Chương 65: Book 3 - Chapter 6 B

I smiled to myself, shaking off the somber mood of the music. The emotional weight of Shostakovich was exhausting, even for a non-competitor. I needed a pause, but before my fingers could lift from the keyboard, I heard the sound of a loud Russian greeting as two men passed in the hall outside. Boris's exit had crossed my next audience member's entrance. The new sound of quick, purposeful steps on the carpet covered hallway moved to the bare wood of the room and cut through the quiet.

This man moved with the authority of someone accustomed to being noticed. He was tall, with a confident athletic build and impeccably neat hair. He appeared around the corner, drawn by the music's final notes. He was Lev Alburt, and he looked intensely pleased, even eager.

"Shostakovich!" he exclaimed in heavily accented English, his voice booming slightly in the empty hall.

"You play with great power, young man. It's rare to hear such passion for the Russian school here." He started to walk toward me, but halfway across the floor, he stopped dead. His expression, which had been one of musical approval, shifted dramatically into something akin to a computer rebooting. He wasn't just looking at my small hands on the piano or the jeans and blue button up long sleeve shirt I was wearing. He was looking at my face. The recognition was instant.

Of the two people at this competition who had met me, he was the one who I had not played. Instead it had been his duty to hand me the trophy that Grandma now displayed so proudly.

"It's the kid!" he gasped, utterly and magnificently defeated by the realization. The snort of laughter bubbling out from Matt caught his attention for a moment. I couldn't help my grin.

"Hello, Mr Alburt. I am very glad to see you again," I said, reciprocating his English.

"I hope you have been well since you presented me with the trophy in Fort Worth." Lev Alburt stood motionless for another second, then slowly dropped his suitcase with a soft thud onto the polished wood floor. He lifted a hand to his forehead, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh that echoed off the high ceiling.

"They told me there was a surprise competitor after Tarjan dropped out. I didn't expect you!" So much had happened between out first meeting and now. I stood, and reached out to shake his hand.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mr Alburt."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I remember your last name is Cook and you came with a giant of a man."

"Dr John Cook," I told him as we shook hands.

"Your Mother named you Doctor? I would have remembered that," he said as he shook my hand. Matt stood up from his chair, and gave a slight wave in greeting.

"I still have my giant," I joked leaning my head in Matt's direction.

"And I earned a Doctorate since we saw each other last. A PhD in Physics."

"How old are you again?" he asked.

"Nine," was my simple answer.

"Dr John Cook, a doctor of physics… is nine years old!" He didn't sound angry or confused—he sounded thrilled, like he had just solved a beautiful, impossible chess problem. I sat back at the piano as I let his mind come back to the present.

"U vas yest' pros'ba, gospodin Al'burt?" (Do you have a request, Mr Alburt?) I asked him in flawless Russian.

"You speak Russian too!" Lev exclaimed in the same language.

"Fifty hours of audio tapes," I explained.

"Is my accent right? I haven't had anyone to practice with. I've been looking forward to the chance here at the competition."

"You sound like a Muscovite, your accent is flawless," he assured.

"Wonderful," I said playing a short arpeggio to warm my hands back up. The music caught his attention.

"You didn't speak Russian when at the tournament did you?"

"No, It's a recent acquisition."

"And the piano playing?" he asked, feeling overwhelmed. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"Lessons from my Mom for many, many years." He gave a stiff nod to himself. I could see his consideration. Did he ask for something difficult to test me? Or would he choose something he would enjoy listening to? The moment of decision was clear in his eyes. The competitor in him wanted to challenge the anomaly, but the émigré and music lover won. But there was a way to have both.

"Da," he said, taking one of the plush red armchairs where he could sit and watch.

"If you know it… can you play something by Rachmaninoff? The Prelude in C-sharp minor. It is very dramatic, but also very Russian." I smiled. Rachmaninoff was exceedingly technically difficult and deeply emotional—the perfect choice for someone torn between cultures.

"With pleasure," I confirmed. I waited a beat to gather the massive sound, then attacked the opening. The famous piece demands an almost orchestral power, starting with three ringing, mournful chords that immediately plunged the room into darkness and drama. The melody, built from tolling bell sounds, spoke of grand sadness and overwhelming power, easily dwarfing the quiet tension of the hotel and demanding total attention.

The sheer technical difficulty of the middle section allowed my hands to fly across the keyboard, silencing any lingering doubt Lev Alburt might have had about my skill. I brought the piece to its powerful, definitive close, the final low chords rumbling in the bass, and looked up. Lev was leaning back, his eyes closed, the pleasure and release evident on his face.

"Thank you, Dr Cook," he said, his voice quiet again.

