“Oh well,” I said to them, “if that’s the way you’re going to be about this, if you’re going to be stuffy just because I’m trying to acclimate myself to your country, then I won’t say a word more, not a single word.” Shrugging in an informal posture I had never before discovered in myself, I backed away from the guide, merging with the tourists in what I took to be an inconspicuous posture. “Let’s go,” I said when there was a long, thick pause. “Let’s go and see some goddamned ruins. Unless it’s all a hoax, of course, or unless the tour also has been called off because of your revolution.”
In retrospect it is easy to see that my disgrace was compounded by psychogenic changes, that what appeared to be a certain giddiness and lack of sobriety was only the effect of the atmosphere. But at the time, my conduct seemed to me amazingly controlled and completely rational. I was unable to grasp why a certain pall had seemed to fall over the group.
Nevertheless, the tour began, the guide taking the tickets with an uncomfortable expression. His hand, when it came near mine to take my ticket, revealed a tremor. I was strangely acute, although most of my acuity was hallucination. Then we trundled off, fifteen tourists of various nationalities and myself, poking and prying through the ancient city of Cuzco. My initial giddiness began once again to fade to weariness and a certain regrettable sense that I had disgraced myself.
I decided to be inconspicuous. Now and then these moments of self-consciousness flare up (as I have perhaps pointed out). Often I can be ignorant of my physical aspect for days. Weeks will pass when the only thing on my mind is tournament chess, and then a sequence of events will come to pass which brings out an undue impression of self-awareness, a lumbering physicality, a sensation that I am committing an endless series of blunders which will lead to my exile from the common ranks of humanity.
It may be this embarrassment which overtook me as our little group, dangling cameras and stray pieces of clothing, began to wander through the artifacts of the ancient Incas. It was very important to blend into the crowd, to call no attention to myself. I felt grotesque, distended.
Staring into those piles of artifacts, neatly heaped behind little glass cases in some of the buildings, looking into the large, dark pits in which the guide stated that the golden hoard of the Incas was hidden, I found this sensation of undue clumsiness beginning to dissipate; it was succeeded by a larger, more fascinated aspect.
“Pizarro’s conquest was complete,” the guide informed us, “the ancient Incan civilization was completely destroyed, the Spanish mercenaries soon colonized Peru completely. Nevertheless, not long after the conquest was complete Pizarro was murdered, allegedly by his own men, in a power struggle. It is often thought, however,” the guide went on, with what appeared to be a wink, “that he was not murdered by his own men at all, and that indeed it was the curse of the Inca nation itself which was visited upon him. We do not know about that,” he said, “but it is known that here in Cuzco are the remains of an ancient, vital civilization more advanced in many ways than any subsequent civilization. Through the centuries many men have come to comb through these artifacts and to look for what they think might be the hidden treasure of this civilization. But, of course, they have been unsuccessful.”
“Completely unsuccessful?” I said. It was quite difficult to talk, and I had no desire after my earlier outburst to draw further attention to myself, but the question was compelling. “No signs have ever been unearthed?”
“None,” the guide said, “none whatsoever.” He moved on; our little group went stumbling through the ruins, hanging on perilously for balance at times. The light was lovely and reflective, slow and distant, falling among all those ruins. As we made our way through those spaces something occurred to me: Chess too is an artifact, a set of ruins in which, however distantly, may be perceived the intricate and terrible outlines of a long-perished civilization. All of us, grandmasters arid patzers alike, in our obsessive quest across the board, our attempts to find the proper combinations and patterns which will lead to some understanding of the game (the game has never been truly understood, even by Fischer, even by Alekhine) are merely stumbling to unearth some gleaming and true artifact which will bring us the message fully and unlock the way to the secret, hidden treasure.
