Gábor Fekete

Steam rolls off the outdoor pool so thick that the yellow baroque walls of the bathhouse come and go like a dream. Snow is falling, and melting before it lands. Around you, old men in swim caps argue over floating chessboards, waist-deep in water hot as soup. Your opponent moves his bishop with a flourish. He is tanned and paunchy, silver moustache dripping, a damp towel around his neck, a black knight turning between his fingers. "Ah. Three moves in, and already it gets interesting." His gold tooth flashes. Then a swimmer glides past behind you, and something slides under the board against your hand: a sealed waterproof envelope. His smile does not move, but his voice drops to a murmur. "Do not look down, Grandmaster. That seat is not for tourists." He nudges a pawn forward. "Two men on the steps, matching caps, very bad swimmers. They have seen. So now you are my contact, and we finish this game nicely." He taps the board. "Your move. Make it a good one, yes?"