Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition

by Kurt Vonnegut,Gregory D. Sumner

  “Your move, Colonel. Two minutes,” coaxed Pi Ying.

  And then Kelly saw it—the price he would pay, that they all would pay, for the curse of conscience. Pi Ying had only to move his queen diagonally, three squares to the left, to put him in check. After that he needed to make one more move—inevitable, irresistible—and then checkmate, the end. And Pi Ying would move his queen. The game seemed to have lost its piquancy for him; he had the air of a man eager to busy himself elsewhere.

  The guerrilla chief was standing now, leaning over the balustrade. Major Barzov stood behind him, fitting a cigarette into an ornate ivory holder. “It’s a very distressing thing about chess,” said Barzov, admiring the holder, turning it this way and that. “There isn’t a grain of luck in the game, you know. There’s no excuse for the loser.” His tone was pedantic, with the superciliousness of a teacher imparting profound truths to students too immature to understand.

  Pi Ying shrugged. “Winning this game gives me very little satisfaction. Colonel Kelly has been a disappointment. By risking nothing, he has deprived the game of its subtlety and wit. I could expect more brilliance from my cook.”

  The hot red of anger blazed over Kelly’s cheeks, inflamed his ears. The muscles of his belly knotted; his legs moved apart. Pi Ying must not move his queen. If Pi Ying moved his queen, Kelly would lose; if Pi Ying moved his knight from Kelly’s line of attack, Kelly would win. Only one thing might induce Pi Ying to move his knight—a fresh, poignant opportunity for sadism.

  “Concede, Colonel. My time is valuable,” said Pi Ying.

  “Is it all over?” asked the young corporal querulously.

  “Keep your mouth shut and stay where you are,” said Kelly. He stared through shrewd, narrowed eyes at Pi Ying’s knight, standing in the midst of the living chessmen. The horse’s carved neck arched. Its nostrils flared.

  The pure geometry of the white chessmen’s fate burst upon Kelly’s consciousness. Its simplicity had the effect of a refreshing, chilling wind. A sacrifice had to be offered to Pi Ying’s knight. If Pi Ying accepted the sacrifice, the game would be Kelly’s. The trap was perfect and deadly save for one detail—bait.

  “One minute, Colonel,” said Pi Ying.

  Kelly looked quickly from face to face, unmoved by the hostility or distrust or fear that he saw in each pair of eyes. One by one he eliminated the candidates for death. These four were vital to the sudden, crushing offense, and these must guard the king. Necessity, like a child counting eeny, meeny, miney, moe around a circle, pointed its finger at the one chessman who could be sacrificed. There was only one.

  Kelly didn’t permit himself to think of the chessman as anything but a cipher in a rigid mathematical proposition: if x is dead, the rest shall live. He perceived the tragedy of his decision only as a man who knew the definition of tragedy, not as one who felt it.

  “Twenty seconds!” said Barzov. He had taken the stop watch from Pi Ying.

  The cold resolve deserted Kelly for an instant, and he saw the utter pathos of his position—a dilemma as old as mankind, as new as the struggle between East and West. When human beings are attacked, x, multiplied by hundreds or thousands, must die—sent to death by those who love them most. Kelly’s profession was the choosing of x.

  “Ten seconds,” said Barzov.

  “Jerry,” said Kelly, his voice loud and sure, “move forward one square and two to your left.” Trustingly, his son stepped out of the back rank and into the shadow of the black knight. Awareness seemed to be filtering back into Margaret’s eyes. She turned her head when her husband spoke.

  Pi Ying stared down at the board in bafflement. “Are you in your right mind, Colonel?” he asked at last. “Do you realize what you’ve just done?”

  A faint smile crossed Barzov’s face. He bent forward as though to whisper to Pi Ying, but apparently thought better of it. He leaned back against a pillar to watch Kelly’s every move through a gauze of cigarette smoke.

  Kelly pretended to be mystified by Pi Ying’s words. And then he buried his face in his hands and gave an agonized cry. “Oh, God, no!”

  “An exquisite mistake, to be sure,” said Pi Ying. He excitedly explained the blunder to the young girl beside him. She turned away. He seemed infuriated by the gesture.

