A GAME

OF
CHESS

EDUARDO BARRETO
 A Game of Chess

The guest walked out, and the door slammed behind him, which woke James a little, but not
enough. The situation was awkward really; his legs and arms felt numb, and his eyelids hung like
a closed sign on a locked door. His mouth slowly dropped as if to let his consciousness go out for
the evening. He was unescapably falling asleep.

Blink

“The end,” he read on the page.

He had finished reading his copy of T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland, and he was quite glad to have
finished it. Not so bad, but not so good either. He stood there, perplexed, behind that insipid
green counter with the book still in his grasp – frozen. He stared listlessly at the pattern of the
counter which looked like a path of palm trees, so out of touch with every leaf and flower in the
background that it left one wondering if the divergent designs were ever meant to be painted
together.

Blink

Suddenly, another guest staggered through the doors like a stray cat – the kind you shoo away
but stays anyway. James dragged his arm up and waved; he even mustered a smile. But the guest
didn’t seem to notice. “Hello,” James forced through his lips, “How are you?” He rubbed his
eyes. The old man tossed his hand over his shoulder and muttered something, as he ambled
toward the cafeteria. James watched him hold his worn, leather book bag tightly, as if it was his
last prized possession. He leaned against the dispenser and waited for his cup of coffee. He made
his fingers through his untidy hair, as James stared languidly. Falling. Asleep.

Blink

The elevator door clanked open, and James shook his way out of slumber with an abrupt
movement of his head. The kind of jerking motion you only do when you’re frightened or
surprised. He was neither. But that jolt of motion propelled him to the door – hand twisting the
doorknob, his feet guiding him through the carpeted trench on the floor, all the way to the coffee
dispenser. As he crossed through the lobby, he saw the same vagabond he had seen earlier,
running in the street with a cup of coffee in one hand, and a piece of cardboard in the other –
sheltering from the rain. Weird guy, he thought.

Blink

He turned the corner and fixed his eyes on the coffee dispenser – the yellow glow of the buttons
drew him like a moth to the flame. The labels were faded by now, but he knew them; he had
tasted them all. From the top left, down: Cappuccino, French Vanilla, Hot Chocolate. From the
top right down, trapped between hazelnut and hot water, was what he was looking for. He
hummed quietly as he selected the coffee. The order, the right order, is sugar, coffee, cream, he
thought. Any alteration in this order and it’s as if the natural laws of physics were violated. He
considered that if the sugar goes second or last, then it doesn’t disperse properly and by the time
he’s done drinking, he’ll be left with a muddy soup of sweet on the bottom of the cup. And the
cream, if the cream is not last, he thought he’d be far more likely to get that perfect coffee color
that’s somewhere in between cinnamon and gingerbread. He considered all of these things and
more, as he poured, and stirred, and mixed. Forty-five seconds later, he held a strangled foam
cup in his hands, with the nectar of the gods, and he drank in the hot elixir of life. He liked
coffee.

Sip

He looked over the cafeteria tables, across the coffee dispenser, and saw a curious box laying on
one of the seats. He recognized the discolored sequence of squares as the side of a folded
chessboard. Wondering who would have left such a horrid antique behind, he walked closer, still
clutching his coffee. He touched it, and felt his fingers drowning in dust, immediately. He drew
his hand back and wiped his fingers on the side of his pants.

Sip

With some hesitation, he decided to touch the box again. Gently, he turned it around and found
the lock – a rusty hook that was no match for a tetanus shot – and opened it. Inside it, the pieces
looked as worn as the board itself.

“Jesus” he said, almost to himself, “this board is old.”

“Well, it’s not Jesus’ board but it is very old” he a heard a voice respond, behind him.

“I’m sorry, is this yours?” James stammered with embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to –”

“No trouble,” the old man interrupted calmly, “I take no offense to it. As I said, the chessboard is
very old. But an old board is an experienced board.”

“Jesus’ board, huh?” James remarked, with smile that was now turning to thoughtful reflection,
“so, you play?”

“I do. You?”

“I do.”

This is how the match started. This is how every good chess game always started: quiet words,
careful arranging of the board, furtive glances between enemies.
 Sip

Finishing the white Pawn lineup, the old man mentioned casually, still arranging the rest of his
pieces, “you know, the older I get, the more I value Pawns.”

James looked up, now setting up his black infantry line. “Sure. I guess.”

“You don’t think so?” He asked, still setting the back row from the outside in: Rook, Knight,
Bishop.

James thought it was strange the way he set his pieces. He hated it when players started from the
outside in; people who do that are usually too timid to be any good. He was probably taught that
in some chess camp when he was eight and now when he’s 88, he still does it. Figures.

Remembering the question, he answered “Pawns? Yeah, they’re important if you need to get
your hands dirty, but nothing more really.”

