“I’m one of the best around,” I say.
She laughs, “Good! We’ll go for it.”
With things going so well I move into another area. “How about some background on, on Mikey—why do you call him that?”
“Sidney calls him David. Used to call him Mikhail, the Russian. When he was in Junior High, Mikhail because he was always reading Russian chess books—just the annotations. But who can say Mikhail a lot? Mikey’s easier, and more American.”
“Nobody calls him David?”
“I said, Sidney calls him David.”
“What does he want to be called?”
“He wants to study chess books. Some days I call him Davey, especially if Sidney actually sends some cash, which from to time he does. Conscience, heard of it? You probably have, especially with her.” She motions toward the other room.
“What does that mean?”
“Such sensitivity. It don’t mean a thing. Nothin’ nothing. Don’t be so nervous. And call me Vera. And what did ya say your name was?”
“Paul Snell.”
“And that is Mrs. Snell?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I didn’t think so. Jesus, what is she on anyway?”
“On?”
“Don’t be cute with me. That, I don’t like. Just when we were getting’ to know each other, you get cute. I don’t like that, see? For business reasons I’d like to know whether you’re doing the same stuff she is, are ya?”
“You mean macramé, leather wallets, rope-soled sandals?”
“I told you not to be cute, so why don’t ya listen to me? Here we are trying to reach an agreement, and I need to have some very clear information who I’m dealing with and whether I should continue to enter these negotiations. So I’m asking a simple, direct question. I’m not taking Mikey into some place that’s drug heaven.”
I think, is Hane drug heaven? “If you’re asking whether I’m doing drugs, the question is insulting. I’m a normal American which means of course I smoke grass, snort cocaine, do hash when I can get it, and have thought about injecting stronger stuff. But I’m no hippie drug freak. I’m a reputable emerging authority on the chess world. You can testify to my expertise. In fact, I’d like to use you as a reference.”
Vera merely waves her had at me and says very quietly, “Look, there’s something wrong with her.”
“There’s something wrong with all of us.”
She sighs, puts both hands on the table, “When do we get the tickets? And where we gonna stay?”
“I’ll have to get authorization from my publisher. That won’t be any problem. Yes, there is something wrong with her, and yes she is on something. Librium and some mood elevators, maybe lithium, I don’t know. But I’m not on anything, not interested in anything. You should feel safe. And Mikey should feel protected. In good hands. Good regular and boring hands. But even when she’s on something, she’s a whole lot better than you are, so why don’t you shut up about her for a while?” I’m surprised by my sudden sentiment.
“So touchy,” Vera says, “so very touchy. I didn’t realize you were so connected to her.”
“Connected?” I am somewhat puzzled by my own growing irritation.
“Young love,” Vera says. “Ya want fresh coffee?”
“No. I want to meet Mikey.”
The hallway’s narrow, chocolate shag corridor is, in fact, a time warp. Coming into Mikey’s room is like coming into another country, another time. Initial obstacle course—stacks of books are in the doorway and against the walls and in the middle of the room. Some stacks are over four feet high. The ones against the wall reach to eye level, a little higher in the corners. In the center of the room, in a space consciously cleared among the stacks are three small typing tables, each one holding a wooden chess board and rather large Stanton-style chess pieces. Mikey sits on a heavily padded desk chair that can swivel and sway. Pam is kneeling beside him, hands on the top of his left thigh, watching him rearrange the pieces on the board in front of him. He quickly shuffles the pieces about and then asks her something. She arches up higher, pressing harder on his thigh, and points to a rook.
“Nah,” he says abruptly and quickly moves the queen down, offers a sacrifice, and shows Pam three variations and says, “He resigned.”
Pam laughs, wonderfully entranced.
“Mikey,” Vera calls from over my shoulder. “Mikey, this is Mr., Mr., what is it again?”
“Snell,” Mikey says. “And yes, I’ll do it. We’ll do it, won’t we?” he says holding Pam’s hand and pushing the black king over with her index finger. “Lemme show you Feldt versus Alekhine, 1917, a blindfold game. Unbelievable.” He drops her hand and begins rearranging the pieces.
“Congratulations on the U.S. Open,” I say to Mikey. “You played terrifically!”
He stops rearranging the pieces, looks down at Pam, then at me, then down at Pam. He says loudly, “They shoulda made me a grandmaster!”
Pam instantly applauds.
Chapter 11
“Can you believe it?” Pam shouts when we are back in our room. “My daddy should see those books. Books from everywhere. Maybe the biggest chess library in the world. Maybe bigger than the Library of Congress holdings. He says so anyway. And that’s only part of it. There’s more in Baltimore.”
“There’s always more in Baltimore.”
“And he knows every game ever played. Every one, every, every one! He let me open a book and start reading off the moves and then would go ahead and recite the rest for me. And he was always right. Always.”
“I suppose he cooks, too.”
Pam thinks a moment or two—an infuriatingly serious deliberation about my comment. “I don’t know. Maybe he does. I’m sure he could, if he put his mind to it. He just knows everything there is to know about chess.”
“Maybe we could get him to do the column.”
“He says he doesn’t like to write. Only to play chess.”
“You seem to have gotten along with him splendidly.”
“I like him a lot. And I want daddy to meet him. He’s very natural and kind of special.”
“Ahhh.”
“Oh, I see. You are, you actually are, jealous. Oh, that makes me feel very good. Very warm for you. Go on. Be a little more jealous, will you?”
“He has acne.”
“Yes, and it’s beautiful acne, sculptured acne. I bet his back has the most beautiful pock marks.”
“Very good, Pam.”
“He’s just a boy, Paul. You really shouldn’t think about him at all. You know that, don’t you?