A Game of Chess?
I got it as a present for my birthday. The board was not more than two spans wide. Its mesmerising and shiny polished surface lied on top of a long wooden stand. The exquisite fretwork was the most intricate piece of art I had seen by the age of eight. It had three wooden legs that kept it stable. They looked like the weird thing we used to put at the base of the Christmas tree to keep it from falling — I never learned its name. The elegant craftsmanship made the legs look alive — throbbing in the air. I was fascinated by the chess board and resented it at the same time.
I hated playing chess. He made me play every day. I hated it. I lost every single game. My record was probably zero wins to at least a thousand losses. “Djodjo, do you want to play a game of chess,” he asked. I would be in the other room or somewhere else and my mind would go: “NO! NO! NO! NOT AGAIN! I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS STUPID GAME.” A bitter lump in my throat and salty tears on the backside of my eyeballs. Then I would barely utter, almost sobbing, a choked “Yes.” He had already set the pieces. “Choose,” he extended his arms holding one white and one black pawn inside his fists.
I was lying on my bed in my dorm room. The sun had ceded the firmament to the silver crescent. Moonlight was tearing through my blinds and there was a strange milky-coloured spot on the old stinky blue carpet. I checked my phone — 11 p.m. “Perfect,” I thought, “I can stay up all night and play something or finish my show.” I went to take a piss and sat down in front of my laptop. A few moments later my phone started ringing. I looked at it and checked the time before answering — ten minutes to midnight. It was my mom. She never calls me so late. I could not remember when I ate for the last time, but I felt a funky motion in the pit of my stomach.
- Hello. — my voice was surprisingly hoarse.
The tears and the wailing got in the way of her enunciation.
The Bulgarian language is a peculiar one. The word that I would use to say that I am going to take a rest for a little bit and the word to say that someone just died is the same word. It makes absolutely no sense in English, but Death rarely does.
- Lyubo pochina. — the only two words I managed to make out amongst everything else she tried to say.
Four hours later I arrived at a gas station in the outskirts of Kazanlak — a city located at the foot of the Balkan mountain range and on the east of the famous Rose Valley. It was a chilly October night. People filled up their car tanks and moved on. The city was slowly waking up. All I wanted to do was rest my head on my cheap silicone pillow and disappear under the grey blanket I bought before heading off to college. My mom was waiting inside the gas station in her blue jacket, smoking a cigarette, and holding a plastic juice bottle. There was another woman with her. I think. I don’t even remember her face. I don’t know who she was. I didn’t care. My brain rendered her obsolete. My mother, Lilly, and I stood outside, next to the car, in complete silence. She hugged me. I hugged her. We got inside the car.
All I knew was that she waited for an ambulance for twenty minutes. They announced his death upon arrival and refused to take the body. Then they left. There are no non-stop funeral agencies in this god forsaken city. She was alone in the living room with the dead body of her husband. He was still warm, I guess. By the time I found a working hotel to rent a room for my mom, it was already light outside. By the time I went back to their house and took the stairs up to the living room, his lips were already violet. His skin was cold and looked darker than usual. He had no socks, and his glasses were on the table. He was sleeping; it looked like he was. The room was warm. I inhaled long and hard and felt the stuffy smell of stale air. Then I walked up to him and touched his chest. I said something. I don’t remember what it was. Then I stepped back. Then I walked up to him and I said something, but I don’t remember what it was. Then I stepped back. Then I walked up to him and pressed his chest harder. A muffled gurgling noise moved inside his rib cage and left through his lips: “Grhghrh.” He was dead. He was dead and the insolent funeral agency owner was trying to sell me his most expensive coffin. I was somewhere inside my own mind.
A month and two days later, I was sitting on the grass with my back up against a tree on one of the lawns on campus. There were many fallen leaves around and what was left of the green grass was still wet. There was not enough sun to dry the morning dew. I was holding a document from his last work place — the termination order. Under reason it said, “Death of the person.” I pulled out his labour book — a blue pocket-size passport. There was no picture, just an ugly serif font, in all caps, that said: “LABOUR BOOK #43.” He had jobs I never knew about. He died a senior sales consultant. What am I supposed to do with all these pages and blue stamps?
I lost the chess board long ago. I don’t even remember how and when. I don’t remember the last time we played chess. Did I ever win? I last saw him in the summer of 2019. I visited my mother several times after that, but he was always at work. I drove by the place where he works… worked on my way out of the city. I never stopped to say hi. I wanted to every single time. I don’t even remember what the last thing he told me was. What did I tell him? Can you help me remember?
I have a screenshot of the last message he sent to my mother. I took it from her phone when she was not in the room. The message is a questionably well drawn sticker of a boy with spiky black hair and a girl with purple hair. They are kissing and there are seven red hearts in the background. Right above it, there is a list of medications. I look up and my eyes linger on the upper left corner:
“Lyubo — last online a while ago.”