The old man looked up, now having set up the board. All pieces in their place. All pieces in their
center. James was looking at his configuration; he hated it. So orderly, so organized. He was
probably a boring chess player – the type that consider every branch on the tree, but never plant
themselves anywhere. James on the other hand, set up his pieces chaotically: a Bishop on the left,
a Knight on the right, Rooks at the same time, the Queen last. Maybe? It didn’t matter; it was
never the same way twice. It was unpredictable, exciting.

James sought to explain himself a little better, “I mean, I know what you’re saying: the Pawns,
when played right, can be a real threat. But their only real value is in the fact that they are
expendable. You got a problem? Throw a Pawn at it and it might just go away.”

“But Pawns can become Queens.” The old man said matter-of-factly.

“Sure. But that rarely ever happens.”

The game started.

Sip

James loved the quiet narrative of a chess game. Especially at the beginning of a game, his mind
raced with possibilities. To him, the Pawns were minor characters – static, flat, dispensable
necessities that kept the story-machine going. Nothing more. The King and the Queen were the
protagonist and the antagonist. The Queen was obviously the bad one. The bad ones always have
more freedom, cause more havoc, have no rules. The good guy is slow, steady – one step at a
time. But without a King, there’s no game, no story.
Move

When the old man opened with “Pawn to E4” James knew the game was his. The king’s gambit
is weak.

Still he responded, “interesting.”

With only that move on the board, James considered what the next few moves would look like:
Easy, Knight to C6, then he stacks his Pawns with that stupid M formation – a Sicilian defense
that only cowards play, then Knight to F6, then his Queen starts peeking her head out, then
Knight to D4, then he moves his Queen back. Now I’m on the offensive. Now the game is mine.

And he was right. Four moves later, his Knights were poised and ready for action, and all the old
man had was an unfinished Pawn setup and a scared Queen.

Move

That was the opening. Now, the middle game.

For most chess players, the middle game is always long. That doesn’t mean boring; there’s just a
lot to do in the middle game. Centralize the pieces. Position your Knights and Bishops. Knights
in the center can control eight squares. So never put them in a corner. James was thinking all of
this and more as the game got underway.

He knew his own rules, but he stared at the old man wondering what his rules were. If the
opening exchange was any indication, the old man seemed like the type of player who took his
time. James hated those. First, they set up their defenses, then they set up their attacks, then they
castle and when everything is neat and orderly, they mount the attack. Slowly. Cautiously. God,
how boring. When those players win, they usually only do because they bore the other guy to
death.

Move

And he was right again; just a few moves later, the old man had begun setting up his little glass
militia, with a clear intent to set up volley fire. His Bishops posted guard in E and D 3. His
Knights behind in E and D 2. And James supposed the next move was castling.

But whenever he didn’t see an opening, James did what he always did – throw a Pawn at the
other guy’s defense. If the old man was so interested in setting up his pieces just so, in order,
then he had a plan; people who make plans in chess always lose. He remembered his favorite
Mike Tyson quote, that “people always have a plan until they get hit in the mouth.” So, a Pawn it
was – launched directly at the perfect little glass mouth.
 Move

The game was at the moment of a Mexican standoff – the point in the game when the chessboard
looks like a broken mirror on the floor, with shattered pieces everywhere. Except that instead of
chaos, these shattered pieces were connected like a spider’s web, with all the pieces set up and
ready for action and all the movements have been accounted for. This is the best part of the
game. The moment before the eruption.

Double his Pawns, isolate his Pawns, stop their progress. He pairs his Bishops, that’s good, but
I have my Knights. He’s very good with his Queen, so I’ll throw mine at his. We both lost our
Queens, but it hurts him more. He castles. I love it when they castle. All he’s done is gift-wrap
the King; now I just have to go pick him up. Now, double jeopardy: I check his King, he blocks.
My Bishop’s safe, now my Knight can take his Rook. I love it.

Desperado

The dust settled. The smoke cleared. And James seemed like the eventual winner. It was just the
beginning of the endgame, so unless his blundered his move, he may end up winning the game.
James looked up at the old man, for what seemed like hours, though he assured himself by the
clock on the wall that it had only been about 17 minutes.

“You know, it’s funny how a chess game can be so intense that players don’t even look at each
other, for fear of missing something on the board.” This, James said, stretching his neck and his
shoulders, while looking at the old man’s forehead.

“Mhm,” the old man responded, still staring at his limping Bishop and his gang of prepubescent
Pawns.

Exactly my point thought James and looked back down at the board.

Desperado

“You know,” he said now with renewed energy, “you’re a very aggressive player,” and looked
up at James.

James looked back and smiled.

The old man continued, “Yes, I suppose the best way I can describe it, is like when you’re
running, and someone trips you up. You were doing everything right: your back was straight,
you maintained a good pace, your breathing was controlled, and you focused on the road in front
of you. The only thing you didn’t do is look down, because you had never imagined the guy
running next to you would stretch out his leg and bump you.” It was difficult for James to know
whether this analogy was meant humorously or indignantly.

James answered with a smile anyway, “but that’s the mistake; I’m not running by your side, I’m
running against you.” He paused and considered, “no, it’s more like tennis; we’re playing against
each other.” He didn’t like that analogy either, so he paused again and thought of another, “no,
not tennis – something more exciting than tennis – it’s more like racquetball. That’s it.”

