A battle

The old chess matador meets a challenger who changes his life
From "Three stones and a reflection" Translated by Julian
Evans and Peter Howarth
By Patrick Süskind
November 20, 1996

Early one August evening when most people had already left the park, two
men confronted each other across a chessboard. It was in the pavilion on the
north-west side of the Jardin du Luxembourg. Their game was followed with
such eager interest by a dozen or so spectators that although the hour for an
aperitif was drawing near, no one dreamt of leaving the scene until the battle
had been decided.

The interest of the little crowd was concentrated on the challenger. He was a
youngish man with black hair, pale of face and with blas? dark eyes. He
uttered no word, his expression never changed. From time to time he rolled an
unlit cigarette between his fingers. He was indeed the quintessence of
nonchalance.

No one knew him; no one had ever seen him play before. And yet from the
moment he first sat down, pale and silent, at the chessboard and put his pieces
in position, he made so strong an impression that everyone felt sure that here
was a quite extraordinary personality of great and masterly talent. Perhaps it
was just his attractive and yet unapproachable appearance, his elegant dress
and his handsome physique. Or perhaps it was the calm and confidence of his
gestures or the aura of strangeness and peculiarity that surrounded him-at any
rate before the first pawn had been moved the audience was convinced that
this man was a chess-player of the very first order and that he would achieve
the miracle secretly desired by them all of beating the local chess matador.

The local man was a somewhat ugly little fellow of about 70 and in every
respect the exact opposite of his youthful opponent. In his blue trousers and
grubby woollen jacket he was wearing the typical garb of a French pensioner.
His shaky hands were sprinkled with the brown flecks of old age; his hair was
sparse, his nose ruby-red, and purple veins marked his face. He had no aura
whatsoever. He puffed nervously at the butt-end of his cigarette, shifted
restlessly in his chair and he never stopped nodding apprehensively. The
bystanders knew him very well. All of them had already played against him
and lost for, although anything but an inspired player, he had the uncongenial
knack of wearing down his opponent and enraging him because he never
made a mistake. You could never count on his obliging you by faltering in his
attention for one moment. To beat him you actually had to play better than he
did. This, it was suspected, was finally going to happen today. A new master
had arrived to put him to the test. A new master had come to humiliate him, to
butcher him limb by limb, to tread him in the dust and to make him taste at
last the bitterness of defeat. That would avenge many an individual defeat.

"Careful, Jean," they all shouted during the opening moves, "you're for it this
time! You won't beat this one, Jean! You're no match for him! This is your
Waterloo, Jean! You've met your Waterloo today!"

"Eh bien, eh bien..." responded the old man and he nodded his head as with
hesitant hand he moved his first white pawn forward.

As soon as the stranger, who had drawn black, began to play silence reigned
in the group. No one would have dared address a word to him. Shyly attentive,
they watched him as he sat silent before the chessboard, never lifting his
supercilious gaze from the pieces. They watched as he rolled his unlit
cigarette and played with quick, assured moves when it was his turn.

The first moves in the game followed the usual pattern. Then there were two
exchanges of pawns and the second of these ended with Black keeping a
doubled pawn back on the line-a move not usually regarded as favourable. But
the stranger had no doubt accepted the doubled pawn quite deliberately so that
he could make a way clear for his queen. Obviously he had the same end in
view when this led to the sacrifice of a second pawn, a kind of belated gambit
which White accepted only with hesitation, indeed almost nervously. The
spectators exchanged meaningful glances, nodded thoughtfully and looked at
the stranger full of expectation.
Momentarily he stopped rolling his cigarette, raised his hand, moved it
forward and-yes, he moves his queen! He moves her far out, right into his
opponent's lines, and by so doing he splits the battlefield in two. A murmur of
approval runs through the ranks. What a move! What dash! They had felt that
he would move the queen-but to move her so far! Not one of the bystanders-
and they were all people well versed in chess-not one of them would have
dared make such a move. But after all, that's what really made a true master.
A true master played with originality, with courage, with determination. To
put it simply a true master played differently from your average player. And
for that very reason your average player did not need to understand each
individual move made by the master. In fact they did not at this moment quite
understand what the queen was meant to be doing in her present position. She
was not a threat to anything vital and she was attacking only figures that were
well covered. But the purpose and deeper meaning of this move would soon
become clear; the master had his own plan-this was certain. You could see it
in the immobility of his expression and in his calm and steady hand. After this
unconventional move of the queen it was clear to each and every spectator
that at this chessboard was sitting a genius whose kind they were unlikely to
see again. For Jean, the old matador, they just felt a malicious sympathy.
What did he have to set against such splendid verve? They knew him, after all.
He would probably try to extricate himself from the situation by means of
some pettifogging, smallscale moves, by means of carefully arranged
smallscale tactics... And then after prolonged delay and thought Jean, instead
of making a correspondingly largescale gesture in response to the largescale
move of the queen, pushes on to H4 a pawn which had been deprived of its
cover by the advance of the black queen.

