Chapter Fifteen

Tobias

Age Twenty-One

W alking under the cover of the canopy of trees at the entry of the park, I shove my hands into my jeans, keeping a leisurely pace. A lone bird swoops in from above, catching my eye as it flies overhead before landing on one of the low-hanging branches. Eyes fixed on the bird, I feel his watchful return stare following my progress as I stroll past. My mind wars with the significance of its appearance as my gut tries to decipher if it's a warning or a signal to keep going. I decide on the latter, walking further along the outskirts of the park. It doesn't take me long to spot the group of men gathered in pairs at a cluster of tables, most of them older, mid- to late-sixties. All of them are situated across from each other, chessboards in between. Only one man sits alone, the pieces on his board scattered as if mid-game, the chair opposite him empty. Pulse kicking up, I take the last few strides, positioning myself amongst them before sliding into the vacant chair. The men surrounding us don't so much as spare me a glance, too immersed in their own games.

The man I'm sitting across from doesn't acknowledge my presence in the slightest when I survey him, his face etched with years of wear; deep lines in his forehead and around his lips. His thick, greying hair is on the longer side, and his worn clothes are slightly wrinkled—as if he gave no thought about his appearance and simply rolled out of bed. He situates the board pieces delicately, caressing each one with the pads of his fingers before releasing them as he sets them back to their starting position on the worn board.

Seeming satisfied with his ritual, he finally lifts his eyes—the color of mine—to sweep me with the same careful inspection. His lips twitch in amusement at the slip of my expression, due to our likeness, a clear familial relation.

Since I've been in France, and due to whispers about my birth father, I've grown more curious about the man he was before his sickness claimed him. I've discovered some sparse details from Antoine, who was, from what I gathered, at one point in time his associate when my parents were together. My father was, in essence, an executor of orders for the highest bidder. Many feared Abijah. Some respected him. As a thousand questions bud on my tongue, I don't dare ask them. I'm here on invitation, and I'm not about to fuck it up with my curiosity before I find out why the invite was extended.

He wasn't on the exhaustive list of contacts Delphine so carefully constructed for me—that consisted mostly of my mother's relatives—all of whom are former activists, and very few on my birth father's side. In truth, he's an unlikely ally. Skepticism takes hold for his motivations, but I know without a doubt I'm staring at Abijah's father, my grandfather. Someone I would never have considered to enlist help from in any form, the fear ingrained inside of me when I was young. The notion embedded deeply by my mother that Abijah was a man I should never be curious about or seek out in any capacity. Because of that, I've rarely, if ever, given much thought to his extended family.

As we study each other, some part of me recognizes the possibility that because my mother fled France—taking Abijah's only son while abandoning him completely for another man—it may have caused an indirect grudge for all involved, including me.

I weigh his expression closely for any trace of that grudge or resentment. Instead, I find something resembling joy in his eyes, as if he's been thirsty for the sight of me all of these years.

But maybe it's not me he sees as he stares back at me, but the ghost of my birth father, a son he lost to mental illness long ago. I can sense an inkling of that bond now as I stare back at him. A bond I had at one point with the man who raised me and that I now have with my brother.

The spring sun begins to beat down on our heads as the morning clouds part, lighting up the board.

"Se voir accorder le premier déplacement est per?u par certains comme un avantage. Je considère que c'est mon avantage. Avec ce seul coup, je peux souvent dire si mon adversaire est agressif ou non. Fais le premier pas, Ezekiel, je suis assez curieux de voir." Being granted the first move is seen by some as an advantage. I consider it my advantage. With that one move, I can often tell whether my opponent is aggressive or not. Do make the first move, Ezekiel. I am quite curious to see.

"Je n'ai jamais joué." I've never played.

Another twitch of lips and a flicker of what I perceive as pride shines clear in his eyes.

"La plupart répondraient, ‘Je ne peux pas jouer.' Je préfère ta réponse." Most would respond, ‘I can't play.' I like yours much better.

He takes a pawn and moves it two spaces diagonally before pulling it back in its starting place on the board.

"Tu ne peux avancer ton pion de deux cases que la première fois; une fois qu'il est en jeu, le pion ne peut se déplacer qu'une fois par tour. Lorsque tu retires tes doigts du pion, c'est joué, tu ne peux plus revenir en arrière." Only the first time can you advance a pawn two spaces; once it's in play, the pawn can only move once per turn. Once you remove your fingers from the pawn, it's done, never to be pulled back.

He draws his brows in question, and I give him a slow dip of my chin in understanding. He speaks clear English with his next words. "I was very unhappy to hear about your first move."

Antoine .

It's the only conclusion I can draw.

I barely have time to register the implications of what he's saying as he gestures back to the board. "Pay close attention, Ezekiel."

He moves down the line, demonstrating the horizontal and vertical movement rules of each piece until I've grasped a mild understanding of them. He does this silently for several minutes as I watch on, rapt, paying close attention to the way he regards each piece.

"Vous considérez le pion comme le plus important?" You consider the pawn most important?

"Cela dépend de la connaissance du pion et de sa position. Et puis, l'union fait la force, n'est-ce pas?" It depends on the knowledge of the pawn and its position. And there's a comfort in numbers, is there not?

The question is directly related to my reason for seeking help in France, which lets me know just how long he's been aware of me and my quest here, and how deep his connections run. Shoving my pride aside, I admit the truth I've gathered through years of isolation here and nod. The time I feel most at peace is at home, surrounded by my brothers.

"Mais tu vois, s'il est correctement positionné, le pion seul peut devenir l'une des pièces les plus puissantes du plateau, et a la capacité de mettre le Roi en échec." But you see, if positioned correctly, the pawn alone can become one of the most powerful pieces on the board and has the ability to check the king.

He lifts the piece and turns it in his hands with great care, and I watch him, engrossed in his movement before he sets it back on the board.

A lesson in chess is not at all what I expected this morning. The irony strikes me that as much as I've compared my moves in my time in France to this game, I only know the basics, the essence of it, the central goal.

Awareness of the strongest kind overwhelms me, and I welcome it, thankful I trusted my instincts earlier on my walk here. There have been a few times in my life where I was certain about my path, by way of overall electricity that consumed me and told me I was exactly where I was supposed to be at a certain point in time. The first time was in the clearing the night my parents died. The second time it hit was the last night I spent in that diner with Preston. And I feel the same zing now as I lift my eyes to the man sitting opposite me.

"Tu m'as dévoilé ton handicap avec tes premiers mots; ce qui n'est pas une sage décision dans un jeu de tactique. Je sais déjà que je peux et que je vais te battre, mais ton avantage est maintenant le premier coup." You gave away your handicap with your first words to me; not a wise decision in a game of tactics. I already know I can and will beat you, but your advantage now is the first move .

He gestures toward me to begin, and I summon instinct, moving the first piece into play. His brows lift in mild surprise, and he gives me a slow nod.

"Do you play often?"

He kicks back in his seat, the metal legs scrubbing slightly against the pavement. We both know my question has nothing to do with the game.

"I retired long ago, but I dabble on occasion if I have good reason to." A silent communication passes between us until he lowers his eyes and makes his first move.