Interesting Questions

BY DR. AGONSON

“I played chess with a ghost once,” my friend offered. He was always a little uneasy in long drawn out silences, as well as short pauses, as the case may be. To the point, I had been recalling some morose ethical considerations touching upon the inescapable necessity of—I have forgotten it all now—and seeing as I hadn’t spoken for a good second—I was collecting my thoughts!—he provided this strange revelation.

Sighing a little, knowing I would never finish whatever I had been saying, I motioned for him to continue.

“It’s just, I set up a chessboard once. You know, kings and queens, their pawns, everyone all in order, and when I turned around to see to the phone—well, when I came back the queen’s pawn had moved, e4.”

“Shouldn’t it be d4, I interjected.”

“Whatever,” he waved his hand. “Don’t interrupt me.” I laughed at that. “Anyway,” he went on, “for a week or so, I would move a piece, leave the room for some business, and a mysterious and invisible hand would make a move. He was rather good too.”

Considering this, I joked, “Perhaps you played yourself.” He scoffed. “I don’t know,” I said, “given your memory. Half the time we play you get bored in the middle and forget your stratagems.”

“Ridiculous,” he said, “I lost the game, you see. Got up one morning, and there it was, checkmate.” Sitting back, he added, “I very well didn’t checkmate black and forget it.” His face dropped a second as he finished.

“Whatever the case,” I said, “It’s an interesting question.”

“What is?”

“Given man’s nature, should we expect, assuming he strove against himself in some contest, the dichotomy of his dark and his light side, what result do we suppose—”

I had been unmindful enough to think for a moment, allowing my friend a chance to interject, “I wonder how he died.” It took me a moment to return to his side of the conversation. Before I had an answer, he went on without me, “Given how good a player he was, or she—”

“Why don’t we ask him?”

“Tried,” he rejoined. “no answer.”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “And were we to receive an answer . . . ” I paused, waiting for his interruption. Glancing at my friend’s face, I found him rapt with attention.

“Go on,” he intoned.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“Pity. I thought you were going to say something interesting for once.”

We sat there silently, he and I. Looking out a window, I mused, “I saw,” I couldn’t complete the sentence.

“Most don’t admit it,” he said.

“I know. I was young, it was night, I was scared—what can I believe? I just want to laugh it away.”

“You’ve spent your whole life,” he said, “pondering nonsensical ‘ethical considerations.’ Maybe do something more with your time. You can imagine things deeper and clearer than anyone I know, and yet you won’t turn that powerful sight onto anything of real substance.”

“But ghosts aren’t substance? Are they?”

He just looked at me and smiled. “Well what are you?” he said. “A bag of bones? Sixteen stone of meat? Are you so surprised to think that these passing shadows you call substance should have a counterpart more real? Or do you refuse to see what’s before you, what your own life is? Does meat see a summer day and feel a summer breeze? Do you not hear music at times? What is Beethoven if not a stirring of something deeper than the molecules of the air? How have you, a great man of thought, not thought of these things?”

“I rather enjoy our games of chess,” I said. He stared at me, silently. “Maybe I should play your ghost.”

“You just might answer an interesting question if you tried.”