section7mfu | reader's and writer's choice

When I recced this little gem I forgot to enter the author. So if anyone would recognise it, please met me know so I can correct my forgetfullness.

Chess Pieces

The set is old. He brought it with him from Russia, one of the few personal items that he clung to when he was assigned to New York. It was old the first time I saw it in his small apartment in the village. That was back in nineteen sixty-three. It sat in a corner on a small table with chipping white paint. Each piece was set out in straight rows; soldiers ready to do battle.

The pieces are wooden. Years of handling have stripped the paint off the white pieces leaving them brown, stained darker where fingers have grasped them tightly while contemplating check. The Black pieces still retain some of their paint, which stained the wood beneath so well that it didn't matter that the enamel had all but chipped away. Shiny with skin oils, each carved piece sat a top a cloth covered board that was discoloured with age and frayed at the edges.

Even back then it had character. It had dignity. It said more to me about this man that I had been partnered with than any amount of résumé or long-winded discussion from my superior. It took me six months to finally challenge him to a game. I learned a lot more about him and myself as we played that game. Sometimes chess imitates life. Illya and I were chess pieces in a very large, very serious game.

It has always been my belief that we all identify with our chess pieces. I soon learned that Illya's piece was the rook. Moving forwards and backwards, side to side with meticulous care, sneaky in a smoke screen of straight forwardness. Quick and deadly if not watched carefully or if taken for granted. Capable of decoy, ready to be sacrificed, and demure in appearance, easily mistaken for a mere pawn.

I on the other hand was the knight. Moving in a pattern that was both ordered and chaotic. Fluid around the board. Capable of side stepping disaster. Causing my opponent pause before every move that brought him closer to my box of chaos. Never truly ready for sacrifice, my knight took the hit willingly but was mourned. My knight stood high above the board, a figure to be noticed. He ran only when he had to, and usually from the lady of the board.

Illya soon learned from that chess game that I was a romantic at heart. I sent my knight into foolish charges that were more full of glory than of success. I learned that despite his pragmatic nature, Illya was a soft hearted man. He didn't defeat me right away. He could have. He took some pity on me and let me march around the board for at least thirty-five moves. He even gave up a bishop and both his own knights to the cause.

Then he defeated me soundly. And every game after, he has defeated me soundly. Only over the years have I gained some skills to save myself some slight humiliation. Now it takes him longer to defeat me soundly. In every game I see what we have gained from each other over the years of our partnership and our friendship. Every now and again, I can make my rook slip past his front guard of queen and bishop to place his king in check. As he quickly removes the threat from the board, I sometimes catch him smiling his approval at me. Every now and again, he sets his knight on a fool's errand, charging recklessly into the path of a rook or a bishop, not to save the king but to protect a queen or a cluster of pawns and a rook. In the past he would have called it a wasted noble gesture on a board of black and white. However, life is shades of gray and innocents deserve as much protection as diplomats and royalty.