Chapter 19: ch.19 [Arrival]

The Federation’s headquarters stood two streets from Meridian Hall.

Tonight was the gala.

This afternoon was something smaller, closed to the public, and,

in Ingrid’s word, content.

Seth stood inside the front doors and listened to his own shoes.

Marble.

Acres of it.

Pale gray, polished until the ceiling lights lay in it like standing water.

A glass reception desk at the far end.

A staircase that curved up out of sight.

A banner hung from the second floor, forty feet of blue silk with the Federation’s crest on it.

Not one person in the room.

It was 11:52.

They were an hour early.

Of course we are.

Astrid did not believe in arriving at the time on the invitation.

She believed in arriving before the room had decided what it wanted from her.

He had never been inside this building.

He had run past it once, in a green apron, on his way to somewhere else.

He lifted a hand to push his glasses up his nose.

His fingers met his own cheekbone.

Right.

Contacts.

Abelard’s idea, Ingrid’s appointment, an optometrist who had taught him to put a piece of plastic on his eyeball and had watched him fail eleven times.

The world had edges now.

He had not been prepared for how many.

He touched the back of his head instead.

The stubborn piece had been flattened at nine that morning under half a jar of gel and a comb he had borrowed from a drawer he did not know the contents of.

His hair swept back off his forehead in one clean dark line.

His eyes were out in the open, with nothing in front of them.

The piece was already lifting.

He pressed it down.

It rose.

He pressed it down again.

"It will not hold," said Astrid.

"It’s holding."

"It is lifting at a rate of one millimeter per minute."

"I have been timing it."

"Since when?"

"The elevator."

"You were timing my hair?"

"It was a short ride."

He turned.

And forgot the hair.

? ? ?

She had walked in beside him.

He had been looking at the staircase.

He had not looked at her properly since the car.

He looked now.

White.

A woman’s tuxedo, cut so sharply it seemed to have been drawn with a ruler and then forgiven.

White jacket.

White trousers, tapered, breaking exactly once over black shoes.

A white shirt, a black bow tie like a single stroke of ink.

Her hair was pinned at the nape.

A white braid had been folded into the knot,

so that it all looked like one piece of carved light.

And on the left lapel, in a column, down from the collar to the waist:

Badges.

Small. Gold.

Each one the size of a thumbnail,

each stamped with a year and a crown.

They caught the ceiling lights and threw them back,

one after another, a slow, tiny staircase of suns.

He started counting.

One. Two. Three.

At eleven, he lost his place.

There were more beneath them. Older ones. Smaller.

Stamped with names of championships that had Junior in front of them and a girl’s age in the corner.

He stopped.

Not that one.

He didn’t need the number.

He only needed to stand in front of it.

She was nearly six-three, in white, in an empty marble hall,

and the light had decided to stay.

"You changed the color," he heard himself say.

"Yes."

"You said black. You said it three times."

"Abelard called me back on Tuesday."

"And?"

"He said black was a decision I had made at nine."

She looked at the banner, not at him.

"He said it to my left shoulder. He did not look up."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I did not argue. I wished to. I could not find the grounds."

Fourteen identical black coats.

That hung in a closet that smelled of cold air.

She had stood in front of a tailor’s mirror and given up the first one.

He didn’t say any of that.

He said, "It’s..."

He couldn’t find the word.

He had a hundred. They were all on the wrong side of his teeth.

"You look..."

"Yes?"

"Like you’re allowed to be this tall."

It was the worst thing he could have said.

Astrid blinked.

Her head tilted a quarter of an inch.

Then, very slowly, as though she were turning over a card she had never seen:

"That is the most accurate remark anyone has made about my height."

"I didn’t mean..."

"I know what you meant."

Her pulse was visible above the collar.

He did not look at it.

She looked at him instead.

A long look. Start to finish.

Hair.

Eyes.

Jaw.

Shoulders.

The charcoal jacket, which was gray with a degree.

