Player

CHESS PLAYER

Jolanta, Olga, and Żorż really existed, and so did their house. I don't know, though, if Żorż played chess. Everything else, however, could only have happened.

The road, lined with old willows, ran along the banks of a narrow river and after a few hundred meters, turned sharply to the right. He stopped the car before the entrance to an old park. In the headlights, he saw a ruined gate and the stump—judging by its size—of some large tree.

"This must be it," he thought.

He drove down a narrow alley, drove onto a neglected, overgrown lawn, and found himself in front of an old manor house. The building consisted of two, seemingly mismatched sections. The eastern, two-story section, clearly residential, had walls overgrown with wild vines. The western, single-story section gave the impression of being a farmhouse. Two bright red wooden columns supporting the entrance door caught his attention.

The car's arrival was noticed because a light came on in the semi-oval window above the entrance. The door opened slightly, and a human figure emerged with an umbrella and a flashlight. He switched off the headlights and asked through the open window,

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Mr. Deco's house. Have I found it?"

"Qui, qui monsier," he heard the reply in French. "This is Mr. Zbigniew, isn't it? Good evening, welcome, please come in."

The last few sentences were spoken in Polish, but with a distinct French accent.

The woman was of average height, slim, perhaps in her sixties. He noticed that despite her years, she had a straight figure and a springy gait. She was dressed in slim trousers and a loose gray sweater with a wide turtleneck.

"Oh, George will be very happy to see you and will be extremely grateful that you accepted his invitation," she said as soon as they entered the living room.

"Sir, you can sit down, and I'll prepare dinner right away." You're certainly tired and hungry. Don't worry, everything's ready, and I'll show you your room in a moment. You'll forgive me if I leave you alone for a moment. She

smiled sadly as she spoke, as if to imply that both she and this house remembered other, better times.

The living room was quite large, and the chandelier, suspended from the long-unpainted ceiling, didn't provide adequate lighting. The interior was almost completely dark.

Zbigniew noticed the large portraits hanging on the walls. In the dim light, he could see the whites of eyes that seemed to be staring at him, the intruder. In the center stood a large, old piano. He lifted the lid and lightly struck a few keys. The instrument produced a deep, rich sound.

"In tune," he declared approvingly.

The door creaked open, and the housekeeper entered with tea.

"Oh, I see you're looking. That's very good. I'll show you everything in a moment."

She set the tray on the table and led Zbigniew to a painting of an elderly, gray-haired man holding a half-open newspaper. In the background was a patch of sky with the silhouettes of airplanes.

"This is my father's cousin. They had an estate not far from here, in Wzdów, and my uncle worked with airplanes. People didn't know that back then. He was even at an exhibition in Paris.

" "And this one?" he asked, pointing to the figure of a man in a nobleman's kontusz and a saber at his side. He had difficulty reading the partially erased inscription, "........defender of the eastern borderlands of the fatherland."

"Oh! It's a long story. I'll tell you another time, but for now, let's have some tea.

" "Run, Puzi!" she hissed at the cat, which was lounging on a chair with a torn seat, strands of hair sticking out.

Zbigniew easily recognized the authentic "Louis."

"You'll excuse my husband for not coming down and we'll be eating alone, but he's already ninety years old and asleep at this hour. You'll meet him tomorrow at breakfast, and I think that would be a good time," she said, pouring the tea. "

Ninety years old?" Zbigniew was surprised. He'd come because he'd learned through friends that a chess player from Paris was here, eager to play for a few zlotys, but there was no question of some almost hundred-year-old, surely deaf and blind! He hadn't known anything about his opponent until now. He'd tried to find out, but to no avail. Deco's name was unknown in the chess world. No one could tell him anything about him. He hadn't found anything in chess literature from the last few years either. He was convinced he was dealing with some well-heeled amateur. Had there been some misunderstanding? He'd previously thought of the kind hostess as his opponent's mother or aunt, but it hadn't occurred to him that she was dealing with his wife.

"Excuse me, but has your husband been playing long?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh! Ever since I've known him. It's his true passion. He certainly won't disappoint. Do you know who he played with last year? With "S..." himself. "That gentleman stayed with us all week, and Zorz was thrilled," she said with emotion.

Zbigniew knew "S." He knew he was good and that he played for money. The fact that "S" was a guest in this house shed a new light on the matter.

"Can you tell me who won?" he asked, as if in passing.

At that moment, the hostess became serious and, looking Zbigniew straight in the eye, said slowly and clearly:

"Żorż. I have to tell you, he always wins. Are you prepared for this?

