by Jesse Kraai
But Igor did not lead Lisa inside the Berkeley Public Library. He led her away, to a park across from Berkeley High. Public school kids, done with the day, smoked pot and giggled. They loitered. Loitering with intent, Lisa heard herself say in Ted’s voice.
Igor laid himself out on top of a stubby ledge next to some homeless people and said, “Now a pleasure, you find in pack.” The worn denim of Igor’s bag was pliant but firm, like the belly of a pig Lisa had once petted at the children’s zoo. She put her hands inside and pulled out a stack of photocopies. To her horror, she discovered the next two hundred and fifty mate-in-twos from the Polgar book. “I enjoy,” Igor said. “Please tell where pieces are,” and he closed his eyes.
Lisa looked past Igor. She saw that the ledge they sat on formed a circle around a dirty old fountain that hadn’t pumped water since forever. Crumbling children’s tiles covered the sides of the ledge like a crusty plaque, proclaiming things like: “God is Love” and “Wake up!” A sign said they were now resting on the Peace Wall. Older boys with tattoos shouted and did stunts with their skateboards at the far end of the park.
Lisa had wanted to learn about the conversation of the pieces. That was the flowing elation she wanted to know. She was like a beginning cyclist who just wanted to ride, and Igor kept making her dismount, to change her tire with rubber-blackened hands. Lisa stammered: “OK, so like, that one problem you did was real cool and all. But these problems are so dumb! What’s the point of mating in two moves if you have so much extra material. I mean, just look at this problem: white has an extra queen and rook!”
“Grandmaster Julio Becerra,” Igor announced, “told me one time his Cuban coach make this exercise with him. This trainer, he make blindfold training back when Che and Castro love Soviet Masters that come to play there, long before Judit’s father make his book, long before Julio come to Miami. Igor long time no trainer have. Now, Lisa, tell where pieces are.”
“You made these copies, for me?” Lisa wondered aloud.
“No,” Igor said. “Your friend Ruth make these problems. She call me, she give. It is a pleasure.” Igor pronounced Ruth’s name ‘Root,’ and patiently waited in the sun for his problem. He enjoyed the hot early June days, before the fog got sucked over Berkeley in July, sealing everyone within a much smaller and colder place.
Reluctantly, Lisa let the pieces out of the box. This time she could tell that Igor wanted to fight. Hardly was the final piece stated when Igor shouted out the pieces as if he were slamming them onto the board: “Knight f4, if king e7 then queen e6, if x then y, if p then q, . . .” The variations ripped through the flowchart instantly, like storm water through a drain. No way, Lisa thought. She protested, “You had already looked at that one!”
“Please pick them for random!” Igor cried. He began to hoot like a child after each of his small victories, and he yelled things like, “Take zyat Meester Spyat! Nyext!”
Through Igor, Lisa let go. She let go of the set, the pieces and all the accoutrements that everyone said were necessary. Igor was like a dolphin who could dive for the truth on the dark ocean floor. He found answers in places that had never seen sunlight. Then he would again surface in the fresh air. And Lisa would throw another colored ring out into the expanse.
“Thank you for be trainer today, Lisa. Problems for me what scales are for musician: I always continue practice. Like pattern I have played so many times that I forget him, problem help remember, for kiss his clean beauty like play major chord . . . We meet twice a week, Monday and Thursday. For Thursday you do these two hundred fifty problem. Use paper. Wednesday you play Ruth, game one of big training match. Thursday we think about this game. Friday game two with Ruth; four-game match—will be rated. Each lesson you bring new two hundred fifty problem.”
Game One
Next to each of Lisa’s games at the Girls Championship there was a rectangular clock. Two windows, one for each player, showed an hour of time for the whole game. After her opponent made a move, she would tap a button on the clock and the seconds in Lisa’s window would begin counting down. This drove all the girls crazy, as if the clock were a little boy shouting “MOVE!” The fear of using the whole hour and losing on time was tremendous. So everybody moved too fast, and only one of Lisa’s games had passed the hour mark in that tournament, barely more than half of the total possible duration.