It is an insight which did not change my life, but it was highly interesting and it comes back to me at this particularly crucial stage of my existence. Chess is an ancient game; it is rumored to have begun in Persia in the twelfth century, although its antecedents in more primitive form can be traced back even further. There is a very definite scholarly point of view, of which I am the sole proponent, which holds that the game was invented in Peru somewhere in the middle of the sixteenth century and that all of the ensuing political struggles of the world can only be seen as a, series of stumbling, halting efforts to get back to its purest inceptions and outlines. One cannot be sure of this, however. History is a difficult and imprecise study.
CHAPTER FIVE
Bishop to Bishop Four
The hall is equipped with huge megaphones through which the referees can announce the moves as they are made. This takes quite a while, since the announcements are made in at least twenty-five languages for every move, beginning, of course, with English. As the Overlords assist me through an exit I hear Louis’ next move intoned. He has selected exactly this point of time to move, a point of time at which I have been forced to leave the game not under my own power. This is exactly in line with his small, mean personality and his exploitation of cheap psychological tricks in order to win dishonestly an advantage he could never win if he were to play in the moral and upright fashion I do. Louis has always sought advantages of this sort but this moment is the nadir of his career: making a move while his opponent, stricken by a wave of illness, has to be assisted off the stage. Still, what is one to do? My determination is unflagging; I vow to myself that I will recover from this illness shortly and make him pay dearly for what he has done tome.
Bishop to Bishop Four. It is precisely the kind of move one would associate with Louis. Clear and stark, the outlines of the board, the posture of the pieces surge into my mind and I see now what he has done. He has continued his amateurish and unsound attack by posting the King’s Bishop at an unsafe square, one where it can fall quickly to a series of clever traps and pitfalls which I will set for him. The normal continuation in the Ruy Lopez, of course, would be Bishop to Bishop Five, a more extended posture from which he would be able to defend the Bishop with the King’s Knight. But this has never been Louis’ style, never at all. Truly he is an unsound player. It is surprising that he has been able to get even this far in grandmasterly chess.
But I cannot, for the moment, bring further concentration upon the game, so overwhelmed am I by my unfortunate illness. “Sorry. Sorry about this,” I murmur apologetically as I am conveyed into a large, lush waiting room I have never seen previously. There is a mortuary aspect to this room, with its red curtains, green cot, many pillows scattered throughout, and a box of tissues discreetly placed on a hideous luminescent table to the right of the couch. “I didn’t mean it to be this way, don’t worry about a thing, the forces of good will triumph after all,” I say, while various Overlords minister to me, place me on the couch, bring me tissues by the score with which I can absorb the moisture that comes sopping off my face. “I’ll be all right in a second, just a little passing illness, a fit of vertigo.” I think of the wretched Timmons, the only grandmaster ever to die during the course of a chess match in the Buenos Aires tournament—suddenly squealing like a pig and upending a chair in the middle of an intricate, winning Nimzo-Indian. He lost on a disqualification. Since then, Timmons has gotten more notice in death than he ever found in life for his gaucherie. It is the secret fear of any chess player (whether he will admit it or not) that he too might somehow be stricken in public, and left to die in the midst of gloomy calculations of the game. Our rather sedentary profession, with its high proportion of aged and aging grandmasters, cer
tainly presents this as a statistical possibility.
Still, it is impossible that this would happen to me; I am barely over fifty and far more active than most grandmasters. Also, I have a horror of appearing awkward in public. All in all then, as I stretch out on the couch, holding a little halo of tissues to my nose, I feel a faint recovery of strength, although it is hardly of such dimension that I would consider resuming the match. Various Overlords lean over me murmuring consoling words, none of them in any language that I can grasp. Then one by one, talking to one another earnestly as they form a second group at the door, they pass through, closing the door upon me. I find that I am in the room alone with my old friend Five, whom I recognize not only through his hue but by a certain characteristic flexing of the tentacles which could only be his gesture. One of those tentacles touches me delicately now. “Are you feeling better?” Five says.
“Somewhat better.”
