Chương 64: Book 3 - Chapter 6 A

From the moment I arrived in Tulsa Mom was there mothering me. I tolerated it with good humor, understanding the pain of missing someone much too well. I gave her a big hug after breakfast, after a few days of being mother smothered.

"Thank you, Mom. Wonderful waffles. It's nice to have you make me something instead of the hotel again this morning." She smiled and looked down at me.

"You, are my favorite son," she said with a smile.

"And you, are my favorite Mom," I told her. She set down the dishes she was collecting on the counter and dropped slightly so we were the same height.

"Alright. I've been dragging you around with me for several days. I think I'm ready to let you move on your own again."

"That's the thing. I need to go to Colorado in a few weeks," I said, wincing at her response.

"What? Why?" she said getting angry. I put a hand on her arm and she paused. I stepped in and gave her another hug. I stepped back and saw a slight grin on her face.

"Because I won the US Chess Open last year I got an invitation to the US Chess Championship in Colorado. It runs from October 20th to November 6th."

"Surely you don't need to go. You've already shown you can beat everybody."

"Mom, this Championship is special. Lev Alburt was at the Texas tournament. He's the reigning US Chess Champion. He didn't play, he gave lectures and handed out prizes. If I want a chance to beat him, I have to go."

"But that's, what, eighteen days? Why does it take so long?"

"Only fourteen people are invited. It's a fluke that I got an invitation. Three different players dropped out. It takes so long because each person plays every other person in a round robin style. Each match lasts for hours and they only play one a day. It's so intense that they need a break every few days."

"So eighteen days, and thirteen games?" she asked, her mind instantly doing the math.

"What are you going to do the rest of the time? Last time you snuck off and bought a company and hired a lawyer. Now the company is across the street and the lawyer lives down the hall."

"I'm not bringing anyone home with me this time, Mom," I chuckled.

"I am hoping to go shoot at the Olympic Training Center while I'm in Colorado. The guys at the shooting range here in Tulsa think I have a real chance to make the Olympic team."

"Really? I know you've been going nearly every Saturday with Matt, but I didn't know that."

"Ask Matt if you don't believe me. I've been practicing with my new rifle and air pistol. The Olympic Training Center just opened and I want to try out a competition level facility. The one here in Tulsa is more for guys who like guns and firearm safety training instead of official competitions."

"So what happens if you get selected to be on the Olympics?" she asked.

"That's a long way off. The next Olympics is in 1988. If I go, do well and enjoy it, it means flying out for a weekend every so often to participate in a national shooting competition. If you earn enough points at enough competitions there's chance you'll be asked to join Team USA for the 1988 games." She pulled me into a hug again.

"I don't ever want to let you go, Johnny. I know I have to. I hope you're patient with me. You've done so much but I look at you and still see the little boy who loved to dress up as a cowboy and ride the kitchen broom around the coffee table." My hug back was just as tight as hers was. I flew out on Friday, October 19th, 1985 for Stapleton International in Denver. I had Matt plus two security: Jack and Nick with me.

They rented a big SUV and we drove nearly two hours north into the mountains to get to Estes Park, Colorado where the US Chess Championship was being held at The Stanley Hotel.

"This place crazy big for being in the middle of nowhere," Matt said as we pulled up to the huge white building with its red roof. I headed in to register as he followed me.

"Yeah, this was the inspiration for Steven King's book The Shining."

"Okay. Now I'm going to have nightmares," he teased.

"It's not haunted. He just stayed here with his wife at the end of the season back when it closed for the winter. They were the only guests. It was big and empty and creepy enough to give him inspiration. It'll have plenty of people around for the tournament."

"Hello sir. Welcome to The Stanley. Do you have a reservation?" the front desk clerk asked Matt.

"Yes. Dr Cook is playing in the Chess Tournament. The party is registered under Mathew Preston," Matt told the lady at the front desk.

"Excellent. I have your reservation. I'm showing three rooms, is that correct?"

"Yes," he said as security brought our luggage in behind us. She handed out room keys and directed us to our room. The distinctive architecture with its pillars, red carpets, crown moldings and dark stained wood was nicely maintained. I still preferred 1960's modern colors or 1920's Art Deco textures. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings. We went up the staircase to the second floor. The room was serviceable. Jack had the room opposite and Nick was next door.

As usual Matt stayed in my room. We enjoyed a nice dinner in the dining room and went to bed early. Tired from the distance and change in altitude. Saturday after lunch I needed to find a way to entertain myself. The ancient piano on display in the lobby had a nice sign asking not to play it. Fortunately there was a second piano available. With no one around to say no, I had taken advantage to enjoy the music. The October late afternoon light poured through the tall windows of the Stanley Hotel.

I finished the passage—a difficult, swirling piece of Chopin—and let my hands settle on the keys, enjoying the sudden silence. I'd been playing for more than an hour or two. I'd lost track of time. This was a place of quiet and peace. That would soon change with the competition. Only a handful of players had arrived so far. Most were expected by the end of the day. A quiet clearing of a throat signaled my new audience.

I turned on the bench to see a man standing by one of the carved pillars, watching me with an intensity that was more characteristic of a chess player than a casual listener. He had dark, sharp eyes and a neatly trimmed beard.

