9. Call Girls and Chess




• Cardboard boxes threaten Marty Patrilla, surrounding him on all sides. They are stacked everywhere in haphazard rows, reaching six feet high in some places.
  
  But he is oblivious to everything except the ceiling fan’s thin brass chain. It mesmerizes him as it twirls and twirls in endless circles, providing a backdrop for the montage of images that swirl through his head, namely his ex-wife. If an earthquake shook the foundation of his Tudor home, he would continue to sink into the dusty recliner and brood about her.
  
  He finally rises off the recliner with labored movements, like a stubborn pile of dough that clings to the rolling pin. The maze of cardboard boxes makes it difficult for him to navigate his round frame through the house.
  
  The pungent odor of ammonia from a litter box permeates the air. The walls are plastered with faded rectangular shapes. He walks to one of the faded, yellowish spots, and imagines the framed photo of Bobby Fischer that once hung there. In the photo Fischer wore a gray beret and played chess with a young man in Central Park.
  
  He looks to the boxes behind him. Their flaps hang clumsily open, revealing stuffed pillows in the shape of chess pieces. Souvenirs and rolled posters poke through another box. The boxes are labeled with various room names and one is labeled Adobe Photoshop & Illustrator. Aside from the mangy recliner, the only remaining piece of furniture in the house is a lacquered coffee table. A crystal chessboard stands proudly on the center of it.
  
  He walks toward the chess board, but stumbles and coughs. He catches himself on the coffee table. It creaks beneath his weight, threatening to split and collapse at any moment.
  
  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
  
  Marty’s eyes flash to the door. He pushes himself off of the coffee table. A leg of the table shoots out from underneath it. It continues standing on the remaining three legs, but is tilted in the corner with the missing leg. The chess board slides down the coffee table, spilling the chess pieces. He plants his stomach like a barricade on the coffee table and lets the pieces slide into it, scooping them into his shirt. He catches the board with his free hand and sets it down on the floor. A solitary chess piece-a Queen- escapes him and falls to the floor, a tiny shard splinters from its diadem. He walks to the recliner and kneels, carefully dumping the pieces onto it.
  
  Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
  
  He hurries to the bathroom and runs a comb through the dark tufts that line his head in a horseshoe-patterned ring. The gray-green grime coating the inside of the sink is more becoming than he is.
  
  Thump, thump.
  
  “Just a second!”
  
  A young woman of barely twenty is standing outside with her arms crossed. Her eyes are olive-green. He scans her full lips and thin face and she looks away from him. He is momentarily lost in her.
  
  Her shiny, dark hair is coiled in tight perfect curls and hangs over her shoulders. She wears a short, black skirt and a tight, turquoise halter-top. Finally, he waves her in. Her black heels click and scrape the cement. His head turns and follows her as she walks past him and into the house.
  
  She scans the room and eyes the stacked boxes. Her pointy nose crinkles. She coughs lightly, covering her mouth.
  
  “Oh, sorry, sorry. The cat,” Marty says.
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “Yeah, Ginger. She’s at the vet. Poor thing.”
  
  Marty pulls out a spray bottle of cinnamon air freshener and sprays the room.
  
  “Ging-air, cute name. So where are you moving to?” she says, slowly enunciating each word with a thick, Baltic accent.
  
  “Don’t know yet. Anyway, can I get you a drink? I’ve got gin and tonic.”
  
  Her eyes continue to scan the mess. She notices the chess pillows. Through the boxes, she sees a shaft of light gleaming off of the Queen.
  
  “I have to go now,” she says.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I am late.”
  
  He walks closer to her. She turns away and begins walking to the door.
  
  “Late? I already paid Tye. You owe me a half hour.”
  
  He walks in front of the door, blocking her. Her face creases in a medley of something between fright and anger. She pulls out a cell phone, daring him to come any closer.
  
  “You are the one. The other girls told me about you. Chess-guy-creep.”
  
  “Creep? They bitch about getting $250 to make small talk and play a little chess?”
  
  “They say you don’t have sex, you only want to complain about your life. I don't mind chess, but they say you drone on and on and won't let them leave. We are call girls, not psychiatrists. Maybe you should speak with one instead, it is probably cheaper.”
  
  “I’ve already been fucked by plenty of psychiatrists and lawyers. It isn’t any cheaper, trust me.”
  
