her for an interesting tournament. There was nothing in his demeanor, and Beth analyzed every movement, every word, on the plane home, which divulged they had ever been more to each other than rivals.
Why had he ended things like this? Beth’s imagination ran rampant. Had he grown tired of her? Had she been too young, too immature, too impatient? Or had she only ever been a conquest, nothing more than a pretty body, and when he had taken what he wanted he had just thrown her away like a piece of garbage? Perhaps she had wounded his pride one time too many? The more times they had played against each other, the more often she won. He had always seemed proud of her, but in the end, it may have got to him. Perhaps she had become too much for his dignity; too much of a threat to be anything else than a rival. Or was there something altogether scarier behind his rejection? Had he been found out and forbidden to see her again? Fueled by every agent movie she had ever seen, Beth conjured up images of grim-faced KGB-men, dark cells, and violence. Had he been threatened? Hurt? They were just chess players, surely on the big political scale, they weren’t that important. If he has been told to stay away from her, could he really protest it?
Her thoughts went round and round, some days thinking one thing, the next entertaining an alternative theory. It hurt to think he had fallen out of love with her, may never have loved her at all, but it hurt more to think he may have gotten into trouble because of her. She was desperately unhappy, and in the end, she told Jolene everything. Her friend, forever practical, though she had just been dumped.
“And not in a nice way either.”
“You don’t know him,” Beth protested.
“True. But do you? Really?”
Beth felt she did. With Vasily, she had felt loved, cared for; important. She just couldn’t believe it had been meaningless to him when it had meant so much to her. But she couldn’t be certain, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It even affected her chess playing. She had not won the World Championship in 1970, which was annoying, but not a complete surprise. But that she didn’t win it in 1972 was unexpected, and she took it hard.
A year later, in Moscow, Beth got a partial explanation. She had been drinking tea in the hotel lounge, watching Borgov’s unresponsive back leaving the room as Luchenko sat down beside her.
“I have been asked to give you something.”
He provided a chess piece from a pocket and put it in her hand. Beth looked down at it and her eyes filled with tears when she saw it was a black king, and she knew who it was from. Luchenko patted her arm in sympathy.
“You are not the only one who suffers. But will you let an old man give you a piece of advice?”
Beth smiled at him. “Of course.”
“Let it go now. You are young, and you have your whole life ahead. Don’t dwell on what you must have known had no future.”
“But he didn’t even say goodbye.”
“He has now.”
Alone in her room, Beth studied the black king. It was nothing like the one Borgov had given her when she won the Moscow Invitational. That had been a generic wood piece; they had played all the chess games with the same kind of pieces. What made it memorable for her was what it represented. She kept it with the mementos of her other victories, proudly displayed at the best spot. This black king was very different. It was carved in ebony, which made it heavy compared to its size. It was beautiful, and Beth imagined the white pieces would be made from ivory. It was old too, something which an antique dealer later confirmed, telling her it was from the 18th century, and of Dutch origin. A complete set would also be valuable. Beth supposed she probably should keep it safe on a shelf, but she found she felt at a loss if she didn’t carry it with her. It stood by her bedside table at night, and by day she carried it in her pocket or handbag.
In 1972, Beth finally won the World Championship. She played black against Borgov, and it was a tough game. But she wanted not only to win; she needed to win, and she did. When she shook Borgov’s hand after, he bowed slightly.
“Well played, Miss Harmon.”
It was the last time Beth saw him. Soon after it was announced, Vasily Borgov was retiring. With him completely out of reach, Beth decided she should follow Luchenko’s advice and go on with her life. In retrospect, she often wondered how she could not have realized she did so in the most disastrous way possible, but it had seemed the easiest at the moment. Benny Watts was attractive, they liked each other; he loved chess, and then there was the bonus of New York. They spent a year quarreling and making up, while her drinking intensified at the same rate as his gaming. In the end, it took them longer and longer to reconcile and eventually they parted with relief, and went back to being friends. They never really got out of the habit of disagreeing; Beth couldn’t remember a phone conversation that hadn’t ended with one of them slamming down the receiver in anger.
