Otma 82—The First Day: Trial and Resurrection

Copyright © 2011 by Serge Jusyp.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-2177-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2176-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-2175-8 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011919358

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 11/04/2011

Contents

Part One

Planet Earth

Part Two

Resurrection

Part Three

My Trial

Part Four

After the Decision

Epilogue

For all of my godchildren, official and unofficial, including Tanya, Ilya, Kelsey, Ardy, and Philipp; and for Henry, before, during, and after.

Part One

Planet Earth

These days I can’t remember how Friday, May 13, 2011, started. It’s a day now opaque to me until a few hours before it happened. Not being superstitious or anything, I had no inkling that that evening I was going to end my life or my life was going to end. You can be the judge of what really happened—then and after. My name is George Harvey. What is it about getting older that makes you think that you know at least some of the answers? To the big questions, I mean.

The part I do remember starts with me dithering stupidly over whether to try something new that evening—new in the sense that I had not played chess face-to-face with an opponent in years. I had played my own father in that last game long ago—with his chess clock, no less. I still had the clock, but my father had passed away.

It’s not just about me, though. That Friday night, there were five young people, strangers to me, whom I was to encounter and whose lives I was going to change. No, it’s more serious than that. I was going to kill three of them before the night was done—not intentionally, at least according to me. Some tiny fragment of me still wishes I could go back and do it all differently. But that can’t be helped now. Let me start by introducing you to the now dead, beginning with Philip and poor Candace. Don’t worry, I won’t forget about Bongo. How could I?

Philip and Candace in a Mock House of Parliament

For two nineteen-year-olds (friends named Philip Ramirez and Candace Middlebury), that same Friday afternoon held the prospect of their last debate of the semester. It was to be a rematch against each other in the students’ so-called mock House of Parliament at York University in Toronto. Both of them looked forward to it, even though final exams had just ended and many students had already taken to their late spring or early summer jobs, had gone home, or were travelling.

If it were somehow possible for you to ask him, Philip would say that he remembers very little about what he had done earlier that day, just like me. He would say that he recalls standing in the mock House of Parliament, which, in reality, was just a large lecture hall. As he addressed other students, he pretended to be a politician trying to convince them to vote in favour of some convoluted resolution he wanted to win the debate on, on the subject of personal material wealth. In retrospect, the resolution he had dreamed up and was going to present during the debate against Candace was a stupid one.

Most everyone who actually showed up wanted an extremely swift debate, at least at the speed of light. Most of the pretend members of parliament were, like Philip and Candace, second-year students mainly in their final months of officially being teenagers. Most of them had sex and spring fever in their heads and not logic, reason, or the supposed well-being of Canadian society. Who could blame them?

Candace was out to crush Philip, regardless. She wanted revenge—Philip had beaten her in a debate earlier in the year. That time the resolution was about spending public money on art to be put in museums but then charging admission to such places, thereby shutting out the very poor (or some such nonsense). It was nonsense to Philip, but he had still gloated after he had won. As a fine arts major, Candace had taken the loss personally. This afternoon as she listened to Philip orate, Candace tried not to show how much she wanted to win. Philip was no less determined, and he had the advantage of being the first to speak.

After getting to his feet, Philip had started his argument by showing off, spending a good fifteen minutes quoting everyone from Adam Smith to Karl Marx to Warren Buffett. Officially, Philip’s allotted time was exactly twelve-and-one-half minutes, but he had deliberately planned to encroach on Candace’s time to give her less of a chance of winning. He was certain that he already had them all in the palm of his hand.

I have no apology to make to this House concerning my wealth—or, should I say, relative wealth—since it is virtue, not money that rewards us in life, Philip continued while looking right at Candace, who was seated directly opposite to where he was standing. This House is already proof—as for many of you it’s not only through merit but also through the generosity of others that you are here—that the mere possession of wealth, even great wealth, is not to be condemned but applauded. In the resolution before you, which you will be driven to support—

At this point, Philip’s best friend and roomie, Benoît Bohnacker (nicknamed Bongo) shouted in a girlish, high-pitched tone, In your roadster, poseur?

Philip just smiled and kept going. Firstly, wealth—in its acquisition—requires initiative, ingenuity, and insight, which are all qualities to be admired. In the hands of a person of integrity, wealth results in benefits to all of society. In this digital age, entrepreneurs are accelerating the economic efficiencies of our society. If one looks at just—

Another interruption, this time from Clara Furtado (Candace’s friend and ally), who snapped, Does anyone in your family actually work? Or do they just strut for a living, I mean? Clara, already famous for being combat ready at the least of times, had once sued two of her high school teachers for failing to enrich her precocious mind sufficiently.

