STUPID

“That was a stupid move”

“Hmmm.”

Playing chess with Pound promised a few God moments,
but few good ones.

It hadn’t been my idea.

Miss Rudge had suggested it to Mary Jane; that Ezra liked to play chess, did I know how, was I interested?

“Hmmm.”

Thinking back, I wish that I had gone out and bought a book, telling me how to play chess with Ezra Pound, a book surely to be found in any corner bookstore.

I have a feeling that Miss Rudge would have appreciated it. Evenings in winter, in Venice, could drag on.

I only called him Pound when he wasn’t there. Sitting across from him in the dim light of their living room, a very small room, mind you, sifting through his craggy, bushy face, finding his eyes on me, cowardice came easily. It was always Mister Pound over the chess table. While I tried to find a move that he hadn’t already seen me try ten minutes ago, he would perch with his hands in his lap, one hand picking at the other, like an eagle pecking at the liver of Prometheus.

“Hmmmm.”

Surprising really, the places that I’ve ended up in.