The Grandmaster’s Gambit

Insomnia is a beast. After stalking for some time it creeps into your mind and seizes you. When you finally struggle against the claustrophobia of being pinned down it’s almost too late. Some try to fight the monster head on, but I lacked the courage. Alcohol became my tonic of choice to subdue the monsters behind my sleeplessness, and the secluded bar across the street was my hospital. I hid down there of an evening and went back home to bed whenever I found my demons slain.

Since my son disappeared this was the only way I could have meaningful sleep. Spending nearly all of my evenings at McCann’s Bar became a serene extension of the comforts of home. It was unkempt and dilapidated, perfectly camouflaged into the matching derelict neighbourhood. A broken neon sign remained the only signal to the weary traveller outside of what lay within. Most importantly it was quiet, dark and almost uninhabited place when I was there. I was just another divorcee blending into the peeling wallpaper of a nameless bar.

Insomnia quickly became a permanent element of my new life. For weeks, my bartender was my sandman. I wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance, clearly evident in the way he would always call me Steve and how I would never bother to correct him. But this didn’t matter. He was my nameless pharmacist. My dealer. Casually connecting to anyone would hinder my purpose for being there. It would force me to rejoin the world I was hiding from. During the course of my treatment there were only a limited amount of other regular patients, not unlike myself. None of them ever proved to be noteworthy, except for one.

I never knew his name, but now I can only think of him as the Grandmaster. He would sit on a table in the middle of the bar and people would bet against him in games of cards or checkers. Every night he was gambling. Always winning. Whether or not he was cheating I couldn’t tell. Judging by his appearance, he was almost certainly homeless and these games provided him a meagre living. One night he brought a haunting object that made me turn cold all over: an exquisite mahogany and white birch chessboard. It was so strangely familiar I could nearly smell the pieces as if they were in my own hands. My son Liam, a bright young boy of barely twelve, was one of the only people who could ever beat me at chess. I choked as I looked at the antique chessboard on the table and tried not to sink further down into my torment.

The board sat there taunting me. Memories of Liam at school, scraped knees, bikes, loose teeth, birthdays. These memories gave way to the chessboard I’d bought him for Christmas and the speed he learned to play. I remember my shock and his triumphal smile whenever he beat me. Reliving my vivid pride in him was a refreshing change from the regular guilt.

As the night wore on I tried to avoid looking at the Grandmaster and the board of his that was drawing me back to my son. So far nobody wanted to play the Grandmaster at this intricate, nuanced game of kings. Over the next week his board became a regular fixture at his table, though every night he would reluctantly pack it up, unchallenged. It was always glaring at me, dutifully set up, waiting for an opponent. It was beckoning, constantly pulsing at me like the beacon of a lighthouse through a heavy fog. I began to catch myself staring at it every night, lost in old memories. I’ll never forget the time I broke my evening ritual and walked across to the seat opposite the Grandmaster. This was the night I teetered over the knife’s edge and slipped away. This was the night my cure no longer worked.

***

I stood staring at the Grandmaster for what must have been too long to be polite. My fingers turned white as they clutched the back of the empty seat, unable to release and let me sit. He returned me a puzzled look and I should have seen his shielded confidence. He was asking himself why I had bothered to come over. I asked him,
“How much to play?”
He flashed all ten fingers at me, which I took to mean ten dollars. I replied, trying to sound surer of myself,
“Looks like you’ll be buying then, I’ve been playing for years.”
As I finally sat down he smiled back. Evidently he would not, or could not talk to me. I couldn’t recall him talking to anyone in the bar for that matter. I started to think that maybe he couldn’t play too well after all. When we began, I decided to capitalise on what I read as weakness. He saw straight through my early plays that were designed to fool beginners, evidently having experience. The real strategy commenced. I won’t tediously recount the moves of the game that ensued, however I do remember all of it perfectly. The clarity of that game in my memory is quite peculiar, becoming somehow flawlessly tattooed into my mind.

After a quick ten minutes or so, something within my mind broke at the sound of the Grandmaster hitting his hands jubilantly on the table. I was startled and for a moment didn’t see it. A quick look over the board revealed that the mute was calling checkmate. I was ensnared. Trapped. Finished. My entire game was over before it could pick up speed.

I stood up shakily. I didn’t even bother offering a hand or words of congratulations. I made my way back to the bar asking myself how did that happen so fast? I reordered a drink and tried to analyse the loss. My thoughts turned to Liam and my pleasurable shock when he had first beaten me. This felt different. Sickening. I convinced myself that my growing anger owed to the fact I must have been deceived. This vagrant made more than minimum wage in here from the patrons and I’m just the next person to pay him. I returned to the Grandmaster and sat down. This time I placed down twenty dollars. The Grandmaster, grinning, began his game in the same manner as before.

