Tatiana

Chapter 7

Copyright © 2014 by Curtis Couch

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Chapter 7 

Tatiana’s hand turned over the first card: the lovers.

“Of course. The spirits labour the point. You are lovers.”

Tatiana went for the second: the wheel of fortune.

“Destiny, fate has seized the thread of your existence, and is weaving your tale. You can do nothing about it. But how will that tale end - choose the final card.”

Tatiana looked at Mike, smiled, and chose the third card: death.

She clutched Mike’s hand.

“You will die,” the hag mumbled.

“We’re all going to die,” Mike returned.

“You will die.” The hag said again. Mike saw it was beginning to affect Tatiana.

“Come on, let’s go,” he said.

Mike took her hand, and led her out the shop. The hag seized her Dior bag, “You will die Tatiana. The devil will kill you, the chess player.”

Tatiana’s hand covered her mouth, she hadn’t said what her name was nor had Mike. He pushed the gypsy back, and led Tatiana away. The hag screamed after them, “You will die – you will die – you will die.”

Tatiana ran, she couldn’t bear it. Mike caught up with her on 6th Avenue. She was crying.

“It’s alright, you’re not going to die.”

“But what she said – she knew you were a chess player, she knew my name.”

“We’re both well known in our circles, your face is all over broadway, and well, admittedly chess isn’t that popular but popular enough for her to have seen me before. When I threw water at that reporter it made the news.”

Tatiana calmed down a little, but she was still shaking.

“C’mon this isn’t fucking Macbeth, witches in a cave. I’m not going to kill you – I love you.”

Tatiana smiled, felt Mike hold her round the waist, and then his soft lips were pressed against hers, his tongue in her mouth.

The lovers went back to her penthouse suite, watched Casablanca, and had crazy sex. The kind that afterwards, when your body’s chemistry is again balanced, you can’t believe what you just did. They looked in each other’s eyes, and held each other tight.

*** 

Ben was disturbed during his shower by a knock on the door.

“Room service.”

He dried himself, and opened the door. He had his breakfast at table before taking a strong cup of coffee to his computer. He was using Rybka for analysing his games – a powerful chess engine. In his game the day before he’d played sub-optimal moves 7% of the time. He snorted in contempt, then clicked through the variations the computer had come up with.

Rybka referenced one game in an alternative move order, Smith v Kamsky Wijk an Wee 2005 1-0.

That was the game Mike had beat him, and won the tournament.

Mike.

A man who was simply gifted; everyone knew the story of Capablanca, the chess titan of the 20th Century, where two grandmasters were wrestling with a position - wondering what the proper winning method was - when Capablanca came across, stood over them, thought for a moment, and said, “Si Si.” Then he put the pieces in the winning set up, he didn’t even make moves, just put the pieces where they needed to be. That was why he was great, because he thought in schemes, and could see positions in his head.