The line of the shirt.

The place at the base of his throat where, a week ago,

two fingers had smoothed a fold.

There was nothing to smooth.

Her hand twitched at her side.

It did not move.

"The jacket is correct," said Astrid.

"Abelard left half a centimeter."

"I know. I measured."

"I know you did."

A silence.

"It fits." she said.

That was all.

Two words. She said them the way she placed a piece on a square she had already checked three times.

She didn’t say handsome.

He heard it anyway.

It arrived at his ears first.

They went red, and for once,he did not try to stop them.

? ? ?

He was reaching for the pocket before he knew it.

Right hip.

Empty.

His hand closed on cloth.

Right.

The bottle cap was on the nightstand, by the lamp,

where he’d put it at seven that morning.

He had stood over it for a full minute and then walked away.

A man who needed a bottle cap to walk through a door was a man who would always need it.

He wasn’t sure that was true.

He wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

He had done it anyway.

His fingers hunted through the jacket and found the inside left pocket instead.

A card. Soft with handling.

Five words, one in his own leaning hand.

He did not take it out.

He kept his hand flat against it, over his heart, and the card was warm.

Astrid watched his hand.

She watched it go to the right hip, find nothing, and settle on the left.

She said nothing.

Her eyes went to the right hip once more.

Then away.

He did not bring it.

Good, she thought, and was alarmed to find that it did not feel like winning.

? ? ?

"Ms. Lind!"

A woman in a navy blazer hurried out from behind the glass desk,

a lanyard bouncing against her chest.

PAULINE, said the tag.

She had the face of someone who had been awake since five and did not mind.

"You’re early. Wonderful. Nobody’s early."

"We are punctual," said Astrid.

"That’s what I said."

Pauline beamed at Seth.

"And this is him."

"Seth."

"I know! My daughter has the keychain."

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

"Sorry. That’s... I’m not supposed to say."

His ears went red.

Astrid’s mouth did the unauthorized thing, a quarter of a centimeter.

She put it back.

"The floor is yours," Pauline went on, tapping at a tablet.

"We’ve cleared the seventh. Green room, board room, the Meridian Suite for the broadcast."

"The Federation’s only invited the Top Ten today."

"Just them. Nobody else gets through the door."

"Only the Top Ten?" said Seth.

"Closed field. We didn’t want it crowded so we canceled the other invitations, because of the stream."

She said it lightly. A fact among facts.

Seth was still smiling.

It stayed on his face for about a second and a half.

"Because of the what?"

"The stream."

"The..."

"The broadcast."

She looked up.

"Didn’t Ms. Lind..."

He turned.

Astrid had gone very still.

It was the stillness she used at a board. From the edges in.

"Are you," said Seth, "streaming this?"

His voice cracked down the middle.

It was the goose, a half-second early, with nothing in it but fear.

"Oh, yes," said Pauline, cheerfully.

"It’s been quite popular lately. We did a trial in the spring and the numbers just kept going."

She turned her tablet.

"We’re at three hundred and twelve thousand registered."

She said thousand the way you say Tuesday.

On the wall behind her desk, a small black screen showed a countdown in white numerals.

00:58:41

00:58:40

00:58:39

They’re counting down to me.

? ? ?

The marble began to tilt.

Only very slightly.

The way a board tilts when you realize the piece you were sure of has been hanging for three moves.

His palms went cold.

The sweat arrived in a line across his collarbone and slid down under the shirt, and the gel at his hairline went slick.

He tried to push his glasses up.

His fingers met his own face again.

Three hundred thousand.

He had played a cabdriver named Benny in front of nine people and a pretzel cart.

He had played the world once, and lost in twenty moves, and it had turned out they loved it.

He had never understood why.

They loved it because I was the first thing in eleven years that made her smile.

Not because I was good.

And I am not good.

He was an 820 on a phone.

He was the boy who had once resigned a game he was one move from winning.

