Work Text:
Florence wiped down the counter for what had to be the fifth time, scrubbing idly at a small discoloration that had predated her and that, in ten years of scrubbing, she’d never managed to affect in any way. She kept at it for longer than was reasonable before throwing the sponge into the sink with disgust. The flat was small and there were only so many rooms in it. Eventually, she’d have to stop making excuses to avoid the living room or, more specifically, the newspaper resting on the coffee table.
It was still open, folded to an article a full half page below the fold. More than the article, she was avoiding the large photograph of two men shaking hands. Florence sighed and went to directly confront her nostalgia masquerading as current events.
Once upon a time, she’d loved both those men. She’d been young, overconfident and far too naïve – a dangerous combination among the political sharks. But then, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have mishandled these things as badly even twenty five more years of experience behind her.
She picked up the paper, scrutinizing the photo. Freddie had on his media face, but his eyes told her he’d rather be anywhere but a stage in Merano reliving his defeat in interview after interview. Sighing, she reached out to trace the line of Anatoly’s jaw.
His face was a bit more lined, some salt and pepper touched his hair, but still that familiar face. She can still read Anatoly like a book, even after all this time. But then, he was never as good as Freddie at masking his feelings. Except, of course, at the board; one never showed weakness at the chess board. Once in their world of black and white both became inscrutable and once upon a time, unbeatable.
She wondered how they’d gotten them there at all for this twenty-fifth anniversary. She’d spent years putting it all behind her and had no doubt they had too. Cold War nostalgia might be all the rage but surely there were limits.
Then, it hit her. This was, as always, all about chess. The media pressure might be there, it always was. But these were Grandmasters playing for their own satisfaction – not for flag and country and certainly not for a girl. They had each other’s measure and each wanted to know what would happen on an even footing because they had never truly found out.
Could Freddie have won without the distraction of her leaving? Could Anatoly have decisively taken his second championship without the distraction of Molokov’s personal and political machinations? These were questions that had always gone unanswered and, clearly, they needed resolution and there was nobody capable of providing it…except each other. No Grandmaster since had faced that level of external pressure, no obvious interpersonal dramas held sway on matches. For these men, it seemed that it was time to lay those ghosts to rest.
Florence decided that she, too, could put this all behind her. She flipped the paper closed, and placed it in the bin. Then she got up, grabbed her mobile and purse and headed out for an evening on the town. She enjoyed seeing the world in all its shades and colors, not merely in black and white.