Copyright ©1987, 1989, 1991 by Richard Seltzer
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On his first weekend pass, Charlie and two Army buddies -- Max and Griff -- took the train from Augsburg, where they were stationed, to Munich. They checked into the Drei Lowen Hotel near the station. Max and Griff headed straight for the red-light district. But Charlie, map in one hand and small satchel in the other, quickly strolled through the cobblestone streets of the medieval center of the city at Marienplatz toward the district of Schwabing, the English Garden and Schellingstrasse. His goal was the Schelling Salon, a gathering place for chess players.
He paused before opening the door, expecting to find here the "true Germany," not just another Americanized beer-joint full of homesick GIs.
The round tables of the huge room were crowded with young and old adults, mostly men. The lights were dim. Cigarette smoke hung like a thick fog. "Was wollen Sie?" asked a hard-faced waitress in a black skirt with white blouse.
"Essen, bitte," he replied in an unmistakable American accent.
She looked not at his face, but at his insignia of rank -- a lowly Spec 4 -- then reluctantly led him to the one empty table in the center of the room. She didn't seem the least bit pleased to have to serve any Amercan GI, much less an enlisted man. She handed him a menu, then disappeared into the smoke and the crowd.
None of the other patrons were eating. Most were drinking beer or coffee and talking loudly. There were a few chessplayers at tables in the corner, with kibitzers leaning over their shoulders.
He studied the menu and, with the help of a pocket dictionary, decided to order a beef stew dinner. But the waitress was nowhere to be seen.
He felt awkward -- the only soldier, the only American and probably the only person in the place ordering dinner.
He was tempted to go over to the chess players and watch, in hopes of getting in a few games himself. But he didn't want to leave the table for fear of missing the waitress, who sooner or later must remember and return for his order.
He looked up every word that he didn't know on the menu -- dozens of words. And still the waitress didn't appear.
Finally, he opened up his satchel, took out chess board and set and a well-worn copy of My System by Aron Nimzovitch. No sooner had he set up the pieces, than the waitress reappeared.
She reached out her hand and said emphatically, "Funf Marken." Confused, he picked up the menu again and, reluctant to botch the German pronunciation, pointed to the item he wanted.
"Ja, ich verstehe. Aber Sie spielen Schach hier and das kostet funf Marken."
Charlie looked again at the menu. The item he had selected had a price of 20 marks and she was saying something about 5 marks. He was afraid she had misunderstood his order. He pointed again.
Again she said, "Funf Marken fur Schach spielen." Her tone implied he was acting like an idiot.
"Excuse me, but I don't understand. Do you speak English, please?"
She glared at him as if grossly insulted, then knocked over the pieces.
He leaned over and caught the queen before it hit the floor. As he sat up again, he saw a blond boy in a black jacket hand the waitress some coins and send her away.
"Please excuse her," the stranger said. "She speaks not English."
"Thank you. How much do I owe you and what was it all about?"
"Five marks. They cost here five marks chess to play. Rent for the table."
"But I ordered supper," he explained while repaying him. "That costs far more than five marks. And I only set up the pieces for myself, to go over games from a book."
"Yes, and she supper will bring. But chess to play five marks costs. One rule for all... Would you like chess to play?"
"Why, yes," Charlie admitted.
"Sehr gut." The boy took off his jacket, hung it on the back of a chair and sat down.
At that moment, even with the bad lighting and the smoke, it became clear that the boy was really a young woman, with short blond hair and deep blue eyes.
"You know how to play?" he asked in surprise.
"A little," she smiled. "Women in America do not chess play?"
"A little. I mean, not very well. I mean, not very many."
"Yes, it is a man's sport," she took the king from his hand and hefted it. "The pieces are so very heavy. You from America come. You know Bobby Fischer, yes?"
"Yes, everyone knows ..."
"You play with him often?"
"Never, I mean, yes, of course," he boasted and smiled back.
"Then you must play very, very well, yes?"
"Well, I have been known to win a few games."
