By: Dmitriy Kogan

Yes, I came from a privileged background, I admit. But I never wasted the opportunities I was given. I was grateful for everything that my parents did for me. In the first two years I was at Yale, I never got a mark lower than an A minus whilst studying pre-law, and that was something I took pride in. While some of my friends and roommates partied all night or rotted their minds out with drugs, I was studying. It was something that came naturally to me, as I was naturally studious, and I enjoyed coming into class and impressing my professors with insights that never came naturally even to them.

            The summer after my sophomore year, my father arranged for me to study with a then-highly ranked chess grandmaster, Errol Robbins. For that entire summer, I met Errol at his house every Saturday for a private lesson that lasted an hour. For the first three weeks, we didn’t converse about anything except chess. But on the fourth lesson, when he mated me with his bishop, all of a sudden the conversation turned a little personal.

            “How are the girls at Yale?” he asked.

            Now, mind you, Errol was middle-aged and married, so I didn’t expect him to ask me about this.

            “They’re fine,” I said.

            “Fine? That’s checkmate, by the way.”

            I relaxed my posture, seeing that I was beat.

            “Yes. I’d say they’re fine.”

            “You seeing anyone?” he asked.

            “No, not really.”

            “And why’s that?”

            “Well, I pay so much attention to my studies that I have little time for girls.”

            Errol took out a cigar. “You mind if I smoke?”

            “Not at all.”

            We still had about thirty minutes left, but I guess at this point he didn’t feel like teaching me any more chess. And I must admit it also felt good to be on some kind of a break. Of course I knew that this summer apprenticeship was costing my father a fortune, but I wouldn’t open my mouth to him that Grandmaster Errol was talking to me about girls instead of teaching me chess.

            “Your father’s in the oil business, right?” asked Errol.

            “Yes.”

            “Sorry if I’m a bit hazy about that. I get so many kids sent to me from Harvard, Yale, Columbia, that sometimes I forget to ask the kids’ dads what they even do.”

            I fidgeted with my fingers.

            “You in a hurry, by any chance?”

            “No,” I said.

            “Nowhere you need to be? No friends you gotta see?”

            “No.”

            “You want to stay for a bit and have dinner with me and my wife? She makes the most remarkable lobster ravioli. You gotta try it.”

            “I would like that.”

            Errol led me to the dining room where his wife was just about done with the lobster ravioli he mentioned. She was a beautiful woman who, on that evening, was wearing a most splendid white-and-black polka dot dress.

            “My wife’s a painter,” said Errol. “She also studied fashion design in college. But she can tell you all about that.” Errol took a seat. “Hey Daphne, I want you to meet Alex. He’s a hot-shot Yale kid. Studying pre-law.”

            “Pleasure’s all mine,” she said, shaking my hand.

            I sat down next to Errol. It was a wide dining table with at least twelve seats, but we all sat in the corner closest to the kitchen. Daphne placed the pot on the table and began handing out the lobster ravioli on each of our plates. I tried one.

            “Good, isn’t it?” asked Errol.

            “Yes,” I said.

            “So, Alex,” said Daphne. “What kind of law are you hoping to practice?”

            “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “Maybe criminal defense.”

            “Very noble,” said Errol. “Especially with all the criminals out there.”

            “Yes, it is a very distinguished area,” said Daphne.

            “I don’t think I even told Alex that I didn’t go to college,” said Errol. “But I get all these college kids coming in to me for lessons all the time, and I guess they must think that I’m smarter than I actually am.”

            “Oh, stop it,” said Daphne. “I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t.”

            “See, that’s the trick with marrying a good woman,” said Errol. “It’s like chess. You make them think that you’re doing one thing when you’re actually doing something else, and bam—before you know it they marry you and they never even know what hit them.”

            “Was Yale always your first choice?” asked Daphne.

            “Yes,” I said.

            “Well, that’s wonderful. So many young kids don’t even know what they want to do these days.”

            “I’m telling you, kids today don’t even know their left foot from their right ass,” said Errol. “See, I wasn’t like that. I was hustling chess from a really young age. That’s how I got so good at it. But not to throw mud at you or your ambitions, kid. You’re going the formal route, and I like that. But remember everything I’m teaching you. If you get good at chess, you can get good at defending criminals, or anything else you want to do. Your dad’s doing the wise thing by paying for these chess lessons. Chess can take you far in all areas of life. Remember that.”

            I smiled, and poked my fork into another lobster ravioli.

            “But I mean, take your father. Alex senior, right?”

            “Yes,” I said.

            “Your dad, Alex, Sr.—a big-shot oil guy. Let me tell you, I don’t know much about him, but I can tell if he made it as far in business as he did, he must know a lot about strategy. And it’s the same thing with chess. In chess, to win, you have to be strategic. Just like in business.”

            “Yes,” I said.

            Errol began pouring wine into all of our glasses. Then he raised his glass.

            “To business. And to chess. And to strategy.”

            We ended up finishing the entire bottle together, and then Errol opened another one. When Daphne and I could barely hold another glass, Errol continued pouring wine into his glass and drinking by himself. We then went to the living room where Errol showed me videos of old tournaments he was in. He then fell asleep for thirty minutes and woke back up.

            “Ah, shit,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

            “Yes, I should be going,” I said.

            “I didn’t make you miss dinner at your house, did I?” asked Errol.

            “No.”

            “You know, this was nice, getting to know you, kid. I’d like to get to know your family sometime. Maybe Alex, Sr. can teach me a thing or two about oil, huh?”

            “It’s possible.” I laughed. “He does know a lot about that.”

            Errol led me to the front door. “This was nice, though. It really was. I’ll see you next week?”

            “Yeah, see you next week, Errol.” He closed the door on me, and I took the long route home per usual.

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Dmitriy Kogan is a short story writer and poet from Staten Island, New York. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Straylight Magazine, BULL, Hobart, The Gorko Gazette, Farewell Transmission, Some Words, and Close to the Bone.