  She shoves him aside and walks to the door. Her hand is on the knob.
  
  “Good bye, chess-guy-creep.”
  
  “Wait,” he says, pulling out his wallet, “I won’t bitch, just give me a chance. We can watch a movie or something. We don’t even have to talk.”
  
  He opens his wallet and hands her a stack of crisp bills. She fans them out in a spread. She smiles for a moment, but a serious look floods her face.
  
  “Okay, but if you start complaining and depressing me, I go. Just like the other girls.”
  
  Marty holds up his hands in defense and says, “No, no. Don’t worry. I won’t. I’m Marty by the way.”
  
  He extends his hand. She reluctantly shakes it.
  
  “I’m Jordan.”
  
  “Jordan from Latvia?” he says.
  
  She shrugs and says, “My mother liked The Great Gatsby, what can I say?”
  
  ***
  
  Marty snores on his recliner. A few trickles of dried blood cake his nostrils and upper lip. A condominium guide from Costa Rica flutters on his chest with each exhale. A golden-purple ray from the morning sun casts a glint on an empty bottle of Gin next to him. Birds chirp in the disused chimney and gutters.
  
  The phone rings. He lets the answering machine pick it up.
  
  Beep.
  
  “Hi, you’ve reached Marty Patrilla. I am unavailable at the moment, please leave a message.”
  
  “Hello Mr. Patrilla, this is Trudy from Dr. Banaszack’s office. We wanted to let you know that we’re going to have to do the surgery. We’ll have to keep Ginger over night again. If you have any questions please call us back at…”
  
  Marty stirs. The sun shines more brightly through the curtains, revealing the rising dust that swirls in columns. A shaft of light illuminates his face. He balances the apartment guide on his face to shield it from the sunlight.
  
  The phone rings again. When he hears Jordan’s voice, he flinches. He squirms off the recliner and runs to the phone. He picks it up while the answering machine is still running.
  
  “Hi Jordan, how are you? Good, good thanks. At seven? Sure. See you later.”
  
  He hangs up the phone. The corners of his mouth rise into the best smile he can muster. He walks to the bathroom and takes a shower.
  
  ***
  
  Thump, thump.
  
  Marty rushes to the door. He is dressed in a black suit. His hair is greasy and shiny. The setting sunlight casts a golden glint in Jordan’s olive-green eyes. He breathes her in, the lavender sun dress and the perfectly coiled hair. The scent of honeysuckle rolls through the door and he savors it, not knowing or caring if it is from her or the winter, finally giving way to spring air.
  
  She smiles as he gestures for her to come in. She scans the room. A soft violin orchestra evaporates from a stereo, which was not there yesterday. The floor is haphazardly swept; splotches left here and there make it look worse than before. A fondue set sits on a table next to a bottle of Verdi Spumante. But the stacked boxes remain in the same place and nothing else has been altered.
  
  “I really like what you’ve done with the place.”
  
  Marty chuckles, and says, “Very funny.”
  
  She walks over to the table and pokes a cube of dried bread with a fork. She dips it into the sauce and nibbles it.
  
  “Mmm, tasty. Oh, and I love Ilya, such a great composer.”
  
  “Yeah, she’s great. Nothing like the Latvian composers. You still talk to any of your family there?”
  
  She chuckles.
  
  “Ilya Grubert was a man, but nice try. And no, I don’t keep in touch. My brother lives here though.”
  
  “You look beautiful tonight.”
  
  She smiles. He walks over to the table and grabs the bottle. He winds the bottle opener around until it finally twists out. He pours a drink for her.
  
  “So what is on the agenda tonight?” she says.
  
  “Would you like to play some chess?”
  
  “Well, it has been years since I’ve played. In my former years I was pretty good.”
  
  Marty raises an eyebrow and says, “Really?”
  
  “Well, chess is a big thing for us there. We have Mikhail Tal you know.”
  
  “Misha? I thought he was Russian.”
  
  “Born in Latvia. You like him?”
  
  “Like him? The Master of Sacrifice? He’s almost a god!”
  
  “Umm, okay.”
  
  “I want to show you something,” he says.
  
  He beckons for her to follow. She rolls her eyes when he turns away but follows him through the corridor of boxes to his bedroom. The bedroom is littered with more stacked boxes. Above a bare metal bed frame, a black and white poster of Mikhail Tal is pinned on the wall. He is at a table playing chess with another pensive man, who rests his chin on his hand.
  