Tonight someone would put that on a screen, with a clock on it,

and three hundred thousand people would watch the clock bleed.

00:58:12

Dmitri Wren was 1450. Sixteen. Hungry.

He’s never been pinned by anyone who matters.

I have been pinned by everyone.

Somewhere far off he heard Pauline say,

"Sir? Are you all right?"

He heard Ingrid’s voice from a month ago, dry as paper.

Fainting clause. Invoked.

His knees went soft.

A hand closed around his wrist.

Not hard.

Two fingers, inside the joint.

He knew that grip.

A basement. Cold iron. A braid sliding over her shoulder.

Be still.

He did not say it.

Astrid did not say it either.

She did something else.

She drew his hand up, turned it over, and set his two fingertips against the inside of her own wrist, above the white cuff, on the pulse.

Her skin was warm.

She held his hand there with both of hers.

She did not say count.

He counted.

One. Two. Three.

It was fast.

It was faster than he had ever felt it.

It knocked against his fingertips like someone who had been standing at a door for a very long time and had finally decided

to use the whole fist.

He stopped counting at nine.

He looked up.

She was looking at the banner.

Her face was smooth. Perfect. A frozen lake.

The line of her jaw said she had no intention of explaining.

"Ms. Lind..." Pauline began.

"One moment, please."

It was said so evenly that Pauline took four steps back and developed an interest in her tablet.

Seth stood with his hand against the World Champion’s wrist,

in the middle of a marble hall, while a countdown ticked on the wall.

"You are unwell," said Astrid, to the banner.

"Yes."

"So am I."

"You don’t look it."

"That is the point of practice."

He swallowed.

His breath had come back down to somewhere near his ribs.

"You will not tell anyone," she said.

"I won’t."

"Not Ingrid. Not the commentator. Not the wiki."

"The wiki will find out."

"Then it will find out later."

Her hand opened.

His stayed where it was for one more second.

Then he took it back.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

He put it in his pocket.

It found the card.

"Better?" she said.

"Yes."

"Good."

"Astrid."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

She nodded once, as if he had handed in a piece of homework.

Her ears, he noticed, for the first time since he’d known her,

were pink at the tips.

? ? ?

Then she turned and faced him fully, and her voice changed.

"Seth."

"Yes?"

"Look at me."

He did.

"You have worked," said Astrid.

"Every morning. At five. In a basement."

"You have done stairs, and eggs, and a ledger, one hundred and forty-one drills with a clock, and you have not once asked why."

She paused.

"You have lost eleven games to an engine I built between dinner and the news. After the twelfth it was adequate."

"Adequate."

"I said it kindly."

"You did."

"It was not kind enough."

He opened his mouth.

"There are three games today," she said.

"Fifteen minutes each, ten-second increment."

"White once. Black once. The third is decided by the arbiter."

"Dmitri Wren is 1450. You will not beat him on rating."

"Thank you."

"I am not finished."

"Sorry."

"You will not beat him on rating," she said again, more slowly.

"But you may beat him."

Something clicked behind her eyes.

He saw it.

She had put down the first piece.

She was about to put down the second.

"If you win one of the three," said Astrid, "I will go out with you."

The marble held very still.

"Out...?" said Seth.

"On a date."

She said the last word flatly, as a technical term.

"A... a date date?"

"I am not familiar with other kinds."

Somewhere behind the glass desk, Pauline’s pen hit the floor.

Nobody bent to get it.

His heart was doing something that could not be graded.

He stood there with his hand in his pocket and his ears,

as usual, doing all the talking.

He did not say yes.

He did the thing he had learned in a park from a man with a thermos.

He looked at what was on the board.

She holds the contract.

She holds the roof.

She holds the room I sleep in, and the arrangement,

and the name the world has for me.

And she has just put the one thing on the table that she has never offered anyone.

And called it motivation.

He thought about it for the length of one countdown tick.

"Is it in the contract?"

Her eyebrow moved.

"No."

"Section twelve?"