Quite predictably I was quickly defeated again and I felt even more humiliated than before. The Grandmaster banged his hands on the table and flashed his nearly toothless grin. He watched my expression with delight as he gently tipped my white king on its side, symbolising its violent regicide. Watching it fall over emphasised all of my losses at once. The chess games, Liam, my wife, my family. Everything had toppled.

The Grandmaster’s triumph caught the attention of the dozen or so people in the bar. They either quietly looked away or laughed at my expense. They had all been quietly watching this game like its outcome was written in stone. I picked up my coat and headed towards the door when I felt myself jump at being grabbed from behind. In the split second before turning around, I was hoping it was the Grandmaster giving me provocation to knock out the last of his lingering teeth. A dishevelled man in his forties had a hold of me and in the back of my mind he looked very familiar. His bulbous knuckles were now holding my scarf not unlike a noose. Drawing me closer, he softly whispered in my ear,
“Don’t play him anymore. Forget about this place. Run.”
Something inside me became uneasy enough to make me hurry for the door.

***

It was raining outside. I rearranged my scarf, not thinking about everything that led me to leave so quickly. It was a disappointing night that ultimately left me pledging to never be spontaneous again. I had changed my routine and looked the world head on once again. All that I got in return was the resurfacing of the memories I was trying to drown out. I oddly thought of Sarah. She’d gain some kind of pleasure knowing that I was slowly sinking. We had lost our son years after the divorce. He had run away while staying with me. Any suffering of mine she would use to bolster her own strength, as she had always done. I ran across the street towards my apartment building without looking for traffic. Two cars screeched to a halt to let me pass, the drivers’ insults not registering within my racing mind.

I ran inside, tracking water over the once polished wooden floor. I wasn’t feeling even slightly tired. My mind was building into a panic. I went over to my bookshelf to remove the half empty bottle of gin thinking to myself that I shouldn’t have left the bar. I broke the ritual. Liam’s past is once again seeping into my present like acid. I never should have played him. Sitting on the sofa, my eyes drifted towards the downturned photo frames of the bookshelf that were no longer hiding the moments they contained. Not bothering to pour the gin into a glass, I began to finish the bottle.

The next several hours flew past and I cannot recall exactly what happened. Sitting in the exact same place, I was startled back to the room by my seven AM alarm clock screaming from the bedroom. I looked down into my hand to find a cigarette, seconds away from burning out. I was more startled to find a sizeable mound of used butts and ash lying next to the chair. It was a wonder I didn’t burn down the entire building. The sun outside instantly appeared in full to scorch the room, the blinds leaving their lateral shadows on the photo frames on the bookshelf. At some point in the night I had reset the pictures to their proper positions. I saw that Liam was now looking over the room and myself instead of facedown and into history. I know I didn’t sleep, but those hours still disappeared into blackness. While this absence was not unlike sleep, it was not refreshing or rejuvenating. Something was wrong.

The morning seemed just like any other, except I kept replaying the two games of the night before in my head, remembering every single move clearly. I wondered if Liam could’ve seen a way to win those games. I knew very well he could have. For a moment I thought about calling Sarah, but that was pointless. She could barely talk to me even before the divorce and hadn’t talked to me at all since Liam disappeared. These days she’d have to bite of her tongue to say anything kind to me. She blamed me. Everyone did.

The rest of the day’s events were a blur, in fact automatic. One moment flashed to another as if I was sleepwalking. Coffee appeared in my hand, I found myself drying off after a shower, I was dressed for the job I was barely holding, I was getting change from a vending machine, I was staring out at the rainy city from my office window, I was ignoring my ringing phone, I was on the subway home, I was skipping dinner, I was putting on my coat for the night, I was staring at my unused bed. The continuity of a usual day did not register. The only thing that made my blood race was when I was finally staring at the doors of the bar across the street, itching to get in.

***

I rushed back inside and immediately looked over to see if the Grandmaster was there. After looking around the entire bar, I discovered he wasn’t. I was early and told myself not to panic. I fell into my usual spot and waited.

I lingered on for hours, craning my head at the sound of the door with every person walking in, trying to wear an expression that resembled nonchalance and not desperation. The situation was getting ridiculous, but I decided to wait it out. Another thought struck me: maybe last night was simply unlucky and today my medicine could restore me once again. Perhaps tonight I could get finished at the bar and actually get back to sleep again.

