When the pieces were arranged, Shoger narrowed his eyes and, after a pause, took two pawns—one white and one black. He hid them in his hands and shook.
“Alright, who starts? Me or you?”
His ears twitched; pale skin beneath his sparse, slicked hair trembled.
He was nervous.
“If I were an Indian,” Isaac thought as he watched his moving hair, “I’d probably cut this scalp off...”
“Don’t know?” Shoger asked and held his hands out in front of him. “If you don’t know, I’ll tell you. Everything in the world is a lottery. Chess is a lottery. The world is a lottery. And life is also a lottery.”
“He’s the master here, and yet he’s afraid...” Isaac thought.
“Listen,” Shoger said. “You can choose. I suggest you take black. In a lottery, people usually lose.”
“Left one,” Isaac said.
“All right, then.”
Shoger loosened his fingers. In his palm lay the white pawn.
“Jewish luck,” he smirked. “It’s not my fault—you chose for yourself.”
“Is this death?” Isaac thought. “I don’t want to die. Is there anyone in the world who wants death?”
And still, he ended up with the white pieces.
Isaac turned the board, glanced at the pieces, and made the first move.