Philip didn’t smile this time, but merely resumed speaking. Secondly, once acquired, wealth imposes its own burdens, which any right-thinking person dare not disregard. Our university is multiethnic and multicultural, because some of the rich gave generously. The result? An entire cross section of Canadian society is here. Subsidized students have every right to be proud of being here in recognition of their personal achievements, but the patrons who freely gave are also entitled to some of the credit.

Philip heard someone, probably Bongo again, loudly humming what sounded to Philip like the melody from the death scene in Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.

Trying not to show irritation, Philip carried on. Some of you may think that wealth is an obscenity. But can’t the wealthy be as good as the poor? Whether or not you think there is an afterlife, the wealthy are human and can’t take it with them. What insulation can money provide as you lie dead in a funeral home?

The first-year law student who was the pretend Speaker of the House couldn’t resist cavilling with, Attentive children with ready spreadsheets?

Philip stayed on message as soon as the predictable groans subsided. What about motives? Ours, for example. How many of us are studying what we think will lead to big bucks? How many of us want to do better than our parents, especially in our bank balances? Underneath selfish motives are others—for example, to provide for our own children in the future, whether we are straight or gay. Aren’t we all motivated by money as we choose our courses, whom we date, or what will look good in a résumé?

He saw eyes glazing over. How many of us have been embarrassed by our parents? But how many of us have not taken money from them? How about from your grandmother who lives on less than you spend on your data plan each month?

Had he lost them? They were quiet now. He was taking way too long. Philip caught his breath and looked directly at Candace. Flushing slightly, he realized that although they had known each other since they were fourteen, in the most important ways, he didn’t know her at all. Both of them had attended the same high school in Vancouver. Both had opted to attend York University in Toronto for their undergrad programs.

As Candace calmly sat there, maintaining an indifference to Philip, he wondered if he was really in love with her and if it had started when he first met her or later. This thought derailed him. Had everything he said so far in the House been that megastupid? In this brain freeze, he did see the Speaker glance toward Candace while pointing to the official debate clock, and Candace shook her head, remaining aloof to Philip’s arguments and the overrun of his allotted time. Philip realized that he had to get to the end, and quickly.

Finally, Philip went on, can any man-made Utopia be attempted without megadollars to support it? Sir Thomas More, five centuries ago, proposed that there is a certain conspiracy of the rich which keeps the poor poor and requires communism as the antidote. Would any of us looking at the last five centuries have any doubt that capitalism, governed by democratically enacted laws, is the real antidote to poverty? That alone is enough for you to support my resolution. Thank you. He sat down to no applause—dead silence.

Everyone knew that he had used up a chunk of Candace’s allotted time as well as all of his own, without her protest. That made the thirty or so of almost exclusively male students left in the House (after a fair number of others had already sneaked out) immediately attentive. Candace’s obvious physical attractiveness had some of these boys even holding their breath as she stood up to respond to Philip.

She began, Thank you, Mr. Speaker. I have only two things to say. First, we have just heard a boring overshare of someone’s purely personal situation. There was nothing of concern to this House in the countless words used by my friend and opponent.

Clara applauded loudly and shouted, Hear, hear!

Second, Candace smiled and continued, holding up both of her hands in front of her own face and gesturing as if to deflect an onrushing vampire, was any truth mentioned during this tedium? The longer he hectored you—I would not say ‘droned on’ out of my deep respect for him—the more it reminded me that the longer the argument, the less value there is in what is being argued for. In summary, the resolution I urge you to support is simply that while the wealthy must never be scorned, they must certainly be obliged to work. I mean real work, not just paying their taxes, which they might otherwise manage with a few mouse clicks from their mansions, ski chalets, or yachts.

Candace then abruptly sat down. Time remained on her clock. As the Speaker started the ringing of the mock electronic division bells signalling the opening of voting, a few of the students began to applaud, but as more of them appreciated the cleverness of Candace’s response to Philip, the applause grew.

Then a familiar chant started: Pizza! Beer! Pizza! Beer! It was the custom that the losers paid the winners of the various side bets that were part of the fun of these debates, at least for many of the male students.

The result came quickly with almost all of the students voting through an app on their cell phones. Needless to say, Candace won and Philip lost.

