Kishikawa-san was pleased with the way Nicholai said this last, without braggadocio and without British coyness, as he might have said he was left-handed, or green-eyed. At the same time, the General had to smile to himself when he realized that the boy had obviously rehearsed his first sentence, for while that had been quite correct, his subsequent statements had revealed errors of idiom and pronunciation. The General kept his amusement to himself, recognizing that Nicholai was of an age to take himself very seriously and to be deeply stung by embarrassment.

“I shall help you with your Japanese, if you wish,” Kishikawa-san said. “But first, let us see if you are an interesting opponent at Gô.”

Nicholai was given a four-stone handicap, and they played a quick, time-limit game, as the General had a full day of work tomorrow. Soon they were absorbed, and Alexandra Ivanovna, who could never see much point in social events of which she was not the center, complained of feeling a bit faint and retired.

The General won, but not as easily as he should have. As he was a gifted amateur capable of giving professionals close combat with minimum handicaps, he was greatly impressed by Nicholai’s peculiar style of play.

“How long have you been playing Gô?” he asked, speaking in French to relieve Nicholai of the task of alien expression.

“Oh, four or five years, I suppose, sir.”

The General frowned. “Five years? But… how old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir. I know I look younger than I am. It’s a family trait.”

Kishikawa-san nodded and smiled to himself as he thought of Alexandra Ivanovna who, when she had filled out her identity papers for the Occupation Authority, had taken advantage of this “family trait” by blatantly setting down a birth date that suggested she had been the mistress of a White Army general at the age of eleven and had given birth to Nicholai while still in her teens. The General’s intelligence service had long ago apprised him of the facts concerning the Countess, but he allowed her this trivial gesture of coquetry, particularly considering what he knew of her unfortunate medical history.

“Still, even for a man of thirteen, you play a remarkable game, Nikko.” During the course of the game, the General had manufactured this nickname that allowed him to avoid the troublesome “l.” It remained forever his name for Nicholai. “I suppose you have not had any formal training?”

“No, sir. I have never had any instruction at all. I learned from reading books.”

“Really? That is unheard of.”

“Perhaps so, sir. But I am very intelligent.”

For a moment, the General examined the lad’s impassive face, its absinthe eyes frankly returning the officer’s gaze. “Tell me, Nikko. Why did you choose to study Gô? It is almost exclusively a Japanese game. Certainly none of your friends played the game. They probably never even heard of it.”

“That is precisely why I chose Gô, sir.”

“I see.” What a strange boy. At once both vulnerably honest and arrogant. “And has your reading given you to understand what qualities are necessary to be a fine player?”

Nicholai considered for a moment before answering. “Well, of course one must have concentration. Courage. Self-control. That goes without saying. But more important than these, one must have… I don’t know how to say it. One must be both a mathematician and a poet. As though poetry were a science; or mathematics an art. One must have an affection for proportion to play Gô at all well. I am not expressing myself well, sir. I’m sorry.”

“On the contrary. You are doing very well in your attempt to express the inexpressible. Of these qualities you have named, Nikko, where do you believe your own strengths lie?”

“In the mathematics, sir. In concentration and self-control.”

“And your weaknesses?”

“In what I called poetry.”

The General frowned and glanced away from the boy. It was strange that he should recognize this. At his age, he should not be able to stand outside himself and report with such detachment. One might expect Nikko to realize the need for certain Western qualities to play Gô well, qualities like concentration, self-control, courage. But to recognize the need for the receptive, sensitive qualities he called poetry was outside that linear logic that is the Western mind’s strength… and limitation. But then—considering that Nicholai was born of the best blood of Europe but raised in the crucible of China—was he really Western? Certainly he was not Oriental either. He was of no racial culture. Or was it better to think of him as the sole member of a racial culture of his own?

“You and I share that weakness, 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.