The Game Player (11 page)

The shrimp asked what line of the Sicilian and Jeff told him warily. But the kid just said that he could never get that line right either and that they should both take a look at it.

“So, in short, Howard,” Brian said, “we've lost some ground and Jefferson High is now tied with us.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Oh, I won, but Jefferson swept their four games. So they picked up a game and a half.”

We got back to the hotel an hour before game time and I was thrilled by the sight of the two huge charts of individual accomplishments. The first was for juniors and seniors, the second for sophomores and freshmen. Brian's name was second on the first list behind another boy with a 5-0 score and there was a bracket linking them. Indeed, the brackets traced an enormous pattern to the right of the names, linking players. Brian explained that this showed the pairings for the last round. The shrimp was first on the other list, tied with four other players, one of whom he was to play.

Brian showed me where he and the other tournament leader would have their showdown. It was a table standing by itself, the only one so privileged (the others were in rows of ten), to the left of the tournament director's desk. All the chessboards were in fact thin plastic surfaces, with green and white squares, that could be rolled up when not in use. The pieces' colors were traditional, black and white, but they were much larger than most sets I had seen. On the side facing out, a strip of paper hung over the edge of the table, anchored by the plastic board. In black Magic Marker an ornate number one had been written on the paper, in the same style that the other tables were numbered. The most dramatic difference between Table One and the other hundred or so was the large contraption set behind it. Called a demonstration board, it was a four-foot-square replica of a chessboard placed on an easel. Flat plastic squares with triangular flaps carry the symbols of chess pieces and their tails are fitted into invisible pouches below each square. A chair stood next to the apparatus for the boy whose job it was to observe the players' moves and make the corresponding ones on the demonstration board. That allowed the current position of the game to be seen from as far away as the rear of the huge hall. However, from the perspective of the row of chairs for spectators it was oppressively large, bearing down on the players' game like a threatening cloud.

“It's scary,” I said to Brian.

“Not really,” he shouted over the din in the cavernous room. The players were busy with their idea of relaxation: five-minute chess games. They seemed much harder and more tense to me than the slow, graceful four-hour tournament matches. “One plays chess to reach this sort of moment,” Brian continued. “It's gratifying.” He pointed behind me and I turned to see another chart of accomplishment, this one broken down into teams.

“What do you think we'll need to win?” I asked.

“Well, I assume the shrimp will win.”

“You were very nice to him.”

“Certainly, he's our bread and butter. He'll win, I'm sure of it. So if I win, I think we'll only need one point from the other two games. That should guarantee a tie. If we get a point and a half, we'll win.”

“What happens if there's a tie between us and Jefferson?”

“Oh, we'd win it on tie-breakers.”

“What's that?”

“Well, you calculate the ratings of the opponents of each of the teams and the team that has played the higher-rated opponents wins. And I've calculated that it's impossible for them to have played higher-rated people. I suppose it's possible they could equal it. Then we'd share the trophy.”

I laughed. “Where's the trophy?” He took me outside to the hall, where there was a long table jammed with trophies of varying sizes. He pointed out the largest. “Very impressive,” I said laconically.

“It should be worth money to win this thing,” Brian said seriously.

There could have been thousands riding on the outcome of each of the games judging from the silence that fell immediately on the tournament director's signal to start the clocks. They are small wooden boxes that frame two clocks. A black button is set on either side of the box and to depress one is to start the other: so the time taken by each player (they are allowed two hours apiece to make forty moves) is measured. Failure to do so results in forfeiture.

I sat uneasily in the quiet made spectacular by my knowledge that only moments before, two hundred-odd players had been the source of hellish noise. At first, Brian and his opponent, Horowitz, moved so quickly that the demonstration boy lost track of their moves and needed a minute to catch up. They rushed through what must have been ten moves each and then Horowitz stopped the mad rush of grabbing pieces and banging them down quickly to punch the clock, and sat with his hands forming an awning over his eyes. I looked about the room and noticed that the games were progressing rapidly and I heard a groan from somewhere that distracted me for a moment. When I glanced back at the demonstration board, I saw that I had missed both Horowitz's decision and Brian's answer, which must have been immediate, so Brian was ahead in time—the clocks faced away from the audience, making this a constant anxiety.