"Sie sind Grossmeister, ja? I can from your eyes see you great depth of mind have. Your eyes, they are dark blue, like mine, yes?"
"Yes," he said automatically. He would probably have said "yes" to anything she asked. He had no control over the situation and didn't like being out of control. But despite himself, he was revelling in the attention of this intriguing young woman.
She set up the pieces and asked "Time? Have you the time?"
"Of course," he answered. "Lots of time."
"Die Uhr, die Schach Uhr, bitte? The clock, yes?"
"Yes, of course. It's three o'clock." He showed her his watch.
"One moment, please." She got up and disappeared into the crowd.
He wondered what mistake of language or local courtesy he had made this time.
A few minutes later the blond returned with a strange two-faced clock. She set it down beside the board and pushed one of the two buttons on top.
He stared at the clock and at her, wondering what was expected of him.
"The move, it is yours," she said, gesturing toward his pieces.
"Of course." He quickly moved his king pawn forward one square.
She stared at the board, then at the clock, then at him. "The time," she gestured.
"Yes, of course." He hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.
"Push the time, the button." She pushed the button on his side of the clock then quickly made her move.
He tried to concentrate on the board. His eyes were watering from the smoke in the air.
"Solch ein grosser Grossmeister. Many times you this book of Nimzovitch read -- a very great book."
"Yes, I mean, not really. I bought it second-hand. I haven't gotten that far. It's quite complicated."
"Ja wohl. Play you for money in America?"
"Yes, of course. Sometimes. It can make the game more interesting."
"Play you now for money?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"Ja. Why not?" She put five marks on the table, so he did the same.
Once again he tried to concentrate on the board and decide on the next move. But his eyes kept wandering to hers. She winked at him. He winked back.
"Too bad." She reached over to put her hand on both buttons of the clock. Then took his five marks.
"What?"
"The time, it is over, yes? Five minutes each." She pointed to the clock face nearest to him. "Play you again?"
"Again?"
She pointed to her five marks on the table and he took five more from his wallet.
She reset the clock, and turned the board around so that this time she had the white pieces.
This time he shaded his eyes to stop himself from looking at her and concentrated hard on the board. He wasn't very good at the openings, but had good instincts. With practice, he had become the best player in his barracks at Monterrey and at the language-listening school in Texas. He was not going to let himself be beaten by a woman, no matter how attractive she might be.
He moved quickly and slammed the clock. He'd make sure she didn't beat him on time again.
He took a piece, then another piece, then a rook, then her queen. He was quite proud of himself for totally decimating her position, when she announced, "Mate."
He stared in disbelief. His king was well-protected, surrounded by pawns and pieces, with not an empty square around it. She had checked him with a knight and the king could not move out of check, because of all those defenders. It was "smother mate."
"So good you play." She set up the pieces again. "I was so lucky, yes?"
"Yes," he answered, in a tone of annoyance. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid as to miss that.
She pointed to her five marks on the table. He put ten marks on the table. She nodded in agreement and added five more.
This time Charlie attacked quickly with his queen, gobbling up stray pawns that she left unprotected. He could see no plan behind her moves. It looked as if she were trying to lose. Then his queen was trapped. All he could do was trade it for a knight or lose it outright. A few moves later, in a hopeless position, he resigned.
"Again?" he asked.
"Again," she affirmed.
He put 20 marks on the table and she matched it.
A few spectators started leaning over the table, and the waitress finally delivered the beef stew, but nothing could distract him from his game now. Charlie hunched over, gritted his teeth and moved his pieces with authority. They traded off pieces quickly, and, a rook up, with two rooks and a bishop, he went after her king. He had her this time. He was sure of it. But she deftly eluded mate again and again. Then she stopped the clock, announced, "Time," and once again took his money.
"Again?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He just put 50 marks on the table, and she matched it.
Now there were dozens of people gathered round, including the waitress, who once again held out her hand. "Zwanzig Marken, bitte. Fur das Essen."
Charlie paid her quickly, made his move and hit the clock.