“We can arrange for a complete medical examination after the game if you wish. I was assured, however, before this even began, that you were in the best of health and you are probably only suffering from some fatigue—”
“There’s no time for this,” I say. “I’m given to understand that you’ve lied to us about this match, that we aren’t playing for the fate of the universe at all, but that this is merely an exhibition which is being beamed to all ranges of intelligence, and you’ve built up all these consequences merely to keep us at a high competitive edge.”
I am really astonished with the way in which this has burst out, but it is too late to stop. “Why did you lie to us?” I say. “It wasn’t nice of you, it didn’t show proper respect; after all, we’re grandmasters—”
“I’m truly shocked,” Five says. His voice has never shown so much concern; the depth of feeling within that voice would be enough to make me weep, if I were more emotional. “Where did you hear this allegation?”
“I won’t discuss it.”
“And is it the basis for your current illness?” A tentacle delicately brushes my forehead. “This is truly terrible,” Five says, “to have rumors of this type get back to you. I knew there were some disgusting elements, representatives of races who are no friends of ours, who were spreading these base and scurrilous lies throughout, but I never expected them to reach you. I would not have thought they would sink this low.”
“Then it’s not true,” I say. “You’re telling me that they are lies.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Five says gently. “I’m really horrified by this. It cuts to the center of the match. Now everything is imperiled! We will deal strongly with those spreading lies. What I want to know now is who informed you of this? Was it your opponent?”
Well, there is only one thing to say. “Yes. It was Louis.”
And instantly, like sexual release, there is a flooding sensation of shame, warmth, liquidity: as much as I dislike Louis he is a human too, and trapped as I am in this complex and terrible match. Perhaps I should not have betrayed him to Five. I have never been able to get the question of final loyalties and priorities quite straight; I know that I detest Louis and the Overlords as well (although not Five, my confidant), but whether my higher loyalty is to my noxious opponent or whether it is to the Overlords who have treated us courteously is not clear. A little of one, a little of the other. Cornme-çi, comme-ça.
“Don’t deal too harshly with him,” I say, “I’m going to beat him badly after all.”
“That is not sufficient retribution!” Five says angrily. I have never seen him in such an emotional state; he has the savage and desperate cast of such creatures in the Book of Daniel and the Revelation of St. John the Divine as those accompanying apocalyptic times: winged beasts, horns, grotesque shapes. “We will destroy this.”
“He said that the idea of this just being a chess match really came from some other source which he couldn’t reveal. Your real quarrel would be with whoever informed him of this.”
“Our real quarrel,” the Overlord says angrily, “must be with those who would interfere with the rules and the progress of the match; our quarrel is with those who would misrepresent to the participants the true nature and terrible consequences of this match, and thus attempt to throw its outcome into jeopardy!” Five stands, seeming to unfurl his scales. “That individual or group of individuals will be dealt with most severely,” he says.
“You mean then that the match is as represented? Exactly as represented?”
“Of course it is, and furthermore, I don’t want you thinking otherwise. We would not lie to you. The match between you and your opponent is for the fate of the universe, the absolute triumph of good over evil, or the reverse. There will be no second chance for the losing side, but only instant and terrible destruction.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. In truth I am; I would not dissemble to Five, whom I consider, as I would none of the others, to be something very close to a friend. “To reach this level of competitive tension, to become this involved in the match only to find out that you had lied to us, misrepresented, that it was merely a match—”
“It would be unthinkably disastrous,” the Overlord agrees solemnly. “There would be very little to be said on behalf of the moral values of creatures who would play upon you in this fashion. But fortunately, no harm has been done; you have told us what is disturbing you and in plenty of time for us to take stringent action.”
“I do hope,” I say, bringing him to an absolute halt in his staggering gait toward the door (the Overlords slide like snakes but with the use of their tentacles are also able to pad along like dogs; their gait; I have discovered, is often a very function of their moods) “that you won’t deal harshly with Louis.”