The first hour was hot and restlessly boring. Brian and Horowitz seemed to be making no progress. The only exchange of pieces had been two Pawns early on, and now a network of Pawns, with pieces hiding fearfully behind, edged up towards each other laboriously. But then other games began to end, always with a sudden noise, both players pushing their chairs back, usually shaking hands, and a short conversation in sober voices, so that it was difficult to know the winner. Not always was defeat polite, however. There would be a harsh word; “Shit!” was the most common, and then shushing from the other players.

Winner and loser would walk up the aisle in front of us to the tournament director's desk to file their report, handing him index cards with the necessary information. Their eyes would be drawn to the demonstration board, their walk slowing, their necks craned while they put the cards on the desk. And then they would walk slowly to one of the observing chairs, backing up all the way, the image of Stoppard versus Horowitz hypnotizing them.

I think it was the third such pair who joined me on the chairs that first produced one of those small magnetic chess sets and copied the position of Brian's game. One of them leaned over to me and asked if the game had begun as some opening, something with a Slavic name. “I don't know. I don't really know chess but I'm a good friend of Stoppard's and I'm covering it for our school paper.”

He laughed. “We're gonna finish something like fifteenth, so I don't think you'll run into anybody from our school paper.”

“Would you help me out and tell me what's going on in their game?”

He hesitated because he hadn't planned to hang around, since there weren't any awards to receive. But he seemed pleased to have been picked as an expert and he agreed to stay for a while. I asked who was ahead in the game. “Oh, Christ! Who knows?” he said.

Another boy turned around. “White has a slight edge because of the advanced Queen Pawn.”

“Yeah,” my consultant said. “But if it's weakened at all and collapses, White will lose the center.”

“But Stoppard's got practically everything defending it,” protested the other.

“Yeah,” agreed my advisor. “White, your friend, has got an edge. But it's not a winning advantage.”

They both fell silent and hunched over their little set, moving pieces three or four moves ahead of the actual game, shaking their heads, and going back to the original position. Every minute or so, Brian and Horowitz would make a move and another half-hour went by, our section growing larger from the completion of other games. Now several sets had appeared. The game had become an indecipherable mess: virtually every Pawn had advanced to the middle of the board, sandwiched between others, and it seemed to me that it would be impossible for them to be captured and have the game open up for attack. And then Horowitz made a move that had them all buzzing.

“Your friend must be trying for a draw, because he won't open anything up. See?” He showed me a move Brian could have made that would have involved a Pawn exchange on the Queenside. “But he sidestepped. And it looked like a draw. But Horowitz started trying to open up the Kingside and when Stoppard avoided it, he's offered a Pawn.”

“Who?”

“Horowitz. Horowitz is offering a Pawn.”

“Yeah,” said one of the others. “But Stoppard will get nothing out of taking it.”

“A Pawn can win the game.”

“It can?” I asked.

“Sure, if you're good it can.”

“Not in this position,” yet another boy said. “All the Pawn does is give Horowitz a tremendous initiative Kingside.” He handed his set out towards us and began making moves, the other two watching carefully. “See, Horowitz gets a lot of good threats out of this. White'll have to give the Pawn back at the very least.”

“He's right,” said my original advisor. “If Stoppard takes the Pawn he'll lose. But he won't. All he's got to do is advance the Rook Pawn and this game's a draw.”