" "Prepared!" Zbigniew snorted. Truth be told, he didn't know what to make of it all at that moment, but he replied calmly:

"I am, and I think your husband is too."

"Good, very good." I don't want you to remember us unkindly, she said with relief.

He got up earlier than usual and went outside. The rain clouds that had covered the sky during the night had vanished without a trace, and a wonderful, bright morning had arrived. The house was full of semi-wild flowers, glistening with drops of night rain.

Deep in the park, he saw a silhouette. Someone was slowly walking towards him. He looked directly into the bright sun, and only up close did he recognize the man, dressed in light, rolled-up trousers, a loose sweater, and a straw hat, who was also barefoot.

"Bon jour, monsieur," he said, approaching Zbigniew and extending his hand in greeting.

"I'm Żorż," he added in Polish. "And you're Zbigniew, aren't you?

" "I'm sorry I'm barefoot, but I love walking like that on wet grass. You don't have that in Paris," he began to explain, noticing Zbigniew looking curiously at his bare feet and rolled-up trousers. "I like it every day, especially in September or October when the cold dew is already there."

Monsieur Deco turned out to be a lively, short, not-too-obese man. He had a sharp, penetrating gaze and seemed to have missed the point, as he stared at his interlocutor's mouth during the conversation and responded with a slight delay. This, however, was due not to deafness but to his less-than-fluent command of the Polish language. In his rolled-up trousers, straw hat, and barefoot, Żorż Deco looked no older than seventy.

Zbigniew wanted to ask about the purpose of his visit, but Żorż immediately interrupted.

"Not a word now, you arrived yesterday, tired, you need to rest. There's time for everything, and now we're going to breakfast. You're probably hungry, and so am I."

In the kitchen, they encountered an older, stout woman, dressed in a navy blue skirt and a loose-fitting blouse of a similar color, chopping vegetables for a salad at the table.

"This is our guest, Zbigniew, and this is Olga, my wife's sister," Żorż introduced her.

"Parlevou francaise? Sprechen si deutsch? Do you speak Englisch?" Without pausing, the woman fired a series of questions at Zbigniew, undoubtedly intended to give him an immediate intellectual knockout.

"English, Deutsch, ja, a little," he replied calmly.

He noticed with interest several bejeweled gold rings on her fingers, contrasting with the rough, firm grip of the undoubtedly work-worn hand she offered in greeting.

After breakfast, Zbigniew seized the opportunity and, under the guise of sightseeing, drove to Rymanów. He found a public phone and called Krakow.

"I have a request," he said into the receiver, without introducing himself. "Try to find out if S. played with a certain Żorże Deco in Ladzin last year. Yes, in Ladzin... It's a village near Rymanów, with an old manor house. Just make sure you get it for me today... No, I don't have a phone. I'll call you myself at two... It's urgent and really important..."

He had a few hours to spare. He wandered aimlessly around town, sat in a small ice cream shop in the market square, even visited a historic church. Finally, impatient, he called Krakow again before 2 p.m.

"Man," he heard an excited voice in the receiver, "when S. heard about this Ladzin thing, he almost went crazy. He didn't want to talk at all, he just slammed the phone down. I have no idea what got into him; I couldn't get anything out of him... Do you need anything more?

" "No, no. That's all. Thank you."

He got in the car and started on his way home.

He'd barely stopped the car when Żorż emerged in front of the house. He was wearing a stained apron and holding a large kitchen knife.

"You arrived just in time," he said, switching to his first name. "I'm just finishing making dinner. Cooking requires experience and talent. Women are definitely not suited for it. It's a truly manly job," he explained proudly, leading Zbigniew to the kitchen.

"I've invented a few dishes, maybe you'll discover some of them, and today I invite you for pork loin with vegetables and plums," he added, sitting down at the kitchen table.

The table was filled with various pots and pans, each containing partially prepared ingredients. There were sliced ​​tomatoes, yellow and green peppers, bunches of chives, celery, parsley, and other vegetables.

"You know," Żorż said, "I've experienced real hunger twice in my life, and I always told myself that if only I had something to eat, I'd be happy. It taught me a lot."

He reached for the chopped tomatoes and poured them into a pot of heated olive oil. He added the remaining vegetables and covered it with a lid.

"If my ladies had done this, we'd have a mountain of meat, almost no vegetables, and certainly no flavor. But instead, it's the other way around," he commented.

After a moment, he removed the lid and spooned out the thick sauce. With a look of concentration on his face, he tasted it, shook his head in partial approval, and added seasoning.

