“So, where’s our God?” I asked one of the gray-robed figures during a smoke break.

We were standing at a trail near the Lebermann Plaza. I watched a tall building outside the park, half-hidden by trees, flocks of birds disappearing from view behind its roof, then popping back up.

It was 6 PM in Waterloo Park, and preparations were almost done. The transparent pavilion sat on a platform almost in the middle of the square. In front of it was the square’s dominant feature: seating tiers that looked older than the entire park, older even than the victory it was named for.

“Which God? Yamin?” I nodded. The robed guy gave me a disdainful look. “God… God is the great Chess Master. Put this thing on,” he gestured meaningfully at me, touching his white yarmulke, “then you’ll know.”

Inside the transparent pavilion, the board itself sat, along with mats for the “eaten,” safety barriers in case figures tumbled, and narrow walkways around the perimeter. The ceiling was a console, gear hanging from metal cables off a pyramid-shaped structure that dug its four legs into the asphalt. Above the pavilion, two projection screens were mounted on the pyramid. One already showed the same image as yesterday, just no Kasparov yet. The other cycled through feeds from four cameras inside the pavilion. Powerful speakers hid behind the screens. The control booth was crammed and dark, tucked under one of the pyramid’s legs. The restless sysadmin shuttled between its shadowy guts and the pavilion, fiddling with something, as always.

“What do you see when you’re in the game?” I asked, curious. That was supposed to be Rachel’s question, but she was running late.

“Nothing. It’s like a really deep sleep. The kicker is the moment Yamin cuts the control. That’s better than LSD.”

“How can you compare hallucinations versus reality?”

“Put this thing on…” the young man repeated his gesture. “Look… there are no bigger hallucinations than this reality, I’ll tell you that much. All these Kasparovs, Yamins… they think they’re controlling something. Living in reality. Worse: building reality! They all belong on that board,” the guy nodded toward the pavilion. “Though, you know, I’m even grateful to Yamin for this torture. I agreed for the money at first, but our work isn’t worth that money.”

“Worth more or less?”

“We’ll see about that later. Might even need therapy. But to see that you’re living in the middle of a fiction? Priceless. It’s like… like there’s something to strive for, you know?”

“A person with cancer also has something to strive for. Or they could just not get sick.”

“You missed the point. You are sick! And you’ll die without ever knowing about your illness.”

Our thrilling conversation was cut short by the emotionless sysadmin. Time to check the tech in action. Thirty-two people lost consciousness again, then moved across the board, pretty haphazardly, though still in formation. Random passersby, watching the screens, doubled over laughing, seeing the computer put the sysadmin to shame.

“Are they all such grand chess masters?” I wondered. “Are they gods, by any chance?”

To clear my head, I strolled toward the financial district. Rachel had just arrived, claiming she was starving. Five minutes later, we were flipping through the Café 508’s menu, and she was gushing about her day. The interesting part started at 2 PM:

“I was at the North Austin Optimist, covering a game, just wanted to grab a bite, and Yamin calls. Says, come to my place, interview me. I’d planned to do it here, but Yamin said he couldn’t be present. I was surprised, but obviously, I ran over. Found the house somehow. I walk in, and Yamin’s in a plaid bathrobe and slippers. I knew something was off with him. Says he’s feeling a bit ill. Well, he offered me coffee, we sat down to talk, I turn on my recorder, and he says—put it away. Ended up just making me ditch the recorder.”

“So, did he say anything to explain his behavior?”

“You know, he mostly just whined to me about his life. Said you were right, that he wasn’t satisfying some kind of demand… was that true?”

“It was,” I admitted.

“He also said an interesting thing. Says if Jews are hated for something else, that makes them worthy of hatred. The fact that they don’t live up to their role. But how do you live up to it? What is it?! He says: with women, with audiences, with friends—it’s the same story: he doesn’t get what they need.”

“And what does he have to give them?”

“I think that question would’ve killed him. I just said: maybe they don’t even know what they need from this life. If they knew, they’d demand something specific. He kinda perked up. Like, if that’s the case, then it’s not so bad after all. I pressed on. I said, maybe ask them? And he says, so dejectedly: that’ll only multiply the unhappy. Anyway, he cried on my shoulder for an hour and a half and didn’t say anything substantial. I’d be pissed if he wasn’t a genius.”

“Right. So he won’t be there. Fine. Long live godless chess!”

“That, Glennie, isn’t L'chaim. I feel kinda sad after that talk with Yamin.”

“Let’s eat and walk to the water. Get ourselves back into a cheerful mood and head over when Kasparov’s connected.”