“On the same side, yes,” said his father, “but only because they considered us the lesser of two evils.” Alexander gave this some thought as his father stood up. “Shall we have a game of chess while we’re waiting?” he asked. Alexander nodded. His favorite part of the day. “You set up the board while I go and wash my hands.”
Once Konstantin had left the room, Elena whispered, “Why not let him win for a change?”
“Never,” said Alexander. “In any case, he’d know if I wasn’t trying, and leather me.” He pulled open the drawer below the kitchen table and took out an old wooden board and a box containing a set of chess pieces, one of which was missing, so each night a plastic salt cellar had to substitute for a bishop.
Alexander moved his king’s pawn two squares forward, before his father returned. Konstantin responded immediately, moving his queen’s pawn one square forward.
“How did you do in the match?” he asked.
“We won three nil,” said Alexander, moving his queen’s knight.
“Another clean sheet, well done,” said Konstantin. “Although you’re the best goalkeeper the school’s had in years, it’s still more important to win that scholarship. I assume you still haven’t heard anything?”
“Nothing,” said Alexander, as he made his next move. It was a few moments before his father countered. “Papa, can I ask if you’ve managed to get a ticket for the match on Saturday?”
“No,” admitted his father, his eyes never leaving the board. “They’re rarer than a virgin on Nevsky Prospect.”
“Konstantin!” said Elena. “You can behave like a docker when you’re at work, but not at home.”
Konstantin grinned at his son. “But your uncle Kolya has been promised a couple of tickets on the terraces, and as I have no interest in going…” Alexander leaped in the air as his father made his next move, pleased to have distracted his son.
“You could have had as many tickets as you wanted,” said Elena, “if only you’d agree to become a party member.”
“That’s not something I’m willing to do, as you well know. Quid pro quo. An expression you taught me,” said Konstantin, looking across the table at his son. “Never forget, that lot will always expect something in return, and I’m not willing to sell my friends down the river for a couple of tickets to a football match.”
“But we haven’t reached the semifinal of the cup for years,” said Alexander.
“And probably won’t again in my lifetime. But it will take far more than that to get me to join the Communist Party.”
“Vladimir’s already a pioneer and signed up for the Komsomol,” said Alexander, after he’d made his next move.
“Hardly surprising,” said Konstantin. “Otherwise he’d have no chance of joining the KGB, which is the natural habitat for that particular piece of pond life.”
Once again, Alexander was distracted. “Why are you always so hard on him, Papa?”
“Because he’s a shifty little bastard, just like his father. Be sure you never trust him with a secret, because it will have been passed on to the KGB before you’ve reached home.”
“He’s not that bright,” said Alexander. “Frankly, he’ll be lucky to be offered a place at the state university.”
“He may not be bright, but he’s cunning and ruthless, a dangerous combination. Believe me, he’d shop his mother for a ticket to the cup final, probably even the semifinal.”
“Supper’s ready,” said Elena.
“Shall we call it a draw?” said Konstantin.
“Certainly not, Papa. I’m six moves away from checkmate, and you know it.”
“Stop squabbling, you two,” said Elena, “and lay the table.”
“When did I last manage to beat you?” asked Konstantin as he placed his king on its side.
“November the nineteenth, 1967,” said Alexander, as the two of them stood up and shook hands.
Alexander put the salt cellar back on the table and returned the chess pieces to the box while his father took down three plates from the shelf above the sink. Alexander opened the kitchen drawer and took out three knives and three forks of different vintages. He recalled a paragraph in War and Peace that he’d just translated. The Rostovs regularly enjoyed a five-course dinner (better word than “supper”—he would change it when he returned to his room), and a different set of silver cutlery accompanied each dish. The family also had a dozen liveried servants who stood behind each chair to serve the meals that had been prepared by three cooks, who never seemed to leave the kitchen. But Alexander was sure that the Rostovs couldn’t have had a better cook than his mother, otherwise she wouldn’t be working in the officers’ club.
One day … he told himself, as he finished laying the table and sat back down on the bench opposite his father. Elena joined them with the evening’s offering, which she divided between the three of them, but not equally. The thick steak that along with the parsnips and the potatoes, had been “repatriated”—a word Alexander had taught her, had been cut into two pieces. “Waste not, want not,” she could manage in both languages.
“I’ve got a church meeting this evening,” said Konstantin as he picked up his fork. “But I shouldn’t be back too late.”