Searching for Bobby Fischer by Fred Waitzkin Page B

or anyplace else.
    Volodja, who had never really focused on Joshua’s play before, was excited and announced with urgency that his talent would come to nothing if he didn’t develop quickly. He spoke half in Russian, half in English as the men stood around listening. “Josh mustdevelop a willingness to work at the game. He must trust Bruce completely. But speed chess isn’t good for him. It ruined me. I never became a grandmaster,” he said plaintively. It was a great sadness in his life. Arbakov shuffled his feet on the muddy floor and agreed; yes, Josh must study very hard and avoid speed games. His breath reeked of vodka.
    THE COSMOS HOTEL was strictly off-limits for most Russians, perhaps because of its grandeur or the likelihood of meeting wealthy Westerners there. Before our visit, Volodja had never been inside. All guests at Intourist hotels are given identification cards that they must show to a guard at the door. When a writer I knew was leaving Moscow he gave his card to Volodja, who clutched it as if it were a ticket to paradise. Now he would be able to get into the Beryozka shop in the lobby to buy Western tobacco and scores of other commodities not available to Russians. If he could manage to borrow several hundred rubles he could buy a Western camera or stereo, sell it in a secondhand shop for five times what he’d paid for it and be able to send some money to his wife in Denmark.
    Volodja and other Russian intellectuals we met chafed at the frivolous curbs imposed on their personal freedom—sanctions against driving in a car with foreigners, traveling out of the country or entering certain stores. Despite the risk, they seemed almost eager to break the rules, explaining that they could not bear to live stunted lives.
    Walking through the front door of the Cosmos with Volodja was a nervous moment. I clutched my room key, also an acceptable form of identification to show at the door, and found myself leaning away from him; if he was stopped by the police, maybe my complicity would go unnoticed. It was disgraceful, but each time we walked into the hotel, I felt the impulse to distance myself from him.
    The Cosmos is a grand illusion, a rendition of Russia artfully crafted to appeal to the Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Club Med vacation set. It is a glitzy, baldly decadent palace of materialistic and corporal pleasures. The hotel’s brown, curving façade seems to have been patterned after the Fontainbleau Hotel on MiamiBeach, but the Cosmos is bigger and better. Its creators selected a futuristic theme; scores of bars, discos and restaurants have a zippy Star Trek atmosphere, new-wave music and intergalactic names. Looking out the window of our room, cut from the same mold used by Holiday Inn and Hilton for their antiseptic look-alike rooms, the eye travels to a sleek rocket ship on top of the AeroSpace Museum, poised to lift off from the gloomy Moscow morning.
    The hotel is located on the outskirts of the city, miles from most things a tourist would want to see, but it provides the tourist—particularly a Westerner—with everything imaginable to entice him to stay inside. There are AMF bowling alleys to keep tourists in shape for Sunday league games, masseurs standing by to knead away tensions and a heated Olympic-sized swimming pool. If you want Russian atmosphere, the hotel provides plenty. The acres of lobbies are sprinkled with big-screen television monitors showing nature documentaries about Siberia, adventure movies with beautiful Russian landscapes and quaint Russian cartoons to entertain restless kids. If you are feeling tired or lazy, you simply throw your feet up on a luxurious Finnish leather sofa, sip a Beck beer and watch Russia on the tube. There are endless books and postcards to take home, demonstrating that you have ventured behind the Iron Curtain, and legions of helpful Intourist guides happy to describe Russian culture and history by the hour. A weary American could not feel more