Chapter GRIFFIN #4
“Then you’ll report all of this to him, and I’m signing my own death sentence.”
He talks about his own death, the chance of being stabbed in the back like just another acceptable occurrence, part of the math. He says it calmly, impassively, and yet the weight floats behind the facade. His jaw tense, his mouth thin, his gaze never resting.
“Are you afraid to die?” I ask. The words come out weak. I don’t know if it’s sincere curiosity or just self-pity.
“Today? Maybe. It’s not just my life at stake, but the entire structure of my family.”
He holds the white king.
Then, he sighs. He looks into my eyes.
“I don’t expect loyalty from you, Griffin. I just don’t want to be caught by surprise.”
I think about what that means.
On the cold cement floor of solitary. The taste of blood from the last round.
The total absence of anyone to trust, even for a second.
“I’m simple. What you see is what you get.” It’s the closest thing to an oath I’m capable of making.
Alexei stares at me across the board. He picks up the black knight, the piece I held before, and places it in what must be its starting position, on my side of the board.
“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.
The King is the last piece. He holds the white King, spinning it between his fingers, unhurried.
“This piece is the most idiotic in the game. It moves one square, does almost nothing. And everything revolves around it. The game only ends when it’s cornered, no matter the rest.”
“Do you think that makes sense?” I ask. “The most vulnerable is the most important?”
“It’s the only possible sense,” he replies, with something on his face that I cannot decipher. “If you don’t protect the king, no one else matters. Not the queen, not the soldiers. Everything turns to dust.”
He repositions the pieces, this time with more care.
The board is now exactly like the beginning of an official game.
I notice that he has changed the way he sits: his body slightly inclined towards me, his left hand almost touching mine, as if contact were inevitable.
I don’t know if this is provocation or just the reflex of someone who never learned to relax.
I decide I’m going to bluff. I pull on my cigarette, let out the smoke slowly, stare at Alexei. “Why are you explaining so well?” I say, my voice low. “I don’t even know if I’ll last more than a few months in this world.”
“I want you to last,” he says. “Or maybe I just need someone to play with, for now.”
Silence returns, thick, heavy, but different from before. Now there’s a strange electricity.
I look at the board, at the black pieces on my side, and try to remember how it begins. My fingers touch the pawn, and I hesitate.
“What’s the right move?” I ask.
Alexei smiles, this time with genuine pleasure. “There is no right move,” he says.
He pushes a white pawn forward, two squares, opening the game. He looks me in the eyes, challenging, but also offering something I can’t name.
I pull a black pawn, mimic the move. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t scoff.
“You’re going to crush me,” I say, without feigning hope.
“I’ll give you five rounds before I crush your king,” he replies, and for the first time I feel that maybe he’s genuinely playing with me, that maybe there’s a place for me in this bad math.
We played in silence for a while. I mean, he plays. I just move the pieces, trying to remember the rules, trying not to make too obvious a mistake.
He is patient. He corrects my moves with “are you sure?” and forces me to think again.
And, during his moves, I allow myself to look at him.
Not just a glance; really. His dress shirt is open at the collar, revealing his thin clavicle, and a fine gold chain that disappears under the fabric.
The dark gray jacket looks expensive, and his hands—fuck, his hands—are calm, never trembling.
The atmosphere shifts. From competition to something more bizarre, more intimate.
Because, while he thinks about the next move, I think about what it would be like to break the silence, to do something stupid, like throwing the pieces on the floor and pressing my face into his neck, smelling the cigarette mixed with perfume.
The idea makes me laugh, but it’s a silent laugh, only through my nostrils.
I try to concentrate. I lean over the board, trying to predict his next move, and it’s an impossible task. I think of the knight, the chaotic piece. It’s a stupid move. I know the instant I touch it.
Before I complete the move, his hand covers mine over the piece.
The shock is instant and idiotic. The warmth of his hand, the exact pressure, neither too much nor too little. My brain freezes. What was just chess suddenly becomes something else. My gaze goes from the board to his hand, from his hand to his face. His pupils dilate.