My Own Game

As all this was happening, I had been absent from that funny game of war called chess for some thirty years, pursuing family, work, and other diversions. Out of some desire to shake myself up, I guess, I had warmed to the idea of competing against live players again. I had been playing online, but it wasn’t much fun. That same Friday afternoon I found the necessary info through some Canadian chess websites, and later on I drove to one of the three remaining local chess clubs. The club I picked was warehoused on the third floor of a forgotten building in which the presumptive anchor tenant was a furniture store. I know—I had no real social life. I admit it. But being fifty-nine and twice divorced, what do you want?

Old-fashioned chess had not moved uptown or downtown in Toronto during my decades of absence but had been relegated to the northern suburbs. Lonely parking meters testified to the unpopularity of this street on a Friday evening. As I walked up to the building, I saw three teenage boys, all smoking and speaking Russian to one another in front of an unlighted and unmarked entrance to the building’s upper floors. I took the Russian to be a promising sign. They had genuine smiles and genuine indifference toward me as I walked up. Was the club even open? Why hadn’t I called first to find out for sure?

With no elevator that I could see, I passed by increasingly reassuring images as I climbed the broad stairs. On the first landing, two small boys on an old couch played side by side on their individual Game Boys but seemed oblivious to each other. On the next landing, I found two middle-aged men, standing but somehow still playing chess on a board barely sitting on a three-legged, sixties-era coffee table between them as each took turns holding a chess clock.

As I reached the third floor, I saw two signs, handwritten in permanent marker and carrying dire warnings: Absolutely no kibitzing and Turn off all phones and devices. Once I walked through the door to the club, I could hear muffled screams and the whaps of many hands striking chess clocks—unmistakable sounds of blitz chess in progress.

Festooning the inside of the door of the club, I read a fading plaque: Grandmaster Plus Chess and Games. I then saw the identical words on the front of the T-shirt of the young man who met me with the classic chess greeting, Did you bring your own clock? Nervously, I dug out my father’s old chess clock from its cloth bag. After suppressing horror, my host politely and sincerely asked whether it still worked. Blushing, unmasked as a dinosaur, I replied lamely, Never failed yet.

This young man, whose name turned out to be Ben Cooper, then asked me, Sir, what may I call you?

George I replied, and he handed me a stick-on name tag, which I printed my name on and slapped on my shirt.

Ben next asked me, So, sir, are you here to sign up for tonight’s fifteen-minute Swiss tournament or the one-minute blitz? Rated or unrated sections?

Although I had already realized that Ben—who I later found out was twenty years old and a solid player whose chess rating was a bit above two thousand—saw through me completely, I still wound up saying, Swiss, fifteen-minute, grandmasters’ section, please. But I could not keep a straight face. Ben laughed with me, and I finally released some of my apprehension.

Ben said, Tonight, players without a proper Canadian Chess Federation rating will get to play against those with actual ratings of eighteen hundred or less. I think there are already about five players rated seventeen hundred or more in that category who have signed up, so you’ll have some good games. The admission for you will be the advertised first-time ten dollars, taxes included. I will insert you into the draw at the newcomers’ usual provisional rating of fifteen hundred, and the first round pairings of your section will be posted on the wall between the blitz room and the fifteen-minute room in about ten minutes. Do you have any questions?

The next part was easier. After I paid the ten dollars, Ben went through his usual spiel for newcomers, including pointing out to me the two most notable players there that evening—eight-year-old Ali (nicknamed Baby Croc, chess rating seventeen hundred ninety) and fourteen-year-old Elena (a prodigy whom only the teenage boys called Jailbait, chess rating nineteen hundred sixty-two). Ben confided that Elena’s recent and secret boyfriend had been a sixteen-year-old player whom she had just dumped when a nineteen-year-old with a much higher chess rating had shown some interest in her. I saw Elena’s chaperone and coach, her grandmother, who I discovered had her own nickname: Zee Vicked Vitch of Vilnius. Ben said that the old lady had also been a chess prodigy in her time. He added that this witch had indeed been born in Vilnius, Lithuania, but was ethnically Russian, adding to the sting of her nickname, which she hated but tolerated as she had vowed long ago never to let boys or men get the better of her in chess or life. I never did find out what her real name might have been.

Is this really going to be my new social life? I thought to myself.

I was still intimidated when Ben added to my discomfort, telling me that both Baby Croc and Jailbait, veterans of international chess at the junior level, had recently been whisked away to Lisbon and Dakar on a one-week, two-city, all-expenses-paid road trip by the Canadian Chess Federation and various sponsors and donors, including the kids’ parents, no doubt. All at once, my being forced to retire and lingering in that shameful state called long-term disability clouded my mind. I felt an increased inner jostling of stress from my decision to play against real opponents that evening.