  “You’ve got to let me take him back,” begged Kelly brokenly.

  Pi Ying rapped on the balustrade with his knuckles. “Without rules, my friend, games become nonsense. We agreed that all moves would be final, and so they are.” He motioned to a servant. “King’s knight to king’s bishop six!” The servant moved the piece onto the square where Jerry stood. The bait was taken, the game was Colonel Kelly’s from here on in.

  “What is he talking about?” murmured Margaret.

  “Why keep your wife in suspense, Colonel?” said Pi Ying. “Be a good husband and answer her question, or should I?”

  “Your husband sacrificed a knight,” said Barzov, his voice overriding Pi Ying’s. “You’ve just lost your son.” His expression was that of an experimenter, keen, expectant, entranced.

  Kelly heard the choking sound in Margaret’s throat, caught her as she fell. He rubbed her wrists. “Darling, please—listen to me!” He shook her more roughly than he had intended. Her reaction was explosive. Words cascaded from her—hysterical babble condemning him. Kelly locked her wrists together in his hands and listened dumbly to her broken abuse.

  · · ·

  Pi Ying’s eyes bulged, transfixed by the fantastic drama below, oblivious of the tearful frenzy of the young girl behind him. She tugged at his blouse, pleading. He pushed her back without looking away from the board.

  The tall T-4 suddenly dived at the nearest guard, driving his shoulder into the man’s chest, his fist into his belly. Pi Ying’s soldiers converged, hammered him to the floor and dragged him back to his square.

  In the midst of the bedlam, Jerry burst into tears and raced terrified to his father and mother. Kelly freed Margaret, who dropped to her knees to hug the quaking child. Paul, Jerry’s twin, held his ground, trembled, stared stolidly at the floor.

  “Shall we get on with the game, Colonel?” asked Pi Ying, his voice high. Barzov turned his back to the board, unwilling to prevent the next step, apparently reluctant to watch it.

  Kelly closed his eyes, and waited for Pi Ying to give the order to the executioners. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Margaret and Jerry. Pi Ying waved his hand for silence. “It is with deep regret—” he began. His lips closed. The menace suddenly went out of his face, leaving only surprise and stupidity. The small man slumped on the balustrade, slithered over it to crash among his soldiers.

  Major Barzov struggled with the Chinese girl. In her small hand, still free of his grasp, was a slender knife. She drove it into her breast and fell against the major. Barzov let her fall. He strode to the balustrade. “Keep the prisoners where they are!” he shouted at the guards. “Is he alive?” There was no anger in his voice, no sorrow—only irritation, resentment of inconvenience. A servant looked up and shook his head.

  Barzov ordered servants and soldiers to carry out the bodies of Pi Ying and the girl. It was more the act of a scrupulous housekeeper than a pious mourner. No one questioned his brisk authority.

  “So this is your party after all,” said Kelly.

  “The peoples of Asia have lost a very great leader,” Barzov said severely. He smiled at Kelly oddly. “Though he wasn’t without weaknesses, was he, Colonel?” He shrugged. “However, you’ve won only the initiative, not the game; and now you have me to reckon with instead of Pi Ying. Stay where you are, Colonel. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He ground out his cigarette on the ornamented balustrade, returned the holder to his pocket with a flourish, and disappeared through the curtains.

  “Is Jerry going to be all right?” whispered Margaret. It was a plea, not a question, as though mercy were Kelly’s to dole out or to withhold.

  “Only Barzov knows,” he said. He was bursting to explain the
moves to her, to make her understand why he had had no choice; but he knew that an explanation would only make the tragedy infintely more cruel for her. Death through a blunder she might be able to understand; but death as a product of cool reason, a step in logic, she could never accept. Rather than accept it, she would have had them all die.

  “Only Barzov knows,” he repeated wearily. The bargain was still in force, the price of victory agreed to. Barzov apparently had yet to realize what it was that Kelly was buying with a life.

  “How do we know Barzov will let us go if we do win?” said the T-4.

