Faust picks right. Literally. He wins white and gets to make the first move, sliding a center pawn to e4 for an utterly average King’s Pawn Opening. What a shame. I thought he was more interesting than this.
“Have you played before?” he asks, looking at the board.
I mirror him, my black pawn butted up to his white pawn. We’ve effectively cut each other off at the knees. “Never.”
“Me neither.”
“I can tell.”
In my non-Grandmastered opinion, there are three types of chess players: positional, tactical, and theoretical. I’m a positional player who dabbles in theory, setting up my careful beginnings, planning, waiting, and then going for the kills. Faust, I learn, is tactical—and that surprises me. His next move is bumping out his bishop, clearly going for the Scholar’s Mate. And now I’m disappointedandinsulted.
Smiling, I plop my knight in front of the pawn he would’ve swept if I hadn’t seen this lazy, beginner-headshot of a strategy coming from a mile away. “Seriously?”
His eyes gleam. “Just checking.”
“Oh, sorry, Officer, I wasn’t really stealing candy from this baby, I was just checking to see if I could.”
Predictably, he wins a piece from me first. Tactical players often do, an idiot’s gambit. Faust is smug as he sets my black pawn next to his plate.
“All right, one question.” I cross my arms, already bristling.
He has it locked and loaded. “What’s your favorite food?”
I blink. Any question, and he starts here? “Fries,” I answer, slightly embarrassed. Maybe it wasn’t the worst question.
He smiles to himself, though he doesn’t share his thoughts with me. “Does Bernard know that, or just me?”
“One question.”
“Okay. Your move.”
I go easy on him, too, when it’s time for my first question. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Classical.” Faust watches me set his captured piece down. “I like Stravinsky.”
“Oh my god, you’re such a stereotype.”
“Have you listened to Stravinsky?”
“Rude.”
“The Rite of Spring—”
“Caused a riot, I know.”
“As any song inspired by a virgin sacrifice should,” he says.
I blush. Hadn’t known that. “So many stories of girls dancing to their deaths,” he adds, and I can feel him staring at me.
“Is there any other way to meet it?” I frown. “Your move.”
In two more turns, he gets to ask, “Are you religious?”
Danger. “Not really, no. You?”
“Raised Catholic.”
“Fancy.”
