Misha's Place

Dustin wandered around his childhood neighborhood and local shopping centers, hands in his pockets and a black beanie on his head. It was cold out, down in the thirties, and Dustin wasn't fully prepared. Although he’d grown up there, he hadn't remembered the cold being so intense, so brutal. Then he recalled his own mother saying that she never minded the cold as a kid, either, and sighed a white plume of mist into the air.

Down by the old mall, which was now a parking structure for the new mall, a gargantuan thing with four levels and a holographic movie theater, he came upon a small building he had never seen before. Its dark stone siding and tinted glass made it seem to Dustin as if it harbored something secret, something taboo. A menacing black marquee above the entrance read Misha’s Place in large red lettering. Underneath that, plastered in italics with yellow paint, were the words Where the Masters Come to Play, Read, and Sip.

There weren’t any other buildings around and Dustin, an accomplished chess player himself, found it intriguing. He thought masters in the title must mean chess masters. What other masters would frequent a small café that doubled as a book store? Monks? Martial arts black belts? A club for lifelong mechanics? Nah. It was chess, he felt it in his gut. Excitement brewed as he approached the nondescript door and walked inside.

The interior gave the impression that it was much bigger than it appeared from the outside. Ornate dark wood stretched out in every direction. Its walls were almost entirely lined with books, and a good amount of them were chess books Dustin recognized immediately, causing excitement to grow. He continued walking. A few yards farther in on the right sat the café. It, too, was constructed of fine dark wood, but featured chrome tables and chairs with dark red accents for a striking yet classy contrast.

A young man in his twenties appeared behind the counter and asked if there was anything he could do for him. His thick accent sounded Russian, possibly, and Dustin couldn’t help but notice the barista’s unreal resemblance to Mikhail Tal, one of the most well-known names in chess history who became world champion at only twenty-three years of age. But he died in 1992, a fact Dustin knew as well as he knew his own address, and so the uncanny resemblance was all it was—a resemblance. Even still, he thought, he can't be the first to have seen this. Surely, others had noticed, as well

“I’m just looking around, thanks. First time here,” Dustin said.

“Oh?” replied the barista. “Then, welcome! I’m Misha, and this is my place. Here, have a coffee on the house. Do you play?” Misha poured coffee out of a fine-looking silver carafe into an earthy-brown cup, added two sugars and one cream, and slid it out in front of him.

Dustin was stunned. “Why, that’s just how I like it! Two sugars, one cream! How did you know?”

The man smiled, polite but confident. “Call it a gift. Have you seen the playing rooms?”

Dustin's eyes lit up. He felt like a kid again. “I have not,” he said with a grin.

“This way. I assume you play, then? Chess?”

Dustin nodded. “I do. I grew up here, in this town. I was a member of the Fighting Knights. I eventually moved away, but as it happened, the chess scene was hot where I went, so I never had trouble getting games. I improved over time and last year I got my master’s title. I’m low master, still, but a master, nonetheless.”

“I see,” Misha replied. “Congratulations! Nice to meet you, Master, uh…”

“Dustin. Dustin Harwell.”

“Right this way, Master Dustin Harwell,” he said. He placed his hands under the fine wooden counter and lifted. A two-foot section folded up, allowing him through to the customer side. He gingerly placed it down again and walked to the right, in the direction Dustin had been going.

Dustin took his coffee cup and followed Misha back down the main corridor that seemed to go on for way too long for a building that size. They walked and walked, periodically passing potted plants and small indoor trees that lined the walkway.

They finally reached a light-wooden door with Tournament Room emblazoned in black on it at eye level. Next to that, there was another light wooden door, only with Skittles Room on it, instead. Misha stopped and turned to Dustin. “The Tournament Room is for serious play, and the Skittles Room for casual. Speed chess and the like. Commenting from the audience is allowed, trash-talking, and et cetera.

“Coffee house chess,” Dustin said.

“Precisely. Which is your flavor, master Dustin?”

“I enjoy both,” he said. “But casual sounds good right now. Maybe I’ll start there. I don’t have a set with me, though.”

Misha held up a hand and smiled. “There’s no need. Everything is there. Go inside. Drink your coffee and enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

“Well, thank you! I think so, too, darn it. I appreciate the hospitality, friend.”

“The pleasure is all mine. If you're still here when I’m off shift at the café, maybe we’ll have a game.”

“Which room and when are you off?” Dustin asked with a wry smile.

Misha’s gaze never left Dustin’s. “Your choice. I can play in about an hour.”

“Sounds good to me. Skittles Room again. Gotta feel you out before things get serious,” Dustin said, and held out his hand.

Misha shook it and stepped back. “See you then. Enjoy the coffee.”

