He reached out and moved his king pawn forward two squares. His hand was thin, the skin translucent enough to show the blue veins beneath, but his fingers were long and steady. After he completed the move, he rested his palm completely flat on the wooden table, right beside the board. It was a gesture of absolute stillness, a quiet contrast to the way most people fidgeted with their captured pieces.
I moved a pawn to block his path, trying to remember the basic opening my father had shown me. Carl did not hesitate. He slid his bishop diagonally with a fluid motion that looked almost like a dance. There was no fumbling, no hovering over the pieces, the way amateur players usually did. Every move was decisive, executed with a practiced grace.
“You play very well, Carl,” I said, studying the diagonal threat he had just created. “Where did you learn?”
“A long time ago, from an old friend who believed every move had a consequence you had to live with,” he said.
