Page 88 of Violent Possession
“No one is simple, Griffin,” he says, his voice low. “But I appreciate the honesty.”
He arranges the pieces, one by one, in their starting positions. I just mirror him, imitating each one, until the board is ready for a real game.
I stare at the pieces. His face. He watches the board as he did when he arrived—thoughtful, quiet. Tired.
“You have a fucked up family,” I say. I try to pull him back into this room.
He gives a half-smile. It feels like an eternity since I last saw that expression. “I haven’t even told you half of it.”
He puts a hand in the inner pocket of his jacket. Just like on the night of the fight, he pulls out his silver cigarette case and offers me a cigarette. I take one.
He lights mine, then his. And we remain silent, just the smoke rising and mingling in the air. I look at the board, at the arranged pieces. The white army. The black army. Kings, queens, soldiers.
The conversation before. The lie to Vania. The plan for the sponsors. Seraphim’s warning. His brother’s betrayal. Each piece, each person, moving in secret.
“This fucking thing…” I say, “This game. This is how your mind works, isn’t it?” I look at him. “Always ten moves ahead.”
“It’s my only way to survive,” he replies.
I think for a moment.
“Teach me?”
He raises his eyebrows. “…Chess?”
“Yeah.”
It’s a simple request, an exchange of favors between accomplices, but Alexei responds as if I had plunged a blade into his chest. His gaze darkens, then softens. I expect him to refuse, to make some bad joke to end the conversation and protect himself from me.
Then, a slow smile touches his lips. “Alright,” he says.
He starts with the pawns, of course. Points to each of the eight, white and black. “They only move forward,” he says. “One square at a time. But, on the first move, they can move two, if you want to risk it.” He demonstrates, sliding a white pawn across the board. “They are the infantry. Replaceable, but indispensable.” He looks at me as if he’s talking about people, not pieces. And maybe he is.
“How do they kill?” I ask.
“Diagonally,” he replies, inclines his chin, and makes the capture move. “They can only attack like that.” He picks up another pawn and shows how the miniature massacre happens. “But, if one of them reaches the other side…” He slides a white pawn to the furthest rank, with reverence. “It turns into a powerful piece. Queen, rook, bishop, whatever you want.”
I get it. It’s the story of the prison meat that ends up owning the place. It’s not that different from the truth.
He continues with the Rook, the straight, angular piece with austere lines. “It moves horizontally and vertically, as far as it wants,” he says. “It doesn’t jump over anyone, but it can cross the board in seconds if the path is clear.” He demonstrates, then returns the piece to its place. “In a real game, no one underestimates the rook.”
I think of those guys in suits who stand in the back of meetings, silent and still, but always ready to crush an opponent. It makes sense.
Then comes the Bishop, the one that only moves diagonally, born and condemned to never leave its own color. He picks up the bishop delicately and says: “Half the board belongs only to them.” He moves the piece in a zigzag, never touching a dark square. “It’s good at long range. It can attack weak points.”
“A motherfucker who attacks from the edges without ever getting his hands dirty… sounds familiar.”
Alexei doesn’t respond, just smiles without showing his teeth. He understands the provocation, but doesn’t retaliate. It’s part of the game.
The Knight is next. He picks up the piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Its move is an L. Always two squares to one side, one to the other. It can jump over other pieces, as if they didn’t exist.” He shows the jump, crossing a line of pawns. “It’s the only piece that can cross a wall. No one expects the knight, you understand?”
The Knight is the guy who enters where there’s no door, who breaks rules, who turns the game around when everyone has already forgotten about him.
The smell of his cigarette still lingers in the air, mixed with that expensive perfume that only traumatized heirs wear. Everything irritates and fascinates me at the same time: his methodical way of explaining, the gaze that, if not on the board, is on me; the tension in his shoulders, always on alert, imagining every blow twenty minutes before it lands.
I lean in a little, trying to see from his point of view. Alexei doesn’t move, but he notices my movement—the corner of his mouth trembles, just enough for me to know he’s enjoying that mini-challenge of space, of territory.
When we reach the Queen, he picks her up as one picks up fine glass. “She is the most powerful piece,” he says. “She moves in all directions, as far as she wants.” He moves the piece with the authority of someone who has sent many people to hell. “But if you lose her early, it’s hard to recover.” He looks at me, and I know he’s not just talking about chess.