Dustin opened the door to the Skittles Room to find it was big as a ballroom! How they fit all this into the tiny structure was beyond him, but Dustin found it spectacular. The room’s walls were made of the same handsome dark wood as was found throughout, and blazing red carpet sprawled for miles on the expansive floor. Forest green chess tables and chairs were strangely complementary, creating an original beauty that would impress for millennia if preserved. Regal was the word that kept coming to Dustin as he stared, mouth half open, at glass chandeliers that hung from the ceiling on golden chains, at polished chrome water dispensers located near each set of tables, at the ornate wallpapering that covered a single wall, its flowers and hats and frogs as childish as they were fitting, somehow. Even the boards themselves were quite ornate, made of top-quality lumber by real craftsmen and finished with care.

There were two games going on, so he strolled over to have a glance. The first game appeared to be battled by beginners, as the position was messy and the material imbalanced; neither player knew what the heck they were doing. The second game, however, played by two men in fine suits, looked serious to Dustin. It was a sharp position with tactical motifs everywhere. Both players were attacking and defending at the same time. It was a bloodbath, and Dustin couldn’t take his eyes off the board.

Both clocks were low, but the players trodded on, each making moves only very advanced players would find. Dustin guessed they were both masters, at the very least, and maybe even higher. From their play, Dustin thought they could be International Masters or even Grandmasters. This was a strong game. In the end, one of the men made a foolish move in time trouble and lost a piece—game over.

It was only then that Dustin looked up to really see the players, and was astounded to find they looked nearly exactly like a couple of chess world champions from a century or so ago. Then he remembered the barista, and how he had a striking resemblance to Tal, another dead world champion.

Dustin’s eyes suddenly went wide and his breath stopped in his chest as he remembered that Misha was Tal’s nickname where he was from. Just what the hell was going on, here? Maybe it was a parlor trick, something to keep the guests wondering and coming back. Brilliant! he thought, and smiled, exhaling.

The two men hadn’t noticed Dustin yet, so he decided he’d check out the more serious room, as well. He retraced his steps and opened the door to the Tournament Room. This room was different than the Skittles Room in just about every way. The familiar wooden walls were not disrespected here with wallpaper, and lighting was provided by small yet effective, antique-looking units that stuck out high on the walls and mimicked old-time, candle-driven porch lights. Dark gray carpeting ran throughout, and handsome, blonde-wood tables with classical looking sets stretched out as far as Dustin could imagine.

There were no people in this room, so he decided to sit at one of the boards. He walked to a chair on the end of a long table and sat down. He wiggled in and settled, and once he was comfortable he moved a pawn out, as if he were playing a real game. Then he explored the other pieces, moving them about. They felt good. All of it felt good. The chairs were comfortable, the pieces were heavy but not egregiously so, and the lush felt on their undersides produced a satisfying, muffled thump when set back down on the high-quality board.

He reset the pieces and moved the same pawn out again. He hadn't noticed the gentleman wearing a suit walk in while he was fiddling with the pieces. He hadn't noticed him walk up and stop beside his board. Dustin was still admiring the beauty of the craftsmanship when the stranger spoke.

“That’s a risky opening move. Lots of theory.”

He looked up to see a man who was unmistakably the fourth chess champion of the world, Alexander Alekhine, standing there, a cigarette in his hand and a Siamese cat curled up in his arm. Under any other circumstances, this situation would have been a dream come true. The problem was, Alekhine was born in 1892 and died in 1946.

Dumbfounded, Dustin just sat there, doing and saying nothing. He scanned the man for signs he was not Alexander Alekhine, but the data bank remained empty. There was no doubt in his mind that Alekhine, one of the most influential and zany and most talked about characters in the chess world, was standing right in front of him. Once he finally mustered the courage to say something, Dustin blurted out, “Is your cat named Chess, by any chance?”

The man blinked, smiled, and then laughed, visibly impressed with Dustin's lucky guess. “Why, yes, yes it is, indeed, Chess! How in the world would you know that?”

It was him. The actual man. Dustin recognized his voice, too, now that he thought about it. The BBC had a recording of Alekhine, and Dustin remembered thinking even then that his voice was much higher than he would have expected. Not feminine, just not very deep. This moment, with this man, was no different. His voice, too, was higher than one would expect from someone of his build and stature.

First Tal as the Barista, then the two men resembling past world champions in the Skittles Room, and now Alekhine! Here! In the room with him! Was this some joke? How could this be? Dustin wanted to know what was going on, but he didn’t want to alarm anyone, either, so he did his best to keep cool. “I think I've heard of you. Alekhine, right?”

Alekhine smiled, proud and wide. “Ah. A real chess fan. I’m humbled, truly. Thank you. And your name, good sir?”

Dustin held out his hand and told Alekhine his name. They shook and Alekhine offered a game. “I see you're committed to an opening move, anyhow. So why not?” he asked.

The realization that he might, somehow, play an actual chess game with Alexander Alekhine, was almost too much for Dustin, who had studied the man's games since his earliest days in chess. Known for his tactical prowess and a no-holds-barred, brutal style of play, Alekhine stood above all the rest for Dustin. And now? To play the man in an over-the-board battle? There was only one thing to say, and Dustin found it: “Sir, I’d love a game with you.”

