sir.” Nicholai’s green eyes crinkled with humor. “We both have weaknesses in the area I called poetry.”
The General looked up in surprise. “Ah?”
“Yes, sir. My play lacks much of this quality. Yours has too much of it. Three times during the game you relented in your attack. You chose to make the graceful play, rather than the conclusive one.”
Kishikawa-san laughed softly. “How do you know I was not considering your age and relative inexperience?”
“That would have been condescending and unkind, and I don’t believe you are those things.” Nicholai’s eyes smiled again. “I am sorry, sir, that there are no honorifics in French. It must make my speech sound abrupt and insubordinate.”
“Yes, it does a little. I was just thinking that, in fact.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
The General nodded. “I assume you have played Western chess?”
Nicholai shrugged. “A little. It doesn’t interest me.”
“How would you compare it with Gô?”
Nicholai thought for a second. “Ah… what Gô is to philosophers and warriors, chess is to accountants and merchants.”
“Ah! The bigotry of youth. It would be more kind, Nikko, to say that Gô appeals to the philosopher in any man, and chess to the merchant in him.”
But Nicholai did not recant. “Yes, sir, that would be more kind. But less true.”
The General rose from his cushion, leaving Nicholai to replace the stones. “It is late, and I need my sleep. We’ll play again soon, if you wish.”
“Sir?” said Nicholai, as the General reached the door.
“Yes?”
Nicholai kept his eyes down, shielding himself from the hurt of possible rejection. “Are we to be friends, sir?”
The General gave the question the consideration its serious tone requested. “That could be, Nikko. Let us wait and see.”
It was that very night that Alexandra Ivanovna, deciding at last that General Kishikawa was not of the fabric of the men she had known in the past, came to tap at his bedroom door.
* * *
For the next year and half, they lived as a family. Alexandra Ivanovna became more subdued, more contented, perhaps a little plumper. What she lost in effervescence she gained in an attractive calm that caused Nicholai, for the first time in his life, to like her. Without haste, Nicholai and the General constructed a relationship that was as profound as it was undemonstrative. The one had never had a father; the other, a son. Kishikawa-san was of a temperament to enjoy guiding and shaping a clever, quick-minded young man, even one who was occasionally too bold in his opinions, too confident of his attributes.
Alexandra Ivanovna found emotional shelter in the lee of the General’s strong, gentle personality. He found spice and amusement in her flashes of temperament and wit. Between the General and the woman—politeness, generosity, gentleness, physical pleasure. Between the General and the boy—confidence, honesty, ease, affection, respect.
Then one evening after dinner, Alexandra Ivanovna joked as usual about the nuisance of her swooning fits and retired early to bed… where she died.
* * *
Now the sky is black to the east, purple over China. Out in the floating city the orange and yellow lanterns are winking out, as people make up beds on the canted decks of sampans heeled over in the mud. The air has cooled on the dark plains of inland China, and breezes are no longer drawn in from the sea. The curtains no longer billow inward as the General balances his stone on the nail of his index finger, his mind ranging far from the game before him.
It is two months since Alexandra Ivanovna died, and the General has received orders transferring him. He cannot take Nicholai with him, and he does not want to leave him in Shanghai where he has no friends and where his lack of formal citizenship denies him even the most rudimentary diplomatic protection. He has decided to send the boy to Japan.
The General examines the mother’s refined face,
The General looked up in surprise. “Ah?”
“Yes, sir. My play lacks much of this quality. Yours has too much of it. Three times during the game you relented in your attack. You chose to make the graceful play, rather than the conclusive one.”
Kishikawa-san laughed softly. “How do you know I was not considering your age and relative inexperience?”
“That would have been condescending and unkind, and I don’t believe you are those things.” Nicholai’s eyes smiled again. “I am sorry, sir, that there are no honorifics in French. It must make my speech sound abrupt and insubordinate.”
“Yes, it does a little. I was just thinking that, in fact.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
The General nodded. “I assume you have played Western chess?”
Nicholai shrugged. “A little. It doesn’t interest me.”
“How would you compare it with Gô?”
Nicholai thought for a second. “Ah… what Gô is to philosophers and warriors, chess is to accountants and merchants.”
“Ah! The bigotry of youth. It would be more kind, Nikko, to say that Gô appeals to the philosopher in any man, and chess to the merchant in him.”
But Nicholai did not recant. “Yes, sir, that would be more kind. But less true.”
The General rose from his cushion, leaving Nicholai to replace the stones. “It is late, and I need my sleep. We’ll play again soon, if you wish.”
“Sir?” said Nicholai, as the General reached the door.
“Yes?”
Nicholai kept his eyes down, shielding himself from the hurt of possible rejection. “Are we to be friends, sir?”
The General gave the question the consideration its serious tone requested. “That could be, Nikko. Let us wait and see.”
It was that very night that Alexandra Ivanovna, deciding at last that General Kishikawa was not of the fabric of the men she had known in the past, came to tap at his bedroom door.
* * *
For the next year and half, they lived as a family. Alexandra Ivanovna became more subdued, more contented, perhaps a little plumper. What she lost in effervescence she gained in an attractive calm that caused Nicholai, for the first time in his life, to like her. Without haste, Nicholai and the General constructed a relationship that was as profound as it was undemonstrative. The one had never had a father; the other, a son. Kishikawa-san was of a temperament to enjoy guiding and shaping a clever, quick-minded young man, even one who was occasionally too bold in his opinions, too confident of his attributes.
Alexandra Ivanovna found emotional shelter in the lee of the General’s strong, gentle personality. He found spice and amusement in her flashes of temperament and wit. Between the General and the woman—politeness, generosity, gentleness, physical pleasure. Between the General and the boy—confidence, honesty, ease, affection, respect.
Then one evening after dinner, Alexandra Ivanovna joked as usual about the nuisance of her swooning fits and retired early to bed… where she died.
* * *
Now the sky is black to the east, purple over China. Out in the floating city the orange and yellow lanterns are winking out, as people make up beds on the canted decks of sampans heeled over in the mud. The air has cooled on the dark plains of inland China, and breezes are no longer drawn in from the sea. The curtains no longer billow inward as the General balances his stone on the nail of his index finger, his mind ranging far from the game before him.
It is two months since Alexandra Ivanovna died, and the General has received orders transferring him. He cannot take Nicholai with him, and he does not want to leave him in Shanghai where he has no friends and where his lack of formal citizenship denies him even the most rudimentary diplomatic protection. He has decided to send the boy to Japan.
The General examines the mother’s refined face,
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