The Deaths of Chess Players
Nick Soto
There’s a desperate quality inherent in all men who devote their lives to chess. Take me
for example: I’ve played with passion for as long as I can remember. As a child I taught myself to
play; searched for meaning while marching armies up and down the board, because for me it
was the end all be all. Now though, in my later years, I’m forced to admit for a variety of
reasons that it’s something I’m simply no good at. I could beat you, probably without even
trying, or maybe could beat half the people in the city and in doing so, can fight my way to a
nice middle-ground where I can throw a little weight around at tournaments. But the truth is
that despite all my years of devotion to something that doesn’t love me back, despite how hard
I try, I just can’t seem to break out of a rating that’s slightly above average. And even if I did
manage to break out of this rut I’m in of being consistently rated around 1880, and could break
into the mid 1900’s, I’d still be a far cry from Grand Master, which is different than being a
stone’s throw away from something you have your heart set on, because then you can just try a
little harder, but no, I’ll always be a nobody; unsung and forgotten.
Really, the whole thing got to be too much for me. I simply couldn’t face it so I stopped
going to tournaments, stopped the careful examination of texts full of theory, and even
stopped talking to my friends because all they wanted to do was play, or talk about Capablanca,
or Magnusson, or Gary Kasparov beating Deep Blue. Even that maniac Bobby Fischer no longer
interested me, and whenever I felt the conversation headed in any one of these directions I’d
quickly head diagonally across the board and instead bring up the deaths of chess players. I’d
start talking about Steinitz in an insane asylum, Abe Turner getting stabbed nine times in the
back by a friend at Chess Review, or Perlis freezing to death while searching for something
undefined in the Alps. Or maybe I’d casually mention Henry Pillsbury catching syphilis from a
Russian whore and then losing his mind, or Alekhine choking on dinner, or even Landau getting
gassed by Nazis as Alexy Troitzky starved during the Siege of Leningrad. My last real friend was
named Charles, and one day he tried to tell me that just because I couldn’t be the best didn’t
mean the whole thing was pointless. I told him to mind his own business because really, what
did he know? I’d spent my whole life on this, while he, who admittedly only played for fun,
played just as well as I. His wife came in the room and I immediately brought up Paulus getting
high on heroin, then falling out of the second story window of his hotel room and breaking his
neck. Then, just to prove a point, I dropped my mug of tea on the linoleum floor, sending small
pieces of ceramic everywhere in an almost effortless pandemonium that could only be
described as Knight takes Queen. It was then that both my friend and his wife decided they’d
had enough. I laughed all the way home and haven’t seen either one of them since.
In chess though, every game is analyzed as if it were the perfect game, with every
mistake you make simply being a variation on that one perfect game. I’ll put it into terms you
can understand by asking you to think for a moment of a basketball game where every player
makes every shot he attempts. Now imagine that every time a player missed a shot, that it was
simply a variation on that one original game. This is how chess is analyzed, and this is why I can
pinpoint with absolute certainty, that the moment I just described to you was the moment
2
everything afterwards hinged upon. All I did was loosen my grip and let go. Who would have
thought a broken mug could change everything?
First of all, I found that having no more friends I no longer had anywhere to go. Breaking
up with others isn’t quite as difficult as breaking up with yourself, so I found myself searching at
the very least for a distraction. Chess being all I knew, I gravitated to those places where old
chess players go to die, where I thought I might at least be able to heckle my way through the
week. One day while watching a particularly pedestrian game between an old man and his wife,
I overheard them saying that Yuri Rodriguez, a Grand Master turned recluse, had started giving
lectures at a local community center for whatever change he could collect in a basket. I resisted
initially, but couldn’t help myself, and so went to hear whatever it was he felt he had to say.
A Grand Master who wasn’t living the Grand Master life, Yuri Rodriguez looked less than
what I’d expected for a man who supposedly defeated Karl Manov twice between 1992 and
1997. He was short, but not too short, and his long graying hair had to be pushed away from his
drooping eyelids as he spoke. I went several times to hear him, always on Mondays, and
listened as he went over games he’d played in the past, or games of other Masters. Then the
whole room would spend an hour playing each other, me and the room full of seniors, while
Yuri simply sat and watched, meticulously dipping butter cookies into a paper cup filled with
cold black coffee.
