by Molly Joseph
Instead, they played to another draw.
In the news they called it a hard-fought battle, but that didn’t come close to how it felt to Grace. It was torture, plain and simple. Al Raji was a cold, ruthless playing machine, and Grace’s composure was starting to crack. They were tied at five and a half games, so whoever won the next game would be named the victor.
Grace didn’t know what to do at this point, how to occupy her mind. She couldn’t plan anymore, or strategize, because they were eleven games into this match. The jig was up. She and Al Raji had each other’s number, had it three or four games ago. Now it was all about fortitude, and faith.
She touched the dog tag under her sweater, rubbed her fingers over its rectangular outline. Courage is grace under pressure. Please, help me be brave.
“Jesus, look at this,” said Liam Wilder, breezing into their hotel room and slapping down a pile of magazines and newspapers. There were twenty or more, and every headline was about today’s match. ONE MORE GAME, trumpeted one. BATTLE OF THE SEXES, said another. FIRST WOMAN CHAMPION? There were headlines in French and Russian and German and Arabic, and other languages she didn’t recognize.
“This is only what we found at the book shop on the corner,” said Mem, placing his own pile of publications next to Liam’s.
Renzo and Krishna leafed through them. Grace averted her eyes. Her hair looked terrible. In most of the photos she wore a dorky expression, or she was biting her lip.
“Look at you,” said Sam, spreading them out on the table. “People are so excited. This has gotten bigger than I ever imagined.”
Toy stores were selling out of chess boards. Chess for Dummies topped the bestseller lists. The President of the United States called her last night to spur her to victory. Grace was terrified of losing and disappointing all the women who were counting on her. What would the headlines read then? CHESS CHALLENGER FAILS, LETS DOWN HALF THE WORLD’S POPULATION.
“I wish Zeke was here,” she said, fighting the familiar pre-game panic.
“We all wish that,” Renzo agreed. “He was a great man to have around on a day like this.”
“Maybe he is here,” said Krishna. “In your mind. In how you play. He taught you many things and nurtured your gift, so he is here today, even if he isn’t here.”
Krishna’s soft-spoken words brought tears to her eyes. “What if I lose?” asked Grace. “I’ll be letting him down.”
“Oh no,” he chided when she started sniffling. “No tears today. Today you officially prove you are the world’s best.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe Al Raji wins.”
Renzo and Krishna insisted he wouldn’t, but she heard the anxiety in their voices. They attributed Al Raji’s success in the last few games to luck, because they believed Grace was playing her strongest chess ever, and they disdained Al Raji’s methodical style of play.
But the truth was, they were pretty evenly matched, and Grace had come to respect Al Raji as an opponent. He wasn’t showy and egotistical like some of the grandmasters at his level. He didn’t revel in attitude. He merely watched and studied the things she did, like he was learning rather than only trying to defeat her.
When they saw through one another’s gambits, it was frustrating, but it also gave both of them pleasure. Sometimes, when they locked eyes over the chess board, she felt an intimacy with Al Raji, like they were listening to a secret concerto no one else heard.
While the others browsed through the magazine articles, Sam pulled her aside and stroked back her hair, and straightened her new glasses, which were not as thick and ugly and obscuring as the last pair.
“I love you,” he said. “No matter what, I love you, and I’m so proud of you. You’re having fun, aren’t you? As scared as you are, even with all this pressure, Al Raji’s challenging you and you’re having fun.”
“Yes, I’m having fun,” she agreed. “But I’m scared to death too. There are so many people watching and counting on me, and I don’t want to let them down.”
His lips curved in a smile. “Those people have seen you dog Al Raji game for game, Grace. Three draws in a row, now. It’s hardly a competition anymore. It’s whoever’s lucky enough to win. I think everyone understands that.”
Kind words, but everyone also knew that without an official victory and title, her efforts here meant nothing. “You know, I... I think I need some time alone.”
She didn’t want him to take it the wrong way. It was just that he distracted her. Well, in the most wonderful way.
“I mean, I would like everyone to leave for a while,” she said. “I need some peace and quiet to think, and to psyche myself up.”
Sam studied her a moment. They hadn’t been apart from each other in days, because the other shit was still going on, the threats, the accusations of scheming, the misogyny and disparagement. Eventually it would go away, but in some sense it had come to seem worth it. Along with the threatening missives, she got messages from children who were excited about learning to play chess, and women who were inspired to reach for new accomplishments, or men who wrote things like, I realize now that smart women can be sexy.
Okay, those letters were creepy. But still. Maybe she was helping some super-nerdy women get dates. That could only be a positive for the world’s gene pool. When she talked to Sam about things like that, he laughed and agreed with her. And then he’d kiss her...and start to take off her clothes...
Argh, no. She had to focus. “I need to clear my mind, Sam. This is my big moment. I need time alone to...”
“Hear the music?”
Thank God he understood, just like he understood that playing Al Raji was making her happy even if she was about to lose her mind. That was why she loved Sam. Well, one of the many reasons. She also loved the way he corralled all her friends and forced them out into the hall, and winked at her and said, “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”
Because she already knew he’d be right outside the door.