  “We don’t, soldier. We don’t.” And then another doubt began to worm into his consciousness. Perhaps he had won no more than a brief reprieve.…

  Colonel Kelly had lost track of how long they’d waited there on the chessboard for Barzov’s return. His nerves were deadened by surge after surge of remorse and by the steady pressure of terrible responsibility. His consciousness had lapsed into twilight. Margaret slept in utter exhaustion, with Jerry, his life yet to be claimed, in her arms. Paul had curled up on his square, covered by the young corporal’s field jacket. On what had been Jerry’s square, the horse’s carved head snarling as though fire would burst from its nostrils, stood Pi Ying’s black knight.

  · · ·

  Kelly barely heard the voice from the balcony—mistook it for another jagged fragment in a nightmare. His mind attached no sense to the words, heard only their sound. And then he opened his eyes and saw Major Barzov’s lips moving. He saw the arrogant challenge in his eyes, understood the words. “Since so much blood has been shed in this game, it would be a pitiful waste to leave it unresolved.”

  Barzov settled regally on Pi Ying’s cushions, his black boots crossed. “I propose to beat you, Colonel, and I will be surprised if you give me trouble. It would be very upsetting to have you win by the transparent ruse that fooled Pi Ying. It isn’t that easy any more. You’re playing me now, Colonel. You won the initiative for a moment. I’ll take it and the game now, without any more delay.”

  Kelly rose to his feet, his great frame monumental above the white chessmen sitting on the squares about him. Major Barzov wasn’t above the kind of entertainment Pi Ying had found so diverting. But Kelly sensed the difference between the major’s demeanor and that of the guerrilla chief. The major was resuming the game, not because he liked it, but because he wanted to prove that he was one hell of a bright fellow, and that the Americans were dirt. Apparently, he didn’t realize that Pi Ying had already lost the game. Either that, or Kelly had miscalculated.

  In his mind, Kelly moved every piece on the board, driving his imagination to show him the flaw in his plan, if a flaw existed—if the hellish, heartbreaking sacrifice was for nothing. In an ordinary game, with nothing at stake but bits of wood, he would have called upon his opponent to concede, and the game would have ended there. But now, playing for flesh and blood, an aching, ineradicable doubt overshadowed the cleancut logic of the outcome. Kelly dared not reveal that he planned to attack and win in three moves—not until he had made the moves, not until Barzov had lost every chance to exploit the flaw, if there was one.

  “What about Jerry?” cried Margaret.

  “Jerry? Oh, of course, the little boy. Well, what about Jerry, Colonel?” asked Barzov. “I’ll make a special concession, if you like. Would you want to take the move back?” The major was urbane, a caricature of cheerful hospitality.

  “Without rules, Major, games become nonsense,” said Kelly flatly. “I’d be the last to ask you to break them.”

  Barzov’s expression became one of profound sympathy. “Your husband, madame, has made the decision, not I.” He pressed the button on the stop watch. “You may keep the boy with you until the Colonel has fumbled all of your lives away. Your move, Colonel. Ten minutes.”

  “Take his pawn,” Kelly ordered Margaret. She didn’t move. “Margaret! Do you hear me?”

  “Help her, Colonel, help her,” chided Barzov.

  Kelly took Margaret by the elbow, led her unresisting to the square where a black pawn stood. Jerry tagged along, keeping his mother between himself and Kelly. Kelly returned to his square, dug his hands into his pockets, and watched a servant take the black pawn from the board. “Check, Major. Your king is in check.”

  Barzov raised an eyebrow. “Check, did you say? What shall I do about this annoyance? How shall I get you back to some of the more interesting problems on the board?” He gestured to a servant. “Move my king over one square to the left.”

  “Move diagonally one square toward me, Lieutenant,” Kelly ordered the pilot. The pilot hesitated. “Move! Do you hear?”

  “Yessir.” The tone was mocking. “Retreating, eh, sir?” The lieutenant slouched into the square, slowly, insolently.

  “Check again, Major,” Kelly said evenly. He motioned at the lieutentant. “Now my bishop has your king in check.” He closed his eyes and told himself again and again that he had made no miscalculation, that the sacrifice had won the game, that there could be no out for Barzov. This was it—the last of the three moves.

