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Authors: Alan Furst
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business.” Khristo’s notion of a chess tactic was to sneak a pawn down one side of the board—hoping for a distracted or mortally unobservant foe—and quick make it a queen. At heart, the strategy of checkers thrown in well over its head. Failing that, he liked to send his castles hurtling back and forth, up and down, in obvious but savage forays, hoping to shock a piece or two from his opponent. The knights he rarely used—they had a herky-jerky motion he distrusted: things shouldn’t go straight and then cat-corner.
Ozunov attacked down the left side of the board, giving up two pawns, but pinning Khristo’s castle down with a bishop. Khristo wasted two turns hip-hopping his queen around the pawn rank—stopping to take Ozunov’s apparently suicidal pawns—for he liked it to have an unobstructed field of fire. Ozunov reacted to this provocation with apparent caution, breaking off his bishop’s attack on the castle, drawing the piece back to safety. It was Khristo’s theory that a succession of entirely random moves might startle the opponent, give him pause, make him think you had some obscure trick up your sleeve. Ozunov pondered the board, smoke curlingupward from his pipe, chin resting on folded hands, intent once again on his own attack. So intent that Khristo had a little flurry of victories, took a pawn and a bishop with his galloping castle, made Ozunov move to defend his king. He seemed, somehow, to have taken the initiative. Perhaps he really could play. He stared out the white window, hypnotized by the slow drift of the snowflakes, then forced his attention back to the game—he could not allow Ozunov to see that his mind wandered. Where was Marike? He’d not seen her at breakfast.
Suddenly, a tragedy. Ozunov’s remaining bishop came wheeling out of ambush and snapped up his queen. Damn! Khristo quickly checked his pawns to see which had snuck farthest down the board. No solace there. Finally, for want of anything better to do, he threatened Ozunov’s castle with a pawn. How on earth had Ozunov finagled his queen? His eyes wandered to the piece, lying on its side among the ranks of the dead by the edge of the board. Would he not have taken the bishop with his queen on the previous move if the path had been open? How had he missed it?
The game progressed, snow drifted in the street below, Khristo’s forces were slowly picked to pieces. He tried to concentrate, to see the distant implications of each possible move, but the suddenly captured queen obsessed him. From that blow he would not recover, but he wanted at least to see the reason of it. In time, he realized what Ozunov had done. At first he could not believe it, but finally had to accept the fact that Ozunov had brazenly cheated him. Why? He didn’t know. Even the strongest had a weakness somewhere—they’d taught him that themselves. Perhaps Ozunov could not bear to lose.
Toward the end of the game, as Ozunov chased his king mercilessly around the board—stopping only to pick off one of the few motley survivors—the Stoianev temper asserted itself. Khristo determined that he would not be fooled quite so easily and, just then, a distraction in the form of a telephone call came to his aid.
Soon enough the game was over, a last faithful knight eliminated, a few helpless pawns standing around like poor relations at a funeral. Ozunov reached over and laid Khristo’s king on its side.
“Check,” he said, “and mate, I believe. You agree?”
“Yes,” Khristo said.
“You dislike to lose, Khristo Nicolaievich?”
“Yes, comrade Major.”
“Then you must learn to play better.”
“I agree, comrade Major.”
“Losing your queen, that’s what finished you I believe.”
Khristo nodded agreement.
“A very simple stratagem. Plain as your nose, eh?”
Khristo was not sure how to answer. Ozunov smiled, as though to himself, and poked idly at the bowl of his pipe with a toothpick. “I knew an Englishman once, a few years after
Ozunov attacked down the left side of the board, giving up two pawns, but pinning Khristo’s castle down with a bishop. Khristo wasted two turns hip-hopping his queen around the pawn rank—stopping to take Ozunov’s apparently suicidal pawns—for he liked it to have an unobstructed field of fire. Ozunov reacted to this provocation with apparent caution, breaking off his bishop’s attack on the castle, drawing the piece back to safety. It was Khristo’s theory that a succession of entirely random moves might startle the opponent, give him pause, make him think you had some obscure trick up your sleeve. Ozunov pondered the board, smoke curlingupward from his pipe, chin resting on folded hands, intent once again on his own attack. So intent that Khristo had a little flurry of victories, took a pawn and a bishop with his galloping castle, made Ozunov move to defend his king. He seemed, somehow, to have taken the initiative. Perhaps he really could play. He stared out the white window, hypnotized by the slow drift of the snowflakes, then forced his attention back to the game—he could not allow Ozunov to see that his mind wandered. Where was Marike? He’d not seen her at breakfast.
Suddenly, a tragedy. Ozunov’s remaining bishop came wheeling out of ambush and snapped up his queen. Damn! Khristo quickly checked his pawns to see which had snuck farthest down the board. No solace there. Finally, for want of anything better to do, he threatened Ozunov’s castle with a pawn. How on earth had Ozunov finagled his queen? His eyes wandered to the piece, lying on its side among the ranks of the dead by the edge of the board. Would he not have taken the bishop with his queen on the previous move if the path had been open? How had he missed it?
The game progressed, snow drifted in the street below, Khristo’s forces were slowly picked to pieces. He tried to concentrate, to see the distant implications of each possible move, but the suddenly captured queen obsessed him. From that blow he would not recover, but he wanted at least to see the reason of it. In time, he realized what Ozunov had done. At first he could not believe it, but finally had to accept the fact that Ozunov had brazenly cheated him. Why? He didn’t know. Even the strongest had a weakness somewhere—they’d taught him that themselves. Perhaps Ozunov could not bear to lose.
Toward the end of the game, as Ozunov chased his king mercilessly around the board—stopping only to pick off one of the few motley survivors—the Stoianev temper asserted itself. Khristo determined that he would not be fooled quite so easily and, just then, a distraction in the form of a telephone call came to his aid.
Soon enough the game was over, a last faithful knight eliminated, a few helpless pawns standing around like poor relations at a funeral. Ozunov reached over and laid Khristo’s king on its side.
“Check,” he said, “and mate, I believe. You agree?”
“Yes,” Khristo said.
“You dislike to lose, Khristo Nicolaievich?”
“Yes, comrade Major.”
“Then you must learn to play better.”
“I agree, comrade Major.”
“Losing your queen, that’s what finished you I believe.”
Khristo nodded agreement.
“A very simple stratagem. Plain as your nose, eh?”
Khristo was not sure how to answer. Ozunov smiled, as though to himself, and poked idly at the bowl of his pipe with a toothpick. “I knew an Englishman once, a few years after
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