The repeated loss of a pawn means nothing to the young man. He does not
reflect for a moment before his queen moves to the right, striking into his
opponent's order of battle, and lands on a square from which she at once
attacks two pieces-a knight and a rook-and now she pushes forward
dangerously near to the king's rank. Admiration radiates from the eyes of the
beholders. What a devil of a fellow he is! What courage Black shows! "He's a
professional," they whisper, "he's a grandmaster, he's a veritable Sarasate of
chess." And they all await Jean's countermove with impatience and this
impatience is specially directed to Black's next trick.

Jean hesitates. He is thinking, he is tormenting himself. He shifts around in his

chair, his head jerks. Come on, Jean, move and don't hold up the inexorable
progress of events. Jean moves. With trembling hand he places the knight on a
square where he is not merely secure from the queen but actually attacks her
and covers the rook. Well, well! Not a bad move, that! But what else could he
do in this embattled situation? All of us standing here would all have done just
that. "But it won't help him," they whisper. "Black counted on that move."
For already Black's hand is hovering like a hawk above the battlefield. He
seizes his queen and moves her-no, he's not moving her back as we timid ones
would have done, he's moving her just one square to the right! Incredible!
They are speechless with admiration. No one really understands the purpose
of the move for the queen is now standing at the edge of the board, threatening
nothing, covering nothing. Her position is completely meaningless and yet she
looks good, maddeningly good, no queen has ever looked so good, solitary
and proud in the middle of the opponent's ranks. Jean, too, cannot understand
what his sinister opponent is aiming at with this move; he cannot see what trap
he is being enticed into and after much thought and with an uneasy conscience
he decides to take another unprotected pawn. He is now, the spectators
calculate, three pawns up on Black. But what does that matter? What's the
point of numerical superiority when you're faced by an opponent who is
obviously thinking strategically, who isn't concerned with numbers but with
position, development and with sudden lightning strikes? Jean, beware! You
may still be chasing pawns but in the follow-up your king will fall. Now it's
Black's turn. The stranger sits there quietly rolling his cigarette between his
fingers. This time he thinks for a bit longer than usual, one or two minutes,
perhaps. Total silence reigns. Not one of the onlookers dares whisper.
Scarcely one of them is still looking at the chessboard. All eyes are fixed on
the young man, on his hands, on his ashen face. Is there not a tiny smile of
triumph perceptible in the corners of his mouth? Cannot one perceive a slight
swelling of the nostrils such as always precedes great decisions? What will be
his next move? What devastating blow is the master about to deal?

The cigarette-rolling stops; the stranger leans forward; a dozen pairs of eyes
follow his hand. What will his next move be, what will it be? He takes the
pawn from G7-who'd have thought of that? He takes the pawn from G7 and
puts it on G6... Heavens!

There follows a moment of complete silence. Even old Jean himself stops
trembling and shifting around. Rejoicing almost breaks forth from among the
crowd. They breathe once again; they dig their neighbours in the ribs. Did you
see that? What a devil of a fellow he is! ?a alors! He lets his queen just be a
queen and simply moves a pawn to G6. Naturally that leaves G7 free for his
bishop, and in the next move but one he'll call check, and then? And then?
What then? By then Jean will be finished in any case; that much is quite clear.
Just look how intensely he's thinking.

Yes, indeed, Jean is thinking hard. He thinks on and on. Damn the man! His
hand stretches forward several times and then draws back again. Come on!
Move, Jean, for heaven's sake, move. We want to see the master. And then at
last, after five long minutes, while people shuffle their feet, Jean dares make
his move. He attacks the queen. With a pawn he attacks the black queen. He
tries to escape his fate by means of this delaying tactic. How childish! Black
need only withdraw his queen two squares and everything will be back to
where it was. All's over for you, Jean! You've run out of ideas; all's over.

Black leans forward-you see, Jean, he didn't need to think for long. Now it'll
just be a case of blow for blow. Black moves towards his qu... and for a
moment every heart stands still, for Black, contrary to all visible reason, does
not move his queen in order to save her from that absurd attack of the pawn,
no, Black carries out his earlier plan and puts his bishop on G7.

Baffled, they stare at him. They step back in awe, uncomprehending. He's
going to sacrifice his queen and put a bishop on G7! And he's doing it in full
consciousness and with his immobile face as he sits there calm and
supercilious, pale, blas? and handsome. Their eyes grow a little moist and
their hearts grow warm. He's playing as they'd love to play and never dare to.
They cannot understand why he's playing as he does and they really don't
care. Perhaps indeed they suspect that he is playing with suicidal daring. But
all the same they'd love to be able to play like him-splendidly, certain of
victory, Napoleonically. Not like Jean whose timid, hesitant game they are
able to understand since they play the same way, only not as well. Jean's game
is sensible. It is decent, law-abiding and enervatingly tedious. Black on the
other hand creates a miracle in his every move. He sacrifices his own queen
just to put his bishop on G7. Have you ever seen such a thing? They are
deeply moved by this deed. From now on Black can play as he likes, they'll
follow him move for move, until the very end, whatever that end may be.
Now he is their hero and they love him.

