Shattered Dreams

BY Arlo Jack

Sliding doors slithered, slamming behind him as Alex entered Fitzroy Chess Club. Cigarette smoke streamed into his nostrils, stinging his eyes. Vacant expressions and weary, withered faces greeted him. It was his chance. He grasped the sticky door handle, a shiver running through his body, scared stiff until his coach shoved him through the entrance into the playing hall beyond. His bovine eyes stared worriedly at the noticeboard, looking for his opponent’s name, fingers drumming against the pliant cork as he scanned the list. “Ivan Magomedov,” his coach hissed to him, making him jump, before jamming his meaty forefinger forcefully into the wall, pointing to the number. “Board thirteen, white,” he rasped, beady eyes glancing up and down Alex’s timid figure. The coach pushed past the yearning bodies striving to gaze at the tiny text, dark bags under their eyes drooping, Alex skittishly hopping behind him. The man led the way, his imposing figure lit only by dim incandescent bulbs, the heavyset man’s sweat glistening in their orange flickers, fat rolls visible through his grimy budget suit. Marching feet were muffled by the floor as the players shuffled to their tables. Alex sat down in the cheap beige plastic chair, adjusted his ersatz pieces, and looked towards his opponent.

The man had placed his hand over the ancient clock, poised to start the timer. The back of his hand was almost translucent, a ghostly pale vascular thing through which Alex could see the blue of his veins. The man’s grey eyes stared into his very soul, pupils dilated, blood vessels visible. His lack of sleep was so apparent that it appeared as if he wore eyeshadow. His lanky legs drummed incessantly against the worn and stained carpet. “Ready to begin?” he resonated, thick accent noticeable, with a deep voice that did not match his physique. Alex nodded stiffly, and the man pushed down his side of the clock. The heavy pendulum swung, swaying in time with the rest of the clocks in the hall, perpetually emitting the clicking sound that Alex had grown accustomed to.

Every clock sounded to a different beat. The newer ones made the loudest sound, a clear, bright tone that reverberated through the hall. Older ones made a firm ‘tock’, more quiet, but still apparent. The truly archaic ones, like the one on Alex’s table, only emitted a tortured moan of a click, struggling to put out its croaking death song with each swing of the oscillator. Taking a ragged breath, Alex made his first move. His opponent responded instantaneously, his bony fingers curling around his pawn, before he turned to furiously scribble down the move into his notebook. This game was life or death for these men. They both had given everything to be here: their money, their time, and their friendships. Only one could advance. Alex knew this and gathered every fibre of his being to fight this battle. With his thin lips pursed in a tight line, he responded.

It was going badly for Alex. His opponent had played in the classic Soviet style: slowly grinding Alex down, before liquidating into a winning endgame. The gloomy light was more than enough to show his failure. He knew he had lost, that his opponent would make no mistake with his execution, that it had all been for nothing. This was evidenced in the cocky smirk his opponent displayed, his fingers swirling his ballpoint pen, tapping its head on the flimsy table with each revolution. Alex’s eyes swirled around the room, taking in the many players hunched over their boards, laser-focused on their games, forehead veins throbbing. He could see the exertion dripping from peoples’ brows, stifled by the humidity that occurs when dozens of people are locked in a damp room with no windows. His gaze finally landed on his coach, oily mane slicked back, cheap black dye flowing down his temple in the heat, dribbling onto his neck fat. His look was acknowledged by a sullen expression somewhere between defeat and disdain.

Alex gazed up into the proud face of his coach, the man’s muscled arms crossed over his lean gut. The boy had just won his first real tournament. “He’s got a future,” he boasted to Alex’s parents, “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve gotta train him up a bit, but he could be a national champ. It’ll be hard, he might hate you for it, but he’ll go places.” The boy’s parents shared a look with each other for a long moment. “How much training?” Alex’s father asked, “I can do six nights a week, four-hour sessions. Give him a break on Sunday. How’s that sound?” The father opened his mouth to speak, but it was Alex’s mother who answered: “Do it.” she said. It’s over. Alex thought, fifteen years later. He toppled his king. Tiredly, silently, resigned to his future, no plans, no prospects, he got up.