Tatiana

13

Zhenya lived out of train station lockers and hustled chess. Not tedious four-hour games with locked antlers but Blitz: forty moves in five minutes. He took $50 from a ship’s cook waiting for the train to Archangel and as much from an oilman headed to the rigs of Samarkand. Zhenya’s fingers moved pizzicato, plucking pieces off the board. Boarding in ten minutes? Zhenya could fit in two games, maybe three.

His favorite site was a small park called Patriarch’s Ponds, in a neighborhood of embassies, town houses and sidewalk cafés. He sat on a bench and set out his chessboard and pieces as if musing over a difficult position. Sooner or later, someone would stop to give him advice.

In the meantime, he enjoyed the pond’s collection of swans and ducks-mallard, goldeneye, teal-dressed in iridescent feathers. He knew the names of all the waterfowl and the trees. When a boy skipped bottle caps at the swans and was led away by the ear, Zhenya heartily approved. A breeze drove cottonwood fluff to a corner of the pond. The papery seeds of elms were slow enough to catch.

The architecture school of the university was close by, and students on a midday break congregated around benches. Although they were only two years older than Zhenya, they were infinitely more sophisticated. All the students, male and female, held open bottles of beer, casually posing like models in a glossy magazine. Their jeans were torn at the knee as a fashion statement. His jeans were simply worn through. It wasn’t as if they snubbed him. They didn’t see him at all. And what kind of conversation would they have if they did notice him? Snorkeling off the coast of Mexico? Skiing in France? There were half a dozen girls in the group, including a redhead with milk-white skin who was so beautiful that all Zhenya could do was stare. She whispered behind her hand and Zhenya watched the whisper travel through the group.

“Excuse me.”

“What?” Zhenya was startled when a boy spoke to him. He was the largest in the group and wore a Stanford sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you, but aren’t you the Chess Creep?”

“I’m what?”

Other conversations died down.

“We’ve seen you at different train stations hustling games. You’re doing the same thing here. What’s the deal?”

Zhenya felt like an insect under a microscope.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. You’re doing it now. That’s why we call you the Chess Creep.”

Zhenya stood, his face burning. Even so, the Stanford boy loomed over him and said, “Relax, I’m not picking on you. I just want to know, are you the Chess Creep? From your lips. No?” Mr. Stanford turned toward the redhead. “Lotte, is this the Creep or not?”

She said, “The word I used was-”

At that moment a swan came out of the water, hissing, wings spread, neck stretched like a snake, to chase the same brat who had bedeviled him before. As the architecture students bolted, the chessboard was knocked off the bench, scattering pieces in all directions.

Zhenya found himself alone, searching the path and grass and fallen leaves for kings and queens. He found all the pieces except a black pawn that bobbed in the pond out of reach.

Creep rang in Zhenya’s head.

He stuffed everything into his backpack, pushing aside the notebook he had taken from Arkady’s desk. It was a puzzle without a clue but it served a purpose if it forced Arkady to sign the forms for early enlistment in the army. Zhenya had been truant so long he was off the books and going nowhere. How long could he survive by cadging games with weary travelers? Most young people coming through the stations were connected to iPhones. Some didn’t even know basic openings in chess, the most Russian of intellectual tests. Without a diploma, Zhenya would be vying with Tajiks and Uzbeks to push a broom. His other options were the army or the police. He certainly wouldn’t do the latter. The solution rate for professional murders was 4 percent. How could they even call themselves police?