My magnetic travel Chinese chess set.
Gathered on sidewalks near makeshift tables, men of mixed ages squatted near chessboards, slapping pieces down with kung fu flavor. Their spirited action reminded me of scenes from New York City parks, the speed of moves intended to intimidate an opponent into error.
Games were corporate affairs, less a contest between two minds and more a collaborative exploration of strategies. Spectators and combatants shared ideas for moves as long as words could keep up with fingers.
Chinese chess looked nothing like Chinese checkers, that farcical multicolor Star of David we know in America. Related to our chess (what they called “international chess”) in gameplay and strategy, Chinese chess used a few different pieces and movements. Beside each horse was an elephant. Each king had two close guards but no queen, and the kings were forbidden from facing one another without intervening pieces. The two cannons attacked only over another piece, never directly. All pieces were flat disks printed with Chinese characters. The board was 9×9, not 8×8, and a “river” ran sideways across the middle, affecting the movement of pawns and elephants.
More subtle differences existed; it took me a while to absorb them all. The gameplay I found fascinating, more intricate than international chess, with added variables and constraints to consider in both offense and defense. Early in the year I bought a set, asked my students to explain all the rules, and played a few games against them. Then I staged mock battles against myself until, weeks later, I felt ready to challenge my students again. I won a few games, lost several, and generally amazed the very men who’d taught me how to distinguish one piece from another. The two games, Chinese and international, were fundamentally the same, and I could hold my own on a chess board.
Or so I thought, until Xiao Gao stomped me.
Short, goofy, a natural comedian, Xiao Gao was a building superintendent for a reason: he was no scholar. Most of every day he either entertained friends in his efficiency near our apartment building entrance, or he watched TV. So when he noticed the Chinese chess set on my dining table and offered to play, I hemmed and hawed, declining for several weeks … until my winter alone, when I had nothing better to do. I didn’t expect much.
The table nullified our height differences, and as we focused on the miniature battlefield between us Xiao Gao’s demeanor chiseled into that of a grave and ancient Chinese general. Early on I captured a handful of pieces and placed him in some quick checks, but soon found myself reeling from relentless attacks. The game was entirely his, my moves chosen for me by the dwindling gaps in his offense.
“You played well,” he told me in Mandarin when it was over, lazy smile returning. He was being overly gracious. “Very good in the beginning. Play again?”
Sucker. The next game was abysmal from start to finish.
“Your first game was better,” he told me. Unaware of what I’d done differently between the two matches, I burned with shame. “You keep playing. You will get better.”
I’d seen a whole different side of Xiao Gao, a complexity I’d never suspected. How often did he play? When? I’d never seen him near a chess board, but he was obviously skilled – enough to make me realize the students I’d felt so proud about beating were only novices like me.
From time to time through the remainder of that year, Xiao Gao, vacuuming my apartment, would offer to play again. I always found some excuse to decline. I’m sure this amused him. He’d insist it was okay, we could just play a quick game for fun, but I’d insist right back that it wasn’t that at all, that I really was too busy or whatever.
Then in the evenings I’d play my students again.
I got a little better, I think. But never to the point I felt I could take on the general again.
