Once I Had Dreams

[chesspolitik]

For Anatoly, the summer days had begun to blur together in an unchanging pattern. He got up, ate if there was something in the cupboard and then made his way to the Russian cafe that was his second home of sorts. After copious amounts of tea and perhaps a blini or two pushed on him by the grand old lady who was a co-owner of the place, he walked over to the park and joined the group at the outdoor chess tables. When the light began to fail, he wandered around the city for several hours before returning to the cafe and whatever the special of the evening was. He stayed until closing and then, only then, did he return home to sleep.

It was not an exciting existence but it was all he could manage at the moment. The chaos of the past few months had left him with a desire to simply exist without complications or feelings – to, in short, be the thoughtless automaton that Trumper had often accused him of being. If he didn’t form connections or friendships then perhaps the city would leave him out of whatever nonsense it had in mind. This would no doubt work as well here as it did other places but until he was forced to admit otherwise, he chose to believe this would work.

All that said, he did have to admit that the best part of the day was when he was surrounded by his fellow chess enthusiasts. He was happy enough to be surrounded by people and even to indulge in idle chatting with his opponents. His only rule was to keep the topic light and free of weighty topics – people wishing to have in-depth conversations were invited to choose another table.

This particular afternoon, he had arrived at the park to find that his favorite table had been claimed by Mischka, a particularly obnoxious man who, in Anatoly’s opinion, was neither as talented a chess player nor as charming as he thought he was. They had clashed a few time before and rather than give Mischka the satisfaction of reacting angrily, he simply chose a different table and meticulously began to set the board.

He was idly rolling the white bishop between his fingers when a shadow crossed the board. He stopped fidgeting and looked up with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “Ah, hello,” he said.

Comments

[openagain]

"You'll also have to tell me your name," she admitted, her nose wrinkling in a sheepish wince. She could have easily plucked it from him, among other things, but such frivolous use of her magic always seemed a bit unfair. It also drained her, and her energy could always be better spent elsewhere.

"I'm Susie, by the way."

[chesspolitik]

"Ah yes, of course," Anatoly said, feeling both relieved that she had told him her name before he could ask and disappointed with himself for not remembering. "Forgive me for not remembering your name. Mine is Anatoly."

He turned a knight so it was facing the proper direction and continued. "Would you like me to explain how each piece moves first or would you like to dive in and learn as we go?"

[openagain]

"I think I can pick it up as we go," she said, smiling with a bit of mirth crinkling the corners of her eyes.

"Don't worry about it. It was a strange night." Her eyes sparkled. "I don't remember much of it. Apart from the cold."

[chesspolitik]

Anatoly smiled back, unable to help himself. He had determined not to forge close friendships or connections but it was hard for him to see Susie smile and not want to be friends.

"White starts first," he said. "Do you feel comfortable starting or would you like me to turn the board and play white?"

[openagain]

"I'm alright," she said, playing it safe, like an amateur, and moving one of her pawns forward.

"How old were you when you learned to play?"

She watched his eyes sweep across the board, knowing it by heart. For a real player, it had to have been a bit like dance. Muscle memory. You know every possible step, every move, down to your bones.

[chesspolitik]

Unconsciously, Anatoly straightened his back and smiled as he considered the board. The beginning of play with a brand new opponent was possibly his favorite stage of a chess game; the moment where there were a multitude of possible moves and everything was wide open. He did not yet know how the game would go - it was that sense of uncertainty, shunned everywhere else, that moved him. As the pieces moved through their intricate dance, he was supremely confident he could direct their play until only one path remained.

"I was five or six, I think," he answered as he moved a pawn. "Very young. My father taught me and I never stopped since."