The Chess Club – Part 1: The Opening Move

Every Sunday, under the plane trees in Palermo, a row of concrete tables hosted the most serious chess players in the city. Sofía had been coming for three years. She played with the retired bus drivers, the nervous students, the grandmother who cheated with a smile and never got caught.

She had never lost to a stranger in the park. She was not about to start.

"Your move," said Don Ernesto, the old man who ran the tournament board with a fierce, cheerful sort of authority.

"I'm thinking," said Sofía, staring at the position.

"You're always thinking. Think faster."

At the next table, a tall man in a grey coat was watching with his hands in his pockets. He had been there since noon, quiet and attentive, and he had not played a single game.

When Ernesto got up to fetch mate, the man stepped forward.

"Can I play the winner?" he asked, in careful Spanish with an accent that Sofía couldn't place.

"You're a stranger," said Ernesto. "We don't let strangers win here."

"Then let me draw," said the man, and smiled.

Sofía looked up. His face was lean and serious, with a few lines around the eyes, and his grey coat was faintly dusty, as if he had walked a long way to get here.

"Sit," she said. "But I don't draw. I win."

"Then you'll enjoy the challenge," said the man, and sat down.

He played carefully, without fuss. Each move was small and precise, and each one made her think twice. Around them the regulars gathered, murmuring, placing bets on crisps and mate. By the middle game, Sofía had lost her favourite knight and her patience, and the stranger had lost nothing at all.

"Who are you?" she asked, moving her queen with a frown.

"Mateo," he said. "I'm a translator. I've been hired to read a stack of old letters in the national library, and I'm very bad at sitting still."

"So you came to the park."

"I came to the park because a woman I met on the bus told me that the best players in Buenos Aires meet here on Sundays," said Mateo. "She said they would beat me. She was very rude about it."

Sofía laughed out loud, and her next move was careless. He saw it at once, and the grin he gave her was so pleased that she nearly knocked over the board.

"Careful," said Mateo, gently. "You're leaving your king exposed."

"I'm not exposed," said Sofía. "I'm distracted. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Only when someone is watching."

They played on. The sun slid behind the trees, and the regulars drifted off one by one. When the last game was finished, the board was nearly empty, and the position was a clean, quiet draw.

"A draw," said Mateo, looking at it.

"You're very annoying," said Sofía.

"I'm very honest," said Mateo. "Would you like to play again next Sunday, and this time let me win?"

"Never," said Sofía. Then, more quietly: "But you can buy me an alfajor afterwards, and we'll pretend it's a prize."

He laughed, low and surprised, and she felt the sound in her chest.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to walk through the park with me now, and tell me which of the bus drivers cheats the worst?"

"Yes," said Sofía. "But you have to answer a question too."

"Anything."

"Why did you really sit down?"

Mateo looked at the board for a long moment, the last pieces gleaming in the dusk.

"Because you looked like you were about to lose, and you were smiling about it," he said. "I wanted to see what that looked like from the other side."

She laughed, a little breathless, and rose from the table.

"Green?" he asked, standing beside her.

"Green," said Sofía. "But only if you let me pick the alfajor."