“How long do you plan on playing chess?” I asked him one time, catching him off guard.
I know it surprised him because his hand stopped its dunking as he looked at me, bits of cookie
drowning in the inky black of his morning Joe. Pawn checks King.
3
“I don’t know,” he said. Or maybe: “It isn’t up to me.” Either way those were the only
words we exchanged that day because soon after he suddenly took an interest in helping other
players one-on-one. The next time I saw him though, he was ready for me. He began that day
by showing us a game he had played against Heinz Keitel in the late 90’s. They had agreed to
play best of nine with Yuri winning the first, but then losing the next four. In fact, in one of
those matches Keitel had beaten him in seven or eight moves as if Yuri had somehow forgotten
the rules of chess, or as if he’d simply had enough and had thrown in the towel. The game Yuri
showed us though, was the decisive sixth game where Yuri had finally managed to turn things
around.
Game six was like going to the park to meet your girlfriend but instead running into your
wife. Those are Yuri’s words, not mine. I asked him what he meant by that and he told me that
when he’d sat down across from Keitel that day he knew he was going to win, but didn’t know
how. Strange sayings aside, all of us at the community center watched as Yuri explained the
posturing of the opening moves of the game that day, and then showed us how the more
decisive moves of the middle game became the struggles of the end game. We watched as in
the end Keitel was trapped, which I got no satisfaction in seeing, and then just as the basket
began to be passed around, Yuri, in his closing remarks, told us that going into a chess game
without a plan is no way to play, and that it had only been through sheer luck that he’d won
that day. He told us that afterwards he was in fact, able to win the last three games, but that
that was the last tournament he’d ever played in. He then sat down and began reading the
newspaper as if nothing had happened.
4
As soon as everyone else started setting up their boards I walked over to where Yuri was
sitting but, before I could get out word one he stopped me dead in my tracks by saying, I’m old
and tired, leave me alone.
This is when I knew that we’d be friends. Or something like friends anyway. Unlike other
types of competition chess isn’t about besting someone physically, instead chess is about
defeating someone’s mind. This is how I knew that it wasn’t simply a matter of getting him to
accept my physical presence—I could come hear him speak whenever I wanted—but rather, my
struggle here was against his mind. I already knew, as I’m sure he must have, that our
association in a sense had already begun. These early interactions were simply the opening
moves of a much longer game, and in time before either of us knew it, the middle game of our
friendship was at hand. Perhaps then, if you can imagine, we slowly came to know each other in
fits and starts. He’d analyze a game in front of everyone, I’d ask him for certain clarifications or
propose a variation, he’d pretend not to care but his reply always came the following week in
the form of a game he’d played in the past, or hidden in the analysis of a game played by one of
those long dead masters we both held in such high regard. Slowly then, we had a conversation
spanning several months, until the shared experience of it all created a bond of at least
grudging respect, and soon his replies came not in the form of the analysis of other games, but
instead we played our own.
Time and again he beat me. After a trouncing he might say to me: “Your defense was
good but I knew I had you at turn four.” Or: “I once played against a man named Walter Harris;
you only did slightly better than him but overall he’s far and away the better player.”
5
Of course, it bothered me to be told such things, even though chess for me was an
endless treadmill of trying to get better but failing. I considered it all part of a larger game that
was being played though, and so endured, and then one day it happened. He was sitting as he
always does, with his head in his hands as he plotted my unraveling, when I realized he’d
overlooked the fact that I was two pawns ahead going into the early endgame. My best bet
then, was to sacrifice my pieces for his and let my two pawn advantage decide everything. The
plan worked better than expected and before I knew it we both sat back, staring at the obvious
checkmate on the board in front of us. I’d finally won.
He laughed as if the whole thing were just a fluke, then buried his head in his newspaper
as usual. At that point the nature of things changed. We’d meet at his apartment to play games
and discuss the greats. One time I told him that the only thing I hated more than the greats
were the almost great.
“You take it too seriously.” He said in reply.
Me: You’re a grandmaster yet you live in a dust-filled hovel. I’d say you don’t take it
seriously enough.
Yuri: I actually enjoy playing; it’s not something I try to overcome. If I were bad at it I’d
still play for fun, or to pass the time.
