His blond hair came almost to his shoulders. It was only when he rose and said, “Hello, Beth,” that she saw it was Benny Watts. The hair had been long in the cover photograph of Chess Review a few months before, but not that long. He looked pale and thin and very calm. Still, Benny had always been calm. “Hello,” she said. “I read about the game with Borgov.” Benny smiled. “It must have felt terrible.” She looked at him suspiciously, but his face was open and sympathetic. And she did not hate him anymore for beating her; there was only one player she hated now, and he was in Russia. “I felt like a fool,” she said. “I know.” He shook his head. “Helpless. It all goes, and you just push wood.” She stared at him. Chess players did not talk so easily about humiliations, did not admit weakness. She started to say something, when the tournament director spoke up loudly. “Play will begin in five minutes.” She nodded to Benny, attempted a smile, and found her table.
