Ход королевы

           TherewerepeoplewaitingwitholdcopiesofChessReview,wantinghertoautographherpictureonthecover.Otherswantedhertosigntheirprogramsorjustsheetsofpaper.

           Whileshewassigningoneofthemagazines,shelookedforamomentattheblack-and-whitephotographofherselfholdingthebigtrophyinOhio,withBennyandBarnesandafewothersoutoffocusinthebackground.Herfacelookedtiredandplain,andsherecalledwithasuddenrememberedshamethatthemagazinehadsatwithitstanmailingcoverinastackonthecobbler’sbenchforamonthbeforeshehadopeneditandfoundherpicture.Someonethrustanothercopyathertosign,andsheshookoffthememory.Sheautographedherwayoutofthecrowdedroomandthroughyetanothercrowdthatwaswaitingoutsidethedoor,fillingthespacebetweenherplayingareaandtheballroomwheretherestofthetournamentwasstillinprogress.Twodirectorsweretryingtohushthecrowdtoavoiddisturbingtheothergamesasshecamethrough.Someoftheplayerslookedupfromtheirboardsangrilyandfrownedinherdirection.Itwasexhilaratingandfrightening,havingallthesepeoplepressednearher,pushinguptoherwithadmiration.Oneofthewomenwhohadgotherautographsaid,“Idon’tknowathingaboutchess,dear,butI’mthrilledforyou,”andamiddle-agedmaninsistedonshakingherhand,saying,“You’rethebestthingforthegamesinceCapablanca.”

           “Thanks,”shesaid.“Iwishitwereaseasyforme.”Maybeitis,shethought.Herbrainseemedtobeallright.Maybeshehadn’truinedit.