"It's alright," he finally decided.

Over dinner, Zbigniew had to admit that the dish was indeed wonderful. The meat and vegetables formed a rare composition of flavors and aromas.

When a moment later he asked for coffee, Żorż grimaced in disapproval.

"Coffee? After dinner? Don't be angry, but this is barbaric! How can you deprive yourself of such a wonderful thing as an after-dinner nap? You can have coffee later."

"Oh, one more thing, lest we forget the most important thing," he said, smiling. "I suggest we play on Saturday evening. We'll have a few friends from the neighborhood who'd be happy to join us. Do you mind?"

Zbigniew noticed from the corner of his eye that the women at the table exchanged quick glances, and Olga's hand twitched nervously, knocking a fork from the edge of the table to the floor. Of course, he pretended not to notice and replied with feigned casualness,

"Great. To tell the truth, I was starting to get impatient.

It was Thursday, and the game was still two days away.

" "What's that old man up to?" he thought as they rose from the table.

However, he didn't go to his room for the afternoon nap his host had so fervently encouraged him to take, but instead brewed himself a cup of strong, black coffee in the kitchen. He sat down in a woven bamboo rocking chair by the window. He was enjoying a hot drink when he noticed that George and Jolanta had left the house and walked right past the window, not noticing his head peeking over the sill. He overheard a fragment of their conversation.

"He's so nice, so I want you to be fair to him," Jolanta said.

"I'm fair. It's just a game," George replied.

"A game!" Jolanta snorted. "Except he doesn't stand a chance. You know that. And he's playing for money. A lot of money.

" "He has the same chances as me and can win, as long as...

" "As long as what?" Jolanta interrupted.

"...as long as he's intelligent enough," George continued calmly. Chess is a game of equal chances, well, almost equal, if you ignore the fact that White starts first."

The voices faded away, so he didn't hear the rest. When he cautiously leaned out of the window, he noticed them entering an old shed near the house.

Until now, he hadn't paid any attention to this wooden shack. That same evening, while the household was busy preparing dinner, he slipped out into the garden. The gate was locked with a wooden latch, so he opened it easily. Someone must have been frequenting it, as the hinges were oiled and didn't creak. He slipped inside through a narrow gap. In the semi-darkness, he spotted fragments of some old wooden carriages scattered on the clay floor. Wheels with broken spokes, shafts, and drawbars lay scattered about. Everything was dusty and covered in cobwebs. In the middle of this junkyard stood a wheelless but relatively complete carriage. He was silently examining it when he suddenly found himself in a beam of light.

"Ah! It's Mr. Zbigniew visiting our museum!" he recognized the ironic voice of Jolanta, who was standing at the wide-open gate.

"We have to keep an eye on it, because the village boys are stealing our eggs. But you came too late; someone warned you," she joked, pointing to an empty firewood box in the corner, lined with hay crumpled by birds.

He felt awkward and unsure how to react. Jolanta pretended not to notice his confusion.

"It's a beautiful carriage, isn't it?" she changed the subject.

She approached the carriage.

"My dad used to harness the horse, and I'd sit right there, and woohoo!!! We'd go to the fields." Saying this deftly, despite her age, she jumped onto the box.

In the semi-darkness, he saw a sad grimace on her face. However, she quickly regained control and lowered herself to the ground. When they stepped outside, Jolanta carefully inserted the latch.

"You'd better not go in there, the dust stains your clothes," she said as they walked away toward the house.

She said it in such a way, however, that Zbigniew involuntarily began to wonder if it was really just about his clothes.

The guests began arriving at four-thirty. The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. B.

"This is our attorney," Jolanta introduced the short, portly man to Zbigniew. "The attorney's father was a judge here before the war and once ordered all the prisoners released, I think around Easter.

" "Christmas," the attorney corrected. "Christmas Eve, to be precise.

" "Oh yes, Christmas. But they turned out to be decent people and returned to prison themselves, but the judge was fired anyway.

" "Nobody fired my father, Ms. Jolanta, it was just the ministry that advised him to take up the bar," the attorney corrected again.

"It doesn't matter. In any case, the attorney has a wonderful collection of various sabers, and I advise you to see it. Now I'll leave you gentlemen alone for a moment, because I have to greet the new guests."

People kept entering the living room, and it was getting increasingly noisy. Jolanta was moving among the new arrivals, collecting their coats and leading them to George, who was standing in the center, chatting animatedly with several ladies.

