1
In the Other Place, The Grandmaster and I are teammates in the Amazing Race. He is semi-retired. We decided to start a family, and we adopted a boy and a girl. It had always been my dream to join the race, and so he came with me to fulfill that dream.
We travel to Serbia for the sixth leg of the race. We were last in the previous leg. He was not very happy about that. He has competed his entire life, including during his childhood, when he was discovered that he was a chess prodigy. He despised losing because winning was his whole life, his whole career. And not even winning in the very general sense of success like most people but literally winning at a board game. At the mat, he was miserable, but we hugged. But at the hotel he was furious at me. Nothing that I would be afraid of, but he was ranting for hours, talking about efficiency, and thinking, and teamwork, and how much he loves me, and how he’s just angry right now. It only made me love him more. And I did love this about him, the fact that he is almost doggedly obsessed with the right thing, with the truth.
And despite that he was careful not to hurt me. He failed, occasionally, but mostly he did not, with his words. He never hurt me physically, but sometimes he said: I was once one of the best in the world. Top 3. In the entire world. You don’t know the work, the sacrifices that I needed to make. But when he’s done he calms down and sits there for a moment and then hugs me and we make up. And occasionally, when the leg is not too tiring, we make love.
2
That night, I had a dream.
I dreamt that I was in a cafe, sitting by the window, where I could see people walking down the street, even if it was raining. The sky was totally overcast; everything was gray. Rex arrived, and we had coffee. In my dreams, he was so handsome. The parts that don’t matter sloughed away. All that mattered now was how much I loved him. I don’t remember what we spoke about, or if the dream even showed it, but I remember being so happy, especially being able to see him again. And then he had to go.
Rex was very busy all the time because people wanted to see him. Maybe it was a coincidence, but when he had to leave me, it was always because some girl was going to do something with him. Some girl that wasn’t his girlfriend, even while he was with her. And still when they broke up. I would forget that he had to go, or told me only a minute ago that he had to go, and continue to talk, and he would always laugh. Laugh that I wouldn’t shut up. Laugh that I wouldn’t let him go. But he had to go.
He left, and on the way he saw somebody that he knew. In my dream I knew that this boy was from the affluent area where Rex lived. I don’t know why I knew that. Rex introduced me, and this boy was on his laptop. He was tall and fat and smelled. He told me he liked music and drawing. He felt like one of those very comfortable guys who was totally aimless. Who spent their days doing whatever they liked, and nobody bothered them about it, because they were rich. I didn’t like this boy. I realized that I don’t like anybody else the way I liked Rex, and so nobody else mattered. And every second I stayed with this person, I only realized more and more than every other person was a waste of my time except him.
So I left. I walked home, and I walked until the sun went down and it was nighttime. It was totally dark. There were streetlamps, but beyond the area of the street they illuminated it was pitch black. But in my dream I knew where I was going. I just had to keep walking. And walking, and walking…
And I woke.
3
We departed for the following leg at 4 AM. It was dark and cold and Belgrade was beginning to wake. European cities had a haunted charm that I never see in Manila. In Manila, the night was haunting, period. Mostly because any corner could spell theft, maiming, or death. In Manila, many places were totally dark at night, and the places that are not are usually capitalist hellscapes, and they are lit only because of 24 hour business buildings and malls. But our pitstop was Kalemegdan Fortress. Lights lit the old buildings and structures dramatically. One felt one’s self moving along the stream of time there—coasting over history.
We stood in front of the crew, waiting to start, and I had this moment. I had this moment thinking about my life, and about how lucky I am. And about how incredible it was that things worked out this way. Could it have been any different? If I was somewhere, only dreaming of this? And I was not here, at the heart of Eastern Europe, with my husband? I look at him. He was going through his fanny pack, making sure that he had everything, even if he had already checked an hour ago while we were getting ready. I loved how meticulous he was.
He caught my eye. I smiled at him. He smiled, too. He wrapped an arm around me and gave me a kiss. His lips were so cold.
The producer told us to get ready.
The clue said we needed to catch a flight to Moscow. Although the editing on the show makes it seem like we were running around all the time, in reality there was a lot of downtime, especially after the pit stop. For several days, we spent more than 6 hours at the airport with the other teams.
We went to a travel agency and the flight was for at 10 AM. So, we decided to head to the airport and have breakfast. We were sitting at a café, somewhere inside, hoping that no one would see us. Still, while running around, another team found us. Jericho & Minnie, tennis player WASPs from Southern California. They seemed alright, but I did not like them, as a matter of intuition. They felt fake to me. Their smiles were so bright that I could not look at them directly without hurting my eyes.
They sat next to us without being invited, which I hated. I thought it was common knowledge that one might not join another group’s table unless invited. And as usual, the fixers and camera men for both teams were there, sitting at another table, watching us always, listening us always.
“I’ve always been a fan,” Jericho said. “I’m not a very good chess player, but I play it for fun. And I’ve seen your stuff. I know your history. You’re one of the greats, man.”
“Thank you,” The Grandmaster said.
He’s heard it all before. He did not care to hear these things anymore, although he knew that he must always accept them with grace.
Minnie looked at me and smiled and said, “I love your nails.”
I had my nails done for the show. They were cyan, glossy, French tipped, and filed. When The Grandmaster is on one of his rants, I file them. Which meant that they were mostly always perfect.
