Chessboard
It was sitting in the corner of the room, covered in a fine layer of dust and
perched on a stool.
Careful not to knock down any of the precariously-stacked cardboard boxes in the attic, I made my way slowly across the attic, arriving at last at the chessboard.
The colors were muted, the pieces blocky and large. Yellow and brown squares
criss-crossed their way across the board, meeting the solid dark-brown border at the edges. A row of pawns sat neatly in front, save for one. The pawn in front of the white king had been moved two spaces up.
As a child, I had always loved chess. I used to challenge anyone who came near
the chessboard set up neatly on the desk in my room. The adults that came would sit down with me and play a few moves, then pretend to give up and hurry on their way.
Although I always enjoyed winning, there were times when I’d get frustrated at their lack of interest.
There was one person that would always play round after round with me, though.
Grandfather never tired of playing chess with me; he and I would sit outside on a
sunny afternoon, under the shade of the giant oak tree in our backyard, and play game after game. I never won a single one.
Without realizing it, I’d made a move on the board in front of me. I only realized
once my hand was off the piece--another pawn on the board moved, and it was again white’s turn. I stared at it for a second; then, realizing what a childish idea I had been entertaining, chuckled and shook my head. I’ll save this for last, I told myself. For old times’ sake.
The next day, I came back to that dusty, cobweb-filled attic. The ladder creaked
as I made my way up slowly.
I tried to focus on cleaning it; by the end of the afternoon, I’d finished sorting all
of the odds and ends scattered on the floor, and labeled the boxes that were now
neatly stacked against the wall. But time and time again, I’d find my eyes wandering to that corner where the chessboard lay, and there would be an overwhelming urge to go look. But I’d never been one to be easily distracted by the task at hand, and so I held out until lunch break to go.
Even before I saw it, I already knew. The feeling that had been creeping up on me
all morning had been confirmed. A piece had been moved on the board. All other
pieces seemed to be untouched--all except for the knight, which was now on the third row.
I just stood there, staring at it. All logical explanations ran through my mind and
were discarded, as were the illogical ones. Feeling faint-hearted, I leaned against the wall as the room spun beneath me.
It was a while before I gained the confidence to stand upright again. It was
another while before I approached the chessboard, which was still perched atop that stool covered in scratches and with peeling paint. It was even more time until I dared, with a shaking hand, to push a piece forward. And just like that, I was put under a spell.
I was obsessed. Convinced that this was a sign, I wasted away my time on the
couch, immersed in chess books and lost in my own pretty world. Every day, I’d go back to that attic, spending hours at a time sitting near the board and basking in the nostalgia of it all.
It was a startling moment when I finally saw it. The sequence that would give me
the victory. All at the same time, it hit me. The overwhelming feeling of relief,
happiness, sadness, loneliness, grief. I looked sadly at the board, where the pieces
looked back at me with empty expressions.
The last few days went by in a blur. I delayed making moves as long as I could,
sometimes avoiding the attic for days on end. Eventually, though, I’d always find
myself climbing the steps of the ladder, and mindlessly moving the pieces that would eventually win me the game.
One day, it happened. The familiar sight of the board greeted me once again, but
it was different. The memories had left, and so had the warmth that the chessboard had always granted me. So when I saw the white king laying in the middle of the board, unmoving, I wept. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. He had resigned, he had given up. Finally, after more than a decade, I had managed to win.
A gentle hand on my shoulder jolted me out of my anguish. It was my mom,
dressed in all black, looking at me with an expression of both immense sorrow and of a vast resilience. “It’s time to go,” she said softly. Wordlessly, I followed her.
As I closed the door, I looked back at the chessboard one more time.
Thank you, Grandfather, for one last memory.