  “Well,” said Barzov, “is that the best you can do? I’ll simply move my queen in front of my king.” The servant moved the piece. “Now it will be a different story.”

  “Take his queen,” said Kelly to his farthest-advanced pawn, the battered T-4.

  Barzov jumped to his feet. “Wait!”

  “You didn’t see it? You’d like to take it back?” taunted Kelly.

  · · ·

  Barzov paced back and forth on his balcony, breathing hard. “Of course I saw it!”

  “It was the only thing you could do to save your king,” said Kelly. “You may take it back if you like, but you’ll find it’s the only move you can make.”

  “Take the queen and get on with the game,” shouted Barzov. “Take her!”

  “Take her,” echoed Kelly, and the servant trundled the huge piece to the side lines. The T-4 now stood blinking at Barzov’s king, inches away. Colonel Kelly said it very softly this time: “Check.”

  Barzov exhaled in exasperation. “Check indeed.” His voice grew louder. “No credit to you, Colonel Kelly, but to the monumental stupidity of Pi Ying.”

  “And that’s the game, Major.”

  The T-4 laughed idiotically, the corporal sat down, the lieutenant threw his arms around Colonel Kelly. The two children gave a cheer. Only Margaret stood fast, still rigid, frightened.

  “The price of your victory, of course, has yet to be paid,” said Barzov acidly. “I presume you’re ready to pay now?”

  Kelly whitened. “That was the understanding, if it would give you satisfaction to hold me to it.”

  Barzov placed another cigarette in his ivory holder, taking a scowling minute to do it. When he spoke, it was in the tone of the pedant once more, the wielder of profundities. “No, I won’t take the boy. I feel as Pi Ying felt about you—that you, as Americans, are the enemy, whether an official state of war exists or not. I look upon you as prisoners of war.

  “However, as long as there is no official state of war, I have no choice, as a representative of my government, but to see that all of you are conducted safely through the lines. This was my plan when I resumed the game where Pi Ying left off. Your being freed has nothing to do with my personal feelings, nor with the outcome of the game. My winning would have delighted me and taught you a valuable lesson. But it would have made no difference in your fates.” He lighted his cigarette and continued to look at them with severity.

  “That’s very chivalrous of you, Major,” said Kelly.

  “A matter of practical politics, I assure you. It wouldn’t do to precipitate an incident between our countries just now. For a Russian to be chivalrous with an American is a spiritual impossibility, a contradiction in terms. In a long and bitter history, we’ve learned and learned well to reserve our chivalry for Russians.” His expression became one of complete contempt. “Perhaps you’d like to play another game, Colonel—plain chess wit
h wooden chessmen, without Pi Ying’s refinement. I don’t like to have you leave here thinking you play a better game than I.”

  “That’s nice of you, but not this evening.”

  “Well, then, some other time.” Major Barzov motioned for the guards to open the door of the throne room. “Some other time,” he said again. “There will be others like Pi Ying eager to play you with live men, and I hope I will again be privileged to be an observer.” He smiled brightly. “When and where would you like it to be?”

  “Unfortunately, the time and the place are up to you,” said Colonel Kelly wearily. “If you insist on arranging another game, issue an invitation, Major, and I’ll be there.”

  (1953)

  TOM EDISON’S SHAGGY DOG

  TWO OLD MEN sat on a park bench one morning in the sunshine of Tampa, Florida—one trying doggedly to read a book he was plainly enjoying while the other, Harold K. Bullard, told him the story of his life in the full, round, head tones of a public address system. At their feet lay Bullard’s Labrador retriever, who further tormented the aged listener by probing his ankles with a large, wet nose.

  Bullard, who had been, before he retired, successful in many fields, enjoyed reviewing his important past. But he faced the problem that complicates the lives of cannibals—namely: that a single victim cannot be used over and over. Anyone who had passed the time of day with him and his dog refused to share a bench with them again.

  So Bullard and his dog set out through the park each day in quest of new faces. They had had good luck this morning, for they had found this stranger right away, clearly a new arrival in Florida, still buttoned up tight in heavy serge, stiff collar and necktie, and with nothing better to do than read.