Jericho went on: “You know who I really love, though? That Magnus Carlsen.”
I looked at The Grandmaster. He was smiling. He looked amiable, pleasant. But I knew that when his face stayed that way, inside he was burning. In his head he was in his own personal hell.
The Grandmaster had always hated Magnus Carlsen. Not only because he could not beat him but because he believed that Magnus was not a model world champion. Being a world champion, according to The Grandmaster, meant more than just being really good at the game. And it definitely did not mean being a media celebrity.
4
I like being on the plane because it was a time for us to settle down. Not only because we didn’t need to do anything but because you can’t even if you wanted to. During the pit stops, although you didn’t have to do anything, you were always worried that you could be doing something productive instead. Researching, looking at maps, working out, hashing things out with your partner. But on a plane everything was nearly impossible. You could talk, but only barely, and even then if you spoke too much you’d be worried you were annoying the other passengers.
We sat there in silence. We could hear James & Chen, the doctorate students, talking somewhere behind us. They were always strategizing and talking about tactics and trying to get the slimmest advantages. They were intent on winning. The only person that was more intent than both of them was The Grandmaster. But The Grandmaster wasn’t so obnoxious about it.
I tried sleeping but I couldn’t. The Grandmaster was playing chess on his phone. He had an app that allowed him to play with bots that copied the playing style of GMs. Occasionally, I’d glance at him or ask whether the moves I wanted to make were good moves. Most of the time they were not. Sometimes, I got lucky. When I was wrong, he would say no and explain. He was never, ever nasty or condescending about it, and that’s one of the things I loved about him and one of the things I loved first about him. Then again, he was so secure about his skills, esp in relation to me, that he was not inclined to even try.
I was trying to sleep but couldn’t. I had my eyes closed. I felt The Grandmaster stir and I opened my eyes a bit. But when he realized that I was trying to sleep, he stopped short. I opened my eyes and murmured, “What is it?”
He said, “Look.” He pointed at his screen, and he was playing himself.
“How accurate is it?” I said.
He made a humming sound and shook his head, the way he did when he was thinking. “More or less. He made a lot of moves I wouldn’t have made, especially the novelties, but more or less the general idea…”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s not playing like yourself.”
“Maybe.”
He was playing with his right hand. His left hand was just lying there, so I held it. He enclosed my hand with his and he looked at me and smiled and I smiled. And then the stewardess came by to ask us if we wanted chicken or fish.
5
The clue said that we were supposed to go to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. We arrived with several other teams, and we all ran outside the airport, screaming for a taxi. I let The Grandmaster do that, and two teams went ahead of us. The moment we had our asses on the seats, he told the driver in Russian to drive us to our destination and to hurry up. That we were in a race, and that he wanted the driver to overtake the two cabs that we ahead of us.
“да,” said the driver, with a thumbs up. He didn’t look at us. And he didn’t drive fast, either. But The Grandmaster didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I suppose we simply didn’t feel like it that time.
I hate pretending I like museums, but I have to. I like modern art museums with the larger-than-life installations and strange objects. I like installations. But I despise art that involves only paintings, and not even especially interesting paintings. Just a bunch of paintings. I could see those exact paintings with little removed from the experience seeing them on the computer screen. I’m sorry but that is the truth. Although I would not argue much with anyone about that because people feel very passionately about this subject.
I went to the Singapore Art Museum, and I saw one of the most beautiful installations I’ve ever seen. The very large room was filled with chalk, in the middle of which was a boat, and on it was a skeleton that was posed to appear as if it were rowing. Paintings and other art hung from the ceiling like clouds. Being in that room was a very visceral experience of art that I can never replicate on a screen. Only being there physically could allow one to truly appreciate it.
That being said, there are some paintings that also require one’s physical presence because the physicality of the painting is integral to its appreciation. For example, Monet’s work is much larger than people might expect—just like how The Mona Lisa is much smaller than people expect. Monet’s effect with regard to “painting the light” is only understood when standing in front of the Water Lillies, totally absorbed by it. Seeing it on a screen, where your gaze encapsulates the entire work, destroys the experience and meaning of this painting.
Jackson Pollock’s paintings are the same way. People nowadays have totally no idea what Pollock’s paintings are supposed to be. I don’t blame them, but at the same time it does not take too long to make the effort to understand. Modern art is commentary on previous art. It is not supposed to be like the representative art that we are more used to or familiar with. Rather, Pollock was trying to make commentary on the nature, history, meaning, and our understanding of art, in particular with regard to the physicality and dimensionality of art itself. The way that he paints by dripping the pain while walking around the canvass is supposed to “show us” the relationship between the space of the painter and the work. People aren’t very willing to view or think about art this way. They want the very vulgar sense of replicating the everyday world, with only very few exceptions, if any.
This is because most people only have the real world. One does not have a mind to enter immediately. Rather, this mind has to be built, and only then can we enter it. But this mind, at its best, is only a passageway to a greater consciousness, that is, the collective consciousness of humanity. Not a mystical place; rather it is the collective work, ideas, sentiments, values of humanity as they have been presented throughout human history in interaction and conversation with each other.
It is here, in the collective Spirit of humankind, that true work is done. The most important work of the Spirit: Contemplating ourselves in the act of contemplation—according to Aristotle, the most perfect way of Being1.