"That was beautiful," he said, his English precise but layered with a soft, rolling accent I immediately placed. It was the distinct cadence of Tehran.

"Thank you," I replied, giving him a small nod.

"Dr John Cook, PhD. At your service. I'm just enjoying the acoustics before the house fills up." He stepped forward.

"Kamran. Just Kamran. You play marvelously." He had the look of a man who rarely relaxed.

"Well, Kamran, I was just meandering. Do you have a request?" I asked. He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ah, I am afraid I am not so knowledgeable about the classical pieces, not like that one. It is a terrible cliché, I know, but do you perchance know something by The Beatles?" A simple request. Easy enough. But I knew this man. One of my opponents, but not an enemy. Instead of picking a random Beatles song I softly asked him a simple question.

"Âyâ barâye ârâmeshe bishtar chîzî râ be zabâne fârsî gûsh mi-dahid?" (Would you listen to something in Farsi for a little more comfort?) Kamran froze. His eyes widened slightly and the tension around his shoulders seemed to deflate a fraction. The change in his posture was instantaneous and telling. The confusion on his face at finding a nine year old piano player speaking like a fellow native was entertaining.

I could hear Matt, who was sitting out of Kamran's view in a high-backed winged chair suppress a snorted laugh as he silently observed the man as well.

"You speak Farsi?" he asked in his native language, his voice softer, more natural.

"I'm a linguist, I love all languages. And I enjoy hearing the sound of your beautiful country," I told him, keeping to the language.

"That is very good. This is a gift, Dr Cook," he said, his mind ignoring my size or apparent age. In the moment it didn't matter if I was a midget or child to him. I shifted my focus and played the opening chords of an old Iranian folk melody, something that felt appropriately melancholic for an exile in a strange, grand hotel. It wasn't the kind of piece one usually heard in a Colorado resort. I could see the memory flicker in his eyes.

"Yes, this song has more comfort. Thank you." He settled into the armchair nearest the pillar and closed his eyes, the music now a familiar landscape instead of a strange territory. The clichéd Beatles request was forgotten, replaced by a quiet moment of home. I let the Farsi melody fade on a soft, lingering chord. The moment hung in the air, a whisper of memory suspended in the hotel music room. Kamran opened his eyes, the alertness returning, but the stress had lessened. He stood up slowly.

"It was very beautiful. I liked that work, Dr Cook," he said.

"I'm glad you liked it." He gave a small, dignified bow of the head—a gesture perhaps more Persian than American—and then turned and walked toward the lounge entrance, disappearing down the hallway. I waited a moment, savoring the silence before launching into the next piece. I chose something robust and complex, a Russian piece by Scriabin, letting the tension build back into the room. It was during the second, more tempestuous movement of the Russian piece that the next shadow fell over the bench.

This man moved with the purposeful, slightly hunched walk of an experienced chess player, his eyes focused inward even while moving. He had a strong, weathered face and wore a tweed jacket that looked slightly rumpled from travel. He stood respectfully until I finished the final, crashing chord, then cleared his throat.

"Very nice," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, the accent thick and unmistakable.

"Good sound for this big room. You bring the piano to life." I turned, resting my left hand on the high keys.

"Thank you. I'm just trying to keep the ghosts happy before the chess players take over." He chuckled, a short, dry sound.

"Ghosts are better than chess players, I think." He didn't offer his name, which was common enough for players this close to a tournament. The walls were already going up.

"You are not… one of the Americans?" I smiled.

"I am an American, yes. I play the piano purely for pleasure." I watched his face. Ukrainian accent, heavy. His name, I knew was Boris Kogan. Ukrainian SSR originally. My first chess game had been the engineering pivot to be here, and meet this man. It would be a long play, an endgame I wouldn't see completed for years. He was just a pawn, on my shining path, but an important one.

"Vy odyn iz uchasnykiv zmahan, pane?" (Are you one of the competitors, sir?) I asked in Ukrainian even though I knew the answer. The change in language did the trick instantly, the same flicker of surprise and astonishment crossing his face as it had with Kamran. I enjoyed how I caused such cognitive dissonance. The way it played across his face was priceless.

"Oh! You speak Ukrainian! Wow. I am Boris. Yes, I am one of them," he said excitedly in his native tongue.

"Pleased to meet you, Boris. I hope you enjoy your stay. Is there anything I can play for you?" I asked, again continuing in his native language. He looked around the cavernous room, taking in the sunlight through the windows, the scattered red high-backed upholstered chairs left from some previous event and never straightened then back at the piano and me.

"Yes, thank you. If you know anything by Shostakovich? Something strong, but a little… sad. Like before a battle." It was a perfectly chess player request: controlled emotion, anticipating conflict.

"Perfect choice, Boris." I murmured, and placed my fingers on the keys, launching into a Prelude that was all stark reality and Soviet-era gravity. The Prelude by Shostakovich, heavy with foreboding, finally resolved, leaving behind a silence that was even thicker than the one Chopin had created. Boris Kogan remained seated for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the empty air above my head, as if he were still tracing the path of the notes.

"Thank you," he finally said, his voice soft, almost a sigh of profound appreciation.

"That was… necessary. A good piece to hear before the work begins tomorrow. I must go now." He nodded gravely, a man shouldering a burden, and stood, his gaze briefly holding mine before he, too, exited the salon.