That courtyard was the single place where our very different lives crossed.
Beneath the old oak tree was where I first encountered Arthur.
He was a distinguished eighty-two-year-old, carefully arranging chess pieces as though time itself had slowed for him.
“You look like someone who understands a good game,” he said.
“I understand losing gracefully,” I replied. “That is what poverty teaches you.”
His laughter was warm and genuine as he motioned toward the vacant chair across from him.
“Then sit. I have not lost gracefully in years. I could use the practice.”
That first afternoon, we remained at the board for hours.
His private chef soon brought us imported tea.