There was a silence between them. James didn’t think the old man cared much for his examples.
He looked upset. The only kind of upset someone can be after losing at chess. It’s not quite
angry; that’s easy. It’s somewhere between disappointment, embarrassment and disillusionment.
It almost feels like when you’re losing a game with the neighborhood kids and you know you
want to cry because you’re so mad, so you pick up your marble and you say you’re going home
and that you hate this stupid game anyway. That’s how the old man looked.

Desperado

The old man looked up now, with a smile. Not of happiness. Somewhat mischievous. But James
couldn’t tell why.

“I gotta hand it to you kid, you almost won this game.”

Almost? How? James looked down at the board. The old man had a King in the corner, with two
Pawns covering him and a Rook in the middle of the board. James on the other hand, had a
Knight preventing the King from moving to the open square next to his, and a Rook ready to
move to the back flank. That’s not counting the Bishop and the Pawns he still had left.

“I don’t get it,” James said, “do you see a stalemate?”

“No. Not a stalemate. Just one more move.” He said this with an air of importance, moving his
hands away from the board and getting ready to stand up, “either way, I’ve had enough.”

“Desperado” he called out.

Desperado

The old man finished standing up while James stared, frozen, in front of him. “Alright, I’ve had
enough. Get me out.” The old man repeated.

A warm female voice called out, “Desperado. Order accepted. Please wait until you see the green
Knight on your top right before removing your helmet. Thank you, Michael.”

Michael removed the black helmet after the green Knight lit up. He thought it was a cute touch to
customize something like that, tailored specifically for a game like this. He considered how real
the whole experience had felt and concluded that it was probably because of the hardware they
had put on him. As he handed his helmet to a lab assistant, he thought that the circumferential
quality of the helmet, which very much resembled a motorcycle helmet my grandfather used to
have lying around the house, probably enhanced the immersive quality of the simulation. And
the suit, what a great suit. That’s probably why the air in that cafeteria seemed to touch his body
and why sometimes he felt cold or hot. He supposed also, that the actual immersion in a tank of
water most likely contributed to…
“Mr. Meadows,” he heard a voice call behind him. Now half undressed, the suit down to his
waist, he considered that his questions might find their best answer from the man in charge
himself.

“Eliot, this simulation is incredible,” Michael Meadows began and was interrupted before he
could ask a question.

“I’m sorry Michael,” Eliot approached, grabbing a towel from one of the assistants, “I have to
contradict you on that point. This is not a simulation. Well, not in the way you understand it.”
Now tossing the towel to Michael, “yes, you are in a simulated virtual space – virtual reality as
you know it – but what you just experienced is different than what the other VR businesses are
offering these days. James is real, as real as you or me.”

“I guess I don’t understand,” Michael said, now drying himself. “Do you mean he’s real, as in
some type of Advanced AI that somehow your engineers have – ”

“No, that’s not it. He’s real as in he’s real. Real like us.”

“So, you hire participants now to entertain your clients? Well, that is different from – ”

“No,” he said with a smile, “that’s not it either. Here,” he moved forward, helping Michael out of
the tank, “they aren’t hired, per say, though they are contracted.”

“I still don’t understand. When you told me to try out your new line, I thought – ”

“You thought it would be like the rest. 1s and 0s. Everybody’s got that, these days Michael. I
needed – my company needed – something else to stay ahead of the pack.”

Michael was almost dressed now, still confused and hopelessly staring at Eliot, “When you told
me to try your new simulation, I almost didn’t agree, considering the kinds of services your” he
cleared his throat, “company is known for providing.” He looked down and back up, resuming
more cheerily, “but chess, wow, that’s new. Is that what you mean by ‘staying ahead of the
pack’? Are you putting out new games with these ‘contracted’ people?”

“Well, yes, essentially – ”

“And what exactly do you mean by contracted?” Michael added, now remembering he hadn’t
understood the distinction between hired and contracted. He continued, “where exactly do you
get these people and what exactly do you offer them because that James in there can definitely
have a career in – ”

“I wouldn’t say ‘where’” he smiled, “more like when.” Adding to Michael’s confusion, he
continued, “And to be honest, we don’t offer them much of anything. Oh, and his name is
Michael.”
“Michael?” he echoed his own name, “is that why your computer girl told me not to mention my
name?”

“Well, we don’t want him to remember.”

“Ok, now I really don’t und – ”

“I know, I know, this is why I had you try it before I explained. This is why I wanted you to try
it, because I want to bring you on board. We need investors like you to pioneer a program of this
magnitude.”

“So what exactly are you doing here Eliot?” He said, walking out of the lab, “and what do you
mean by ‘when’?” Now walking down the hall, approaching Eliot’s office.

“Well,” Elliot turned the handle of the office door, “to put it simply, Michael, we’re stealing
people from the past.”

Michael stared quietly. “Come inside, let’s talk details.”