Me: I’m a horrible player, doomed to die in obscurity. That hasn’t stopped me though
from devoting everything I have in an attempt to improve. (Except of course, for the fact that I
had quit, but I didn’t let Yuri know this, at least not right now.)
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Yuri: But what enjoyment do you get out of it? Chess for you is like a love interest that
you secretly hate but can’t stop having dinner with. Like a bad marriage you can’t get away
from you wake up next to it every morning and then hate yourself for the kisses you receive.
“More like a prison I can’t escape,” I said.
Other discussions of ours were more mundane. Yuri was very open with me about his
finances, telling me he’d lived off his winnings from the matches he’d played when he was
younger, existing in a sort of reasonable middle-class squalor for a number of years. The well
though, seems to have been running dry, which caused Yuri a great deal of stress because as he
put it, he wasn’t equipped for anything but chess. It was a lie, of course: the self-made rumor of
his impending demise. I told him that if he really needed money that he should come out of
retirement and travel around playing exhibitions. I even told him that I’d help with costs and
could assist in finding games.
“Yuri Rodriguez out of retirement…” he whispered to himself that day.
Another three months passed before he brought it up again. I’d been staring at a small
round chip that had the number five on it, wondering where it had come from and what it was
doing under Yuri’s sofa when he suddenly looked up from whatever he was doing and said,
there’s nothing to worry about, I was a completely different person then.
I still couldn’t quite figure out what he meant, and my confusion must have been
evident on my face because Yuri quickly said, as if to change the subject, that he’d given it some
thought and wanted to know how much I figured could be made by playing exhibitions.
Without even thinking I told him that the number was probably somewhere in the hundreds-of7
thousands, enough anyway to comfortably plan whatever came next. Yuri only smiled. And
that’s pretty much how it happened. I won’t bore you with trivial details of plans made and
tickets paid for, even though there’s actually a fairly amusing story of how we came about
getting the money together for everything. I’ll spare you for now and instead say that for
certain reasons we decided first to travel to Buenos Aires where Yuri had an agreement to play
the reigning champion there best of seven. The prize amounted to around 20,000 dollars US,
which we both thought of hungrily as we planned the meals we’d have after he’d won. The
truth of things is that both of us were dead broke.
The match in Buenos Aires was played over the course of two weeks, mainly in an old
cathedral but also in a courtyard filled with curious men and women who all acted as if they’d
seen a ghost whenever Yuri walked in the room. Yuri and I were hoping for a quick few matches
so that we could get out of South America as soon as possible but, I suppose that owing to the
fact that he hadn’t played in a tournament of any sort for at least a decade, Yuri’s showing was
less than phenomenal and the series dragged on until the seventh and final game; where things
weren’t looking so good at first. Then, at some point in the late middle-game, just as Yuri’s
opponent (a real bear of a man named Alejandro Pasinov) was about to make the move that
everyone in the room could clearly see would seal Yuri’s fate, there was a large and sudden clap
of thunder from outside, and then without further warning it began to rain torrentially. The
whole thing startled Alejandro to the point that he must have lost focus, or believed the noise
to be a message from God, or maybe he simply lost his will. Either way, he second guessed
himself and made the wrong move, allowing Yuri to narrowly escape by the skin of his teeth.
Later, as we counted our winnings, Yuri remarked that luck played just a big a role as anything
8
when determining success. I told him that his assertion was ridiculous and we didn’t talk
anymore about it.
From there we took a plane to Madrid, and then caught a much smaller plane to Seville
where Yuri played a game against an old Spanish Master for a small sum—nothing really.
Maybe the money was just enough to cover some ox-tail and gazpacho. In order to make
additional money I started playing games at night, which sounds strange to say but really, it all
began by accident, and was something that I’d repeat whenever our coffers were low, which
was often. Whichever city or town we were in I’d find a place to play and repeat the process,
with few variations. In Seville, for example, the first time it happened, I’d walked into a small
tavern alone (Yuri refused to go into bars, taverns, or public houses of any sort, on principle)
and set up my board intending to have a beer and play against myself but, it seems that a man
alone at a chess board invites others eager to show what they can do, and it wasn’t long before
bets were being made on who would come out ahead. It took some time but ultimately I
learned to maximize winnings by playing weakly or committing “errors” for the first game or
two, and then when my opponent’s confidence was up and the pot was at its largest, I’d decide
that enough was enough and would usually win in ten moves or less. In many cases a wellplaced fork, or a simple pin was enough to do the trick. In this way I was able to help at least
keep us fed and as I mentioned, it was a process I repeated wherever we went.
