Mate Ch 01

Peter

The warriors of the black army advanced on our left flank. They shouted, shook their spears. Behind their first ranks loomed even larger enemies. There was the rumble of cannons and the purple stench of malevolent magic. The initial maneuvering for subtle strategic advantages seemed to be over. Here they came, with flashing swords and yet I was more worried about the right. This was where the stench was coming from.

I saw the very ground bubble and shift, there would be no solid footing there. I watched the distant figure of the black warlock, general, strategist. He was highly skilled, subtle. But I knew his wiles - I could smell them. I would not stupidly attack to the left where he wanted the battle to move. The swamp to the right would grow if unchecked, would eventually swallow my army. The king, down there in the battlefield, wanted to attack, like they always want. That's why we, me and my colleagues and adversaries, were needed.

My throne grew even higher, I needed a good overview. I opened up on the right, cut away bushes to get free sight, cast a spell of light and heat. The treacherous mud started to harden and the creatures below were confused. They could not bear the light, but if they stayed underground the mud would be so hard they were trapped. I could feel waves of frustration from the black general, they felt like the bitterness of chewing a lemon seed. I relayed his disappointment to my troops and they advanced, cautious but determined.

I could feel that the enemy was off balance. There were subtle gaps in his defense, gaps that I could slowly widen. It was time to let loose The Amazon, with her long blond hair streaming in the tailwind we now had. Her long silver sword was quick and strong and moved in every direction. The black king looked scared, now - and rightly so. His strategist had tried a cunning trap, but it failed, and now his troops were forced to retreat. Their queen did not have enough space, she fought well but could not use her strength to full advantage.

The black forces did not give up, and they were led by a strategist who was known for his patience. I knew I must not take victory for granted, one small mistake and they would pounce. Slowly we wore them down until their king fell, struck down by his strategist who knew the game was over. We had won. The black forces were conquered again.

This moment was always difficult, especially when I had won. They focus upon the winner, of course. I sat with my eyes shut for a moment like I always do. They accept it now, indeed expect it. When I felt ready I raised my head, carefully not looking at the board. It would make me nauseous if the worlds collided. I looked Iversen in the eyes and we nodded and shook hands. There was applause, always applause. This time it sounded like a train, but a reasonably friendly train with a feel of black fur. I could bear it for a few minutes, comforting myself with the fur.

"Ladies and gentlemen, winner of the game, winner of the tournament...Peter P Hansson of Sweden!" The announcer's voice was saccharine, it left little sticky spots like when you have spilled syrup and step in it. I hoped he would not keep talking. Having a sticky mess in my ears would make it even harder than usual to understand when they interviewed me. A woman in the front row was watching me with what sounded like hunger, a keening bright green noise. I quickly looked away. Too bright. There are few women I can look at with any degree of comfort. It is hard for me with female opponents. I can't look at them, can't taste what they are planning.

The keening from the woman was growing brighter, the green light louder. Are there chess-groupies? I didn't want to find out. I bowed to the audience like I have been taught, waved to everyone except miss Keen and tried to go backstage. Unfortunately, they wanted to interview me on the stage. And unfortunately it was Syrupvoice who was to do the interview. He was going for the freak-angle, of course. Good thing you are expected to be more or less nuts if you're a chess-player. Thank you, Bobby. To my relief, Syrupvoice wanted all the juicy lines for himself, so I got away with doing not much more than smile and nod.

"Congratulations, Peter! How do you feel right now? You must be happy!"

"Yes." Just tired, really.

"Everything worked out the way you planned?"

"Yes." No.

"Though I've been told that you actually plan very little, compared to your colleagues?"

"Yes." That certainly was true.

"But there are other ways you differ from the rest, right?"

"Yes." I tried to hold my breath. His syrup was clogging my lungs.

"You are a synthetic?"

"Yes." The word is synesthetic, but never mind.

"Could you explain to us what that means? Senses mix, right?"

"Yes." Best kind of interviewer - answers his own questions. Less syrup and I'd be happy.

"I've been told that you choose your moves on basis of which move would smell the best?"

