The Endgame
Observer in the Audience
wrapping up. The rogue had come out swinging too hard for his own good, and now because of perhaps an overzealous impatient mind, that firepower was too much to bear, and he, the player of the white pieces, had set up a stalemate scenario for the Grandmaster who controlled the black ones. Third, in all my years having garnered a coveted seat at these championships, whether they were held in Reykjavik, Vienna, or in the case of this year, in Berlin, I had never been among a crowd that looked so disappointed.
I glance at the clock. There are only three minutes until the youth must either extend his hand and offer a draw or, if his cockiness really has gotten to his head, he could allow the time to elapse, tempt fate, and go into tomorrow’s match not undefeated. I have been sitting for almost six hours. The young upstart could easily have put me and my fellow observers out of our misery, not to mention himself out of it as well, three moves ago, but so far he is in no mood to do so. Had this been a football match, at least half the fans would have left by now, but the conventions of The Game of Kings do not permit this, so I wait and watch Narcissus. My once zestful zeal for his success is beginning to evaporate rapidly. He has six more minutes to make his move or resign, and I have started to wonder if he will cut off his nose to spite his face and choose the latter.
Such actions, such social revolutions don’t happen in the real “civilized world,” or at least that is what you are taught in the public school which goes to great efforts to show how advanced Western Society is. That’s why it’s so exciting for people to watch you play. They aren’t about to pack their bags and go off to some godforsaken place torn by war and strife, and you certainly aren’t either. Your having defeated a grandmaster in the first six games straight through, all while playing on the black side, which statistically has a greater chance of losing, and doing so in this political climate only ups the stakes, and now you are expected to extend your hand, to capitulate. To have to come to terms with the fact that you will have to sit down across from this bulbous individual for another six to eight hours yet again.
Your hands sweat. They grow clammy. The whole situation is being filmed, and to preserve a modicum of dignity, you’d rather relieve them of their excess sweat on the defunct society you have been commanding for the past quarter of a day rather than extend your hand prematurely in offering a draw, no matter how much you respect and revile simultaneously. Your hand briefly fondles the new queen that you procure by trading in a pawn. The transfiguration, while seeming like a good move at the time, now spells your doom for the day, but you’re not ready to concede. You punch the clock, not with the confidence you had a move or two before, but like some clerk clocking in for a day of work, your day like his is just a means to end.
All the grandiosity that you had dreamed of just minutes before has flown out the window. You keep getting in your own way. You resolve to move the lone knight, the one that has occupied the black squares during the game, the errant Don Quixote. You move him behind the old queen, the one you started the game with so she is surrounded by her confessor, her bishop, a pawn, her page, and the knight. Only her husband the king languishes back on the left side of the board gazing down a file directly at the new queen you just acquired by trading in one of your remaining pawns.
“Perhaps had his majesty not taken a mistress”— the bishop gestures with his crozier to a second queen who occupied square b8—“divine providence would not be weighing against us.” “I knew I should not have allowed his majesty to castle on his own side of the board,” the queen mutters as she brushes her locks from her eyes. “Had we all closed ranks, perhaps he would have focused on the bigger prize, dragging his archnemesis home in victory.”
“At least your recompense will be that tomorrow you can start again a monogamous couple and face the minions together,” the knight says.
“He will just do it again, once unfaithful, always unfaithful.” The original Queen scoffs as she cocks her head back in the direction of her husband.
“It is still beyond me as to why our master does not call the game,” a pawn comments. “It would put all of us out of our misery.”
[In Black’s Camp]
“Yes, but at what cost?” the king asks. “Aside from a roof over my head, in the guise of you, I have lost everything. All my sons have died in battle, my spiritual counselors—they too— have met their maker, not to mention my wife. We may be coming out of this game less intact as a whole, but this is not the case for my psyche. The previous skirmishes were swift. Yes, I lost my dignity in front of my court in front of my wife, but I never had to be the last one standing.”
“Under my ramparts you fall and under them you will rise again tomorrow,” the castle replies. “That is unless our opponent chooses to forfeit the game.” As the castle says these words, the king moves behind him nestling under his eves on whose corners were gargoyle shaped figures. Only a day ago the king had employed these grotesques to gaze menacingly at his opposite number when checkmate was called. Now the gargoyles sing hymns; they attempt to soothe their king as he mourns his court and dreams of
better days, both past and hopefully to come.
[In White’s Camp]
“You give him far too much credit,” the queen snaps. “He would be just as much of a philanderer as my husband was had he been in skilled hands.”
Still White’s Turn to Move
You have waited for your opponent to read the writing on the wall for the past hour, yet for whatever reason he apes being illiterate. You know he knows that the only option is to offer a draw unless he wants to forfeit and that you will meet again on the proverbial field of battle tomorrow. You’ve been through the mud, thoroughly humiliated by the young upstart who already has sullied your record and reputation. You are worn down—psychologically broken. Your chance to fight again another day is through no skill of your own but rather through your opponent’s overconfidence and carelessness. He may look like an ass today, but on the whole you look like the bigger one; you have the foolhardier track record for the week. You wait for the sweaty hand to be extended, and as you do, you take your handkerchief from your breast pocket and begin to polish your glasses. They are not foggy, but the alibis to relieve your hand from its own sweat has been established. You lie in wait for a reprieve you probably never should have gotten.
Please consider “The Endgame,” a 2,436-word story about a chess game between the youth Narcissus and the Grandmaster. The story is told from six points of view: the first-person narrator, the youth Narcissus, the Grandmaster, the white chess pieces, the black chess pieces, and the audience.
Peter Prizel is a social worker at a nursing home specializing in end-of-life care and a graduate student in the MFA Program at Manhattanville College. His fiction has appeared in The Write Launch and my poetry (as Anthony Chesterfield) in From Whispers to Roars and Meat for Tea. I was the Grand Winner Prize in the Lord Byron Dark Poetry Contest in Wingless Dreamer. Ploughshares is considering his short story “Under a Bulgarian Umbrella with COVID-19.”