Even though the Grandmaster didn’t return, my time at the bar was well spent. I could feel my mind slipping into the twilight realm, much to my sheer relief. Instead of walking back home and taking advantage of it, I pressed on a little too long on the off chance the Grandmaster would walk in. My thoughts of Liam reared, with an upsurge of their usual guilt. How could he run away during the night without me hearing a sound? He had vanished, leaving even his small untied shoes in the doorway on that morning I couldn’t find him. At first I wanted to believe that Sarah had ran away with him out of spite, but that had now fallen into the reality of clinging to the fading hope that he was still alive. I realised that even I deeply blamed myself for losing him.

Out of the blue I found myself being woken by the barman telling me it was closing time. How did I manage to fall asleep? I straightened my glasses and finished the drink sitting in front of me. I saw it as I was standing up as I gathered my coat. The adrenaline made time stand still. It was sitting on the empty barstool next to me. I asked the barman,
“Hey, did that guy who’s always in here betting with everyone come in while I was asleep?”
“Nah Steve, he didn’t. It’s been a slow night,” he replied to my disbelief, twisting a filthy cloth deep inside a pint glass.
“When was the last time he didn’t come in for a night?”
“Actually, I can’t remember if he has ever missed a night here. That’s strange. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” I mumbled back as I picked up the king chess piece from where it had appeared, carved in radiating hot white birch.

***

I realised that once again that I had been awake and sitting in the same spot all night. I had known while crossing the street back home that I wasn’t going to get any sleep. A strange feeling kept growing inside me since I picked up that piece, the same piece that I had watch topple the day before. By sunrise it was still in my hand, burning through my fingers. I hadn’t let it go all night. It was watching me. Spying.

I stood up from the seat I had occupied for the night and walked to the window planning to throw the king away. After lifting my arm to toss it, I paused. I couldn’t get rid of it. It was deep inside my head, making me feel like I’d be hurting myself by disposing of it. I couldn’t throw away my memories of Liam that seemed to linger on in that piece. I placed the king on an empty part of my bookshelf and left it alone next to a photograph of the two of us from happier times.

A few hours passed before I had the courage to admit what I had to do, something I’d been putting off for months. After calling in sick at work I went down to the street corner and found an empty taxi.
“Where to?” said the driver without looking across as I climbed into the back.
“St James’ Hospital.”

***

Sitting in a waiting room has always been a terrifying experience for me, always on edge around other prospective patients, guarding myself against them. My illness was coming from somewhere I couldn’t imagine, but it was very real nonetheless. I barricaded myself on a seat in the corner, guarding against the room and its diseases.

Looking around at the others waiting there, I noticed two children playing in the corner with the room’s complimentary toys. They’d just lifted down a board game from the shelf, no doubt the kind with pieces missing. I watched them spill its contents across the floor and create their own new game. I looked back at the shelf and saw a chess set in its cardboard box. I sat and stared, feeling paranoid, but able to thoroughly reassure myself that the box had likely sat there for years. The result of a donation, surely. I walked over to the shelves and picked up the dusty box with its faded and torn edges, neglected beyond its years. Upon opening it I sat down on the floor to set up the pieces, one by one, wondering how many would be missing. Why would they keep a chessboard here if it was incomplete? While lining up the two opposing armies into their respective positions I noticed that there were indeed pieces missing. It dawned on me that I was mistaken to think there were many pieces missing. I hurried to fill the board and discovered that there was only one deserter: the white king.

After sitting back down, I lost sense of time again. It could’ve been minutes, or months until the doctor startled me back to reality by calling out my name. After making my way into his sterile and fluorescent office, he asked,
“What can I help you with today, Mr. Weiss?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure where to begin”. He stared back as if I was wasting his time. After an awkward pause, I continued.
“I’ve been having insomnia for months now. These last few days have been worse than ever”. I was trying to hide the true causes that to me were thinly veiled. The doctor went on and gave me what must be the routine examination given to patients complaining of insomnia, followed by a series of questions. One question stood out in particular.
“Any mental fatigue, double vision, or hallucinations?” he asked. I answered with a confident no.

***

An hour or so later I fumbled for my keys while carrying a brown paper bag full of various sedatives a pharmacist was kind enough to sell to me. I was hopeful about their efficacy. The heavy door swung inwards just as I managed to drop the bag on the floor, its contents spilling everywhere. After a brief expletive, I began picking up the small bottles, one of which rolled into the centre of my living room.