"Yes." It's way more complicated than that, but this is what I usually say..

"Well, it seems to work for you. I'm sure your fans in Sweden will be delighted with this victory."

"Yes." All three of them. Swedes generally don't give a fuck about chess. Good thing, too.

That was it. He was happy and I was praised afterwards for my unusually detailed answers. And they think I am the strange one.

Well, I guess I am a strange one at that. I totally suck at most things. Some think I'm autistic because synesthesia is most common among them, but I'm not. I just suck at being with people. Particularly women. As I said, they are just too bright. Too much. I get blown away and I mean really away away, which is not a good thing at all. I can't handle it. So I usually keep to myself.

I like to run, but I run at night when the light isn't so loud and there are less people about. I like to cook, too. Chess, well I guess I like it, but I can't take the excitement too often. I very rarely study other players' games, I get too wound up and can't sleep. Come to think of it I like a lot of things. Out-doorsy things like hiking, picking mushrooms and berries. I scuba-dive. I like to work around the house, fix things. All right, so I don't suck at everything.

But I can't relate to people and rarely speak to anyone apart from my psychologist, Ola. Ola is a mossy flannel green, kind of soothing the way a psychologist should be. Him I speak to, once a week. Our relation is safe, with clearly drawn limits and limitations. He wants to cure me from depression. I suppose I also want to be cured from this depression I suppose I have. Ola is also soothing in that he hardly ever says anything unexpected. I guess I'm using him as some kind of father-figure, which that yellow smell of piss on a dead cat that donated my sperm and hung around for a while never was interested in being. Fuck him. Mum...did her best, I suppose.

Running is my other therapy, and I think it is more effective against the depression, really. When I run I feel fine. If I wasn't a professional chess-player I could maybe deliver the morning papers somewhere. Early mornings with hardly any people and lots of exercise. Good to have something to fall back on the day they realize that chess-players don't do anything worth paying for. Useless pastime. Provides me with drama and food on the table, but do I do anything for the general good? No. I'm world-famous, maybe not in Sweden, but in Russia and other countries where they care about chess, but I don't do anything I consider meaningful. If I die tomorrow, no one would miss me.

Look at the last paragraph! I start out telling you about something good, my running, and end up whining. Me in a nutshell.

Magda

I was walking the streets, since I didn't know where to go. Not home, that was the only thing I was absolutely certain of. I would be welcome to several of my friends, but I was too ashamed. It was almost a year now since that bastard hit me the first time. We used to shake our heads, me and my friends. It's just to go, we used to say, me with the rest of them. We couldn't understand how anyone could stay with someone who hits them. None of us said, quite, that they had themselves to blame, but we almost said it

But there I was. After a year of forgiving him and taking him back. With a shiner the size of a frying pan and nowhere to go. I, who had always seen me as a strong, confident woman. Well educated, smart. I was a teacher, never had a problem keeping order in class. Loving parents. Lots of friends. Happy enough with the way I look. I shouldn't be here, like this. It's wrong.

Well, whining about it wouldn't help, I had to get myself together. I was freezing my butt off. I wasn't too far from the Womens` Shelter and I decided to go there. At least I would not be judged. They were used to battered women from all walks of life. That was what I was now, a battered woman. But I felt better, I had decided to take charge of my life again. Now I had hit bottom, and the only way to go was up. Or so I thought.

I heard them before I saw them. They were shouting/singing loudly about their soccer team, one of the Stockholm teams. Their supporters, the Black Army, had a bad reputation. I knew they had played our team today but I didn't know how the game ended. There were two of them, but they sounded like eight. They had the arrogance of people who are used to being feared and like it that way. Rich daddies, from the look of their clothes and hairstyles. Drunk. A very bad combination.

I crossed the street and tried to be discreet about it. Looking scared is bad, but so is getting too close. My heart raced when they crossed the street as well.

"Hey, pretty girl!" one of them yelled. "Where are you going?" I tried to increase my speed without panicking and did not answer. Didn't work.

"We're talking to you! It's bad manners not to answer when spoken to."