In Lisa’s training match with Ruth, Igor stretched the game out to a time control of forty moves in two hours; after forty moves each player would receive another hour for the rest of the game. Each player would also automatically get an additional thirty seconds added for each move played. This meant that a game might last more than six hours. “Is proper chess,” Igor said.
Lisa imagined stretching herself into thought to be as simple as letting the bathwater run. Soon, she would be covered and be able to see herself, reflected within it. But as the water ran in her first long game with Ruth, Lisa found herself unable to hold the weight of her thoughts. Variations dove under the suds and slipped around her ankles. They were unruly, and became more so as the water deepened. Finally underwater, Lisa saw only hopeful shimmers of light that flitted about on the surface above her. Prospects of her own gain, and truth, would come and then quickly vanish. Desperate to not have these apparitions disappear, Lisa’s hand grabbed the pieces and played the moves before they could get away. They were her lifelines. She did not have the lung capacity to take them under with her, to examine them in her pool.
On Thursday, Igor again took Lisa to the park. He told Lisa that they would walk and talk at the same time. And that while they walked they would hold their arms outstretched to the sides, to help them consider the game she had lost to Ruth. But after only about a minute, Lisa cried in pain and put her arms down. Igor barked, “Keep arms up!” Lisa tried again, but didn’t last much longer.
Lisa hated the attention they attracted. Young fingers pointed at them with laughter, older ones pointed at them with some kind of accusation, as if Igor were torturing her. The pain in her arms encouraged Lisa to complain. “This is so dumb!” she yelled.
But Igor laughed at her, and said, “Best part of exercise I did not for truth plan: chessplayer need for learn big suffering of insult without mind losing board. It is a pleasure.”
It’s like he’s training me to be homeless, Lisa thought.
Igor continued, “I wish for hope Lisa understand that my arm also hurt, like Lisa hurt, but I not put them down. Your body and mind are react to first pain. Entire system say insupportable. But then we discover we can go beyond that pain. This suggest first impression false, is lie. Perhaps experience same thing with food. If stop eating, body shout like unruly child. But if suffer that first impression, pain not increase into big crescendo, it go away. Pain is false, illusion.”
Lisa tried raising her arms for as long as she could, and then dropped them to rest. “But what does that have to do with chess?” Lisa asked.
“Pain we feel in arm, pain we feel when eat less, those pains easy for understand,” Igor said. “We know where they come from. Not so easy for understand why body jump on mind like angry policeman on peaceful demonstrator during the chess. He shout, “MOVE!” Maybe you meet this man in last game. But it is clear: We shall not obey this man. He unhappy we make new way. But we not wish his old way. We must take his beatings until he tired and walk away. Now, for next game I wish for very simple something do: On scoresheet, write how much time the Lisa spend on each move. Stretch time, make longer. Think about this stupid arm exercise I make us do. Maybe hand remember pain when it reach to touch piece. Always look for new question in position.”
Game Two
On Monday, Igor again met Lisa in front of the library. Lisa’s body was carrying her to the library doors, but Igor stopped her. “Lisa, I wish for see scoresheet.” Igor took the little piece of paper, and Lisa stared up at him while he entered a different world, somehow separate from the shoving traffic, examining her and the second game she had lost
against Ruth.
“I understand,” Igor said finally. “We make for big walk.” This time Igor went up the mountain, toward the Berkeley campus. As they waited at the first stoplight, Lisa complained that she had lost because she didn’t know any openings. Igor laughed at Lisa, and said, “Tell me all logical opening move against first move Ruth play against you, pawn d4, queen pawn.”
Lisa wasn’t sure what he meant, but she was proud to repeat the names of the openings she had picked up from Ruth, the internet and her old chess class: “Umm, there’s the Queen’s gambit, the Slav, the King’s Indian, the Queen’s Indian, the Nimzo Indian, the Benoni, the Dutch.” Lisa was losing her breath with the names and the beginning of the hill when Igor cut her off.