From Seville we caught a bus to Paris where Yuri played six games simultaneously while
blind-folded. A reporter from Chess Review showed up not long after and wrote a quick story
on The Return of Yuri Rodriguez, in which was mentioned his silent companion. And so now I
was a part of history.
9
In a town called Courtempierre Yuri handily defeated an Austrian named Allan Gruber in
a series of games played in a small inn. Afterwards, Allan approached us, asking us how far we
planned on travelling.
“As far as the money will take us,” Yuri said, putting on his jacket.
“Ah, it’s good to see people sacrificing everything for passion.” Allan had laughed as he
said this, as if it were some sort of joke. Even if it had been it certainly wasn’t true that passion
had brought us out here, it was the need for money; it was survival that prompted our
travelling and all these damned chess games. I would have said as much but Yuri jumped in like
a Knight blocking an advancing Pawn.
“Do you know of a good place around here for dinner?”
“No,” Allan said almost regretfully, “I only came for the chess, just like you. Besides, I’ve
got to catch a train so I haven’t much time but, if you’d care to I’d be happy to join you for a
cocktail.”
“I don’t drink,” said Yuri, and then we parted ways.
Later that evening Yuri mentioned to me that Allan had reminded him of an actor he’d
seen once in a movie about vampires, and even though I agreed that Allan’s long face, tall
stature, and dark hair gave him a recognizable appearance, neither of us could remember the
name of the movie.
Nothing of note happened in Vienna. Or Budapest. Or Belgrade. This isn’t to say that
nothing whatsoever occurred. Certainly, just as every move made during a game of chess is its
10
own occurrence; influencing the future in one way or another, so too is every day we’re alive an
occurrence of its own. I continued playing nightly games for generally small sums, and even
adding my winnings to Yuri’s, money was always dangerously low, as if one tiny misstep or
poorly timed sentence would bring the whole thing crashing down around us. Twice we
quarreled about whether or not continue, but always we forged ahead. I suspected that Yuri
simply wanted to see the game played through to its completion, while I simply felt we had no
choice, or rather, that there was nothing from my old life that I missed. Either way we were
practically starving while on a train to Bucharest when I noticed the peculiar image of Allan
Gruber headed over to where we were sitting. I’m not very good with faces and a little time had
passed since that conversation at the inn, so it took me several minutes to come up with the
name and context of our last meeting. Yuri had been napping so I nudged him in an attempt to
wake him, but by the time he came around Allan was already in our midst.
“I saw the match you played in Belgrade,” he stated, which surprised the hell out of
both me and Yuri because neither of us remembered seeing him anywhere.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Larsen so upset at losing before,” he continued.
Johannes Larsen had been vocal throughout the series of games he played against Yuri,
saying more than once that he should have stayed forgotten, or at the very least been happily
resigned to mediocrity. He had practically thrown a great big Danish fit (Karls was from Jylland)
when Yuri mated him, seemingly without effort, four times in a row.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Yuri joked, prompting an unsettling laugh to burst forth from Allan’s
mouth.
11
Allan told us that he was glad to see us because in his line of work it was always nice to
see a familiar face. He asked us if we were planning on taking the train all the way to Bucharest,
and though I thought it was a bad idea for reasons even I didn’t understand at the time to let
him know the truth, but my reluctance to speak and inability to come up with a lie good enough
gave Yuri the time he needed to spill the beans, so to speak.
“Yes” he said. “All the way. I’m due to play an exhibition at the Gardensat Peles. Twenty
games at once.” Allan’s response surprised me, though considering the fact that I’d only met
him once before I don’t know why I would assume that I could predict his reaction in any
situation at all.
“Wonderful,” he remarked while smiling like a cat with two mice firmly in his paws. And
then, of course, he asked us to dinner. Being broke and nearly starving I pounced at the chance,
though later Yuri would admonish me for assuming we’d get a free meal out of it. It didn’t
matter though. My assumptions were correct and Allan ended up paying for everything, even
several beers which I mostly drank in silence while they discussed things that seemed harmless
at first, but which ultimately landed on the topic of chess. At that point our fate was sealed.