The rest of the 70s went by in a bit of a blur. Beth stayed away from the pills, but not the booze. She found it easier and easier to fall back on alcohol and refused to listen to anyone who tried to tell her she needed to check it. In 1980 she lost the World Championship, and she realized that if she didn’t pull herself together now, it may never happen. She was only thirty-two and should be in her prime, not been talked about as a has been. And she succeeded. She had Jolene and Townes to support her; she found a good psychiatrist, and when the urge to drink felt overwhelming, Beth found it helped to clutch a small black chess piece in her hand.
Beth won back her title in 1982, met Marc, a French sports journalist at the award ceremony, fell in love and moved to Paris, and got married. Five of the six years they spent together were among the best of her life. She rarely thought of Vasily Borgov anymore, and the black king had joined the other king on her trophy shelf. On the occasions she was reminded of him, it was easier to ignore how her heart still ached at the thought of him. And, to be honest, she had been so young; it would probably not have worked out even if they could have had a normal relationship. Perhaps it wouldn’t even have lasted as long as it did. She told herself Vasily Borgov was a closed chapter in her life, and as long as she and Marc were happy, it wasn’t difficult to believe that.
During 1987 her marriage fell apart. Beth didn’t understand what was wrong until Marc, during one of their arguments, cried out that she always put chess first.
“Of course I do”. Beth said because it was the truth. Belatedly, when she saw Marc’s face, she realized she had hurt him. But what could she do? Nothing mattered more to her than chess, and she couldn’t change that. Suddenly she thought of what Borgov had told her, the first time that had actually talked with each other.
“And in the end, chess is the only thing that will prevail. The love before any other loves. And believe me, even if you say nothing, those you love will know they can never be first, and in the end, they will resent you for it.”
So Beth put her hand on Marc’s arm and said she was sorry, and she was, but that it would probably be better if she moved out.
She stayed in Paris after the divorce. Life, when everything settled, was good. She was still one of the best chess players in the world. A long time ago she and Alma had followed how the interest of her bank account grew; Beth had learned since then and invested her money well, and it allowed her a pleasant lifestyle where her main indulgence was her wardrobe and good food. She had her friends, and, on occasion, lovers. And, slowly, she realized she was thinking of Borgov more than she had done in many years. She might have told herself he didn’t matter anymore, but she knew she had only lied to herself.
On a tournament in 1988, she asked Girev about him. Wasn’t it only natural to inquire after a formal rival? She didn’t think anyone would care; it had been years, after all.
“So, what does Borgov do nowadays?”
“Gives chess lessons. Writes about chess. If you can get him to talk, he talks about chess.” Girev laughed. “Basically, what I will do in twenty years’ time.”
Beth wanted to ask more. Was he happy? Did he live alone? Did he ever speak about her? But those questions would have sounded too strange, so she didn’t mention Borgov again. From time to time she read about him in chess magazines, but it was always articles about his past glories, not on his current life. When the Berlin wall fell, and the Cold War started to thaw, Beth occasionally toyed with the idea of trying to find him. But she hesitated; if he had been forbidden to continue their relationship, she didn’t want to risk his safety, even if it seemed unlikely after all this time.
But now the Cold War was over, the Soviet Union was no more, and Beth was in Russia, and soon she would meet Vasily Borgov again. She felt like the last half of her life had been folded away; her nerves as raw as if it was days since Luchenko had given her the black king. It felt like it was just days after, not years. It was too late to back off now, and after a last glance in the mirror, Beth put on a coat, grabbed her purse, and left.
Borgov lived on a street that must have been very elegant in the last breaths of the Russian Empire. Large houses with large windows; the kind with rooms with polished floors and high ceilings. Now it was a trifle shabby, but on the whole, well kept. There was no elevator; Beth walked up a marble staircase to the second floor and stopped at the right door. There she stopped, unable to move. She was nervous; almost scared of what was awaiting her on the other side. He was over sixty now; all of Jolene’s predictions could have come true. But wouldn’t that be good? It had been over between them for twenty years, and the only reason she hadn’t been able to let it go was because there had been no proper closure. Beth would get that now; she would see him, and she would know there were only ashes left of what they had once had. They would talk a little, they would say their goodbyes, she would shake his hand and leave. Free from him at last, free to finally forget about him.
Beth took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
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Date: 2021-02-21 10:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-02-22 04:49 pm (UTC)