“Nyet, Nyet, Nyet. Tell me all move that are logical.”
“What the hell you mean, logical?”
“Logical move those that fight for center and strive for harmony.”
“Zose zat fight for zenter and strive for harmony?” This guy has been living in this country forever, Lisa thought, and he still can’t talk right.
Igor continued: “Both side begin game asleep behind pawn, like life before education. Before battle begin not clear what harmony of pieces is, their cooperation only understood against opponent thought and intention. But your pieces born with knowledge that center important is. Any piece not fight for center lazy, and in discord with friends. Now, tell all first move that are logical against queen pawn.”
The hill steepened, and Lisa huffed out a list: “Knight f6, pawn d5, pawn g6, …”
Then Igor said, “Now, I want you for see that all these moves same ones that have names. They not good moves because have names, not because grandmaster play them and make big thought. They good moves because they fight for center and strive for harmony. And, for most important, Lisa—rated 1495—find all of them using own judgment, without big help. Lisa know opening.”
“Well, that’s obviously not true,” Lisa grumbled to herself. Drops of sweat rolled off her brow into her eyes. She tried to wipe her eyes dry, but her fingers carried the black grime of MacArthur Station and it felt like a wasp was sticking its stinger through her left retina. Sharp sunlight bounced off the lenses of her glasses.
“Keep up!” the ruthless ogre demanded from above.
“Fuck this!” Lisa gave her solemn oath. Igor began descending the hill toward her. She shouted, “What the hell does this death march have to do with chess?”
From above her, spoken with the even breaths of someone taking a stroll out in their garden, Lisa heard the monster say, “Long time ago, in Soviet time, old coach like for say: Boys, if you not sweat now you either not try hard enough or you haven’t reached the puberty!” Igor thought this was real funny, some bright little jewel that was going to make everybody feel just fine.
Lisa thought: Jan takes me to the doctor so that he can tell me—again—that I’m going straight to hell if I don’t lose twenty-five pounds. Dr. Frohlich also makes little comments. Jan probably makes them say something. Igor should be the one to understand that I don’t want to change, that I don’t want to be like other people.
I’ve seen girls start talking about boys. They leave themselves to worry about their split ends and what they’re going to wear. I don’t want to become stupid! Can’t you understand, Igor, of all people? Being fat makes me invisible. They don’t see me and I don’t see them. But how would Igor ever be able to understand the horror of girls playing with their split ends? He probably doesn’t even know what a split end is.
He’s definitely on a mission to change my body. Did he make a deal with my mom? Is that why I’m allowed to study chess? It was a horrible thought, a conspiracy.
The chessplayers stood in silence for a time on the steep slope. Then Igor quietly asked, “How did you know how to control center when I ask you for say logical opening moves?” Lisa was proud that she had done something right, but did not know how she had done it. Igor pressed her: “Why important for control center?” Lisa had no answer. She had heard that the center was important. That natural assumption had somehow slipped past the bouncer of her mind and was now dancing with the other truths up in her club. Igor set a mild pace, julienning his stride into tiny sections.
“Lisa, I wish for discuss your move ten in game with Ruth, knight h5, tell me your thoughts.”
Lisa quickly fell into the rationalized darkness of autismal variations. It sounded like this: ‘Well, I was threatening x, but I didn’t see that she could do y and then z. If p then q; missed r . . .’ Lisa’s myopia marched her up the hill.
By the time they reached the Berkeley Rose Garden, Lisa had become even more convinced that 10…Nh5 was wrong because she hadn’t foreseen 14. Bc4 a couple moves down the road. Igor called out to a group of six boys who had been abandoned to a ball as their mothers moved among the rosebushes to talk as adults. Except for one small boy, they were all ruddy, outside creatures.
Igor called to them: “Hey! Can we play with you? I know game, is a very nice.” A stern pregame discussion of the regulations was quickly underway.