“How long do you plan on playing chess?” Allan asked us.
Yuri looked up from his sandwich, or whatever it was he was eating, and simply stated,
who can say?
“Ah, a wait and see.”
“Right now I only play for the money.”
12
“What a noble sentiment,” said Allan. “And what about you, what do you play for?” As
he turned to me I quietly reminded myself not to let the beer go to my head, but by then I’d
already had too many and the words came out before I could think about my answer.
Thanatos
“I play
better,” I said. “I’d
Bulevardul Nicolae Tomis 97
one of the greats but
021 9393 Constanta
because I don’t know any
like to think I could be
now I know I’m not.”
Tel: (241) 611.713
like an executioner.
Again Allan smiled
“You’ve got to risk everything,” he stated. Immediately we all fell silent as if we were all
lost travelers trying to find our way through the fog of our own conversation. Eventually Allan
asked if we planned to travel to Constanta once we’d finished in Bucharest. “The Black Sea this
time of year is especially black.”
We told him that we hadn’t planned on it but that we might consider it if he knew of a
tournament, or more specifically, of an opportunity to make some quick money off of a game
or two of chess.
“Even better,” he said, “I happen to be a member of a chess club in that city, we always
welcome the chance for someone to play one of our reigning champions. The prize is quite
substantial. If you do happen to make it that far, stop by and see us.” He then placed a small
card on the table, the letters of the clubs name and address standing out plainly in their inky
starkness against the bone colored background of the high-end card stock.
13
“The Thanatos Club?” I asked to no one.
“The members of the club enjoy intellectual pursuits of all sorts, especially the thrill of a
good game of chess. Some of them are old communists so, they’re an interesting group. As I
said, I’m sure they’d enjoy meeting the both of you, and would make it worth your while.”
Yuri placed the card in his pocket without another word about it, and in fact, not long
after Allan excused himself for the evening I asked Yuri what his thoughts were, and he stated
exactly what I’d been thinking:
“I’m not sure if Allan can be trusted, but we’re not exactly in a position to turn down a
chance at getting paid.”
We decided to see how things in Bucharest went before deciding for sure, then I
finished the last of my beer and we went back to our seats.
Naturally, things is Bucharest didn’t go quite as planned.
To begin with, it was raining when we got there. Normally this wouldn’t have been
much of a problem but in this instance, the soles of my shoes had developed rather large holes,
which meant that by the time we had walked the twelve or so blocks to our hotel I’d developed
14
a nice case of trench foot. Second, owing either to a miscommunication of some sort or to the
untrustworthy nature of the hotel staff, we discovered far too late that the rates for our room
were to be almost twice what we’d expected. Searching for a new room elsewhere was no help,
and so it seemed we were stuck. It might have been an inconvenience we could endure except
that upon arriving at the school where Yuri was supposed to play, we were told that the
amount we’d be paid was far less than we thought. Of course, we needed the money so Yuri
went ahead with the games but, I think that the stress of things took their toll on Yuri because
almost immediately after Yuri came down with a fever, causing us to stay in our hotel room an
extra night. Even my night games seemed to fizzle. The question of whether or not we’d move
on to Constanta was then decided, though with Yuri not feeling well the possibility that I might
have to play as his substitute was discussed. There was a pit in my stomach that I was
unfamiliar with at the thought of having to have the weight of whatever substantial sum Allan
Gruber had promised us on my shoulders, but Yuri reminded me that practically throughout the
course of our whole trip I’d been playing for and winning money, and that the fact that the
stakes this time were a bit larger should only excite me. Secretly wishing I could share his
optimism, I told Yuri that he was right, when in fact I suspected that his fever was worse than I
had previously thought. Either way as we headed East on the train I muttered to myself about
fate, though what I meant to curse was our luck. At the time I didn’t know much about either.
At the train station in Constanta we called Allan at the number listed on the card he’d
given us, and after some effort were able to get him on the phone. We explained the situation
and he said he’d see what the other members of the club thought about allowing a substitute
for Yuri, but that they’d probably want to see him first before coming to any conclusions. By
15
now he’d gotten worse—pale and sweaty—and even looking at him made me uncomfortable,
so I was certain everything would come down to me being able to pull through for the both of
us, and when I hung up the phone with Allan we immediately made our way over to where the
Thanatos Club was waiting.
