|
|||||
|
|
|||||
|
Chessville
Advertise to Single insert:
|
Taxis in major cities have but two speeds: purblind, and the sluggish crawl. The norm, naturally enough, is spurts of the former interspersed with leaden periods of the latter. Certainly the case under present consideration, a N.Y. city taxi whiz-creeping its way from La Guardia to the King’s Men Hotel, Manhattan, was no exception. The occupants were two: the driver, whom, for our restricted purposes, we may relegate to the status of mechanical man, or stuffed dummy, a prop, as it were; and the backseat passenger, one Vladimir Botkin. Neither the driver nor Mr. Botkin, in any conscious, human way, took any active notice of the splendid horror of New York city that alternately blurred by and then suddenly skipped into proper life-time speed (the effect being something akin to sitting in a movie theater located on a very active fault-line with the projectionist a spastic). As I say, neither of our two players took any notice: the one operating via the hum-drum combination of strings-and-pulleys and Skinnerian conditioning (e.g., green = go, red = stop, cut off by fellow motorist = flip bird), while the other was completely absorbed in a chess game. On Mr. Botkin’s lap lay a flat, magnetic chess set. About the size of an average book, the bronze and black squared surface, dotted with a geometrical arabesque of circular figures, was of a sturdy though fine make. Judging by the slight here-and-there wearing-through of the dark squares to the bronze beneath, as well as the “fray of familiarity” (to coin a phrase) of the leather covering, one knew (if gifted with the insight of a Dupin or a Holmes, or an omniscient creator or writer ) that the set had seen considerable use. It is of some moment to note that, as Mr. Botkin’s fingers expertly recombinated the little players in the little drama before him, the partial jigsaw-like reflection which peered up at him through these complexities did not wholly escape his searching analysis. You see, the point is that our driver ignored, yet thought himself wholly aware – and was thus thoroughly entangled in his own ignorance; with Botkin, however, the decision was conscious – he was a man fully aware of what he chose to ignore. And, indeed, as William James has said, knowing what to ignore is the essence of wisdom. Now, it must be pointed out that our driver’s mind, standardized-clock though it was, had indeed been equipped with a rudimentary backburner. Over this pale fire such unpalatable items as his inflamed hemorrhoids, his mother-in-law’s up-coming visit, and the gluteal charms of porn actresses were stewed and brewed. Having stopped at a traffic light, and shifting uneasily from side-to-side in his itch to go, it may have been that cross-walking blonde’s bouncing backside that ignited the aforementioned thematic linkage (i.e., “ass”, in its various semantic senses), thus causing out automaton’s lead foot to prematurely bang the “petal to the metal”. Boom! Broadsided. Le mots juste. In the twinkling of a diode our spring-and-lever man’s pilot light was extinguished. Game over. Adieu. Mr. Botkin, however, having entered the vehicle passenger-side and, as per city regulations, being required to be seated “…in the rear of the taxi for the driver’s safety…”, was found to be, relatively speaking, safe: after being violently hurled into the plexi-glass barrier betwixt himself and the driver (again installed for the latter’s safety) was thrown head-first into the temporary death of unconsciousness. The magnetic chess set, which just moments before had held one of the, numerous, low-points in the dreary Double K duels, now lay exploded, seat to floor, in an arrangement far more dynamic than anything seen in those particular contests. It was within the embalmed antiseptic of the ambulance, with blaring red siren overhead, midway to the hospital, that Mr. Botkin awoke. He was informed of the situation, quite professionally he thought, by a Nordic blond woman who was taking his pulse. To the rear of the flying vehicle sat a Paul Robeson-like man placidly humming as he jotted something down on a clipboard. His smile, mild and strong, Botkin appreciated. Now, the bizarre quality of chess (as one morbidly tinged Romanticist writer has baroquely termed it) naturally tends to the development of attention to detail. The depth, quality, and direction of this developed attribute, however, is strictly a matter of individual difference. That, in point of fact, the majority of expert chess players use it to no better end than chess is simply an indication of the innate philistinism of that particular group (or, perhaps better, of the species as a whole). But no matter – the tool itself is universally applicable, its limitation is simply that of the craftsman’s. “Ah,” he nodded to her whose ancestors were of the Crystal Land, “your boyfriend.” Her steady ice-blue eyes suddenly narrowed and her deft, strong fingers ceased pumping the little rubber ball. She rapidly cut a look back at her companion, who, still humming, unfortunately hadn’t heard the remark. Slowly she said, “Yes… That’s right.” Botkin closed his eyes contentedly murmuring “White queen and black knight…exquisite contrast.” After a moment’s hesitation came the even-toned, professional, “How do you feel, sir?” (pumping resumed). For some odd reason, the old joke Botkin had heard more than 20 years ago when first learning English came to mind (“With my hands, of course.”). He had never thought to trot out this trifle before; indeed, why it amused him at the moment (a little smile played at the corners of his mouth), he couldn’t say. What’s more the pity, he thought that if he bothered to venture this minor bagatelle this Northlander woman would deem him as cracked as April ice (as Botkin had heard a Norwegian chess master describe Fischer’s political views). “Everything considered,” Botkin enunciated slowly, “I am prepared to continue the game.” The still-slightly-wondering blond silently nodded at Botkin, then turned to her still-scribbling companion (who she would marry in two months) and said, “Pressure normalizing.” For the next several hours, Mr. Botkin (Vladimir, 40 years of age, 5’10, 165 pounds, native of Ukraine, naturalized U.S. citizen, occupation: chess player, etc.) would be treated to a monotonous tour of the emergency ward of Queen’s Hospital. The procedure, though as dull as a 20-move grandmaster draw, was at least as mechanical in routine: wait 15 ~ 20 minutes (listening to the clock tick), with a ponderous sincerity perform standard routine, wait 15 ~ 20 minutes (tick-tock), scribble said data on chart, repeat. Well, thought Botkin, at least in this variation we change rooms now and then ~ pity ‘tis all the rooms are the same! Having traversed the Minotaurian maze of Our Lady, and having been pronounced by the pundits as fit to exit, Botkin’s Emergency Room endgame (as he would later sardonically phrase the event) consisted of a sparkling denouement enacted with a brightly bald little chap named Dr. Blue. The learned physician had launched upon a lengthy exposition regarding the various examinations Botkin had been subjected to (“… the post-cranial CAT scan does not indicate…”). Botkin was not only surprised, but indeed a bit amused, at the earnestness of his elfish healer. He listened, nodding his head with feigned concern, as he vaguely groped for the missing piece… When the dissertation of medi-babble had ceased, Botkin respectfully waited a moment, as if mentally gathering up these pearls of well-being so lovingly laid before him and said, “ In summary, I have a bump on my head, but shall be quite well in a few days.” Dr. Blue beamed ecstatically at having been comprehended so thoroughly, and then, somewhat shyly, and much to Botkin’s surprise, produced out of his white coat not a stethoscope, nor a white rabbit, but rather a copy of a book Botkin had written some 20 years before: The Mirror of Chess and Life. “Of course, you don’t remember me,” began a hesitant Blue, “but some many years ago, I think when you first came to the U.S., you gave a simul and lecture at NYU ~ I was a participant, and you signed your book for me. Now, this morning, for no particular reason, I thought I’d bring your book with me to look over during lunch. And here you are!” Botkin’s tired body shook with laughter; that laughter peculiar to the Russian; that laughter that immediately sums up and accepts the weird concatenation of strands that make up the mysterious web of existence. “Yes,” chortled
Botkin as he resigned, “Our composer is indeed devilish!” By: Robert T. Tuohey
|
The
|
|||
|
|||||
