Chess/Singing wAvtandil

The last two chess players were packing up their board when I arrived at the little backyard table near my church where they usually play. Sometimes when I pass by after dusk at about six oclock, there will be at least ten old men out there, talking trash to each other in Georgian as they slap there pieces onto the next square. A show of force and confidence plays the psychological game very well, though I’m sure it adds an element of amusement to the never-ending sequence of games. The boards are faded and beat up, the pieces so worn and dirty it’s impossible to tell the white pawns from the black. These guys are out here for hours every day.

I started talking to one man, Avtandil, who is originally from Imereti in western Georgia. I love the name Avtandil because it’s the name of one of the protagonists in Georgia’s most famous epic poem, ‘The Knight in the Panther’s Skin’ -written by Shota Rustveli in the 12th century. It has a ring to it doesn’t it?

Avtandil decided I was worthy of a game, and he didn’t seem ready to go home to the wife and grandkids yet, he seemed ready to talk my ear off even if I couldn’t understand a damn word. So as he rattled off self answerable questions, we set the board back up and I made a blundering opener to his perfect opener, all pieces defended and poised to attack my poor positioning.

The conversation had turned to occupations. He mentioned something about plants (maybe he was a gardener?) and I mentioned I was studying music. Before I knew it, Avtandil was propositioning me to sing Tsintskaro, Georgia’s most celebrated and heartfelt song, found at most drunken supras with any singers present. I don’t know the words, but it didn’t matter, he sang the top part and I hummed the middle harmony. And that’s when I gained the edge on the game.

Back and forth we hummed songs at each other, and with the other half of our brains tried to play chess. Turns out he had been in some famous choir, but now he is way past seventy and spends his outdoor hours on the corner playing chess with his other outdoor hours chess playing old guy friends.

Chess and singing were definitely conflicting in the brain for me. But we tried to do both, and traded pieces here and there, taking breaks to figure out some harmony or the other. Knights factored largely in the game, the bishops being traded without much effect. Pawn advancement was poor, and when he decided to trade queens the resulting fallout left just one rook apiece and the knights. Under fire, I introduced another west Georgian folk song to try to distract my opponent. I don’t know any of the words to this song, but it is Luarsab and Nino’s favorite, they sing it to their baby girls all the time.

The trick worked, he missed a couple moves, and I took two decisive pawns to setup the game-ending sequence. Meanwhile, Avtandil was already calling all of the homeward bound old men in the area over to meet the American who didn’t speak Russian and sang Georgian songs. No one really believed him, and they looked at me quizically, like I was some kind of undercover spy. These guys all retired in the 80s, and they’re just living out their time in the suburbs of Tbilisi. Maybe they’re all up to date on world politics, but equally likely, they don’t really buy that the Soviet Union is actually over. Who cares? We play chess, we sing songs, it’s good weather today or it’s not.

As we were packing up the board and I was getting ready to make my homeward journey up and down stairways, through alleys, side stepping trash and stray cats along dark apartment buildings, -the jungle of the city -, Avtandil pulled his own checkmate, and stabbed me to the bench with a lengthy diatribe on the history of Georgia. I caught words here and there, Kolchis, upper Caucasus, Kartvelian language group, Sumer, first people... I’m sure he knew his topic well, but I wanted to leave. Every sentence ended with ‘gaige?’ -do you understand, to which I dutifully nodded...

What a great guy. We played chess, we sang songs, we talked about history, and then we said goodbye. I’m sure I’ll see him again, and when the day comes that I don’t see him again, I’ll remember him; a quintessential Georgian.