Alekhine sat down and put the cat on the floor, where it sashayed around, shaking its tail and chirping quietly. He settled himself, extinguished his cigarette, and moved a knight out. “Why not, right? After all, I’m Alekhine,” he said with a chuckle.

A few moves later, Dustin couldn’t help himself. “Sir? If you don’t mind, and I’m not exactly sure how to say this, but, uh, you see, the thing is—“

Alekhine sat back in his chair, perplexed. “My goodness, boy, spit it out already!”

“How in the world am I playing you right now?”

“Well, you were here, and I walked in, and there was a board, and we agreed to a game.”

“That’s not what I mean. But, I don’t want to say too much, in case, uh, well, just in case.”

Alekhine laughed then, full and hearty. “Oh! I think I understand. You mean because I’m not alive anymore. Right? And in case I wasn't aware of that?”

Dustin didn’t know what to say. The secret was out, then, he assumed. All he could do was silently nod.

“There are more than just me. Tal is running around here, as is Chigorin, Euwe, Bogoljubov, bless his heart, and even Capablanca. I wish they’d demote him to janitor or something. I tire of his antics.”

“This is absolutely amazing!” Dustin said.

Alekhine lit another cigarette. “It’s not so amazing, when you think about it, Dustin.” Sharp eyes bore into him from beneath a pronounced widow’s peak of black hair. “We’re all just here, doing our thing.”

“Yeah, but what thing is that? Besides chess, of course.”

“Well, being dead, I guess,” he said with a smile and moved a bishop. “Check.”

Dustin studied the board, blocked with a pawn, and Alekhine’s reply was immediate. The queen came out to the center of the board. “Check,” he said, and puffed his smoke.

Dustin thought for several moments and moved his king. Alekhine moved a knight and Dustin resigned. “Good game, sir,” he said, not knowing what else to say. “I didn’t expect to win, but that was a nasty attack.”

“You're decent,” Alekhine replied. “Recent master?”

It was Dustin's turn to be impressed. “Nailed it! I just made master last year.”

“Congratulations. That’s a big deal. Most never even see expert level. There were several times in our game you could have defended with a counter attack, but you were playing the man, not the board. Am I right?”

“Guilty. I mean, you're Alexander Alekhine! One of the greatest players to ever live!”

“Or die,” Alekhine said with a grin. Then he rolled his eyes. “Don't tell Fischer that. Guy’s got a head the size of a truck. He hates when anyone else receives a compliment.”

“Oh, my gosh, Fischer is here?” Dustin said.

“He’s in charge of maintenance. You know, so he can make sure there are no listening devices under the tables. Today he has announced he wishes not to be bothered, as he insists there is a young Russian couple spying on him from a car across the street. He's avoiding the windows.”

Dustin whistled. “Crazy. And people think you were bonkers!”

Alekhine furrowed his brow. “They do?”

“Well, I mean, not crazy nuts but yeah, a little different.”

“A little different I’ll take. Bonkers, I will not. I do like to drink, though, and I don’t believe that did me any favors. And yes, I’m eccentric. But let me tell you, eccentric is not crazy. It’s calculated freedom.”

Dustin nodded, still reeling in disbelief that he was talking to one of his dead chess heroes. Then, something occurred to him. “Wait, if you're all dead, how can people who just wander by walk in and see you? This doesn’t make any sense.”

Alekhine crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “You're asking questions you might not want the answers to, Dustin. Say, another game?”

“Yeah, sure! I’ll play. But first, I do want the answers. What the hell is going on, here? How can I, a live, breathing person, walk into this café and play a chess game with you?”

Alekhine sat silent for several moments. Then, he inhaled, exhaled long, and folded his arms in front of him on the table. “How do you think it would be possible, Dustin?”

Dustin considered this, gave it thought. “I have a gift? Like a medium?”

Alekhine closed his eyes and shook his head. Wrong.

The realization of the situation fell on Dustin like a shadow and his limbs grew cold. “I’m… I’m not a live, breathing person?”

Alekhine shook his head again, this time in confirmation. “Dustin, do you remember how you got here?”

“Yeah! I’m on vacation. I was walking along a street when I saw this building and the sign out front, so I came in and found a man who looked like Mikhail Tal serving coffee. Then I played a game against you! And now you're asking me how I got here.”

Again, Alekhine shook his head. “No. I mean, how you got here, got here. Was it by airplane? Did you drive? Where are you parked, if so?”

Dustin thought, hard, but it was like that section of memory had simply disappeared. He had absolutely no recollection of his trip there from home. “I—well, hell, I don’t have a clue! I only remember planning to come.”

“You didn’t make it, Dustin. Now, you're one of us.”

And so Dustin spent the rest of eternity playing chess and drinking coffee with all the masters. All of them. When he wasn't reading, of course.