Chapter 10

           Whenshecameintotheroom,shesawathinyoungmanwearingfadedbluejeansandamatchingdenimshirtseatedatoneofthetables.Hisblondhaircamealmosttohisshoulders.Itwasonlywhenheroseandsaid,“Hello,Beth,”thatshesawitwasBennyWatts.ThehairhadbeenlonginthecoverphotographofChessReviewafewmonthsbefore,butnotthatlong.Helookedpaleandthinandverycalm.Still,Bennyhadalwaysbeencalm.

           “Hello,”shesaid.

           “IreadaboutthegamewithBorgov.”Bennysmiled.“Itmusthavefeltterrible.”

           Shelookedathimsuspiciously,buthisfacewasopenandsympathetic.Andshedidnothatehimanymoreforbeatingher;therewasonlyoneplayershehatednow,andhewasinRussia.

           “Ifeltlikeafool,”shesaid.

           “Iknow.”Heshookhishead.“Helpless.Itallgoes,andyoujustpushwood.”

           Shestaredathim.Chessplayersdidnottalksoeasilyabouthumiliations,didnotadmitweakness.Shestartedtosaysomething,whenthetournamentdirectorspokeuploudly.“Playwillbegininfiveminutes.”ShenoddedtoBenny,attemptedasmile,andfoundhertable.

           Therewasn’tafaceoverachessboardthatshedidn’tknowfromhotelballroomswheretournamentswereplayedorfromphotographsinChessReview.SheherselfhadbeenonthecoversixmonthsafterTownestookherpictureinLasVegas.HalftheotherplayershereonthiscampusinthesmallOhiotownhadbeenonthecoverthemselvesatonetimeoranother.Themanshewasplayingnowinherfirstgame,amiddle-agedmasternamedPhillipResnais,wasonthecoverofthecurrentissue.