"So this is our hero," Zbigniew heard a woman's voice behind him.

He turned and saw a modestly dressed girl standing before him. She was no older than twenty, and she extended her hand in greeting.

"Krystyna," she said curtly, smiling. "Just don't let me down, I'm betting on you," she said.

"George is supposedly undefeated, so I don't know if you're doing the right thing," Zbigniew replied.

"Undefeated so far," she corrected him, "but we're still waiting for someone to finally take him on," she smiled.

At a quarter past seven, a tall, slim man entered the living room. He wore a white shirt over a gray vest.

"This is Stefan," said Krystyna. "Stefan worked here even before the war and is very devoted to his hosts."

Żorż ordered two armchairs placed in the center of the living room, facing each other. An electric chandelier hanging from the ceiling provided the best lighting in this area. Chairs for the guests were placed around the armchairs.

"And now the chessboard," he ordered.

"Large or regular," Stefan asked helpfully.

"Of course, large," Żorż snorted. "Our guest is an excellent chess player, after all.

" "As you wish." Stefan bowed and left to carry out his instructions.

The guests, who had been chattering away in the corners until then, fell silent and began to slowly approach the center of the living room. It was clear they were all waiting for something important.

A soft clatter echoed, mixed with the delicate clink of glassware. Stefan was carefully pushing a small table on wheels in front of him. The tabletop was covered with the black and white squares of a chessboard. On two opposite banks, in two rows, like soldiers at drill, stood glass glasses of appropriate shape and size. The colors, light and dark, were determined by their respective contents.

"Bravo, bravo!" the guests applauded the introduction of the chessboard.

"This could be a truly wonderful game," attorney B. was sincerely moved

. "Our George is truly invaluable," his wife echoed.

Stefan set the table in the center and pulled out a tray from under the tabletop, on which stood two medium-sized glasses. One was filled with a clear liquid, the other with a dark liquid.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our guest chooses," George said, turning to Zbigniew, pointing to the tray Stefan held.

"What do I choose?" Zbigniew asked in surprise. "What does that mean?

" "The suit you want to play with." And then there's this pleasant surprise: You see, if you capture a piece, you'll drink its contents. Just remember that if you play as White, you have the right to have the Blacks, and vice versa. George smiled mysteriously and encouraged Zbigniew with a light pat on the shoulder.

"Go ahead, go ahead..."

"As you wish," Stefan helpfully pushed the tray forward. "I inform you that the Whites contain excellent pepper vodka, while the Darks contain herbal liqueur. Last year's," he added seriously. "All of our own production, of course."

Zbigniew felt the attentive gazes of those gathered.

"Whites," he said determinedly.

"Oh, not so fast," Stefan whispered. "I advise tasting before making a decision." With that, he pushed the tray toward Zbigniew.

The pepper vodka was truly wonderful. The ingredients were so intense that Zbigniew wouldn't have even noticed the alcohol if it weren't for the gentle warmth that spread through his stomach.

"Indeed, wonderful," he said, setting down his glass.

"Try the herbal liqueur as well," Stefan insisted.

"Oh no, I've already made up my mind," Zbigniew replied. "I'm playing peppermint, that is, with White," he corrected himself. "I hope to taste the herbal tea during the game," he joked, which was met with discreet applause.

He began traditionally with the d2 pawn on d4 and started the clock. By starting this way, he had several different possibilities for playing the game, and Żórż's response should have clarified whether he was dealing with a real player or a dilettante. Żórz's response, however, was astonishing. Without a moment's hesitation, he moved the b7 pawn to b5 and instantly pressed the clock button. No self-respecting chess player, even an amateur, should have responded this way. It took quite a while for Zbigniew to recover from his astonishment and decide on e2-e4. This allowed White to gain control of the center, while Black hadn't even prepared to develop. Żórż, however, didn't seem to mind. Zbigniew had barely managed to release the clock button when, with a quick movement, Żorż moved the pawn on g5 further forward.

"Madman, I love you, he's a madman," Zbigniew thought, and after a moment's reflection, he moved his knight to b3. Although Żorż's moves posed no threat, he preferred to err on the side of caution.

Żorż steadily pushed forward with his lone pawn. His moves were instantaneous. He acted with the confidence of someone completely certain of victory.

"What is this rascal planning?" Zbigniew thought as he decided to capture the lone pawn.

The loss made no impression on Żorż. He smiled and invited Zbigniew to drink from his glass.

"It's the privilege, or rather the duty, of the victor."

