A Sort of Love Story Part One: The Errant Knight

by Travis Cravey

Hassan Pasha

The pieces moved across the board in his mind. Mike felt confused, lost. What the hell was Peter trying at? Now, two months after he had sacrificed his pawn, so goddamn foolishly, he moves his knight to e6? And he doesn’t expect a swift, violent response?

Mike stuffed the postcard into his jacket, closed his mailbox, and walked up the staircase to his apartment.

His apartment was spartan, clean. A couch, a small table, several Andrew Wyeth prints hanging over ferns and cacti. Mike sat his keys in a bowl on the kitchen counter, walked to his book case.

He took out a large binder, sat it at the table and opened. He was flipping through several sections and smiled when he landed on Peter Cortez.

Mike’s phone rang. He ignored the first ring, busy looking through the Cortez file. On the second ring he took it out of the hip pocket of his chinos and looked at the screen. Fuck. Cathy.

On the third ring he answered. “Hey,” he said, sitting back in his chair.

“Hi!” Her voice was happy, bright. “Ready?”

“Of course.” Mike remembered they were going to see a movie. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“No, just meet me there. Nancy and I are having coffee first.”

Mike exhaled. That meant he had an hour before he had to leave. Cathy was still talking to him about something, but Mike’s mind was now on that sonofabitch Peter, and his seemingly errant knight, sitting there, alone, at e6.

Peter had been his opponent three times in the past; Mike knew more about him than any of the other players he had faced in fifteen years of postal chess. He knew how Peter approached surprising situations, knew how far he would go before admitting he’d made a mistake, how he handled both victory and defeat. Mike admired him, though they had never spoken, much less met. For three years, every few days, Mike would get a postcard from him, with a line or two of greeting, Mike’s previous move, and then Peter’s.

Of course Mike had played dozens of different people, but something about Peter Cortez was different. His play was aggressive when he was cornered, cautious when the match was his to lose. Mike felt like these were good attributes, traits of a man Mike would enjoy a beer with, enjoy tailgating with. A man you’d want to have your back if things got rough.

He had never mentioned to Cathy, or for that matter, any other woman, about his games. Postal chess was not a concept easily digested. Sending moves via postcard and knowing that it might be months before you hear a response, and even then just a cursory hello and two moves? And, of course, the moves are written in algebraic notation, unintelligible to the non-player. He was afraid she would think it childish at best. He knew she wouldn’t understand the weeks and months he might pore over a move, how he could remain fascinated in a single game that might last over a year. He kept the postcards and game boards and notes and books hidden away in a box that she never saw. But when he closed his eyes he saw Peter across the board.

Mike looked at the postcard again, read it. “Hope you are well; big storms battering the Carolinas! Peter Cortez.” The handwriting was loose, confident. He remembered when Peter was obviously going through personal strain last April, how his writing looked like a typewriter and his endgame had been haphazard and disastrous. But not now. Peter had been smiling at him when he wrote this. What was he doing with that knight?

Mike looked at his watch, noted the time. He gathered all the postcards, pieces, boards, and books together in his box and put it back in his garage. Peter, you tricky bastard, you’ll have to wait. Cathy would be at the theater soon and they had planned to stay at a bed and breakfast up the coast tomorrow night. But Sunday? Sunday was for Peter.