by Jim Lombardo
Hannah began to think about the silly demands Anatoly had made in the contract. Did it truly matter if the table was a quarter inch wider or narrower? Did they really need to have 75 bananas a few paces away? She calculated that in order for two people (one just a child) to consume 75 bananas over the course of the game, assuming it went on as long as possible, they would each need to eat one banana every 6.4 minutes for 4 hours.
Hannah mused over a clip she had seen of a monkey sitting on the ground amongst a bunch of bananas trying to pick up every single one to take back to his nest. But there were too many. Every time the monkey went to pick one up, one or more would fall from under his arms. She pictured Anatoly doing the same thing. Perhaps he had just been trying to use psychological tactics to intimidate her and get an edge, and perhaps that may have indeed affected her. The only problem was that she had reviewed all of the world champion’s games, and the flaws and weaknesses of his games were obvious to her. Hannah also had an uncanny knack for cordoning off and squelching distracting emotional thoughts anyway, in the interest of maximizing her intellectual abilities, or enhancing feelings of well-being. So getting psyched out was not going to happen.
She sat there considering what this defeat would cost Anatoly, both personally and professionally. After his dazzling rise to prominence and an illustrious career, he was going to be beaten by a five-year-old girl, who was playing with the disadvantage of the black pieces no less, and with the eyes of an entire world watching. While chess was just a game to her, Hannah appreciated that chess was this man’s life.
Anatoly’s eyes darted over to his clock. He resembled a man standing on train tracks while a locomotive was bearing down on him. White had to move soon or risk forfeiting on time. The champion reached out and pulled his white squared Bishop back diagonally one square, and in the blink of an eye slammed down on the brass button on top of his side of the chess clock to stop it from moving, and automatically start Hannah’s.
Useless, Hannah immediately deduced in her mind. And then, in fact, she realized counterproductive was a better description. Instead of forced mate in 11 moves, she calculated the number of moves for checkmate had now been reduced to eight. With optimal defensive play, Anatoly’s King would ultimately be under direct attack with no way to capture or block the attacking piece, and would have no safe square to flee to. White would be forced to resign. Hannah examined the board and in an instant knew that 41…Qa4 was the correct move for her to force mate in seven more moves. She knew he couldn’t see it yet, as he had just missed his best move previously.
Hannah did not need to think anymore about 41…Qa4, but she did want to think about other things with all the time she had left on her clock. She thought about how she loved the game of chess, this infinite field of green grass to roam in. There were no limits. Her brain could never reach the horizon. There was never a cement wall to enclose her mind as it skipped along the endless variations, forks in the road and decision trees, with branches spiraling off into infinity. She knew about the Shannon number devised by Claude Shannon, a computer chess pioneer who mathematically demonstrated that the number of possible move sequences in chess was 10 raised to the 123rd power, whereas the number of atoms in the observable universe was estimated at 10 raised to the 81st power. These numbers were fine with her.
Hannah loved chess for the art of it, too. To her, the chessboard was like an artist’s palette. The pieces, each with its own unique shape, size, and special power, sat quietly, but pregnant with possibility as the game began. Then with the first move, they were born. The Bishops’ influence radiating across the board diagonally. Rooks, standing stout and firm, like impenetrable castles protecting their leader. There were the lowly meek Pawns, the weakest of all the pieces, but having the ability to morph or promote into a stronger piece, even a Queen, if they could somehow manage to march their way one step at a time to the enemy’s edge of the board. The King was the most important piece, with a numerical value of infinity; if he is lost, the game is lost. But still, he was exceedingly feeble, only permitted to move one square at a time. Like an aging monarch, Hannah thought, slow on his feet, but still glorious in his station. She was intrigued by the thought that while women still faced gender discrimination in modern society, someone in India in the 6th century — when the game was invented — thought it fitting that the Queen should be the most powerful and resourceful piece on the board. She also appreciated the way the pieces could be so much more productive if they worked together in harmony. To her, playing chess was like conducting an orchestra with up to 16 instruments, and with her as maestro. They complemented and supported each other, and like a family, the pieces always defended and depended upon one another.
Hannah then turned her reflections away from the decision tree of chess, to the one of life. As valuable as the royal game was in creating happiness, she wondered what Anatoly could have done with his brilliant mind if he had taken another career path. Perhaps he could have become a scientist, studying diseases, or trying to discover a new renewable energy source for the world. Perhaps his epitaph would be that he discovered a new variation of the Najdorf variation of the Sicilian defense. Hannah wondered, is this what I want for my life? Is this what I want to give to the world? While considering this, she noticed a young child about her age behind the observation glass, sitting awkwardly in a wheelchair.
She then decided that she was only going to make one more chess move, though it was one she would savor forever. Yes, 41…Qa4 was the correct move on the chessboard, but the single-space Pawn move 41…e3 was actually, in her mind, the best move, in the broader context of the world that extended beyond the edges of the board set before her. She reached out and pushed the e-pawn straight ahead one square.