  Marty crouches on his knees. He rips the tape from a box in one corner and pulls out several books about Mikhail Tal.
  
  “You know, people used to think he would hypnotize them?” Marty says.
  
  “Yes, Benko wore sunglasses because of it. What if I told you that my uncle watched him play Botvinnik for the world championship? And he has real photos of him, autographed.”
  
  Marty looks up at her. His mouth sags open.
  
  “You know, you’re the weirdest man I have ever met. A poster of Mikhail Tal above your bed? What did your wife think?”
  
  Marty ignores her and walks out of the room.
  
  She follows him through the boxes until they reach the coffee table with the chessboard. The leg of the broken coffee table has been repaired; splotches of dried glue have hardened on the leg like drippings of candle wax. He leaves for a moment and returns with two wood chairs. He walks back to the stereo and raises the volume; the violins echo through the house.
  
  He pulls her chair back and waits for her to sit. He grabs two of the crystal chess pieces, one black and one white, and closes his hands in a tight fist over each of them. He extends both hands in front of Jordan.
  
  She chooses the left hand, a black crystal pawn. He opens his other hand to reveal a white pawn. They set up the board. He quickly moves his Queen’s pawn forward. She opens conservatively with her King’s Knight. He pushes the c pawn forward two squares. She plays a fianchetto-sliding her Bishop in front of her Knight.
  
  “This real crystal?” she says.
  
  He nods slowly, not looking up from the board.
  
  “You’re playing the King’s Indian Defense,” he says.
  
  He brings out his other Knight. She castles, slowly looping the Rook and King around each other. She takes a sip of her wine. He plays a fianchetto. She brings her Knight in front of the Queen, guarding the other Knight. He castles. She pushes her King’s pawn two spaces forward, threatening his c pawn. He brings another pawn next to it. Suddenly, the board becomes complicated and alive with action with Knight sacrifices and a flurry of exchanges; pieces are being captured and scooped off of the board left and right.
  
  He looks up at her and notices her eyes are closed. She is enraptured from the violin piece, half opening and closing her eyes and only glancing at the board. He makes another move and watches her, realizing then that she has been playing like this the entire time.
  
  “Ahem. I just realized something,” he says.
  
  Her eyes flutter open. She says, “Oh?”
  
  “We’re playing a Tal game. I can’t remember the name of it, but I’ve played it before and we’re doing it right now, almost move for move.”
  
  “I know. And do you know who played black?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Play,” she says.
  
  They make another flurry of exchanges: Knight for Knight, Bishop for Knight, until they are suddenly at a Mexican standoff with two Queens and two Bishops each. They exchange them. Twenty-one moves from the beginning and he has lost by board position and piece value; there are over five ways to checkmate him. He tips his King over with an index finger. Its crown splinters on the board. He gasps.
  
  “Gradus versus Tal,” she says, “1950’s I think.”
  
  He shakes his head and stares off into space.
  
  “Who the hell is Gradus?”
  
  A wry smile surfaces on her face. She shrugs.
  
  “Another one?” he says.
  
  “Okay, but only one more. And should I actually look at the board this time?”
  
  “Very funny.”
  
  This time, she plays white. They play for only a few minutes, some fifteen moves. She slaughters him, his pieces dropping like dead soldiers.
  
  He looks up at her, lost in her eyes and says, “Come to Costa Rica with me.”
  
  She chuckles coyly.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Come with me.”
  
  “You are eccentric.”
  
  “Just for a week, to get a feel for the area.”
  
  “Thank you, but I can’t.”
  
  “Tye?”
  
  She nods.
  
  “Yeah, I didn’t think of that. He acts like some big-city pimp. It’s a call girl service for god’s sake.”
  
  He stares off. He walks to his kitchen and comes back with a newspaper. He unfolds the classified section and points to it.
  
  “There’s a chess tournament tomorrow, at the Civic Center. You should sign up. They are starting a chess program this summer. They’re even hiring an office administrator.”
  
  She sighs softly and takes another sip of wine.
  
  “I already have a job and I don’t have time to play chess.”
  
  “Well, I’m just saying. If you wanted a change of pace…”
  
  “Says the man who makes a living taking photos of peas and corn for canned good labels.”
  
  She looks down at the ground and mutters something. She grabs her purse and stands up.
  
