chesspolitik | A Battleground for Rival Ideologies

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A Battleground for Rival Ideologies

If Anatoly had been thinking more clearly, he would have been suspicious of the little reel in the bookcase bearing the label of "Chess 2009". The bookcase had been on a cycle of giving him things he didn't like or need, so the fact that it was cooperating now should have registered as a bad sign.

None of this crossed his mind, however, as he painstakingly threaded the reel to the projector. Whatever it might be - a documentary on the history of chess or showing of a match between two grandmasters, he was certain he was going to enjoy it. This was clearly about his beloved game and there was just no way that it could show him something he would not like.

His first inkling that he was terribly wrong about all of this was the very first shot showing an enormous concert hall. His mouth dropped open as he heard the announcer call "Josh Groban" and he saw himself walk across the stage. The case fell from his fingers as he saw Freddie follow after someone who bore a rather strong resemblance to Maureen. What was this?

The concert started but things still failed to make any kind of sense. Who would write a concert about chess? Why would someone write a concert about chess? He wasn't sure which was more disconcerting - that or that people who looked exactly like him and Freddie appeared to be in it.

When the song about what appeared to the history of chess ended and the main singer with the gloves started speaking, he was horrified. This wasn't a story about chess, this was about him. Him and Freddie and what happened between them and if he could have found the strength to get up to shut the damned thing off, he would have.

He was too shocked to move, to do anything but watch his nightmares play out in song and bizarre chorus. The only comfort he could find was that at least they had gotten Freddie behaving like a bastard right.

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Anatoly opened his mouth to reply but his attention was caught by the current scene. It was the two of them on the screen and they were - were they talking? And Freddie giving him advice?

He looked from the screen to Freddie and then back again. "Are you trying to help me?"

Freddie let out a harsh breath as he looked at the screen, the wall, anything but Anatoly. "You were going to just give up. Give in. To Viigand of all people." His eyes kept going back to the screen. Did he follow Freddie's advice or did he lose? This was what he'd wanted to know since he arrived and he leaned forward on the couch the closer he got to knowing.

"You know why," Anatoly said, his gaze dropping down to his knees. "For Florence."

He had been so sure that decision was the right one. If there was any chance her father was alive, then he didn't want to be the one responsible for keeping her from him. He would lose, she would see her beloved father and her happiness was worth any number of chess games.

But he hadn't known the things he knew now, he hadn't seen the depths of Walter and Molokov's treachery. If he were asked to make this decision again... he wasn't sure what he would do.

"No one came and told me about your King's Indian Defense, though. Perhaps that might have made a difference." He was only joking. Mostly.

Freddie snorted. "You know it wouldn't. Besides, would you really want someone else to tell you about my weaknesses? I only told you his because you weren't looking and you needed someone to jerk you out of your ignorance." It wasn't even ignorance, though, was it? If it had been ignorant, if he hadn't actually been better than Viigand, then Freddie would never have had said a thing, but he was so much better. It was more like deliberately being blindly stupid.

What Anatoly hadn't known from his study of Freddie's games, he had wheedled out of Florence, but he judged that telling him that would be a poor idea, to put it mildly. In any case, that had been a different situation then what was happening on screen.

What decision would this Anatoly make? He thought he knew but he couldn't be sure. In this version as in his life, there was too many complications going on and no real time to make a decision.

The scene changed and he blinked, tugging on Freddie's shirt to get his attention. "Tal? Lasker? Are they - are they naming the champions?"

"What are you do..." Freddie went quiet when he saw what was on the screen and he heard what they were saying. Singing. Whatever. When he replied again, his voice was more hushed. It was almost reverent. "They are." Now this? This was something that Freddie could respect, even with everything.

Anatoly remained quiet throughout the entire scene, with his hand on his heart as his way of paying tribute to the great masters. They were all listed, he was touched to see. This was perhaps the one part of this whole thing that they both could agree on as being good.

And then came that damn music again. Freddie already knew he was going to hate it. It meant that Anatoly was playing a game. His game with Viigand. He was almost afraid to see what happened. Did he throw the match or did he win?

"What would you have done?" he asked quietly.

"It is hard to say," Anatoly answered, running a hand through his hair. "But I think... I think I would have chosen to win because it is like you said - what else did I have left? But if they do this how I imagine they might, then it will be the last few moves of the game that decides."

He paused for a moment, watching the scene and wishing dearly that he could strangle Molokov through the screen. "All through my game, I struggled to know what to do, what was the right thing."

"I just...I need to know." He desperately needed to know one way or the other. Quietly, almost to himself, he added, "I need to know whether what I said made any difference."

There was nothing Anatoly could say in response to that so he simply remained quiet and watched. It had made a difference to him but that hardly helped Freddie. He needed to know what the Anatoly in his world had done.

The more he watched, the more he became convinced that winning the game was the only option. This Florence hardly seemed to understand the pressures he was facing and Svetlana would always despise him for choosing chess over family. Losing to some nobody clearly under Molokov's thumb was unthinkable.

Win and return home. It was the only way this could be played.

"They never really understand, do they?" Freddie murmured. It didn't matter whether he was talking about Florence, Svetlana, anyone. Chess was the only thing either of them had. It was the only thing they'd managed to hold on to through the years, even if he had given up the professional circuit. He would never have given up playing. He just never would have likely found someone who could challenge him.

His back hit the couch when Anatoly made that final move. "Shit." He was slowly starting to grin, though. He'd done it. For once, the pair of them had put Florence behind them and they'd come together for one thing: chess. It was like some huge weight was off his shoulders.

It was a grand gesture, yes, and Anatoly couldn't help feeling a sense of victory. Molokov and Walter had surely not expected that from him and the knowledge he had spoiled their game was thrilling, indeed.

All the same, what did it really change? Perhaps they wouldn't show it, but he knew he would have had to pay for that act of defiance sooner or later. It wouldn't be Freddie who had to deal with the consequences.

"If only that was the end of the story," he sighed quietly.

"I know," Freddie said softly. He went quiet because he had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming. Molokov, Walter, they had played their own game using people as pawns and everyone knew that pawns won nothing. It was always the player who won or lost. He and Anatoly had gotten nothing by listening. Why would Florence?

As Walter approached Florence, he was sure he didn't want to hear this. The previous scene of him leaving her had been devastating enough. What revelations that followed could be nothing good.

"Why couldn't they let us play chess? That is all I ever wanted."

"Because they're assholes. And because...because I don't know." He'd been seduced into the attention. He'd loved the game and he'd loved the attention it brought him and the combination of both of those things was too much to resist.

Believing that Molokov's story about Florence's father being alive to be slightly suspect was one thing. Hearing confirmation that it was truly a lie was something else and if Anatoly could have reached through the projector and strangled Walter right then and there, he would have. Since that was not an option, he settled for loud, virulent cursing in Russian.

And that, right there, was what Freddie had been afraid of. His lips pressed together, but he didn't say anything. What could he say? They'd both been outplayed. Well, there was one thing he could say. Ask, actually. "Do you think it was any different where you were…?" And that was still the most bizarre concept Freddie had ever heard of.

"No," Anatoly shook his head. "I don't believe it could be. Except for that I did not play this Viigand and that I chose to lose, everything else was the same. I think no matter the... whatever you wish to call it, Molokov and de Courcey were the true winners."

Freddie's shoulders dropped a little. "Sure. Whatever." It was disappointed somehow. Was it so wrong for him to want someone to have a happy ending? Of course not. But it was naïve and he wasn't usually naïve.

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A Battleground for Rival Ideologies

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