棋盘
它就躺在房间的角落里，放在一张凳子上，上面落满了一层薄薄的灰尘，。
我小心翼翼地走过阁楼，避免撞倒任何一个堆放不稳的纸板箱。
我慢慢走过阁楼，最后来到棋盘前。
棋盘的颜色很暗淡，棋子是块状的，很大。黄色和棕色的方块在棋盘上纵横交错，在边缘处与坚实的深褐色边框相接。一排棋子整齐地坐在前面，只有一个棋子例外。白王前面的卒子被移到了两个位置。
自孩提时代，我就喜欢国际象棋。我央求周围的人来挑战我。
在我房间的桌子上整齐地摆放着棋盘。来的大人会和我一起坐下来，走几步，然后假装放弃，匆匆上路。
虽然我总是喜欢赢，但有时也会因为他们缺乏兴趣而感到沮丧。
不过，有一个人总是和我下了一盘又一盘。那是我的祖父。
祖父从不厌倦与我下棋；他和我会在一个阳光明媚的下午坐在外面的树荫下。下了一盘又一盘。我从未赢过一局。
在不知不觉中，我在面前的棋盘上走了一步。只有当我的手离开棋子时，我才意识到。
一旦我的手离开棋子--棋盘上的另一个卒子移动了，又轮到了白棋。我盯着它看了一会儿；然后意识到我的想法多么幼稚，就笑着摇了摇头。我告诉自己，我要把这个留到最后。看在过去的份上。
第二天，我又来到了那个布满灰尘、蜘蛛网的阁楼。梯子吱吱作响
我慢慢往上爬。
我试着集中精力打扫；到下午结束时，我已经完成了对所有散落在地板上的零碎物品，并给现在整齐地堆放在墙上的箱子贴上标签。
整齐地堆放在墙边。但是，我一次又一次地发现我的眼睛徘徊在棋盘所在的那个角落，有一种压倒性的冲动想去看看。但我从来不是一个容易被手头的工作分心的人，所以我一直坚持到午休时间才去。
甚至在我看到它之前，我已经知道了。整整一个上午，我的感觉一直在悄悄地发生变化
整个上午的感觉得到了证实。棋盘上有一颗棋子被移动了。所有其他棋子似乎都没有被动过--除了骑士，它现在在第三行。
我只是站在那里，盯着它。所有符合逻辑的解释都在我脑海中闪过，并被抛弃。
都被抛弃了，不符合逻辑的也被抛弃了。我感到心慌意乱，靠在墙上，房间在我脚下旋转。
过了一会儿，我才有信心再次站直。又过了一会儿，我才走近棋盘，棋盘仍然放在凳子上，上面布满了划痕和剥落的油漆。又过了一段时间，我才敢用颤抖的手将棋子推向前。就这样，我被施了魔法。
我被迷住了。我确信这是一个征兆，于是我在沙发上虚度光阴，沉浸在象棋中。
沙发上，沉浸在象棋书中，迷失在自己的美丽世界里。每天，我都会回到那个阁楼，每次花几个小时坐在棋盘附近，沉浸在对这一切的怀念中。
当我终于看到它时，那是一个令人震惊的时刻。将给我带来胜利的那一串胜利。所有这些都是在同一时间发生的，它击中了我。铺天盖地的解脱感。
幸福，悲伤，孤独，悲痛。我悲伤地看着棋盘，那里的棋子以空洞的表情回望着我。
过去的几天在模糊中过去了。我尽可能地推迟了行动。
有时一连几天都在躲避阁楼。但最终，我总是发现自己爬上了梯子的台阶，无意识地移动着最终会让我赢得比赛的棋子。
有一天，事情发生了。棋盘上熟悉的景象再次出现在我面前，但它是不同的。记忆离开了，棋盘一直给予我的温暖也离开了。所以当我看到白王躺在棋盘中间，一动不动时，我哭了。我哭了，直到我再也哭不出来。他已经放弃了。终于，在十多年后，我成功地赢得了胜利。
一只温柔的手放在我的肩膀上，把我从痛苦中惊醒。那是我妈妈。
她穿着一身黑色的衣服，看着我，表情既有巨大的悲痛，又有巨大的坚强。"我们该回家了。"她轻轻地说。我无言地跟着她。
当我关上门的时候，我又回头看了一眼棋盘。
谢谢你，祖父，为了最后的记忆。
（系机器翻译）