Even Jean, the opponent, the sober player, preparing with trembling hand to
move his pawn into the onslaught of the queen, hesitates as though shy in the
face of the radiant hero and he says, excusing himself gently and as though
begging not to be forced into this deed, "If you give her to me, Monsieur... I
must, yes, I must," and he casts a beseeching glance at his opponent. The
latter sits there with a face of stone and does not reply. The old man, bruised
and shattered, makes his strike.

One second later the black bishop calls check. Check to the white king! The
spectators' emotion now turns into enthusiasm. The loss of the queen is
already forgotten. To a man they all stand behind the young challenger and his
bishop. Check to the king! That's how they would have played. Exactly like
this, no whit differently. Check! A cool analysis of the situation would
certainly show them that White still has a wealth of possible moves for his
own defence but that thought interests no one. They do not want sober
analysis; they only want to see brilliant deeds, attacks of genius and powerful
strokes which will lay the opposition low. The game-this particular game-has
now only one meaning and interest for them: they want to see the young
stranger win and the old matador bite the dust.
Jean hesitates and reflects. He knows that no one would put a penny on him
any more. But he doesn't know why. He doesn't understand that the others-all
of them experienced chess-players-do not see the strength and security of his
position. He is the stronger by a queen and three pawns. How can they think
that he will lose? He can't lose! Or can he? Is he deceiving himself? Is his
concentration failing? Do the others see more than he does? He grows
uncertain. Perhaps the fatal trap is already set and at the next move he will
stumble into it. Where is the trap? He must avoid it. He must wriggle his way
out of it. In any case he must make his enemy pay a heavy price... And now
clinging to the rules of the game even more cautiously, with ever increasing
care and hesitation, Jean weighs up and considers the situation. He decides to
remove a knight and insert him between the king and the bishop so that the
black knight now stands within the range of the white queen.

Black's response comes without any delay. He does not demolish the impeded
attack but brings up reinforcements: his knight covers the threatened bishop.
The public is in ecstasy. Now the battle proceeds blow upon blow. White calls
upon a bishop for help, Black sends a rook to the front. White brings up his
second knight, Black his second rook. Both sides assemble their forces round
the square where the black bishop stands. The square where the bishop would
have no more to do becomes the centre of the battle. Nobody knows why this
is so-it is just that Black wants it like this. Every move of Black's as he
escalates the game and inserts a new figure is greeted with long, open
applause. On the other hand White's every move in his own enforced self-
defence is received with undisguised grumbling. Then Black, once again
defying all the rules of the game, embarks on a series of murderous
exchanges. The book of rules claims that such ruthless carnage cannot be of
advantage to a player in an inferior position. But Black begins it all the same
and the audience rejoices. Never before have they witnessed such a slaughter.
Black moves down everything within his scope regardless; he pays no heed to
his own losses, pawns fall in rows, fall to the frenetic applause of this expert
audience-knights, rooks and bishops likewise.

After seven or eight moves and countermoves the chessboard is laid waste.
The result of the battle for Black is grim: he has only three pieces left, the
king, one rook and one single pawn. White on the other hand has saved from
the Armageddon not just his king and rook but also his queen and four pawns.
Any reasonable man now looking at the scene should have no doubt what the
end must be and who will win. And there is no doubt among them. For now as
ever, their faces lit up with the fire of battle, the spectators still hold fast to the
conviction, even when faced with disaster, that their man will win. They
would still put any money on him and would reject the merest suggestion of
his possible defeat.
The young man too seems completely unmoved by the catastrophic situation.
It is his move. He calmly takes his rook and advances him one square further
to the right. Silence again reigns among the watchers. Indeed tears come to the
eyes of those grown men in their devotion to the genius of a player. It is like
the end of the Battle of Waterloo when the Emperor sends his bodyguard into
the long-lost conflict. With his last piece Black once again goes into the
attack. White now has his king placed in the last row on G1 and three pawns
are in the second row in front of him so that the king is hemmed in and would
be in mortal peril were Black to succeed in his obvious plan of moving with
his rook into the first row.