  “I have to go now, good bye.”
  
  “Wait.”
  
  He stands in silence as she walks out.
  
  ***
  
  The next day he invites her to come over for lunch. She teaches him how to make borscht and Latvian smörgåsbord. He has her fetch the ingredients because he will never leave the house except to check his mail.
  
  She tells him about life in Latvia and in Europe-the politics and the lifestyle differences. He introduces her to classic American films that she has never seen such as Casablanca and Singin' in the Rain. One night he asks her to rent Taxi Driver. Near the end of the film she walks out without saying goodbye. She never returns his calls.
  
  ***
  
  Marty lifts himself from the recliner and rubs his eyes. Several pints of empty gin litter the floor. An open liter of club soda lies on a newspaper. An article smudged with purple ink reads Jerry Foster wins chess tournament, Civic Auditorium.
  
  He looks at the digital clock. It is 2:34 PM. He starts hacking quietly. He flops back down on the recliner and doubles over, coughing his lungs out.
  
  Thump, thump.
  
  He gives himself a cursory glance. His belly hangs out of his white tank top, which is stained with spots of dried blood. He answers the door.
  
  Jordan is wearing a cream-colored business skirt with a black blouse. Her tangled hair is tied back. She carries a purse and wears wide sunglasses. She doesn’t smile. He motions her in.
  
  “Something is different,” she says.
  
  “I’m sorry. I know it’s a mess.”
  
  “No, it is always a mess, it’s something else… where is your cat?”
  
  “In the backyard. She-”
  
  “She’s dead, I know. I’m sorry, Marty.”
  
  He follows her to the window. A squirrel leaps from a branch, chasing another squirrel. It clumsily lands on the branch only to slip off and land on Ginger’s fresh dirt mound in the yard. The other squirrel climbs the length of the branch, and leaps into another tree. It hops from branch to branch until it is far away and disappears from view. Jordan stares down at the mound.
  
  “So, what then, you can sniff out death or something?” he says.
  
  “I can smell it on you, too,” she says.
  
  “Jeez, don’t act so happy to see me, it’s only been three weeks since you’ve called.”
  
  “I’ve been a little busy lately,” she says, taking off her sunglasses.
  
  Her eye is bruised black, purple, and yellow.
  
  Marty begins coughing, and loses his balance. He leans on a box for support. She leaves her purse and runs over to him. She helps him sit on a box and runs to the kitchen. She looks in the sink and then through the cabinets. There is one glass in a far corner. She grabs it and fills it with water. She brings the glass to him.
  
  “Why didn’t you go to that tournament?” he says.
  
  “I did,” she replies.
  
  “You didn’t win?”
  
  “I didn’t play, I was too late. But I met the club president.”
  
  “Chambers?”
  
  “Yeah, and I think he is smitten with me.”
  
  “That’s nice.”
  
  He looks away and takes a sip of water.
  
  “You played him?” he says.
  
  “Blindfolded.”
  
  He spits up a stream of water and coughs. She rushes to him and pats his back.
  
  “I can’t believe it. You beat him, didn’t you? You fucking beat him.”
  
  “I’m worried about you,” she says.
  
  “Worried about me?”
  
  He stands up and moves away from her. His eyebrows crease.
  
  “You beat a state champion blindfolded and you let that bastard pimp beat you around? Let’s get the hell out of here. I can get you a job tutoring kids at chess! Hell, anything, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got talent, Jordan. You’re worth a whole hell of a lot more than you realize, don’t you get it?”
  
  He walks over to the stereo and pulls an envelope down.
  
  “I already bought you a ticket.”
  
  He hands it to her. She sits down and opens it. She skims it.
  
  “I can’t leave.”
  
  “What… Oh my god. I can’t believe you. You’d rather stay here and be a whore for the rest of your life? We could have a condo in Costa Rica. Are you crazy?”
  
  She begins crying. He walks over to her but she shoves him away. She finally composes herself.
  
  “You know what the best part of my day used to be? I couldn’t wait to come into your disgusting, stinking house and drink your cheap wine. Because I knew once I was here, once I was inside, I didn’t have to pretend to be alive. Even for five minutes I would have come, just to feel that.”
  
  She grabs a tissue from her purse and dabs her eyes.
  
  She says, “I've spent my whole life feeling like a maggot crawling on my own skin, watching myself but unable to experience anything valid. And I tried to give you a chance but all you do is remind me of that.”
  