The end game played out like this: The address on the card took us to a rather large
house where upon entering, we were shown to a parlor where everyone was waiting. The room
itself was colored red except for white molding and the dark brown hues of nicely polished
wooden furniture. There was a fireplace and on an end table I thought I saw a copy of Marcus
Pride, which I’d remembered reading in college but not fully understanding. Underneath it was
a book titled “The Get Rich Diary of America’s Poorest Guy”, the author of which was obscured
by a small statue of an elephant. Or maybe the name of the author was instead just simply
obscure, but at that point I guess what difference does it make? Along those lines I guess it
could be said that if I myself were a better writer, and not born with a passionate proclivity for
chess instead of letters, that I might be able to describe the scene at the club a little more
clearly. As it is though, I’ll just continue by saying that the dynamic in the room instantly struck
an uneasy chord in me, as if everyone were waiting for something without knowing what that
something actually was. Most of the club’s members were well dressed, except for two men
whose clothes were as shabby as my own. There was one woman present, introduced to me as
Catherine, but who everyone referred to as Ileana.
Slowly everyone came forward then, shaking Yuri’s hand and saying what a pleasure it
was to meet him. Somebody began discussing a game they’d seen Yuri play, or a match of his
they’d studied. It was as if instead of me having travelled with him all this way, here were his
16
long lost friends. Really, a disgusting display of some kind of strange hero worship is what it
was. Either way, through the sycophantic cacophony I gradually became aware of the persistent
ticking of a clock that had been sitting on the mantle, of which I’d only previously given a
cursory glance. Now, with its metronomic tick tick tick I couldn’t help noticing that the clock
itself was housed in the belly of what appeared to be a cherub, winged and naked, holding a
sword in one outstretched hand and an inverted torch in the other. It was really strange to
come across, though I don’t know why, and as I leaned in for a closer look I heard Ileana’s voice
close behind me.
“It’s Thanatos,” she said. “He watches over everything we do here.”
“And what do you do here?” was all I could say, though I knew the answer would be
something I would regret hearing immediately, or possibly in the future.
“We sometimes sit and discuss life,” she began. “And the vanity of hope. Other times we
listen to music, have dinner, the normal things. Many times we play chess, which is why we’re
all so honored to have Yuri join us this evening. And you, of course.” She put her hand on my
shoulder as she said this, an elegant appendage on a razor sharp tongue. I couldn’t decide
whether I should be flattered or offended but, no matter.
“I told them,” Allan Gruber stepped forward, “that the two of you were travelling
through Europe, playing a series of rather impressive matches, putting on some shows.”
“He described them as apocalyptic.” Someone mentioned. Allan Gruber though, didn’t
flinch.
17
“We’re prepared to pay Yuri a substantial sum,” he continued, “if he manages to defeat
our reigning champion in a match, best of one.”
Substantial sums, we’d learned, were relative things but, when we pressed for further
details we discovered that the prize came out to a quarter of a million Euros. Substantial,
indeed. And taking into account the fact that only one game had to be won, Yuri’s illness
seemed to give way to eager dreams of victory, and he quickly reached for a chair as he
suppressed a cough.
“Wait!” Ileana said sternly, her voice then immediately melting into its normal honeyed
tone. “You haven’t even heard the tournament rules yet.” Except for the noise of the clock, the
room grew quiet as she listed them off. Most were generic rules that either were expected in
any tournament, or which we’d heard before somewhere else; quiet was called for, each player
had an hour, if the game ended with no clear winner then another game would begin
immediately, things of that nature. I could tell by Yuri’s face though that he was impatient to
begin, perhaps it was his sickness that made him eager to play the game and then get out of
there, or maybe he’d simply grown tired of formalities, or maybe he was just tired. Either way
he stamped his foot on the ground suddenly, saying that he agreed to whatever terms, and
then asked loudly who his opponent would be. It was an act that caught everyone off guard but
which only made Ileana smile.
