Heads You Win

The next three Oxford players kept Sasha occupied for another half hour, but eventually they too succumbed, leaving only their top board remaining on the battlefield. Be patient, Sasha could hear his father saying. Eventually he’ll make a mistake. And he did, twenty minutes later, when Sasha sacrificed a rook and the Oxford captain left an opening that he would regret in another seven moves when Sasha declared, for the eighth time, “Checkmate.”

Oxford’s top board rose from his place, shook hands with Sasha, and bowed low. “We are unw

orthy,” he said, which was greeted with spontaneous applause.

“I do believe that’s a whitewash,” said Streator once the applause had died down. “And I think it’s only fair to warn you, Gareth, that young Karpenko is a freshman, and I’ll make sure I get the right date when we visit you next year.”

* * *

Sasha wondered if he’d ever get used to a woman paying for a round of drinks. “Have you considered standing for the Union committee?” Fiona asked him as she handed him a lager.

He took a sip, which gave him time to think about his response. “What would be the point?” he eventually said. “I can’t even make up my mind which party I support, so who would even consider voting for me?”

“Far more people than you realize,” said Ben before taking a long draft. “After your rousing speech in the Queen and Country debate, and then trouncing the entire Oxford chess team single-handed, they’d vote for you if you stood as a Russian Separatist.”

“Will you be standing, Ben?” Sasha asked.

“You bet. And Fiona’s put her name down for vice president.”

“Well, you’re guaranteed at least two votes from a couple of your most devoted admirers,” said Sasha.

“Thank you,” said Fiona. “But there are plenty of men, including some in my own party, who still think a woman’s place is in the kitchen.”

“Shame on them,” said Ben, raising his glass.

“Not to mention those members of the Labour Party who consider me to be somewhere on the right of Attila the Hun.”

Ben placed his empty glass on the table. “Another round?”

“No, thanks,” said Sasha. “I need an early night if I’m going to explain to Dr. Streator why I think he’s wrong about the Soviet people being best suited to living under a totalitarian regime, even a tsar.”

“Heady stuff,” said Ben. “I wouldn’t dare to disagree with my supervisor.”

“Would he even recognize you if you ever turned up to one of his supervisions?” said Sasha.

Ben ignored the comment. “What about you, Fiona, will you join me for another round?”

“Much as I’d love to, Ben, I also need to get to bed. I don’t want to fall asleep during tomorrow’s Torts lecture.”

“I’d join you,” said Ben, “but I’ve just spotted a group of Liberals who I need to butter up if I’m to have any chance of being elected to the committee.”

“Remember to put in a good word for me,” said Fiona. “And don’t forget you’ll be disqualified from standing if you buy them a drink this close to the election.”

“Ben’s right, you know,” she said to Sasha as they headed out of the Union bar and down the cobbled path to King’s Parade.

“Right about what?”

“That you should stand for the committee,” said Fiona. “You might not be elected first time, but you’d be putting down a marker.”

“A marker for what?”

“Higher office.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll leave that to you.”

“You should at least consider it. Because once you’ve decided which party you support, you could even end up as Union president.”

“I thought that was the job you were after.”