"That was superb." A large shadow fell over us. Matt stood next to the piano.

"Sorry to interrupt the concert, boss," Matt's low, easy voice rumbled.

"It's about time for dinner. The dining room opens in five minutes." I sighed, already missing the piano.

"Yes, Matt. Thank you." I turned back to Lev Alburt, offering him a winning smile.

"I hope we can continue this conversation after the tournament begins, Mr Alburt. It was a pleasure." The competition hall was a stately, high-ceilinged room on the main floor. The light was subdued and the focus intense. The only sounds were the light, rhythmic click of clocks, a faint murmur of voices and the occasional scrape of a chair adjusted for comfort. I felt the familiar thrill of stepping into a system I could control.

The only challenge in this tournament was ensuring my results generated the correct kind of attention: that of a calculating, strategic master, not a child prodigy reliant on flash. To sweep the competition would have been dangerous. Too much attention, too much like Bobby Fischer. This was a gambit for the perfect level of media attention, a continuation of the move I started in Fort Worth. I would win, there was no doubt. I was ready to draw on four and win nine.

My first opponent was International Master Maxim Dlugy, only nineteen and the second youngest participant. I needed to send a clear message. My omniscient knowledge dictated a clean, decisive victory to signal the change from the flash of the 'Cook Swarm' that won in Texas to the cold, professional efficiency of my new chess persona, the 'Positional Genius.' I opened with a cold, solid positional line, intentionally denying him the open board he needed for his tactics.

Max tried to force complications, sacrificing a pawn for a fleeting initiative, but my preparation was absolute. I executed the plan I had laid out. The win was a surgical, flawless positional execution. I shook his hand.

"Good game. At least you aren't the kid in the room anymore," I offered and left the room. My play having announced that the 'Cook Swarm' of last year had evolved into a game of position. Monday I sat opposite International Master Joel Benjamin, a twenty-one-year-old rising talent from the US, who played with a solid, theoretical confidence. He was a player everyone would be cautious against.

I deliberately steered the game into an obscure but heavily analyzed corner of opening theory, using a line I knew led to an inevitable and symmetrical forced draw. I had already decided this would be one of my draws before sitting down to play. The half point earned by the draw was fully calculated and secure. We maneuvered for three hours in a complex, closed position. I offered the draw on move thirty-two and Joel, recognizing the exhaustion of further maneuvering in a dead position, accepted.

It was an honorable draw, a handshake that signaled a mutual professional respect, and precisely the result my long-term tournament plan demanded. Tuesday was Larry Christiansen, a twenty-nine-year-old Grandmaster famous for his hyper-aggressive, sharp style. Larry was the perfect opponent to demonstrate the illusion of a struggle. His style was all risk. Mine was all control. Larry opened sharply, attempting to pull me into the tactical chaos he craved. I let him, absorbing his aggression like a sponge.

My precise defensive sequence neutralized the pressure while simultaneously creating structural weaknesses in his camp. A tidal wave breaking on a high rocky cliff. I forced myself to take a long, visible pause for the photographers and the observers before executing the counter attack—a flourish ensuring the media saw a brilliant defense. When the air cleared, the position was technically lost for him. He resigned and I walked away with another point.

My opponent Wednesday was Lubomir Kavalek, a respected forty-two-year-old Grandmaster from Czechoslovakia, now playing for the US. I used an obscure, technically flawless variation of the Queen's Gambit Declined—a line I had analyzed to the thirty-first move specifically for Kavalek, specifically chosen to be outside of his main repertoire, forcing him into a positional struggle on unfamiliar ground. The sheer consistency of my calculated positional pressure and speed was enough to exhaust and defeat the veteran.

I played quick. Each move coming moments after his. Demonstrating I knew his next move even before he did. The game still ran long, running over three hours, and ended with a win that was a pure professional execution, won not at the board, but in the speed of my precision. My fifth opponent on Thursday was John Fedorowicz, a twenty-seven-year-old International Master known for his extreme solidity and exceptional theoretical knowledge.

Fedo was an impenetrable barrier, and a full-point victory would require an unnecessary display. He would be my second draw and I was already feeling bored by the tournament. I simply played what my memories told me created the draw I wanted. My internal focus was entirely on other things. My evening piano concerts for the other players and hotel guests.

My growing joy as the Soviet defectors taught me scurrilous drinking songs in Russian and Ukrainian that if the hotel staff had known, would have shut down the performance. The coming long car ride to Colorado Springs, and back again. We matched each other move for move in the opening, leading to a complex but entirely balanced middle game. It was an honorable result, securing my score and tournament lead into the first rest day.