“Our current reigning champion is actually someone you may know.” As she spoke those
words Heinz Keitel, or Heinz Keitel the spectre, materialized seemingly out of thin air. He smiled
at Yuri, but his eyes were sincere in their hardness, and his slender frame moved with an almost
18
predatory deliberateness towards the place where Yuri was sitting, and extended his hand in an
exchange of meaningless pleasantries. Yuri, normally accustomed to at least knowing
beforehand whether or not to expect an opponent of Keitel’s ability, had the look of a man who
realized he’d just walked right into a trap. Yuri being Yuri though, and chess merely being chess,
he quickly found his bearings and made a remark about old friends.
A more generous statement could not have been made at the time and I relaxed slightly
for a brief moment, though the atmosphere of the room itself remained heavy with what
seemed to be a meaning or a secret that was on the tip of everyone’s tongue but which no one
could bring themselves to say. Like the story of the woman whose baby had died in the next
room while everyone at the party, being unable to give her the bad news, could only wait until
next she went in to feed it and discovered the horrible secret on her own.
At that point a board was brought out and placed at the table between where the two
men had sat, a board of dark wood whose surface was scratched by a thousand moves being
made by a thousand hands over an untold number of years. As the pieces were placed—the
armies getting ready for battle—Ileana cleared her throat.
“There is one more rule,” she stated coldly, “that needs to be mentioned. Two rules
really, that govern the end of the game. The first concerns your role as winner, should you
succeed in defeating our champion. As has been mentioned you gain the purse, and the title of
Club Champion. As champion you must agree to join us at least once per year, where you’ll face
a new challenger, until you are unseated. At which point the title and the yearly prize go to the
new winner.”
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This seemed reasonable enough, and I watched Yuri nod his head in agreement, even as
she went over details covering illness or premature death, and protocols where Allan Gruber
would contact the Club Champion regularly as a sort of club representative. She continued
speaking:
“In the event of a loss, and at the immediate end of the game in which one has, in fact,
lost by checkmate, the loser must agree to put the barrel of this loaded pistol to his temple and
pull the trigger as an offering to Thanatos.” A wooden-handled pistol was then produced from
beneath Allan Gruber’s jacket and placed on the chessboard.
“Those are the rules. Great risk, great reward.” She then said.
Immediately Yuri rose from his seat, “This is crazy” he said incredulously. “You can’t be
serious.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, we are very serious.” Ileana said with a scowl. “And as I recall you’ve
already agreed to the match. If you refuse now we’ll consider it a forfeiture on your part.”
Yuri laughed, looked around the room and then at me as if he planned to simply walk
out. I was about to follow his lead when several of the members rushed forward and grabbed
Yuri by the arms, Allan reached for the gun.
“Hold on a minute!” Yuri screamed, “I hadn’t heard the full rules before I agreed to play.
Technically I agreed to nothing.”
“On the contrary, I’d say you simply agreed to everything without knowing all the facts.
You wouldn’t sign a contract without reading the fine print, would you Mr. Rodriguez? As a
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chess player we’d expect you to understand the dangers of being over-eager.” Ileana flashed a
look at Allan Gruber who pointed the pistol at Yuri. All I could do was stand frozen, unsure if
what was unfolding before me was really happening or not. Yuri began to sweat, whether from
the fever or from the stress of the situation I couldn’t say, but I myself began to feel the
temperature in the room increase exponentially. I thought back at the beginning of this whole
thing, remembering how we’d simply set out because we loved chess and needed the money.
Or maybe it was something else we were after, but certainly it wasn’t this. Or was it?
I recalled Yuri’s explanation of those games he’d played against Keitel all those years ago
and recalled what he’d said about strategy, and how he’d realized that Heinz Keitel was always
loathe to sacrifice his Queen. That was how he’d defeated him six games in a row, and that was
how I planned to defeat him now, just once.
“Wait.” I heard myself say out loud. And then “Wait!” again. The room turned to look at
me as Yuri continued to struggle, and then I said: “Yuri’s been sick. He can’t play as it is. I’ll play
instead.”
Everyone looked at Ileana, unsure of what to do, except for Yuri who looked at me,
mouthing something incomprehensible which might have either been thanks or condemnation.
I was certain I could use my knowledge of Keitel’s playing style against him, and besides, my life
had already been given to chess and nothing else. At this point a bullet in my head would be
nothing, but a bullet in Keitel’s head would be another matter entirely. I planned to put as
much pressure on his Queen as possible to hopefully gain tempo, then once I controlled the
pace of the game, I was confident that I could force a mate. Ileana looked at me carefully.
