Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

I didn’t, because I was going to lose. And I did, because I wanted to improve and beat him. Once or twice, I insisted we do something else. No matter how satisfying the other choice, however, Joseph would tempt me to play at least one chess game a day.

The contests followed a distinct pattern. Within the first few moves I would unaccountably find myself in trouble: due to the outright loss of a piece; or a congestion of pawns that choked my position; or defending an awkward configuration surrounding my King. No matter what I tried, at the start I always suffered a disadvantage. The first few times we played I lost quickly. But I am willful, if nothing else (sometimes I think that’s the only talent I possess) and I struggled hard, refusing to concede.

We settled into a new pattern. I learned to avoid the more disastrous moves and stave off quick defeat, thereby forcing Joseph to prove his advantage was a winning one. Half the time he would give back his early gains, or I would liberate myself from the confusion of my pieces. But then, seemingly exhausted by my long struggle up the hill to equality, I would blunder again in what is called the endgame of chess — positions with only a few pieces on board. Joseph’s confidence, high at the beginning, strained in the middle, would soar at the end. His quick decisions about what and where to move — typical of his play at the beginning — would return and he would smash me. Our games became marathons with thrilling reversals of superiority, although the final result was always the same. We played every day until school started and I never won, although I came closer — it seemed — each time.

My arm healed by the beginning of school and that interrupted our new intimacy. I preferred, with my arm working again, to play handball against the side of our apartment building with my other friends or to go with them and their fathers (mine had still not returned from Cuba) to Fort Washington Park to play touch football or softball. I invite Joseph to join us; unfortunately the neighborhood lacked a domed stadium to protect him from the elements.

I didn’t reject Joseph because of this impediment. I tried to continue our friendship at P.S. 173. It is a measure of Mrs. Stein’s belief in education that she allowed her boy to wander its halls. True, he brought his own lunches and there was no carpeting. But even I believed the school’s atmosphere was poisonous; at once dusty and scented by ammonia, the rarely ventilated air could choke healthy lungs. I remember well Mrs. Fleisher’s daily struggle with the painted-shut windows; the metal-reinforced glass cast prison shadows of gloomy webs across her face as she worked to force them open.

When I was elected captain of the class softball team, after making the obvious selections, I called Joseph’s name to be on the team. One of the better players groaned. Joseph looked pleased, but he refused. I assumed he had been discouraged by the groan. I stopped by his apartment after dinner to urge him privately. I was convinced he could be at least a competent player. Certainly I knew from chess that he was a determined competitor. Besides, I wanted to free him from his airless green prison.

Mr. Stein answered the door. He greeted me as if I were a delightful surprise. He was short, very thin and almost completely bald. Unlike his son and wife, he didn’t wear glasses and he had almost no eyebrows. In fact his left eyebrow didn’t exist; the right one consisted of a thin line of hair. Today, I assume that this was the result of some torture or calamity at the concentration camp. At the time it seemed merely an organic part of his overall appearance. He was like a friendly human mouse: white and small, he squeaked, “Hello!” when he saw me. He called back, also in a high semi-hysterical voice, to the interior of the apartment, “It’s Ralph!” as if that were great news and eagerly waved me in. (I didn’t react to his mistake: it was common.) “Come in. Come in. We’re having some cake. You want a piece?”

Gently, but insistently, he pushed me to their kitchen table. It happened to be the same model yellow Formica table, with a band of ridged metal around the edge, that I had hidden under in Tampa. I hadn’t noticed it before; all our meals were served in Joseph’s cage. Mr. Stein guided me into a chair. Mrs. Stein, beaming, approached with a mustard yellow plate. On it was an enormous slice of sponge cake whose color was almost the same hue as the china. Her glasses were fogged, her hair was covered by a scarf and she seemed, to my ignorant eyes, to be dressed for bed. What looked like a hideous pink nightgown to me was in fact a housecoat. Joseph sat directly across, wearing the same old man’s button-down white shirt he wore to school, and smiled at me proudly. Of his parents? Of himself? Of the sponge cake? I didn’t know. I was uneasy, however. I felt captured.

Mr. Stein told his wife to give me a glass of milk, told me to eat the cake, and asked me to explain about the softball tournament that Joseph had said I was in charge of. He delivered these orders in his squeaky voice, which somehow made them inoffensive.

With my mouth full of sponge cake, I told Mr. Stein I was merely captain of our class, not in charge of the tournament. I explained that each class was to play against the other classes in their grade until there were six school champions. (P.S. 173, typical of the city’s public schools then, bulged with baby boomers.) The winners were to go on and play representatives from other Manhattan schools. Eventually there would be a borough champ for each grade. All that was true. I said there would be a citywide championship, a state championship, and then a competition that would end with national champions. All that was invented. Why make it up? I wanted to persuade them to allow Joseph to play. When I noticed Mr. Stein widen his narrow eyes and raise his one eyebrow with the mention of each championship I naturally thought the more the better as far as he was concerned.

I was right. “Mimi,” he said to Mrs. Stein, “this is a very good thing.” He added a quick order, “Joseph, you should play.”

“Great!” I said, spewing crumbs. “Sorry,” I mumbled and took a sip of milk. It tasted awful. Mrs. Stein served skimmed milk.

“You don’t like milk?” Mrs. Stein said.

“Yes,” I said and forced myself to drink more.

“But Joey doesn’t know how to play baseball,” Mrs. Stein said.

“I can teach him!” I cried out.

“I know how!” Joseph complained. He blushed. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Probably to avoid looking at me. I knew he was lying: how could he know how to play baseball if he had hardly ever been outside?

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll learn,” Mr. Stein said.

“But where do you play?” Mrs. Stein asked. “You know, he’s allergic to grass.”

I told her Joseph would be safe from nature, playing in P.S. 173’s concrete yard, a yard he went into every day. Mrs. Stein was able to point out that if our team was successful and went on to compete against other schools, that Joseph would be dragged to strange locations, probably places with lots of grass.

All of the city games would be played on concrete yards in Manhattan, I assured her.

But what about this state championship and the national championship? she pointed out, shaking her head sorrowfully. “They have grass in Albany and Washington. And Joey can’t be going all over the country. He’ll get asthma.”

Joseph had left his glasses beside his half-finished plate of sponge cake. With them off, his eyes had an unfocused look. They trailed over the ceiling, as if he were searching for a way out.

Mr. Stein also nodded sorrowfully, in harmony with his wife. “That’s true. And I can’t get time off to travel with him.”