The world champion rapidly scrutinized the move and jerked out of his sulking posture like he had just been hit with a back spasm. He leaned over the board like a leopard about to pounce on its prey, almost completely on top of it, as his brain raced to answer one question. Was 41…e3 another trap? Or was it a catastrophic blunder? The reality was that the move had opened up the long a8-h1 diagonal, and Hannah’s Queen, resting on c6, now sat completely unprotected from his white-squared Bishop that was cowering in his right corner of the board. The grandmaster reached out rapaciously, yanked her Queen off the board, and replaced it with his Bishop. He then clasped his hands tightly together and leered at Hannah. The game was now over for black.
Hannah looked up at Anatoly. “Whoops. Brain fart,” she said, then gently toppled her King over signaling resignation. She leaned forward, extending her hand across the board as far as it would go.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A Useful Life
During the six-hour drive back from Montreal, the mood in the stretch limo was subdued. Kip and Ace sat in adjoining bucket seats behind the chauffeur, while the Blakes were seated in a private passenger compartment in the rear. Brian was still trying to mentally recover from watching a $1,000,000 prize whittled down to $100,000. Hannah was brooding, but for a completely different reason.
Finally Brian couldn’t contain himself. “Not to give you a hard time, Hannah, but even I could see that—”
“Stop it, Brian,” warned Monica. “The commentators had our girl way up after 40 moves against the world champion. Isn’t that enough? And the Magnum guy told me their computer had even found a win for Hannah in 10 moves. We’re proud of you, darling,” she said, turning towards her daughter.
“And the twerp wouldn’t even shake her hand at the end,” Brian continued. “I shoulda broken the board over his fat head.”
“Eight moves,” said Hannah softly.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Brian.
“I mean I actually had a forced mate in eight moves before my last move.”
“So why’d you...wait a minute...did you lose on purpose, Hannah?”
“Yeah.”
“What? Are you serio
us? Why?” demanded Brian, sounding incredulous and dejected at the same time.
“Oh, Daddy. It’s just a game. It didn’t matter to me, and I wanted to end his suffering.”
“Alright, well, now I’m suffering,” Brian said angrily. He simmered in silence as the car slipped through the night, but after some time he calmed down and offered an olive branch. “Are you sure that was the right thing to do, smartypants?”
Hannah answered with an impish grin and a thick Shirovian accent, “Vhat you say? You vould question zee master?”
The three had the first laugh of their ride home together. They sat without talking for a full minute before Hannah spoke up again, addressing her parents without the usual Mommy and Daddy for the very first time. “Mom, Dad…I think it’s time for something new, something better. Can you tell me the story about my grandmother again, Mom?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Ellie (5.65 years old)
Hannah was absorbing every word of her mother’s phone conversation in the next room, but at the same time something small and seemingly trivial was competing for her attention. At the base of her bedroom wall, near a corner, was a common black garden ant.
Upon closer inspection, she realized that it wasn’t living anymore. It lay motionless on its side, six legs drawn in and two minuscule antennae wilted and flopped to the floor. The child considered that this creature, though tiny, had lived an entire life. From her studies she knew that this ant could have been up to three years old when it met its demise. Because she’d never seen one in the house before, she presumed that it had lived in a nest outside, underground or perhaps in a tree stump, where it would have joined a community of about 4,000 to 7,000 others of its kind.
Hannah surmised that this one had been a hard worker, most likely entering the house while foraging for food to support the colony, especially the queen and her young. She delicately scooped it up with a piece of graph paper, then folded the sides gently over it a few times, with the thought that she’d ask her father to help her bury it in the flower garden in back.
Though she was consumed with another issue this morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about that ant. What is life all about? she wondered. Why did this ant live? Was there a reason? Why does life exist in the first place? This’ll be a tough nut to crack, she told herself. Good thing I’m the ultimate nutcracker.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning…okay…we’ll be there,” said Monica. “No need to thank me, it was Hannah’s idea. In fact she insisted. Yes, I got the email. We’re all set with the directions. Take care and see you tomorrow.”
Monica put the phone down and entered Hannah’s room to announce, “Well, kid, you’re on.”
The next morning, the Blakes’ car rolled out of the driveway headed for Boston. It was a raw November morning with a light drizzle. Hannah sat quietly in back in her booster seat with a stern, ambitious look in her eyes.
Along the way, she observed the motion of the windshield wipers sweeping back and forth, and considered how primitive this technology was. Half a century after walking on the moon, humanity was still relying on this brute force method of removing rainwater from glass. She questioned whether or not this system was optimal from a safety standpoint. The rubber blades obstructed the driver’s view as they swept across the window, and with this system there was never a time when the windshield was completely dry. There was always streaking rainwater obscuring portions of the window that had not been swept within the last second or two. The parts of the front window not within range of the wipers’ arcs were covered with splotchy water, and visibility out of these areas became greatly hindered. Not to mention the distraction of that infernal squeaking noise. This technology seemed so antiquated. It was right up there with typewriters and the rotary telephone. Isn’t there a better solution? she wondered.