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“I’ll allow it.” She said. Heinz though, seemed skeptical. Possibly because he’d not only
never seen me play and so didn’t know what to expect, but maybe he’d also looked forward to
a rematch with his old foe. Either way as challenger I was allowed to choose the hand of fate,
and as Ileana held out her fists, each containing one chess piece of different colors, I chose left.
Her opened palm then revealed that I’d be playing white this game. And so the thing began.
Yuri was seated in a sofa and offered a drink, which he declined, asking instead for a
water. As this was happening Heinz Keitel calmly began his pregame ritual of which up to now,
I’d only heard about in late night conversation with Yuri. As he stood fully upright, Keitel slowly
removed one shoe, and then the other. Then, just as carefully, he removed his socks, balling
them up methodically and then placing them one in each shoe. His shoes he then placed sideby-side underneath his chair. After this was complete he once again stood fully erect, grasping
at the carpet with his toes for several minutes, stopping only when the mood seemed to strike
him, finally sitting down with a large exhale. The whole thing was enough to make me want to
reach for the pistol and shoot him then and there. I looked at Yuri whose face was filled with
terror, his trembling hand raising his glass of water to his pale lips, and then I made my move.
I grabbed as much of the middle of the board as I could, hoping to advance my knights
to a position where I could best threaten his Queen, while Heinz seemed to be trying to control
the board from the outside. This was expected, again based on what Yuri had told me of their
matches together. I knew, for example, that he’d attempt to block the movement of my
Bishops by careful placement of his Pawns. I knew also to expect a King-side Castle, which he
performed dutifully as we progressed to the middle game. As all of this unfolded Yuri and the
members of the club sat and watched, some of them smoking cigarettes or drinking brandy, but
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none of them speaking as the resounding tick tick tick from Thantos’ belly hung over everything
like a steady breeze, or the beating of a heart, or like the terrifying monotony of existence itself.
All of the plans we laid in the beginning then, either played themselves out or fell to
pieces in the mid-game. I positioned my Rooks to help command the center squares but was
forced to a better defensive position on the right-hand side of the board by Keitel’s
maneuvering on my flank. I fought hard for the middle though, where eventually Keitel made a
huge error. Using one of my Bishops I was able to pin one of his Knights to his Queen, and
moving her out of the way, was able to get ahead by taking the Knight with no response. Firmly
ahead in material then, I moved into the end-game with a great advantage.
How can I then describe the horror I felt as I realized I’d made a major miscalculation of
my own? I’d assumed that Heinz moved his Queen from under the pin to avoid losing her, or to
trade her for mine, when in fact, it seemed, he’d simply moved her to a position where she
could potentially trap my King on the corner with the aid of several Pawns. Seeing the end
before me, the sound of that horrible clock became more and more like the counting down to
the inevitability of my own death. My fear made me hesitate and each move took longer and
longer for me to make, my previous confidence giving way to crippling uncertainty, until finally
all at once the whole thing came crashing down. Check-mating me, he looked up silently, an
expression of cold indifference on his face. My heart raced and I half expected, or hoped, or
wished, that someone would say something, anything, but instead they all sat silently as the
gun was placed on the board in front of me.
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“Somebody say something!” I shouted, wiping sweat from my forehead. I contemplated
simply shooting everyone in the room and then escaping, and then I thought of running. I
thought of forcing them to kill me as they were going to do to Yuri. Picking up the gun I noted
how heavy it felt, hoping that at the last minute there’d be an explosion, or someone would
come forward and stop me, or that I’d wake up like in one of those old movies where the whole
thing was simply a bad dream. Instead there was only silence, and the steady ticking of the
clock. Even Yuri seemed unsure of how to react as he sat there, seemingly on the brink of doing
something but never doing anything. I pressed the gun to my head, noting the coldness of it.
Tick. Tick. Tick. And then suddenly I started laughing, and for a brief moment everyone looked
confused except for Yuri, who began laughing too once he realized what had happened.
The gun had misfired.
Questions: Does the last chess game end too abruptly? Or is it too long? Does my description of
the game play seem too technical? Any other thoughts?
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