Read Online All Kinds of Magic: One Man's Search for Meaning Across the Material World by Piers Moore Ede - Free Book Online Page B

match had come about.
    ‘That feringhee [foreigner] is from France,’ Amir explained excitedly. ‘And he is coming here every year to Benares [another name for Varanasi]. Each evening many people are playing chess out here besides Ganga, and one day this Frenchman is asking for a match. Foreigner is thrashing his first opponent!’
    ‘Were you watching?’
    ‘Actually, no. I was working in my shop at that time. But I was coming back next evening when my friend told me that Frenchman was again to be playing. This time very fine local chess player is coming. Some more Indians now coming to watch, and once again this Frenchman is wreaking havoc with our man!’
    I couldn’t help chuckling. Indians, perhaps with good reason considering that they grow up in such a hugely populated society, seemed possessed of a stronger competitive streak than most.
    ‘So what about this man’s chances?’ I asked. ‘He seems to know what he’s doing.’
    ‘ Great champion,’ said Amir. ‘Captain of Varanasi District Chess Association. Best player for long distance in actual fact. Brain is tip-top.’
    Another man, keen to join in the conversation, sidled up to Amir. ‘ Bahut samay se dekhā nahīm ,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
    ‘My friend Rajesh,’ introduced Amir. ‘You should visit him. He is making excellent horoscopes.’
    ‘Handy,’ I said. ‘An astrologer. Can you make a prediction about this match?’
    Rajesh grinned, exposing gleaming teeth. ‘No need for Jyotisha in this instance. India has already lost too many wickets.’
    This was certainly true. The Frenchman, in a display of skill which appeared almost insulting, had plunged his queen into a nest of the Indian’s pawns, then proceeded to make a kind of systematic culling. Each further conquest prompted yet more riffling of the chess book, and the occasional whimper of frustration from the beleaguered Indian. Opposite him, almost luxuriantly, the Frenchman lit his cigarette.
    Very soon it was over. The competitors shook hands, pats on the back were awarded to both men from the admiring throng, and the defeated Indian was animatedly praising the Frenchman’s technique. ‘Not for many years have I been beaten like that,’ I heard him say. ‘He knew every strategy I employed. Every one! An encyclopaedic knowledge, I tell you.’
    After that a few days went past and I forgot about the match. But as I sat in the rooftop café of my guesthouse one evening, who should walk in but the chess player. He looked even more sickly than I recalled and sank feebly into his chair.
    ‘You’re the chess player?’ I said. ‘I saw you play a match on Monday. On the ghats.’
    His bleary eyes lifted. ‘You saw that. It was fun, no?’
    ‘Not for your opponent. How did you get so good?’
    He shrugged and flicked a Gold Flake cigarette from its packet. His nails were filthy. ‘I am not so good, actually. I was better once. But here the standard here is . . . well, quite amateur, actually.’ As he lifted the cigarette to his lips I noticed his hands were shaking. ‘I am not boasting,’ he added. ‘But I could have given that guy half my pieces and still won. It was child’s play for me. He knew the great games by rote but not . . .’ he exhaled, ‘but not the meaning of them. You take my point?’
    He was called Honoré, it turned out, after Balzac, who had also been a chess player. He supported himself by teaching chess strategy in Paris. He had once played for the French national team, but even then another mistress was drawing his attention.
    ‘I am a junkie,’ he admitted almost at once. The confession seemed to make him feel better; he could look me in the eyes. ‘Heroin. I have been in rehab twice. My father came with these two big guys to the squat where I was living, and they carried me to a car and took me there. I fought them the whole way, but then after several months I came out clean.’ He rotated the cigarette between thumb and forefinger,