by Paraskevi Kanari

Baron Mac Ronald brought the whiskey to his lips. A big sip to celebrate another small victory. General Le Maire had remained a mediocre opponent, even after so many chess games. Countless, indeed.

Around them, other chess games were underway. Over the last century, dozens of third-class men and women had watched the two first-class men play and had learned. No, not just learned. They fell in love with the game; they had become astounding, far better than poor old General. The Baron could have played amazing games with them; if only they were not so plebeian.

Because that was his cross to bear. In the sinking of Titanic, only a few first-class passengers had drowned and only a few third-class passengers had survived. As if his drowning was not bad enough, during the endless years of his death, he made the unfortunate discovery that chess mastery was not dependent on social status.

 “Baron, we have visitors”, announced Jack, a boy from the streets of Liverpool, half-running, half-swimming towards them. The Baron rattled the ice cubes in his glass and looked indifferently at his phantom whiskey.

“Go on, my boy.”

“A submersible is approaching. Five men inside, they want to explore the wreck. Wealthy tourists.” This caught his attention.

“Wealthy? Are you positive, my boy?”

“I heard them talking about their investments and mansions.” The Baron left the invisible glass on the ghost table. The real table had disintegrated years ago.

“Dear General, would you think that upper-class people are still learning chess?”

“I have no doubt, my old friend” General Le Maire replied. The Baron beheld the boy.

“Jack, do you think we can invite those gentlemen to the Titanic?”

The boy grinned and gestured to the rest of his gang. Together they rushed into the submersible. A small crack would be enough. The high pressure of the sea would do the rest.

END