The possibility of declaring checkmate on one's opponent is the most well

known and commonplace move in the game of chess; one might indeed say it
is the most childish move if its success depends solely on the opponent failing
to recognise the obvious danger and taking no steps to counter it. The most
effective of these steps is to open up the line of pawns and in this way devise
an escape route for the king. To try to call checkmate on an experienced
player or indeed even on a reasonably advanced beginner by means of this
sleight of hand verges on frivolity. Nevertheless the delighted audience
marvel at their hero's move as though they were witnessing it for the very first
time. They shake their heads in boundless admiration. It's true that they know
White will have to make a fundamental error to let Black win. But they still
really believe that Jean, the local matador, who has beaten them all in turns,
who never ever permits himself to slip up, they still believe he will slip up
now. And we can go even further-they hope he will slip up. They yearn for it
to happen. In their hearts they pray fervently that Jean will make this slip.

Jean reflects. He nods his head as he ruminates. As is his wont, he weighs up

the possibilities one against another, hesitates once more and then his hand,
that trembling hand mottled with old age, his hand moves forward and moves
the pawn from G2 and puts it on G3.

The clock in St Sulpice strikes eight. All the other chess-players in the Jardin
du Luxembourg have long since gone home to their aperitifs. The man who
hires out the boards has long since shut up his shop. In the centre of the
pavilion there survive just the two players and their audience. With large
bovine eyes they contemplate the chessboard where one small white pawn has
settled the fate of the black king. They avert their bovine eyes from the
depressing scene of battle and turn them upon the general himself as he sits
there pale, blas? and handsome, immobile in his chair. "You haven't lost," say
all the bovine eyes, "you'll now bring about a miracle. You've foreseen this
situation from the very outset, you've brought it about. Now you're going to
annihilate your opponent. How you'll do it we don't know, we're just simple
players. But you, you miracle-worker, you can do it, you will do it. Don't let
us down! We believe in you. Work the miracle, miracle-man, work the
miracle and win!"

The young man sat there in silence. Then he rolled his cigarette between
thumb, forefinger and middle finger and put it to his mouth. He lit it, pulled on
it, puffed out the smoke over the chessboard, swept his hand through the
smoke, let it hover for a moment over the black king and then knocked him
over.

To knock a king down as a sign of one's own defeat is a deeply vulgar and ill-
tempered gesture. It is as though one is destroying the whole game
retrospectively. And it makes a hideous sound when the overturned king hits
the board. It strikes into the heart of every chess-player.

After the young man had knocked the king over so contemptuously with his
finger, he rose; he deigned to glance at neither his opponent nor his audience
and uttering no word of farewell he walked away.

The spectators stood there disconcerted and abashed. They looked at the
chessboard in helpless embarrassment. After a moment one of them cleared
his throat, shuffled his feet and took out a cigarette. What time is it? Quarter-
past-eight already! Heavens, is it as late as that? Au revoir! Goodbye, Jean,
and whispering some apologies they quickly disappeared.

The local matador alone remained. He stood the king upright again and began
to collect the pieces and put them in a box, first the ones lying down and then
those still standing on the board. As he did this all the individual moves and
positions went through his mind as they always did when a game was over.
He had not made a single false move; naturally he hadn't. And yet it seemed to
him that he'd never played so badly in all his life. He should have been able to
checkmate his opponent in the very opening phase. Anyone capable of that
wretched move with the queen proved himself to be an ignoramus in the
game. Usually Jean dismissed such amateurs mercifully or unmercifully
according to his current mood but he always did it swiftly and without
misgiving. But this time quite clearly his feel for his opponent's true weakness
had let him down. Or had he simply grown cowardly? Had he not had
sufficient confidence to make short shrift of this arrogant charlatan in the way
he deserved?

No, it was worse than that. He had not wanted to believe that his opponent
was so wretchedly bad. And even worse than that: almost to the end of the
game he had wanted to believe that he, Jean, was not a match for his
opponent. The self-confidence, brilliance and youthful aura of the young
stranger had made him feel his opponent was invincible. That is why he
himself had played with such exaggerated caution. And he had to go further
still: if he was to be really honest with himself he had to admit that he had
admired the stranger, just as the others had done. Yes, he had wanted the
stranger to win and bring about his, Jean's, defeat in the most impressive and
inspired way. He had been waiting wearily for this defeat for years and it
would at last have released him from the burden of being the greatest and of
always having to beat the others. In this way the nasty crew of spectators,
envious crew that they were, would at last have been satisfied and he would
have had peace, at last . . .

But there we are; he had naturally won again. And the victory was the most
distasteful of all his career for in his attempt to avoid it he had been forced to
debase himself and lay down his arms before the most miserable, blundering
player in the world.

Jean, the local matador, was not a man given to great moral perceptions. But
this much was clear to him as he shuffled off home with his chessboard under
his arm and the box of pieces in his hand: he had in truth suffered a defeat, a
defeat that was all the more devastating and final because there was no way of
avenging it. And so he decided-he was not usually a man of great decisions-to
call it a day with chess, once and for all.

From now he would play a harmless, sociable, morally undemanding game.

Like all the other pensioners, he would play bowls.