She reached beneath her sweater so she could clasp Sam’s dog tag in her palm. Help me, Zeke, she thought. You’ve always been there to help me when things got hard.
But he’d never really helped her out of her binds, only encouraged her to be strong and find her own way.
What do you want, Gracie? What does this mean to you?
She could hear the questions as clearly as if Zeke had spoken them himself. It wasn’t about beating Al Raji. She understood that now. It wasn’t about the U.S. versus the Middle East, or men versus women, who was smarter or better or more worthy. It was about exploring the layers and hearing the music, and celebrating the game.
So why does it matter if you win, then?
Zeke always asked the hard questions.
Because it might help people, she thought, squeezing the tag in her fingers. Because I would like to help women be more respected. Because I would like to debunk the harmful stereotypes in the world, and prejudices that make people have to change their names. Because I never want anyone to suffer what I suffered in Russia, out of hatred and ignorance.
She was afraid to set those goals, because they were so daunting, but she could take a step forward by beating Al Raji today. And if she lost, well, she’d find other ways to make a difference, smaller, less flashy ways. Sam would help her.
She brought the dog tag to her lips, and whispered the words she said a lot these days. May courage bloom in your heart and vanquish the souls of thine enemies.
May your victory cry change the course of a million lives.
*** *** ***
The room was utterly silent, so silent Grace thought she would smother from it. Tick, tick, tick. She had to keep an eye on the clock. If she thought too long, she would run out of time before the game was over. One of the arbiters moved his arm, distracting her.
Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think, Grace. Think.
They’d begun this game aggressively, both of them anxious to win, anxious for this to be over, but as always, it
had turned into a battle of stamina. If she didn’t think ahead, he would trap her and it would be over.
So she’d set a few traps herself. Queen to b7. If he did this, she would do that. If he did this...she would be screwed. He moved in a way that she had to regroup, but he did too. As she stared at the remaining pieces, she heard the words Zeke had always said to her as a child. Chess is hard. That’s what makes it chess.
She had an idea, slightly aggressive. Slightly crazy. If she sacrificed her bishop as Anderssen had done in his Immortal Game, she might be able to trap Al Raji on the left. She made a move, and he raised an eyebrow. Hardly, but she saw it. She had come to read his expressions that well. She felt sick, like she might vomit all over the chess board.
No, Grace. This is supposed to be fun.
Another series of moves, each of them chasing the other around. She was running out of options. Her aggressive start was being pummeled by his methodical genius. I hate you, she thought.
But she didn’t. She had come to understand, after all the spying and trash talk and cultural barriers, that the two of them were more alike than different. And both of them wanted to win.
Al Raji studied the board, analyzing the arrangement of her remaining knight and pawns. What did he see? He was taking too long, just like her, and she could tell by the look on his face that he saw an endgame.
But whose end was it? Hers, or his? He stared at her hard, then moved his bishop, and just like that, it all became clear. Three more moves, and she could have him. An Impossible Checkmate, to go with Andersson’s Immortal Game.
The only thing was, she knew Al Raji saw it too. And he had still moved his bishop the wrong way.
Grace’s heart thudded in her chest. Was this some kind of trick? Was he luring her into a trap? But she couldn’t see any trap, no matter how hard she looked. Al Raji’s expression was fixed. Inscrutable.
She made her next move, galloped her knight into position beside a pawn. Al Raji studied the pieces a moment, and then he made an intentional mistake, moving his queen in the same direction as his bishop, to the same place on the board where Grace would defeat him by taking his king. He was giving her the match, and letting her know it with this ill-fated series of maneuvers.
She looked up at him, into his eyes. She didn’t understand. For decades, chess enthusiasts would dissect this game and point to that last move as Al Raji’s unraveling. His misstep, his fatal error that Grace Ann Frasier would capitalize on for the victory, in a game that would otherwise have been a draw. His gaze gave nothing away.
She gave nothing away either, but she felt very close to him as they made the next couple moves. His loss became apparent and inevitable. After all the games, after the bone-shaking war, it was over. In the quiet, still chamber, he looked up at her and tipped over his king.
“I resign.”
Grace sat frozen in a kind of shock. Al Raji held out his hand and smiled. “I would like to be the first to congratulate you on winning the World Chess Championship. It was a great match.”
She shook his hand, too confused to come up with polite, sportsmanlike words. Instead she asked, “Why?”
He tilted his head, touched his king, righted it again. He looked over at the arbiters, who were double-checking the game’s moves before announcing Grace’s victory. “We are the same, you and me,” he explained in a low voice. “Equally talented. But I think...” He sighed. “I think it is better for the world if you win today.”
“You let me win.” A horrible thought occurred to her, knocked her sideways. “Were you letting me win all along?”
“You know I wasn’t,” he said in a chiding tone. “Even today... I considered a long time, and I thought, another draw gives us nothing. I think you know what I mean.”
“But they’ll criticize your endgame, pick you apart,” Grace pointed out. “They’ll say you made a mistake.”
“Yes, they’ll say so, Miss Frasier.” He flicked a bit of dust off his sleeve and smiled at her. “But I do not believe that I have.”