“Oh, not at all. Not at all.”
“We’re in the middle of a match now.”
“Nothing must interfere with the progress of a match,” the Overlord says agreeably. “At all costs the match must go on.”
“And I will deal with him myself. I think that his defeat will be adequate reprisal.”
“Oh, I should say,” the Overlord agrees ponderously. “I should certainly say.” He drags himself out of the room. “Stay until you feel entirely better,” the Overlord says, “although of course you’ll have to lose some of your clock-time. There’s no way that we can alter those rules; time must be charged against you. But you will be back to play shortly, won’t you?”
“Oh, definitely,” I say. The conversation has taken on a curious formality. “Oh, very definitely, we have got to play under the rules of international chess or there would be no point to this at all. I’m feeling much stronger now. I’m sure that I’ll be able to come out quite shortly.”
“Well, that’s excellent,” Five says gravely. He vanishes from the doorway, leaving me to my own devices.
It is a very strange room; now that I have an opportunity to inspect it more closely at my leisure, I can see that all the furnishings are exquisitely fabricated; they appear to be cheap, terrestrial artifacts (doubtless this is the attempt of the Overlords to make us feel at home). But when they are touched they fail to yield in the way that normal furnishings would do: Even ordinary wood has a distinct texture, springiness, resilience, willingness to give under the pressure of a hand, but nothing in this room seems to yield in any fashion. Rather, putting my hand against the couch, I feel a grainy response, then the material seems to press itself upward against my hand in a rather firm and insistent fashion. Then there is a feeling of engorgement, of lips opening underneath my hand and then something which feels like a tongue licks me gently. I start, yank my hand back and look at the couch. It glints pinkly, innocently, Not me, it seems to be saying, it must be purely within your mind.
I leap to my feet and find that I am much stronger than I was when entering the room, and able to maintain a rigid standing posture and a little scuttling walk without weakness of any sort. With determination I stride from one side of the room to the other, extending my scuttle into a stalk. There is no i
ncrease in my respiration or heartbeat; it is apparent that my attack, if that is what I must call it, has now passed. The couch and the furnishings look stolid in the room; it must have been some effort of the imagination which had imparted life to them. There is nothing more to be done here. I am using up time on my clock, I go to the door.
The doorknob comes into my hand innocently, shyly, and then with a horrid intimacy it seems to caress me. Something very much like a finger curls its way through my palm, running against the lines of my hand. (I have always associated this gesture, at least in the limited reading that I have done, with sexual invitation of some sort, and therefore the sensation is a rather horrid one.) I bring my hand back from the doorknob as if I had gotten a shock, and look into the moist surfaces of my palm as if for some stain of implication. My palm smiles back at me in little lines, innocent of touch; if anything has happened to it, once again it must have been in my mind. This is, however, a very strange room. Once more I reach out toward the doorknob and this time it yields and without motion. I open it and step out into the hall.
The murmurs of the arena instantly overcome me. The room I left must have been excellently soundproofed; within its confines I heard nothing. But I have rarely heard an audience as clangorous as this one. There are murmurs, sighs, whispers, even a handclap or two, and although this seems hard to believe I think that I can also hear the sound of booing. Such conduct at a master game is just about unheard of. The audience may not be familiar with the etiquette of these things. Not all the audiences where we have played have been knowledgeable; in fact, there are sectors of the galaxy, the Overlords tell me, where chess is unheard of and where there has been an educative campaign prior to our debarkation. My hasty departure might have been interpreted by the audience as an act of cowardice, an apparent desertion of the game under fire. This knowledge adds fuel to the fire of my posture and I move back into the playing area determined to do nothing to disgrace myself and determined to bring the match now to a rapid conclusion. I can no longer tolerate this. There is no reason for them to have booed me. I cannot make them pay for this disgrace, so I will make Louis pay.
Tactics of Conquest Page 9