After looking up I jolted in horror. Liam’s bedroom door, that I kept shut ever since he disappeared, was wide open. I nervously walked inside. Dust filled the air, however the room was exactly how he left it, right down to the unmade bed and various toys that had come to an abrupt halt on the floor. Perched on various high points around the room was an entire army of black and white chess pieces, each staring down over me. I caught my breath and tried to take it all in. All thirty two pieces where sitting in a large semicircle on Liam’s desk, alternating in their colours. They were flanking either side of a photo of Liam and I, one of the ones I had returned to its place facing the living room. Their arrangement made me feel as if I was in front of a grand inquisition making me answer for how I lost my son. After standing solidified with fear for some time, I reached out to the nearest piece. My hands were shaking violently, but it was very real. Its carved features emboldened in the afternoon sunlight. I couldn’t answer how they found their way inside. Did someone break in? My door was locked and undamaged, all my windows too high for someone to climb in. I looked for any footprints or marks in the thin covering of dust on the floor but couldn’t find any. The doctor’s questions jumped back into my mind but I knew I wasn’t hallucinating. It was far too real. The proof that I wasn’t dreaming was sitting tangibly between my fingers. I ran my hand over the empty chequered battlefield that sat on the desk, surrounded by its soldiers. Not only were these pieces real, they were from the set I had given to Liam.

***

The next few weeks progressed at a snail’s pace. I was still sick but going through a grace period designed to fool me into thinking I was in recovery. I continued my nightly ritual at the bar, waiting for the Grandmaster to show up. Much to my frustration he never did come back. I still wasn’t sleeping as well as I was before, only managing two or three hours every night. It was better than not sleeping at all. The small pharmacy of drugs I had collected from my visit to the hospital proved to be nothing more than expensive and highly ineffective placebos. I was beginning to ignore the chess piece debacle as a strange, sick prank. I had convinced myself that Sarah was behind everything. She still had keys to the apartment not to mention her fierce hatred of me for losing our son. No one had forced their way into my apartment and I was certain that Liam had left his chess set at his mother’s during his last visit. I thought of confronting her and demanding to know why she has organised this stunt. I knew that it would be easier to wrestle with wild bears than to have a civil confrontation, especially if she was responsible. I happily believed she was behind it and it was now over.

I found I never could discard Liam’s chess pieces. I tried, at least a dozen times, but I could only impotently apologise by restoring them to the desk in his room, each time setting them up and waiting as if he was coming back. I spent many sleepless nights staying entertained by playing myself or pretending to play Liam or the Grandmaster again. My blackouts continued, especially when around the pieces. I often found the game in a completely different arrangement from where I had left it. When puzzling over a solution to a game I would find the answer staring me in the face having done nothing. The pieces were playing their own games with me.

***

Early one afternoon I had retired to bed to try and sleep after deciding to drink at home because it was too early to go to McCann’s. I woke to the sound of the Grandmaster pounding on the table at the bar, somehow permeating across the street and through my window. I could smell the bar’s mildewed crackling wallpaper fetid in the air. I walked outside of my apartment and down the stairs into the steady rain outside, traffic noisily cutting through the downpour. Out of the haze I made out a line of chess pieces leading from my feet and to the door of McCann’s across the road, the cars driving by somehow avoiding all of them. I followed this trail into the rainy evening and allowed the trail to lead my gaze. The traffic glided past me as if I wasn’t there at all. I walked until the path ended inside. The Grandmaster smiled back.

***

I appeared to have blacked out again and somehow sleepwalked across the road to the bar. My heart raced as I came to grips with the sour aftertaste of the nightmare. The Grandmaster was nowhere to be found, there was no trail of pieces heading outside and leading to my apartment building. The evening rain was the only slice of reality to make it through into my dream. My clothes, that I at least managed to put on before walking outside in my trance, were saturated. I managed to calm myself down and hid at my usual place, contained by the cacophony of sounds of the bar’s awakening nightlife.

It stayed that way for awhile longer, until I looked up to see what exactly had caused a shattering silence. At first I thought the music had simply been cut off, but I noticed even the dissonant conversations had ceased. The only sound to be heard in the entire bar was made by me standing up in fright and knocking over my barstool, which in the silence resonated for an eternity. I dared to turn to the space looming behind me. Everyone in the bar was standing perfectly still, staring at me coldly. Some stood with arms folded, others simply at ease. All of the regulars I had come to ignore on a daily basis were in a semi-circle arrangement that struck me as being absolutely reminiscent of the chess pieces that mysteriously arranged themselves in Liam’s room so long ago. In fact it was a haunting recreation. I then saw the Grandmaster. He was sitting in the centre of the curved line, on his usual table in the middle of the room, as emboldened as any king in his court. On the table in front of him sat Liam’s first chessboard, the white pieces on my side. They were shining in stark contrast to the Grandmaster’s torturous black army taunting from the shadows, staring through me like gargoyles ripped from an ancient cathedral.

I could feel Liam calling out to me as if he was hidden by the obscure gloom behind the Grandmaster, draining my spirit like blood from an open wound. The pieces that were once joyfully moved by Liam’s hands beckoned me to sit and vie for answers. The Grandmaster stared up at me, expressionless, and waited to see if I would sit down and risk becoming another one of his pawns.