They got closer. I didn't know what to do. Run? Talk politely and hope they just wanted to scare me? I did nothing, I just froze. Fight, flight, play dead - I went for option C. Now they were close enough to inspect me.

"Wow, look at that shiner. This lady likes it rough!"

That was the last thing I needed. I could just as well have had a sign saying "Prey!" One of them shoved me.

"We just wanted to have a little conversation."

"But now you kind of hurt our feelings."

"We don't like that."

They were pushing me backwards, towards a dark area with bushes. I don't know if they intended to rape me, and I will never know, thank God, because now a voice behind me said "Excuse me..."

Peter

I started to prepare dinner, or whatever you call a full meal you eat in the middle of the night. Nights are better, not so stressful. I had a nice steak, the proper hues of deep resounding brownish red. Olive oil spiced up with truffles, a kind but not wimpy blanket to wrap the reds in. Fresh lemon, like trombones but not too loud. My body was buzzing and I had time for a run before the meat was ready to be fried. I don't grill. Hate it. The grill wants all the attention, the frying pan is a team player. It doesn't mess up the chords.

I sniffed my running shoes. The white ones were most eager. I put them on and stood in my garden for a while. I wonder how I managed before, without a garden. In the garden I can calibrate my head, get it used to being outdoors. It was a good night. No wind but cold, a thin drizzle. The streets would be almost empty tonight.

It was a joy to run. I wished that my whole life could be like that. Running through the beautiful friendly dark, with the comfortably grey smell of moisture. My body was humming with the night air, a meditative chord with the flavor of owls. There were no owls there in the middle of town, but the feeling of owls was not dependent on that. My heartbeat grew and echoed from the houses I passed. A man walking his dog fit right in, the dog loved everyone and wanted to run with me but no. I smelled a rat under a bush and hummed The White Stripes for a while. Birds sleeping. The oboe sound of smoke.

But now there was a disturbance (in the force, ha ha), a smell of something chemical and poisonous, the sound of bright blue panic. A girl was being pushed towards some bushes by two big men. I had no phone, there was no way of calling for help.

I had imagined situations like this, asked myself what I would do. The answer had been obvious. I didn't see myself as the knight in shining armor, but I could see me sacrificing a knight to save the queen. I had done that many times. I had my strategy worked out.

"Excuse me..."

"Fuck off!" I had hoped that they would just release her and move on. They did not. On to step two.

"HELP! HELP! RAPISTS! CALL THE COPS! HELP"

"Shut up or I'll kick your head off." They were coming for me. Good. The girl was moving away, carefully. Good, good. I felt confident I could outrun them, they were too big and not sober and my body was in the running groove.

"You mean you'd dare to fight someone who's not a little girl? I don't believe it." Mission accomplished, they were both running towards me, and the girl was running away. I ran with light self-confident strides. I felt good about myself for once, for about five seconds. Then I felt my shoulder explode and I was down. Shit, they were fast. My main feeling was one of chagrin that I apparently was not the runner I thought. The pain didn't matter so much, and then everything was black.

Magda

I fumbled out my phone as I ran. The lady at the other end was friendly and efficient and assured me that the police would be there very soon, there was a car close by. I hid in a dark doorway and watched them kicking him. I felt like the world's greatest coward. It was my fault he was beaten up and I was doing nothing. Please police please police, come come come. The bastards were screaming and grunting and I could hear the sound of their kicks hitting him. He didn't make a sound.

Finally, after five hundred years, they came. Two cars from different directions, dickheads didn't have a chance. I ran to him, one cop checked pulse and breathing and stuff. He was alive, but his face was broken and bloody. He looked like shit and smelled of piss, but my heart grew sad, happy and large when I looked at him.

An ambulance arrived and he was gone. Dickheads gone too. Just cops left, asking things. When they couldn't think of more questions I moved on to the shelter. I did not think I would be able to sleep with so many thoughts buzzing. Turned out I fell asleep right away, though.

They were great at the shelter. A volunteer lady took care of me. She discreetly urged me to charge Roger (my asshole ex) with battery and we went to a doctor to get a check-up and take photos. I wanted to visit my smashed-up savior, but that proved to be difficult. I didn't know his name and no one at the hospital wanted to play detective for me. The hospital was large and I didn't know how badly, nor in what way, he was hurt.

