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THE GAME



A. McIntyre

Check. I had him, my Knight attacking his King. My father took a deep breath. Good move son, you’re definitely improving. He pondered the situation, Bishop takes Knight, you didn’t see that did you? You’ve got to be careful of those Bishops. We played on, the oil lamp flickering in the damp breeze, the tropical dark seething with unseen things beyond the verandah. The garden was out of bounds at night, recently the gardener killed two cobras near the compost heap uncovering a nest. I watched a lizard stalking a moth across the ceiling. Home from school for the holidays, and I was beating my father at chess. Wait till they heard next term. I saw myself announcing in no uncertain terms, I played my father at chess, and I won. Then I perceived the opening. If only . . . if only he moved that Pawn. He moved the Pawn. My Queen closed for the kill, the Rook supporting, mate in three. Check. He watched me, a faint line of sweat beading his brow, You’ve been playing a lot? I nodded, In the team, Mr. Robinson’s the coach. He grinned, Well, when you see Mr. Robinson next term, you tell him from me that he’s been doing a good job, you hear? Yes dad, I replied. In the meantime, he added, Go fix me a pink gin will you? The lizard caught the moth, mashing the dusty meal in its jaws.

I poured the clear liquid into the glass, breathing juniper. Then tonic, finally a touch of Angostura bitters, the drops exploding like blood. Mixing the contents, looking over my shoulder, I took a sip, then another. With his back to me, focused on the game, my father didn’t notice. I placed the glass in front of him. He looked up, Thank you son. We resumed play, but the situation had changed. A Pawn was blocking my Rook. You moved, I said. No, not yet, he replied. But the Pawn. What Pawn? That Pawn wasn’t there before, I insisted. Nonsense son, you just don’t remember. Frowning, I stared at him. He stared back. The darkness a crescendo of crickets, the occasional screech of a monkey. Knight fork, he said, Watch how the Queen works here. It was dangerous but there was a way out because I had more pieces. For a while I blocked, then came the opening. This might be the end, I said advancing my Bishop across the board, Check. My father started laughing, Good gracious young man, you could be right, let me think carefully about this one. For a long time no-one spoke. The wind was strengthening, far away a rumbling of thunder. My father looked up, I think there’s going to be a storm. Go and make sure the windows are shut, will you? And tell your mother.

I ran through the house closing windows. There’s going to be a storm, I shouted when I saw my mother in the bedroom, Dad told me to tell you. I dashed away before she could reply because she would tell me to go to bed and I was going to beat my father at chess. Lightening illuminated the sky revealing big puffy clouds the color of mud. Pulsating shadows danced along the walls. I sat down ready to finish the game. Then I noticed a Pawn blocking my Bishop. You moved again, I said. I most certainly did not, replied my father. You did, I know you did, my Bishop had you in check, and now there’s a Pawn. Look here, young man, I think you’re imagining things. Isn’t it time you went to bed? Outraged, the words spilled out of my mouth, You’re cheating, I know you are, you’re a cheat. Then I realized what I’d said. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, and I burst into tears. My mother appeared. What on earth is going on here, she asked, What’s all this dreadful noise? Dad’s cheating, I yelled before my father could say anything, I was winning and he keeps changing the board. Hands on her hips she glowered at him, Is this true? You ought to be ashamed of yourself Peter, she scolded, Teasing the boy, you’re supposed to be teaching him chess. Leaning back in the creaking wicker chair, my father was laughing. Actually, he said gradually regaining control, Actually, the boy’s teaching me chess, but I’m teaching him life.



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