He waited until Zbigniew set down his empty glass and moved the pawn on g7. Zbigniew noticed that this time he had placed it on g6, one square closer than before. These strange moves were beginning to irritate him. So he decided to launch a decisive attack and end the game as quickly as possible. He glanced at the clock. The fact that Zorz had used only 10 seconds of his time so far, compared to his 4 minutes in this phase, didn't matter in the slightest.

With a few decisive moves, he attacked Black's center and quickly captured two more pawns and a knight. He drank—as he mentally recalled—"the opponent's blood" and felt truly good.

George's responses continued to be lightning-fast. Black, however, changed tactics. George abandoned deploying his pawns on the flanks and concentrated his pieces around the king, enclosing him in a double ring. Zbigniew calculated that to checkmate him, he would have to capture the dark knight by sacrificing his own bishop. He launched his attack. And again, he was surprised when George not only refused the exchange but didn't even move the now-attacked rook.

"A slacker," Zbigniew hissed, reaching for another helping of "blood."

He set the empty piece aside and, waiting for Black's response, analyzed further combinations. He was interrupted by a discreet grunt from Zorze, who was pointing at the unset clock.

"Oh, thank you," he mused, pressing a button. He realized he'd lost several minutes.

This time, Zorze considered his next move. From time to time, he looked up from the board and shifted his gaze to Zbigniew. He seemed to be waiting for something. Occasionally, he glanced at the slowly moving clock hand, and only when their playing times were equal did he move his queen forward, opening the possibility of castling.

"Good, but not quite," Zbigniew muttered.

The queen and king were now on adjacent white squares. This meant he had the opportunity to attack both pieces simultaneously with his knight, which would have meant the loss of his queen for Black. First, however, he had to eliminate the black pawn.

"It's mine," he chuckled, capturing it with his bishop.

"Mine too," George remarked, having thus captured the opponent's first piece. The sip of pepper vodka he received as a reward clearly perked him up, and he even began humming a tune

. "Check," Zbigniew exclaimed, placing his second knight on the chosen spot.

"Oh, indeed!" This time, George groaned and pushed his king aside. He looked clearly embarrassed. White's attack meant losing his queen and the opportunity to castle, and therefore also immobilizing his rook, at least for a while.

"A great combination," he remarked approvingly, as Zbigniew placed the empty queen on the tray. Each piece held at least three pawns.

"The herbal tea is excellent," Zbigniew dismissed the praise and picked up his rook.

"Excuse me, but now it's my turn," George stopped him.

"Yours?" Zbigniew said in surprise. "Ah, ...... well... then... good."

Placing the rook back on the board, he staggered slightly and knocked over a few pieces.

"I'm so sorry," he apologized.

Stefan seemed to have prepared for this possibility. He immediately returned the pieces to their places and filled them again.

"We can play," he said, disappearing into the shadows.

"I'm a slacker, but not as slacker as you think," Zbigniew muttered, paying no attention to Żorż or the guests, who were still surrounding the board in a wide circle.

His head was already pounding, but his mind was still clear. From time to time, he glanced at the slowly ticking hand of the chess clock. He had little over 10 minutes left to play. He spotted a flaw in Black's positioning that allowed checkmate in four or five moves, depending on his opponent's defense. However, he still had to capture another pawn, bishop, and rook.

"That means two or three more rounds," he counted in his head.

He began to realize he simply couldn't keep this up. George wouldn't be in a hurry, and each subsequent round would devastate his mind. And that was when he leaned over the chessboard, whispered something, and rose from his chair.

"Excuse me, I have to leave you for a moment," he said, and headed for the exit.

"We'll add time," George suggested, referring to the natural cause of his temporary absence.

"Oh no, there's no need. I'll be right back."

Stefan, who, as usual, appeared at the right moment, intended to escort Zbigniew to the restroom, but Zbigniew instead headed for his room.

He returned two minutes before his time was up. He was visibly unstable on his feet, but his face beamed with an enigmatic smile.

"Let's finish this game then," he said to George, and after beating his pawn, he took a sip of herbal tea.

"Wonderful," he praised. "Now, pay attention, my friend. Here are my next four moves, which I will make, regardless of your moves. The last one means checkmate for you."

He handed George a piece of paper on which he had written down the moves and nonchalantly pressed the clock button.

"Gentlemen, if you'll allow me to have another round of drinks before I advance," he said.

Then he bowed low and slowly walked away. He had the impression that someone was protesting, someone wanted to stop him, there was also talk of dinner, losing or winning, but he had only one goal in mind: a large, comfortable bed.