Lisa hated sports. Just like this, the rules for some stupid game like kickball or dodgeball would be hastily explained. Lisa would not understand. And she would soon find herself in the wrong place, getting run over by a boy, hit with the ball, laughed at. Every time she threw a ball, the thing would just plop down in front of her, as if it didn’t want to play either. These memories paralyzed Lisa, and she directed her silent anger at Igor: What the fuck? I hate ballgame. What happened to our freakin’ chess lesson? I don’t want a life coach, I want a chess coach!
Igor took Lisa and the smallest boy onto his team. It would be a fat girl, the little guy and an old man versus five sturdy boys. The rules were that Igor stood in the middle and had Lisa and the little one on opposite sides of him, forming the diameter of the circle. The five boys were assigned posts on the perimeter. No one was allowed to move from their spots in the circle. Igor gave them the ball and told them that they would get a point if they could move the ball to the other side of the circle. And if a side lost control of the ball or moved from their assigned position then the other team would gain possession.
The boys couldn’t get through the center. Igor’s big hands intercepted their passes like crude thoughts trying to cross his chessboard. Igor got the ball and passed to Lisa, the ball rolled sadly back to Igor, Igor passed it to the little guy. Point!—that’s all each team had to do: move the ball from one side of the circle to the other. Igor then gave the ball back to the five boys.
The boys loved it. They tried to strategize ways to get the ball past Igor in the center. Lisa was alone in her rage. Igor smiled at her and asked, “Lisa, what we doing?” She shrugged and thought, Fuck off. The game continued, and the boys did score a couple points, but they were losing badly. Lisa found insufficient reward in the voluble frustration of the five brutes. “Lisa,” Igor said. “What we doing?”
“I dunno, playing a stupid game?”
Igor thanked the sweaty boys for the game and began to head back down the hill with Lisa. “I tell you for big truth, Lisa,” Igor said, “when I run or ride bike I think world flat. Ho! Of course, I have long ago agreed to make big believe that world round. But whenever in motion with big sweat I forget. Ha! Same thing maybe for you and center. You have agreed that important is. But when big Ruth hunt you, and you run like scared rabbit, you forget. You think only about evasive maneuver. You must pull back, reflect, see that center of board powerful; like heavy star, light bend around center squares. You must feel this truth, not enough for make believe it.”
Lisa imagined light bending around herself. She was the center; all life was suddenly a stream and she a boulder in it.
“Now we talk to pieces,” Igor said.
Lisa smiled. She had wanted precisely this: to learn the conversation of the pieces. Yet when Igor said “talk to pieces,” she couldn’t help hearing it through the ears of others, and he sounded crazy.
“She’s a disappointment,” Lisa answered. “Her family needed her to concentrate on all the important squares in the center. But she left them, to go off and do her own thing on the side of the board.”
“Good. Good. Talk to pieces, ask if go up hill or down. Today we learn how difference feel. And next time you ask knight for go to h5, he tell you: NO WAY LADY, I not gonna do it. I will not decentralize.”
Game Three
Lisa ditched her last couple classes on Thursday. They were pointless anyway. The shuttle wasn’t there to take her, but it was easy to walk the four blocks to the train—even though they always told the kids it was so dangerous. No one tried to stop her; she was invisible and free.
Lisa had lost to Ruth the day before, once again brutally. And she dreaded her punishment. He’s probably going to make me do something like Bikram yoga, Lisa thought. He’ll turn me into a puddle of sweat.
Lisa wanted to be admitted into the temple, to be accepted and enjoy a warm and carpeted conversation. But Ruth would always squish her. And Igor would never let her in. So she would take her revenge. She would sneak into the Berkeley Public Library without permission.
The outside walls of the building looked like a boy had poured his green Gatorade all over it twenty years ago and no one had ever bothered to clean up the sticky mess. The fungi and bacteria of the street had eaten the brightness away, leaving a matte puke color. But underneath all of that there were outlines of athletic women wrapped in tight cloth, climbing staircases up into the emptiness. The images were faint; the fineness of their lines had been lost.