Who's Who on the Chessboard, Part Two: The Bishop
"So," your friends say. "You've interviewed the old bastard? Tell us: what's he really like?"
You want to tell them this: he is nothing like they imagined. For a start, he is astonishingly vain. For someone whose ugliness is legendary (every cartoonist knows the tiny biretta, the heavy jowls, the sour gash of a mouth), he takes uncommon pride in his appearance, which he considers "noble" and "warlike": how else do you explain the row of bishop statuettes lined up across his desk? The next thing you want to say about the bishop is that he's utterly charmless. Watching him in action on the board, dashing from the back row to the centre of the battle just to destroy an errant rook, you might imagine a keen old devil with a dash of the privateer; but in person the bishop is cold, peevish and dull. Worse still, he's clumsy. Sure, everyone admires the grace of his sidelong glides across the board, but truth to tell, the bishop doesn't even realise he's moving diagonally. He thinks that the board is diamond shaped, and that he alone is travelling in straight lines. In fact, you want to tell your friends, the bishop's most striking quality is his deep, unblinking idiocy. The only thing that matters to the bishop is the corridor of black squares that will ferry him around the board. He dreams of a clean, open pathway, down which he can glide unimpeded into the empty space between the massed armies. Out there, alone, he imagines he can dismiss the enemy with one shake of his noble, warlike head. But instead he's pegged down in the back row, hemmed in by a clutch of squabbling pawns, and by the time he's shooed them on, the battle has already started and the board is an awful, bloody mess. The bishop's pathways have been trampled on, his grand plan ruined; his wrath is the wrath of a caretaker. If a black piece blocks his way, he is vexed enough; but if a white piece strays onto one of his channels his fury is boundless. You watch, horrified, as he takes up his lance, bolts straight out and kills the poor fool on the spot. For a moment, you think you are watching the real bishop emerge; the merciless slayer of the tabloids and B-movies. But as soon as the act is finished, the bishop becomes gloomy and fretful once again- the board is more congested than ever, his paths will never be cleared in time, he has already spotted another trespasser further up the track. So he darts and hacks his way through the war, showing no interest in anything beyond his precious corridors. It is not clear if he even acknowledges the existence of white squares or the cargo they carry. This is perhaps the most pathetic thing about the bishop; that his death will come from nowhere, that there will be no remorse, no deathbed recantation, that he will die as he has lived: ignorant of everything beyond the narrow hygiene of his own particular vision.
You dream of writing an article that would show the bishop up as the tedious oaf he is. Yet, deep down, you know that your readers would never forgive you. They, like yourself, have been brought up to detest the bishop, to blame him for the worst atrocities of the war, to supply those ugly features with the ugliest of motives. How could they cope if they discovered that all their anger had been wasted on a dry husk of a man? Worse: what would they begin to say about her majesty the Queen? You decide it would be more sensible to create a bishop who is worthy of their hate. Once you make the choice, the piece almost writes itself. You work through the night on your monstrous bishop, gliding from one outrageous lie to another, you have never felt such facility with words, it is as if someone else were willing you along. The next morning you are shrill and voluble when talking to your friends.
"What's he like?" you say. "He's everything you imagined and more." And the laughter that follows contains an element of relief, as if an awkward obstacle has just been removed, and all the old, familiar pathways are open once again.
You want to tell them this: he is nothing like they imagined. For a start, he is astonishingly vain. For someone whose ugliness is legendary (every cartoonist knows the tiny biretta, the heavy jowls, the sour gash of a mouth), he takes uncommon pride in his appearance, which he considers "noble" and "warlike": how else do you explain the row of bishop statuettes lined up across his desk? The next thing you want to say about the bishop is that he's utterly charmless. Watching him in action on the board, dashing from the back row to the centre of the battle just to destroy an errant rook, you might imagine a keen old devil with a dash of the privateer; but in person the bishop is cold, peevish and dull. Worse still, he's clumsy. Sure, everyone admires the grace of his sidelong glides across the board, but truth to tell, the bishop doesn't even realise he's moving diagonally. He thinks that the board is diamond shaped, and that he alone is travelling in straight lines. In fact, you want to tell your friends, the bishop's most striking quality is his deep, unblinking idiocy. The only thing that matters to the bishop is the corridor of black squares that will ferry him around the board. He dreams of a clean, open pathway, down which he can glide unimpeded into the empty space between the massed armies. Out there, alone, he imagines he can dismiss the enemy with one shake of his noble, warlike head. But instead he's pegged down in the back row, hemmed in by a clutch of squabbling pawns, and by the time he's shooed them on, the battle has already started and the board is an awful, bloody mess. The bishop's pathways have been trampled on, his grand plan ruined; his wrath is the wrath of a caretaker. If a black piece blocks his way, he is vexed enough; but if a white piece strays onto one of his channels his fury is boundless. You watch, horrified, as he takes up his lance, bolts straight out and kills the poor fool on the spot. For a moment, you think you are watching the real bishop emerge; the merciless slayer of the tabloids and B-movies. But as soon as the act is finished, the bishop becomes gloomy and fretful once again- the board is more congested than ever, his paths will never be cleared in time, he has already spotted another trespasser further up the track. So he darts and hacks his way through the war, showing no interest in anything beyond his precious corridors. It is not clear if he even acknowledges the existence of white squares or the cargo they carry. This is perhaps the most pathetic thing about the bishop; that his death will come from nowhere, that there will be no remorse, no deathbed recantation, that he will die as he has lived: ignorant of everything beyond the narrow hygiene of his own particular vision.
You dream of writing an article that would show the bishop up as the tedious oaf he is. Yet, deep down, you know that your readers would never forgive you. They, like yourself, have been brought up to detest the bishop, to blame him for the worst atrocities of the war, to supply those ugly features with the ugliest of motives. How could they cope if they discovered that all their anger had been wasted on a dry husk of a man? Worse: what would they begin to say about her majesty the Queen? You decide it would be more sensible to create a bishop who is worthy of their hate. Once you make the choice, the piece almost writes itself. You work through the night on your monstrous bishop, gliding from one outrageous lie to another, you have never felt such facility with words, it is as if someone else were willing you along. The next morning you are shrill and voluble when talking to your friends.
"What's he like?" you say. "He's everything you imagined and more." And the laughter that follows contains an element of relief, as if an awkward obstacle has just been removed, and all the old, familiar pathways are open once again.
posted by Ben Good at 1:09 pm
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