Three moves later, he was mated. Scholar's mate. He had fallen for one of the oldest tricks, had made one of the worst beginner's mistakes.
Someone laughed and muttered, "Was ein Grossmeister!"
Charlie took out his wallet, counted his money, set aside enough to pay his hotel bill, and put the rest on the table -- 200 marks. She matched it.
This time he could make no progress at all. It was as if she knew his every move before he did. If she had been moving his pieces as well as hers, she probably couldn't have destroyed him any more efficiently than she did.
"Gute Nacht," she nodded, and disappeared into the crowd with his money.
In July, Charlie returned to Munich. Once again, he set out in the direction of the English Garden, but this time his intent was different. In his satchel he had his movie camera and a few books -- Kafka's Castle in German, short stories by Gogol in Russian, and dictionaries. Max and Griff had told him that on warm sunny days, nudists gathered by the little stream that ran through the middle of the park.
If the weather was bad, he would read. If good, he would enjoy the scenery and perhaps talk some young woman into posing.
As he crossed the Marienplatz, the sun broke through the clouds and the temperature rose quickly. It was still morning, and the park was almost empty. He settled down beneath a weeping willow beside the stream and started struggling through Gogol -- word by difficult word.
He fell asleep and woke abruptly when a drop of water hit his face. A group of young men and women, all naked, were playing in the water near him. He pretended to read again, so as not to seem to stare. He was both embarrassed and fascinated. Fully clothed city-dwellers, business people on lunch break walked past on the path nearby, and naked sunbathers lay on both banks of the stream.
One young woman in a dark business suit stopped on the other side of the tree Charlie was leaning against. With her back toward him, oblivious to everyone around, she quickly removed all of her clothing and stretched out on her belly on the grass.
Charlie put his book away. Not even in movies had he ever seen such a beautiful womanly shape. She lay just three feet away. If he could just find the right words to say. But before he found them, she was on her feet again, putting her clothes on as calmly and quickly as she had taken them off. Soon she was strolling away, probably back to the office.
Charlie scrambled to his feet, grabbed his satchel and followed her.
Her blond hair was shoulder length. Her brown leather pocketbook hung from a long strap from her left shoulder. She kept a tight grip on the top of it. The cut of her jacket and the skirt that descended to near ankle length obliterated any hint of the shape that had mesmerized him.
Seeing the gate toward which her clear and purposeful stride was taking her, he raced down a side path, out another gate and down the sidewalk toward her exit. There he pulled out his movie camera, braced himself against the stone wall and aimed in her direction.
She was still a hundred feet away. He zoomed in on her face and nearly dropped the camera.
It was the chessplayer.
As she strolled by, she looked him straight in the face, "Ach, mein Herr. Make you movies as good as you chess play?"
"No, I mean yes. I mean..." He tripped.
She laughed and walked on.
He caught up.
"Are you free tonight?" he asked.
"You mean you cannot pay?"
"I mean... Shit! You know very well what I mean."
That night they met for supper at a little restaurant near the train station. Charlie made no pretense of understanding the menu. He let her do the ordering. Her name was Irene. She worked as an administrator at the University.
"And what do you with this camera of yours? Play you tourist? Or tell you storis with pictures?"
"I'd like to get into the movie business after my hitch is up. But I have a lot to learn."
"Indeed. Nimzovitch, did he about this write?"
"Seriously, I do have stories to tell in film."
"And I, too, have stories."
"Tell me a story," he coaxed her.
"So you can steal?"
"I'll trade you one for it."
She hesitated, took a sip of beer, then continued. "In the Bible, the crucifixion story, the soldiers make a man cross carry for Christ. Simon of Cyrene he is called, and saint he became for this holy act.
"Imagine that scene. This time the man they will crucify is not Christ. He is a false Messiah -- not the Son of God. See you this with the camera inside your eye?