Hannah considered possible alternatives. What if wind naturally rushing towards the moving car could somehow be rerouted to create an air cushion that would repel the droplets before they ever touched the glass? If the car was not moving at a sufficient speed, then perhaps a motor could automatically be triggered to augment the air flow for the protective cushion.
What if the surface of a transparent material other than glass was so impervious to water that the droplets couldn’t attach, even for an instant? What if the windshield’s surface technology could somehow instantly vaporize the water molecules into gaseous hydrogen and oxygen upon contact? Obviously there was the need to minimize expense to keep cars competitively affordable, but even luxury cars relied on this same, timeworn technology.
Hannah had read in the “W” encyclopedia that windshield wipers were invented in 1903 by Mary Anderson. When she tried to sell the rights to the patent in 1905 to a well-known firm, she was told, “We do not consider it to be of such commercial value as would warrant our undertaking its sale.”
Such rejection of an obvious winning idea reminded Hannah that J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter book was rejected by 12 publishing houses before it took off and exploded in worldwide popularity. Could there be an inventor who had proposed a better wiper idea, but it simply had not been accepted? She knew that over the years, many people had worked diligently to improve the engineering of windshield wipers, including such aspects as the quality and durability of the rubber, ease of replacement, and the functioning of the wiper motor. Mary’s original wipers, after all, had to be manually controlled from within the car. Hannah considered that every day, workers in companies all over the world were toiling to mass produce, test, package, and sell the blades at market with the goal of driver safety, and the ultimate goal of saving lives. Still, she felt that what she was looking at in front of her was not a fully evolved solution. It was as if that squeaking noise were the wipers crying out for a fresh, new approach.
The child watched the buildings of Boston gradually increase in size as they got closer and closer to the city. What originally had appeared as toy blocks in the distance, were now monoliths towering over the Blakes’ car. Still, she was not intimidated. Brian maneuvered through traffic towards the mammoth Boston General Hospital complex.
“Left there, Brian, and up the ramp,” Monica advised. “We’re getting there,” she told Hannah.
“I know. Thanks, Mom and Dad.”
As instructed, Brian drove up to a gate and parking booth at a Doctors Only lot.
“Hi, we’re the Blake family. We were told we could park here by Dr.—”
“Oh, yes, I was expecting you. Welcome to the hospital.” The attendant, an older man, leaned out the window of his booth to get a better view of their notable guest. “Hi there, Hannah, nice to meet you.”
“Hi, sir. Thank you so much for helping us park,” she said emphatically.
“You’re entirely welcome. But it’s not much that I do, just raise a gate and let people in and out, that’s all.”
“I think it’s actually a very important job, sir. Maybe that’s why they gave you your own little house for an office. Who gets that?”
“That’s true. I never saw it that way,” he said, smiling. “Okay, I’ll let you in, but first I need the magical phrase that raises the gate.”
“Ummm, the magical phrase is...every job is equally important,” the youngster replied.
“I was thinking open sesame, but that one works too,” he laughed as the gate swung up.
The Blakes parked and then scurried the short distance from the lot to the entrance of the building. The rain was falling harder, and strong winds whirled around them. Monica held her daughter’s hand, while Brian huddled close to them, trying to hover an umbrella over the group. They were greeted at the door by a man wearing a tie under a white lab coat.
“Hi, Brian, Monica…and Hannah,” he said with a soft, almost soothing note to his voice. “I’m Doctor Lally…Rich Lally.”
Dr. Lally was Chief of Oncology at Boston General. The doctor
was 68 years old, and had spent his entire adult life helping patients battle cancer. He had also spent many decades researching the illness, as well as teaching for a university in Boston that was affiliated with his hospital. It was his life’s work, his passion. He had no intention of retiring any time soon. Hannah had reached out to him with an offer to get involved, to see if she could somehow help with fighting the disease. Dr. Lally was well aware of Hannah’s extraordinary intelligence, and was excited and intrigued by the concept. His philosophy had always been to leave no stone unturned when it came to finding any means of combatting this serious malady.
“Let me show you our facilities. I’ll take you to the research center first.”
“Actually, can we go to the treatment center first?” Hannah proposed. “I’d like to meet some of your patients if that would be okay.”
Dr. Lally glanced warily over to Monica and Brian. “That…that might be a bit…too difficult. What do you think?”
Brian bent down to his daughter’s level. “Hannah, the doctor feels meeting the patients might be a bit much for you. Do you get that?”
“Yes, I do, but I think having cancer is bit much as well. Take me to them…please.”
The group made their way through a maze of long corridors. The floors were gleaming and designed with inlaid geometric shapes. Along their journey they passed a number of doors that led into doctor suites where poignant, life-altering dramas were an everyday occurrence.
Behind one such door, just as the group was walking by, an oncologist was greeting a husband and wife who had been nervously waiting in a boxy, sterile-looking office that adjoined his examining room. He was carrying a large brown envelope.
“Sorry for the delay,” he said.
The doctor took a seat across from them, and delivered the frightening news. “We’ve discovered a mass.”