When I finally asked Ben about players closer to my own age, Ben sighed and mumbled that I would get to know them all soon enough. A few moments later, I looked at the posted matchups to assess my probable opposition in the seven rounds of the fifteen-minute Swiss tourney I had signed up for. Being old and an outsider seemed worse as I noticed that almost everyone else on the list had to be younger than thirty—that, and everyone around me seemed to be wearing earbuds for their iPods, an evident tacit exception to the no devices rule.

However, fortune smiled, and I won my first two games. My third opponent turned out to be someone who could play—Boris, a thirteen-year-old boy with a bad haircut. During my game with him, his father kept hovering like some bird of prey, and a coach (very Russian, of course) could be found lurking among the game tables. Boris won, but I would have expected any normally coached aspiring chess player his age to beat me, given my modest insights into chess. He was quite the little gentleman, consoling me afterward.

After my two wins and the loss to Boris, I lost the next four games and felt embarrassed. I lost my last game to a sixteen-year-old boy playing an anti-Marshall attack by him as White in a very brisk thirty-eight moves. I resigned when this kid had barely used up two minutes of his clock. It’s amazing how some details stay in one’s memory. I remember wondering what I was really doing there.

After this last drubbing, I noticed Ben slowly closing up the club for the night and asked him how far away he lived and whether he needed a ride. Happy to avoid his normal long bus ride to the nearest subway station especially on a night when it had been raining on and off, Ben suggested that he would be delighted to reveal the club’s remaining secrets, which he could do in far less than the fifteen minutes or so it would take to get him to the subway in my aging Volvo.

Familiar with this area just north of Toronto, I planned to take various side streets more or less southwest from the suburb of Markham where the club was, eventually to the north end of Leslie Street at Steeles Avenue East, then south along Leslie back into northern Toronto, then down to Sheppard Avenue East and the subway station there.

Four Friends

That same night, Philip had plans with Candace, Bongo, and Clara. Before the debate, the group had given thumbs up to Philip’s suggestion of some camping that weekend at Sibbald Point Provincial Park on the south shore of Lake Simcoe where they would pitch their tents and hang out. The weather for the weekend promised to be cool and rainy, but the group hoped to be far enough north of Toronto to escape the predicted thunderstorms and to see some sunshine. Although it would be quite cool by Lake Simcoe, everyone still wanted to get out of the city and away from the university. Because this would be the first weekend the park would officially be open for the 2011 season, the group hoped that there would be few other campers and relative privacy.

Philip’s idea involved very little cost, and that added to its appeal. With Bongo at the wheel of his Stone Age Civic, Clara beside him, and Candace and Philip scowling at each other in the back, they started heading away from York University. First the group would travel northeast past the suburb called Richmond Hill and into Markham to drop by Clara’s parents’ house to pick up some stuff she wanted; from there, they’d eventually go north along Highway 404 toward the lake. Bongo kept annoying Philip with overly frequent glances and smirks in the rearview mirror.

Other than Philip and Candace knowing each other from Vancouver, this foursome became friends only since somehow coalescing at the beginning of their first year at the university. Despite dozens of squabbles, this gang of four had stuck together.

Roommates, and at this point best friends, Bongo and Philip had only had one memorable fight—a violent but still completely juvenile wrestling match over which of them would be the first to be blown by either Candace or Clara. Bongo pinned and almost smothered Philip into unconsciousness, but it ended safely. Both young men knew that neither of these young women was in a rush to have sex with either of them.

Like so much of Philip’s life at the moment, everything seemed to consist of hypotheticals. He was thoroughly sick of them. He had no interest in water fights, getting drunk, pranks, or any other undergraduate mayhem. While in the back seat, Philip had a number of questions repeating in his head: When would life really start? Will Candace have sex with me this weekend? Should I bother getting some job this summer here or go home to Vancouver?

A Local Stop Sign

Bongo, ever the careful driver, maintained a snail’s pace. Philip saw a coffeehouse and suggested that they all grab something at the drive-through window. He still felt the embarrassment of losing to Candace, while at the same time thinking about sex with her. She was not fooled and had a good idea what Philip had in mind for this weekend. Finally was his watchword and hope, and he didn’t care whether Bongo and Clara got together. Bongo had become his best friend, but even he got on Philip’s nerves too often, and he always managed more success with girls than Philip. Maybe because Bongo was an artsy type, played the piano, and sang, or maybe because Philip was too serious.

After they picked up the round of lattes, which were Philip’s to pay for after his loss of the debate, Bongo proceeded down a side street of sorts, but one along which he could get past some residential areas quickly and get back onto major roads. The one stop sign along this street, called North Indian Trail, was a four-way where it