"It is outside the contract."

"Then I want to say something."

"Say it."

"If I win, I pick where."

"...Yes."

"And you don’t arrange it with Ingrid."

A pause.

"And you don’t get a driver."

A longer one.

"Seth."

"I mean it."

"I am aware you do."

She looked at him for a long time.

It was not a look from above. It was the look she gave a position she had never seen.

"Agreed," said Astrid.

It came out a little rough.

"And if I lose?"

She had been ready for it.

She had not been ready for how it would sound.

"Then you will have lost having looked at the board."

"That’s not an answer."

"No."

Her hand rose to her collar. Lowered.

"It is a beginning of one."

She said nothing else.

He didn’t push.

It was the first time he had ever let her keep a sentence unfinished and known exactly what it was missing.

The countdown on the wall said 00:54:07.

? ? ?

"I leave you alone for forty minutes."

Ingrid stood in the doorway with her tablet pressed to her chest and her camel coat open at the collar.

She had come in through the staff entrance.

She looked at the white tuxedo.

She looked at the charcoal one.

She looked at both of them for a long moment.

"Charcoal," said Ingrid.

"Gray with a degree," said Astrid.

"I knew he’d do it."

"I did not."

"You paid for it."

"It is structurally a gray jacket."

Ingrid closed her eyes.

She breathed in through her nose and, for a moment, appeared to be doing arithmetic.

"Why is he the color of a spilled espresso?"

"I am fine," said Seth.

"You are the color of a spilled latte."

"He is recovering," said Astrid.

"From what?"

"The stream."

Ingrid’s eyes opened.

They went to Pauline, who was holding a pen she had found on the floor and trying to look like furniture.

"You told him."

"I... it came up..."

"Of course it came up. It’s on the poster."

She turned to Seth.

For once there was no edge in it.

"Look at me."

He did.

"You are going to be fine."

"You will sit down. The clock will start. And for the length of the game, you will be the only person in the building."

"That’s a lie."

"It is a professional lie."

She held out the tablet.

"Here. Before they arrive."

"They are already outside, finishing phone calls in cars. You have about four minutes."

"You should know whose eyes you are about to walk in front of."

He took it.

The screen was white. A black bar ran across the top.

THE LIVING TOP TEN.

FEDERATION BROADCAST. CLASSICAL RATINGS.

Below it, in a clean column, ten names.

He read the first.

He had read it on a screen at eight, on a banner at nineteen, on a keychain he had dropped on a stage.

"You know her," said Ingrid, and did not look up. "Skipping."

"1. ASTRID LIND," said Astrid, to the ceiling, with enormous dignity.

"The Ice Queen. (28) — 2914."

"Nobody asked."

"The list did."

Ingrid made a small sound.

Her thumb moved down.

2. ARJUN VOSS

The Walking Fortress. (29) — India — 2847

A photograph. Red hair, a loose smile, a jaw that had never needed to try.

"King’s Indian as Black, and you cannot crack it."

"Charming. Tall. He will shake your hand like he has known you for years, and by the second sentence you will believe it."

"Is that bad?"

"It is effective."

"He is the only active player who has beaten Astrid." Ingrid paused. "Once."

"Twice," said Astrid, to the banner.

"Once."

"It felt like twice."

"Do not bring it up."

"I would not."

"You are bringing it up now."

Seth looked from one to the other and kept his mouth very still.

3. LINA VON SCHACH

The Cataloguer. (31) — Germany — 2812

"London System, memorized to the bottom of the page."

"You have met her."

"I have."

"She has held third place for ten years. She will be kind to you."

Ingrid’s eyes lifted.

"Be careful when she is kind."

On the wall, the countdown said 00:49:50.

4. KIRILL VOLKOV

The Grey Blade. (34) — Russia — 2798

The photograph was mostly shadow.

A tall, lean man with dark hair and eyes that looked as though they had not been closed in a week.

"Sicilian. Sharp, theory-heavy, merciless."