There were many things I didn't know. Like where to live. But I could spend a few nights at the shelter, and I suppose I could crash at some friends' place. I was not sitting in the lake, as the saying goes in Sweden. I wanted to get my stuff from Rogers' flat, though, the faster the better. And yes, it is his flat, and he can bloody well have it.

Next day there was a small article in the paper about my savior. Apparently they still did not know who he was. He was still unconscious, no one had reported anyone as missing and he had carried nothing when jogging. To make identification even harder, he was too badly beat up to be easily recognizable. They did not want to publish a picture. But they urged everyone who had any idea of who the mystery hero could be to contact the police.

I had to find him!

Peter

The first thing to wake up was my sense of smell. It's supposed to be the most unintellectual, most primordeal sense, with direct connections to parts of the brain involved in fear and survival. I knew right away I was somewhere unfamiliar. I hid as far into my cave I could come, tasting and listening to the small tendrils of air that reached me. There was a strong feeling of white stainless shutters. A faint purple whiff of rotting humans behind the shutters. That was a smell I had felt before and for a moment I panicked, screaming in my head without a sound. But there was no hostility to this purpleness, there was rot but it was not malevolent. The shutters tried to block the purple. Good luck with that, I had tried for eighteen years.

The white wasn't the unbearable kind. It meant well although it was too bright, as usual. There was a lot of pain, but pain has never bothered me all that much. It's uncomplicated. It is what it is, and it is not important. By now I had deduced I was in the hospital. I was still a little fuzzy about what had happened to me, but I was pretty sure I was not in danger now. I dared to listen and my head filled with color. Almost all colors were hospital pale. Some machine watched over me, it muttered a pale blue lullaby, wanting me to keep still. There were tubes going into me and out of me, and they, too, meant well. This machinery I was hooked up to was very happy with itself, they felt they were doing something important. Keeping me alive. I was touched.

Someone was snoring softly. There was a delightful dark orange hue to the snores, no hospital paleness there. I had to smile and I had to open my eyes to see who the cute snoring belonged to. The light was out, for which I was grateful, but there was enough for me to see her. I was happy that she slept since I could look at her, even study her face. She smelled like worry and sadness but no bitterness. I wished I could bear my sadness with as much grace. I had no idea who she was. Hardly hospital staff - no paleness and her own clothes. She smelled nice like a small simple melody, Satie but softer. Saties music is mineral, hers was organic but not chaotic. Jan Johansson! She slept in an armchair, wrapped in a pale yellow hospital blanket. I had a one-bed room, (thank God) which meant that cutesnore was here for me. Strange.

I must have made a sound, since she opened her eyes like you do when you hear a sound and not just open them anyway.

"You're awake!" she said.

Magda

It was my third day in the armchair. I had told some friends about it all. They were not at all as judgmental as I had feared. At least not of me. They were really angry with Roger, though. My friend Bettan and her boyfriend Erik had gotten my stuff from Roger without any problems, possibly because Erik is gigantic and very good at looking mean when it suits him. Erik had paid him a visit and told him that he expected my things to be neatly packed in exactly 24 hours. They would then fetch it all and when I was happy that everything was there he would get the key back. If I was not happy he could expect another visit at any time.

It was all there, he got his key and I was well rid of him. I still hadn't got a place to live, but right now I was living in this armchair anyway. I was on sick leave. No way I'd face my class with a black eye bigger than the rest of my face. Here at the hospital hardly anyone gave me a second glance.

It took quite a bit of arguing to get to see him, whoever he is. There still had been no one to visit him, no one seemed to have missed him. Finally I was admitted to his room, since there was no one else and I at least had some connection to him, being his savee. Once there I simply refused to leave. One nurse went on about visiting hours and seemed ready to summon a guard, but the doctor was nice about it and let me stay on the condition that I would not cause any trouble. I promised to leave the room when told, not disturb the staff and not pee on the floor which won me these three days of boredom.