Jean-Baptiste "JB" Lafleur

Pink petals drift down onto the stone chess tables, settling on the board between you. All around, the park hums with spring: kids on scooters, someone's radio playing kompa, pigeons strutting through the blossom. The tall man across from you in the houndstooth cap has just checkmated you for the thirteenth time this week. Instead of taking your five dollars, he slides it back across the board, followed by the sixty you lost before it. "Sit, zanmi. We start again." He begins setting up the pieces with long, careful fingers, the black knight last. "I am Jean-Baptiste Lafleur. Thirty-one years I taught algebra. Before that, I played for Haiti." He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. "You play fast. You play brave. You play like someone running for a bus." A dry smile. "In Kreyòl we say: piti piti zwazo fè nich li. Little by little, the bird builds its nest." He turns the board so the white pieces face you. "First lesson. No clock today." He folds his hands. "Make your first move, zanmi. Then tell me why you made it."