*** *** ***
Sam had watched the game with the other members of Grace’s team in their secure conference room. On one side of the screen you could see the live feed of Grace and Al Raji, while the other side was a diagram of a chess board, displaying the action move by move. It was the longest game yet, but Sam knew Grace had won when Krishna let out a bellow of victory, and Renzo jumped on top of his chair.
“She got him,” Renzo yelled. “That’s it. He made a mistake.”
“He’ll see it in a moment,” Krishna agreed. “Grace has won.”
Everyone gathered around the screen, even the QueenOps guys. Liam buried his hands in his hair and Mem covered his eyes. Sam believed Krishna and Renzo when they said Grace had won. If anyone knew, they knew. Now he was only watching Grace’s face, so he could experience that moment of victory with her. He wasn’t even sure if she knew she’d won. She looked a little puzzled. Maybe even sad.
Al Raji said, “I resign,” and the room erupted in maniacal celebration. This was it, the moment his lovely genius had been working toward for almost two decades. After all the danger and suffering, their scheming and freezing in Helsinki, their trauma in Dubai, she had done exactly what Zeke said she would do.
She’d won.
While the others babbled and cheered and thumped each other on the back, Sam walked closer to the monitor, studying Grace as she and Al Raji exchanged words. Were they congratulating one another? Talking about the game? They smiled at each other. Finally, a smile. Didn’t she understand this was a moment to celebrate? Sam wanted to go to her and toss her in the air, and kiss her all over her beautiful face.
“Look,” said Liam, showing Sam his phone. “Breaking News: Frasier defeats Al Raji to become first female World Chess Champion.”
Cheers and whistles emanated from other rooms and hallways, and from the crowd that had gathered outside.
“When will they bring her here?” Sam paced back and forth. “I want to see her.”
Liam tapped his ID. “Go see her then. You’ve got a badge.”
The boss had a point. He was still officially her bodyguard, and now that she’d won, there would be more peril than ever, more demands for her attention and more crazies hoping to hug her or hurt her. He flashed his badge to the Danish security agents outside the door where they’d played the match. “I’m Miss Frasier’s personal bodyguard,” he said.
They scrutinized him and his badge for long moments, but seemed to decide that a personal bodyguard with Ironclad identification was a minimal security risk. Inside the room, Grace and Al Raji posed for photos with the FIDE president, and answered questions for a handful of selected journalists. She looked proud and happy, and at peace, and her defeated opponent was all smiles.
“She was the better player,” he said graciously, both in English and Arabic. “I have not only competed with Miss Frasier. I have learned from her.”
“What have you learned?” one of the reporters asked.
Al Raji smiled at Grace. “I have learned that chess can be played an infinite number of ways.” He looked back at the camera. “People will say Miss Frasier won because we are on her ground, because we played in the west, in Europe. But it’s not true. She beat me. She is a very good chess player. Very strong.”
“Thank you,” said Grace. “You’re very strong too. I hope we’ll have the opportunity to play again.”
The FIDE president perked up. “The next World Championship Match will be played next year, when Miss Frasier will defend her title from her closest challenger.”
“Which is sure to be me,” said Al Raji with another broad smile. He pointed at her. “You had better be ready.”
Grace nodded. “I look forward to a rematch.”
They shook hands once more, turned, posed for the camera. Sam let out a long breath. These images and Al Raji’s supportive words would go a long way to ensuring Grace’s safety. And advancing her agenda, yes, but her safety was the ma
in thing he worried about. No word of any rioting yet.
“Sam!” Grace exclaimed when the camera lights turned off. She ran at him and threw her arms around his neck. “I won. I’m the first woman World Chess Champion.”
He held her tight, feeling a little overcome, even though he couldn’t play chess at all, even though she had done all the hard work to make this moment happen. It felt a little like his moment too. “You rocked it,” he said in a raspy voice. “You did it. I’m so proud of you.”
“Come and meet Mr. Al Raji,” she said, tugging him toward her Saudi opponent.
When they approached, Al Raji turned away from Mr. Albourg. Sam offered his hand with a traditional Arabic greeting, and Al Raji didn’t look surprised. They’d probably learned all about his background while they were hunting down information on Peter Pommesfrites.
“Mr. Knight,” said Al Raji in English. “How pleasant to meet you. You are Miss Frasier’s...bodyguard?”
He hesitated just enough to tell Sam he was onto that bullshit. Everyone pretty much knew they were together. He could hear cameras snapping their photo in the background, photos that would probably be published all over the world. “I’ve been working for her since early this year,” Sam said. “In various capacities.”
“It was good you were with her in Dubai. It was a terrible situation. I feared for her safety but I saw you carried her out.”
Had Sam carried her out? That time in Dubai was still a blur. Perhaps it was better that way. “I’m glad you and Grace were finally able to finish the match,” he said, to change the subject.
“I’m glad too.” Al Raji grimaced. “Although it’s no pleasant thing, being beaten by a woman half your age. I’ll take some teasing from my friends.”
That “teasing” will be a mere fraction of what Grace will put up with, Sam thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. This was Grace’s shining moment, so all he did was smile over at her and squeeze her hand. “In your defense,” said Sam, “Grace is a very talented chess player.”