I looked at the two seated figures, dwarfed by the huge relentless record of their decisions above them. The button on Brian's side of the clock was up, showing that it was his move, and Horowitz obviously no longer expected a quick answer—he leaned back casually in his chair. Was Horowitz full of expectation, praying that Brian would miss the consequences of taking the Pawn? Brian had no board to test experiments. Would he see the danger? I could imagine being Horowitz, trying not to shift in my chair too much, or show the nervous anticipation of a trap setter.

Then I saw the sophomore enter from the other room, where the younger group played. Over at the tournament director's desk, when he was in Brian's field of vision, I saw him gesture with his left hand. Brian's head went up imperceptibly, and the sophomore pointed his thumb down to the floor and then headed towards me. I looked at the director, at Horowitz, at the spectators, but no one seemed to have noticed. It seemed blatant to me and I wondered if advice was legal since there hadn't been any reaction. I motioned to the sophomore to put his ear near me. “Are you allowed to tell him what to do?” I whispered.

“What?” he said in a normal tone.

“Shh.” I gestured him to lean over again. “I saw you signal Brian.”

“So what?” Again in a loud voice that made me jump. “I was just telling him I lost. Thumb to the floor is lose, to the side is a draw, and up is a win.”

I was so relieved (it felt like an emptying of the bowels) that I didn't laugh at my mistake or tell him of it. I lost my sense of Brian's problem while thinking of the awful shock it would have been to discover he was a cheat. “How's the game going?” the sophomore asked.

“Apparently,” I said, “Brian's got a choice between not taking this Pawn, which will probably mean he'll lose, or taking a draw.”

“Who says he'll lose?”

“Well, these fellows—”

“Now, wait a minute,” my advisor said, laughing. “I
think
he'll lose.”

“Why? How?” asked the sophomore. And the group showed him their analysis of the position. I saw Brian break his stillness and run his hands through his hair before locking them behind his neck and stretching. Attention was drawn to the two players by this movement and then Brian made a move slowly, removing something from the board, and I heard someone say in an intent whisper, “He took it!”

“No.”

“Yes he did!” And we all watched the boy move to the demonstration board to remove, as the chess players call it, Black's poisoned Pawn and move Brian's to its spot.

“Oh, God,” the sophomore said. “He did it cause I lost.”

“He knew a draw wouldn't be enough,” I said, and looked at him. “Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he sees something,” my advisor said.

“It's not his style,” answered the sophomore gloomily. “He never risks losing unless the odds are in his favor. He doesn't go into doubtful positions to get the extra half-point. He'd win this tournament with a draw.”

“On tie-breakers?” asked one of the boys.

“Yeah, it's Horowitz who needs a win.” The sophomore got up and said he would see how the others were doing.

Horowitz had started to make his reply as soon as Brian took the Pawn, but then he hesitated. Had he trapped himself? He must be double-checking. But after a few moments, he made the reply that everyone had expected and Brian answered immediately.

When the boy at the demonstration board took hold of the Pawn Brian had used to take Horowitz's, my advisor sat up: “What!”

Another said, “Stoppard can't ignore the threat.”

But the boy continued his movement of the Pawn and they all sat staring at Brian's move. Horowitz also looked appalled. I chuckled. “He's fooled you, huh?”

“I can't understand it,” said a boy in an angry tone.

“He'll lose the Knight,” said my advisor.

“Wait! Wait!” one of the kids with a set said. “There's a combination. Look.” He rushed, moving pieces about, but the others would slow him down to check his calculations. Piece after piece came off the board on both sides. “White gets in first, see? It's beautiful.”

I hardly paid attention. Horowitz was hunched over the board, almost kissing one of his pieces. Brian sat primly, his hands in his lap. His face, though calm, was concentrated on the board. You son of a bitch, I thought, it was just a big act so that Horowitz's panic would be worse.

Horowitz began to make small, nervous gestures, apparently trying to unravel the seemingly endless variations that had at least ten players fiddling with sets on my right. After a burst of testing moves one of them would deliver a judgment: “Black will win.” But that would be followed by its absolute contradiction, “White will win,” when someone else tried another variation.