  He stares off, looking away from her. She walks closer, her face creased in a scowl.
  Only inches away from his face, she says, “I’m sorry that I can’t be your little trophy-whore you saved through a game of chess.”
  
  “You know that’s not true,” he says.
  
  “It is true! And I’m not the one that needs saving. You want to sacrifice everything and run off to some island like a little boy with your daddy’s inheritance. You won’t even admit to yourself that you are dying. You need to save yourself, not me. You need to look in the mirror. No wonder your wife left-”
  
  “Get out of my house!” he says, and throws the empty glass. Shards explode off the wall. A red bird flutters, bouncing off of the window. It flies off, soaring out of view.
  
  She cries. She tosses the envelope and grabs her purse. She walks out and doesn’t look back.
  
  ***
  
  Marty walks up to his house, holding a red, leather suitcase. He is clean and tan, and slightly thinner, but carries a heavy face. He wears dark shades. He opens his mailbox, letters fall out. He sets down his suitcase and scoops them up. He flips through them like photographs and stops when he sees one from Jordan. A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. The other letters fall to the ground as he opens Jordan’s as fast as he can.
  
  It reads:
  
  Marty,
  
  I’ve thought a lot about you over the weeks. I feel really bad about our last argument and I just want you to know that you are one of the greatest people I have ever met. You unearthed feelings and emotions that I had buried so long ago… so long that I thought they were gone.
  
  I’m visiting my grandmother in Riga, Latvia at the moment. There is still no word on the whereabouts of my parents, but that doesn’t matter anymore. My grandmother is so happy to see me, it has been almost ten years. We picked bilberries yesterday and we are planning a trip to the Baltic Sea for the weekend. I love it during the spring, when the snow starts melting from the spruce trees.
  
  Lots of things have changed here, the city has grown even bigger. Lots of things have changed also at home. My brother Andris took care of Tye. Let’s just say he probably will not be walking for a while. Unfortunately, Tye has many associates so I will probably always have to look over my shoulder.
  
  Chambers proposed to me last week, but I don’t want to be with anyone right now. He is sweet and understands this, and I know you do as well. It took me twenty-one years to find myself and I need to spend this time now getting to know me, if that makes any sense to you.
  
  I am coming back in two weeks and thanks to help from Chambers I will be working at the Civic Center as a secretary, but only for the spring and summer. My chances are slim to get a work visa so I am keeping my fingers crossed. I think that is another reason Chambers proposed to me, but I have too much integrity for that. But if all works out with the visa though I might even be able to tutor kids at chess! There will be a tournament very soon, you should come! You are probably smiling now, it is always what you wanted. Most of all I thank you, who knows where I would be without you, the master of sacrifice!
  
  With Love,
  Jordan
  
  Ps. In this envelope I have included the name of the very best doctor I know. Please see him. Also, I have a surprise for you. Open your door.
  
  
  He smiles and looks through the envelope. He finds the business card of Dr. Hapburn, oncologist.
  
  He picks up his suitcase and walks to the door. Two squirrels banter each other in the gutter but stop once they notice him. They bob their tails like pompoms. As he nears one squirrel ushers the other along the length of the gutter and over the gabled dormer. They dodge around a corner. A red bird flutters down at the edge of his roof and turns its head mechanically.
  
  The door is locked. He sighs and digs through his pocket, finally producing keys. The aroma of lemons engulfs his nose as the door slowly swings open.
  
  An orange cat darts behind a box, leaving behind a chewed piece of paper. His house is immaculate. The first thing he notices is the framed Bobby Fischer photo. The parquet floors shine. His azure blue, leather sofas, love seat and ottomans welcome him. The china cabinet sits in the den once more. He picks the chewed piece of paper from the floor and reads it; it is a receipt from Portland Storage, paid in full. The cat darts through the house; he follows it to the bedroom.
  
  The cat leaps on his bed and begins purring. The cat’s orange, watery nose probes a large manila envelope on his bed. He breathes in the fresh air of the room and looks around. His oak chest of drawers and nightstand are polished. His mirror has been cleaned.
  
  Marty walks to the envelope and pulls together the prongs. He unwinds the thread and opens it. Inside are several black and white autographed photos of Mikhail Tal. A sticky note on the back of one photo reads:I thought you would like these. Please stay in touch.