"The false Messiah a cross pulls. Many who believe in him watch. There is a big crowd. The false Messiah stumbles and stops. The crowd closer comes. The soldiers draw their swords. The captain picks a man from the crowd and makes him carry the cross. This man does not in the false Messiah believe. But he is willing, he is glad a suffering man to help. Like you this?"
"But what is the story?"
"The story I told -- the Messiah is false. Does that not questions for you make? Is this man less holy than Simon?"
"No, of course not," Charlie answered without thinking. He couldn't see that there was any issue at all. "God is within, and any unselfish act -- even if for the wrong reason -- can bring you closer to Him."
"I like your God." She took his hand and squeezed it.
"But what other answer could there be?"
"Many think God is a puzzle maker. If you follow the wrong Messiah, if you miss the Holy Grail, if you make the wrong wish, you wait at the door of the castle forever. You never enter.
"Others believe there is no God. Puzzles are chance. They mean nothing.
"You see, in one little story, you find three ideas of God and the meaning of life. That is a lot of story, nicht wahr?"
"But you could never make a movie out of that."
"Jawohl. Not me. But Bergman can make it."
"Who?"
"Ingmar Bergman -- The Seventh Seal, Through a Glass Darkly..."
"I never heard of him."
"Mein Gott! And you movies make? What kind of movies make you, Herr Arnold?"
"I'm thinking of a scene. I'm not sure of the shape of the whole movie yet. But I like this scene. Imagine a young boy, maybe 16, running along a deserted beach. In the distance he sees a sunbather. He slows. It's a woman. As he walks closer, he sees that she is completely naked, lying on her belly. She is ten, maybe even twenty years older than him. She is quite beautiful. He has never before seen a mature woman naked in person before. He almost runs away. But her eyes are closed. She is sleeping. Slowly, quietly, but very frightened, he steps forward to get a better look.
"Suddenly, she rolls over on her back. But her eyes are still closed, and she puts a towel over them to block out the glare of the sun.
"He stares long and hard. It is as if he were reaching out with his eyes and caressing her entire body.
"He is standing right next to her. She smiles, and he realizes that she has been watching him from under the towel -- she knows he's there watching her, and wants him to watch her.
"He is petrified at this unexpected turn. She is more than just an object for him to fantasize over. She has her own wishes and ends. To her, he is just an object. She grabs hold of his ankle, firmly, and with her other hand reaches up as she sits up, and caresses the inner side of his thigh.
"He cringes for fear she may be a mad woman. She may maim him. But he doesn't run. He stands stock-still while she pulls down his bathing trunks, and pulls him on top of her and in her.
"When she is done with him, she gets up quickly, puts on her clothes, and walks away, leaving him exhausted and bewildered in the sand."
Irene reached across the table and caressed his cheek. "I like your God and I like, too, your dirty mind. Yes, you will do just fine, my Charlie. Yes, you will good movies make. Yes, we will together good movies make."
Charlie returned to Munich every weekend after that and stayed with Irene at her apartment in Schwabing. She was 24 -- four years older than him. She had advanced degrees in both literature and mathematics and was a chess master.
That winter they planned the movie "The Pictures of Charlie's Wedding," and the following spring they filmed it. He never proposed. They simply hired a real minister to perform a real wedding ceremony as part of the movie.
They planned another far more ambitious movie as well -- "Saint Smith," based on another story Irene told.
"I had this friend. They called him Heinrich Schmidt -- Hank Smith, that is. Later, we called him Der Heilige Schmidt or Saint Smith.
"At the University in Heidelberg, I was all Sturm und Drang, storm and stress, all struggle and push," she explained. I will great things do or I try and I die. I was so clever, and I was so proud I was so clever.
I have the drama and the literature studied. I will great literature write. I will like Goethe be. But to study was not enough. I must be as you say -- a 'star.'
"At the beer keller, my friends and I performed for one another. We told stories and made jokes. Heinrich with us came sometimes. He was shy, self-conscious. He liked books more than people. We mocked him. 'To understand great literature you must life understand,' we told him.
"We played tricks on him our cleverness to show. He was the perfect victim.
