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The King Always Starts on a Square of the Opposite Colour by Edly Dollar I
remember that day. I was five years
old, and my grandfather invited me to sit with him at the balcony.
This in itself was already a compliment. It was almost noon, and a most beautiful spring day in sunny
Tel-Aviv. My grandfather was
smoking his pipe. We were both
watching the long and narrow street that leads to the sea.
At its end there lies open a blue patch of the Mediterranean.
" Can you please arrange the board? " he asked.
I was so proud. I
only hesitated about the location of the kings and queens, and I can still hear
the old man murmuring, " The king always begins on a square of the
opposite colour ". My
vague knowledge was due to grandpa’s games against his brothers, there at the
balcony. Usually no one was
allowed, but I was small enough to sneak in.
In their intervals they used to laugh aloud, repeating over and over the
same Russian jokes. I could
recognise them, without understanding a word. This
time it was only him and me, and it was his turn to be proud, I imagine, when he
realised that he would just need to refine a little bit my almost correct notion
of the rules. Two hours later we
decided to skip lunch, being too busy with our new adventure. Grandpa would give me assignments, " Open the way
for your rook " and I took up the tasks. When
I was twenty-two I travelled in India. I
used to play extremely long and silent games against an unsatisfied Austrian
engineer. He told me of the chess
magicians in the streets of Delhi. " They
can beat the devil " he said, stressing the syllables. So when I arrived in Delhi I naturally headed to the avenue
where they exhibit their powers. They
do not just play rapidly, they actually rush and systematically erase the pieces
of their opponents from the board. Thousands
of people are walking around them, pushing and shouting.
They couldn’t care less. An
incredibly formal thirteen year old kid asked me politely whether I would like
to play against him. " Please
sir, sit down, " he begged, pointing at a cardboard box.
I obeyed, and in the meantime he arranged the board for both of us.
Everything was almost ready, except for the black queen and king, which
he held gently in his childish palm. Then,
he looked me straight in the eye and questioned mechanically, " Indian
or international style? " I
probably wore a what-do-you-mean-by-that expression, because my young partner
immediately set the missing pieces in their proper places.
" International style " he indicated.
He paused. I was attentively
concentrated, and had no trouble ignoring the noisy presence of a news-boy who
located himself less than an inch behind my back.
" International style, " he said again, and then,
suddenly, switched the positions of the black queen and king.
He did it at once, elegantly, using only one hand.
" Indian style, " he explained.
The black king was undoubtedly on a black square.
Oh, grandpa. " International
style, " I mumbled. After
my second loss I was ready to try the " Indian style ".
It didn't improve my record.
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