"Under lights, he looks gray. He dresses to match."

"He has never beaten Astrid, and he has never forgiven it."

"What does he want from me?"

"Nothing. That is the problem."

"He called the modern top ten a museum of overrated specialists. He will cut you with words before he has finished shaking your hand."

She tapped the glass.

"Do not apologize to him. He will take it as an opening."

Seth swallowed.

5. MATEO RIVAS

El Principito[The little Prince]. (17) — Spain — 2784

A boy.

A slender boy with soft dark hair and enormous dark eyes, in a jacket slightly too large in the shoulders.

He looked like a drawing from the front of a picture book.

"Ruy Lopez. Old-fashioned manners. Soft-spoken."

"Once the clock starts, he becomes something else."

"Grandmaster at thirteen. He still lives with his parents."

"He’s seventeen?"

"You are the oldest person in this building who is not a Grandmaster."

Ingrid did not blink.

"He will look at you the way he looks at everyone. "

"As another teenager in a room full of adults."

"I’m nineteen."

"He is seventeen."

"That’s not the same!"

"It is, to him."

6. WEI CHENG

The Steady Hand. (36) — China — 2776

A round, mild face.

Heavy-set, with the eyes of a man who had never raised his voice at a child.

"English Opening,"

"He takes you out of the book and sits you in a quiet room."

"He is the only active player in the top ten with a classical win over Lina."

Ingrid’s mouth did something almost fond.

"He is also the kindest. Genuinely. He will fuss."

"Let him."

7. éLISE MOREAU

La Flamme[The Flame]. (21) — France — 2768

Seth stopped.

Hair the color of a flame in a window.

Not red. Copper.

Pale skin, a slender frame, dark clothes that made everything else stand out.

And eyes that were, in the photograph, unmistakably and impossibly purple.

He glanced sideways.

Astrid, who had once worn a wig the color of a traffic cone,

was studying the opposite wall with great interest.

"French Defense," said Ingrid. "Reserved."

"She notices things she is not asked about."

"She will see you were lonely before she sees you are new."

His ears went red.

He did not say anything.

8. ETHAN VALE

The Lone Fire. (26) — United States — 2766

A hard, handsome face.

Dirty-blond hair, pale blue eyes, cheekbones like a blade.

"Najdorf. Principled to the point of violence."

"Zero and four against Astrid."

"He said, in public, that modern elite chess has forgotten

how to fight. He has little patience for politics or soft chess."

She looked up.

"He will find you irritating."

"Great."

"He will also, eventually, find you interesting."

"That is worse."

"And the last two."

Ingrid turned the screen to show two photographs side by side.

They were the same face.

9. TIMUR RAHIMOV

The Storm. (24) — Uzbekistan — 2761

10. YUSUF RAHIMOV

The Still Water. (24) — Uzbekistan — 2759

"Twins," said Seth.

"Identical."

"Timur: left eye blue, right eye brown. Loud, quick, tactical. Cannot sit still."

"Yusuf: left eye brown, right eye blue. Quiet, positional. Speaks only when he is certain."

"Okay. Timur, blue on the left. Yusuf, blue on the right."

"Timur is loud. Yusuf is quiet."

"You will mix them up."

"I will not."

"You will mix them up in front of everyone. It is almost a tradition."

"I have a system."

"You have a card in your pocket and no room left on it," said Astrid, mildly.

His hand tightened on the pocket.

Ingrid lowered the tablet.

"They are not coming for you," she said.

"They are coming because she is here. You are the reason they will stay for lunch."

"That’s comforting."

"It was not meant to be."

Outside, on the far side of the glass doors, a long black car slid to the curb.

Then another.

00:49:20

The first door opened.

Seth stood in the middle of the marble with a tablet full of the best chess players alive, a card against his heart, and a promise in his ears he had not yet had time to be afraid of.

His hand went to the right hip.

Nothing.

He kept it there anyway.