"I was writing a little play. 'All God's Children,' I called it. Satan tells God, 'Why will you down to Earth go? Why will you become man in the person of your son? Why need you tricks to play? Say you not that all people are your children? If that is so, pick one at random and wake him. Make him know he is in truth at one with you?'
"In my play, God agreed, 'You have right, my son. Yes, you, too, are my son. But you have right for reasons you do not understand. Jawohl, it was for myself, not for them, that I wished the shape of man to take. They go beyond all I thought for them for good and for evil. I wanted these marvelous creatures -- their strength and weakness -- to understand. I was selfish this to do. Better I do as you say. Better I awaken one of the most humble among them. Better he be an inspiration and an example for his generation. Then will I another and another choose, throughout all time -- men and women of different races and different stations in life will again and again show that all are indeed My children.'
"So God chose the son of a humble carpenter in Galilee. And him to awaken he used not angels, but rather the child's brothers and friends. He them gave the idea a joke to play.
"Jesus was 12 years. He was old enough the shop to tend and the children to watch while his parents to market go. His brothers thought him proud and pompous. 'Little God' they him called.
"One night, after he sleeps, a brother waved a torch in front of his face, then ran while others outside the house yelled, 'I am the Light!' To their surprise, Jesus did not wake.
"The next night, they tried again, and again he slept. They it made again on the third night, and again he slept.
"But the morning after the third night, Jesus started like a new person acting. He can sense a man's needs. He can people understand and comfort give. He was selfless and humble. He used few words. With acts of kindness he spoke, and so he taught people about themselves and God. Wahrlich, he became a 'light to the world.'
"I was so proud of this idea of mine. But the others it mocked. They said that real people would never that way act. So to prove my genius, I played that joke for real, with Heinrich as the victim.
"I put a tape recorder and a camera flash and a clock device near his bed. In the middle of the night, the bulb will in his eyes flash and the tape will say, 'I am the light!'
"I wanted him to wake and think that something strange had happened. I wanted him us to tell that he a wonderful dream had. But nothing happened. So I tried it a second night and a third, as in the play. Even then, Heinrich acted like nothing happened. The joke was on me. Mein Gott, I felt foolish.
"Then a week later, Heinrich changed. He seemed with warmth, concern, and tenderness to glow. His blue eyes held you. Dozens of friends everywhere him followed. With them, he walked the streets of Heidelberg, spreading cheer and good will. He spoke not of God. He helped where help needed was -- with the drunk and poor and homeless.
"We who had in nothing believed, we believed in Der Heilige Heinrich, Der Heilige Schmidt, Saint Smith. Then my friends called me 'Iris.' They said my joke made this miracle. The name meant I was a 'messenger of the gods.'
"Only Heinrich did not know. No one had told him about my trick. He knew not my silly joke this change in him had made.
"My friends treated me with new respect. But conscience me troubled. He was a false Messiah and all believed in him and he in himself believed. And I had done this.
"I to him confessed.
"Day and night he was surrounded by friends and followers. I knelt before him. I told him my 'joke.'
"He listened. When I finished, his eyes were blank and cold. I screamed. It was gone. Everyone could cearly see -- the magic had gone. He who was so heilige, so holy, was now just another student.
"Then I saw how much I had him loved. I had him loved not as a man, but as God-in-man.
"But it all ended. His friends and his follwers me called 'Fraulein Judas.'
"After it was over, I with him stayed. I became his lover. But between us there was no magic.
"I became pregnant. I had an abortion. I left Heinrich. I left Heidelberg and went to Gottingen. I changed my name to 'Irene' and studied mathematics.
"You stare at my eyes," she noted. Yes, they are blue, like Heinrich's. But with his eyes, he made you yourself to forget. I tell it poorly. Forgive my bad English. If once you could him with God in him see, that would tell all."
Charlie loved the plot. They talked on and on about how such a movie should be made. It would be his masterpiece, he insisted. But he would only try it when he felt he was ready.
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