“I don’t know. Go farm beets? Find a harpoon? Come back in half an hour. Chop chop.”
Defne’s my boss, but she’s never felt like my boss so much as she does now, rounding my desk with a serious expression, sitting on it with an agile hop, a cloud of merrily jingling earrings and citrus and tobacco. She stares like we’re about to have a solemn talk, and it occurs to me that the misery of the past few days could be exponentially more pukeworthy if I were to be fired.
Crap.
“I know I’ve been whining, but I promise— ”
“They’re right, Mal.”
“Who is right?”
“FIDE did choose you because you are a woman.” She pauses, letting her words land. “The Nolan thing is bullshit, of course. He doesn’t have nearly as much sway on FIDE, and FIDE must have made the decision before those pics came out. I don’t know what’s happening between you two— ”
“Nothing!”
It’s true enough. I haven’t seen Nolan since I ran out of his apartment three weeks ago in an internet-induced panic, though he did get my number (from Emil, I assume) because he’s been texting me. Initially stuff like Ran away again, did you? and Mallory. Are you okay? and I just want to talk to you. Then, a few days later, while I was watering Darcy’s chia porcupine, Cormenzana always opens with the Ruy Lopez. It was followed by many similar messages, with little advice (Kotov vs. Pachman, 1950) and big (Make sure you hydrate).
I don’t reply. I never reply, because . . .
Because I don’t want to.
Because we’re not friends.
Because I woke up on his couch and my first instinct was to burrow into him. A horror story in fifteen words.
I don’t reply, but I do read. And in between bouts of sulking, I do what he recommends, because it’s irritatingly good advice. I tell myself that he’s helping me only because he hates Koch, but I don’t bother trying to believe it.
It’s not like I’m going to win the Challengers anyway. After all, they only chose me because . . .
“Did you say FIDE did choose me because I’m a woman?”
Defne nods. Then amends, “Not only. But it played a big role.”
“Why? Tons of women play.”
“What do you know about women in chess?”
“Not much.” I remember Koch’s sneer in Philly. I like it better when women stick to their own tournaments. “Just that there are separate tournaments, only for women.”
“Bigger than that— there are separate leagues, separate rankings. It’s a controversial topic: some say these leagues shouldn’t exist, because they hold women back and imply that they cannot hold their own against male players. Others disagree, and want to preserve a space in which we’re not harassed or made to feel like we’re less.”
“What do you think?”
She sighs. “I think it’s damned if you do, damned if you don’t. There’s no winning here, and that’s part of why I stopped playing competitively and chose to focus on . . . still chess, but the part of it that doesn’t make me want to stab a down pillow with a cutlery knife. That stuff’s expensive.”
I’m no stranger to overt and covert sexism— I used to work in a garage, for Bob— and dudes with moronic takes have been a constant in my life, so—
Except that, no. They haven’t.
“I don’t remember it being like that when I played as a kid,” I tell Defne. “Maybe because I was unrated, or my dad shielded me from it, but chess wasn’t always a male-dominated sport.”
She nods. “When you were young, everyone was fascinated with chess and no one really commented on gender, right?”
“Yes.”
“You probably narrowly missed the interesting part. When kids grow up, start looking up to the greats, and find out that Kasparov, their fave, once said that no woman could ever sustain a prolonged battle.”
I stiffen. “Are you serious?”
“Once, after a tournament, I went to dinner with other players. Someone pulled up a YouTube video— an old interview of Fischer saying that women are stupid and bad at chess. Everyone thought it was hilarious.” Defne looks down at her shoes, uncharacteristically subdued. “I was seventeen. And a GM. And the only woman at the table.”
“I— Screw that, Defne.” I stand, livid. She was younger than I am now. Alone with dickheads. “Fischer was a raging antisemite anyway. He doesn’t get to— ”
“The hurtful part wasn’t Fischer, but the guys in my age group who thought that wearing a Female chess player is an oxymoron shirt might be a fun joke. The hurtful part was FIDE not doing anything about it. And I’m there, going to tournaments, losing more and more, often to these chess bros who joke about how female brains are too folded to really comprehend king safety, and I start wondering if they’re right. Female GMs are what, one percent? That’s nothing. Maybe we really are less. Maybe we do need our special league.”
“Do you . . .” I blink at her, betrayed. “Do you really think that?”
“I did. For a while. And the more I did, the more I lost. I took a chess break, actually. Went to college, got my MBA— did you know I have an MBA? Now you do, please don’t tell anyone, it’s my most shameful secret. Anyway, I thought I was done with chess. Then, one day, I read about a study.
“Some scientist in Europe took a bunch of women and had them play online chess against male opponents in their same rating bracket. When the female players didn’t know the gender of their opponent, they won fifty percent of the games. When the female players were led to believe that their opponent was a woman, they won fifty percent of the games. When they were told that they were playing against men, their performance dropped. But in truth, their opponents were always the same.” She shrugs. Her earrings jingle again, despondent. “If you’re a woman, this system tears you down. Makes you doubt yourself and drop out of the chess club to leave room for the ones who are actually talented. Oz, Emil, Nolan . . . even the good ones, they don’t know how it feels. They don’t know what it’s like, being told that you’re inherently destined to be second best.” Suddenly, Defne’s expression shifts into an impish smile. “But it’s not true. And once we know it, they cannot take it away from us. The day after I read about the study, I went to get this.” She slips her arm out of the sleeve of her cardigan. The chessboard tattoo curves against her biceps.
“What is it?”
“Moscow, 2002. The final position of the game Judith Polgar won against Garry Kasparov. Despite that pesky thing he once referred to as her ‘imperfect feminine psyche.’ ”