ANARCHISTALES

I

The elevator doors slid open on the thirty-fourth floor.

As the cabin exhaled its stale breath, the Tailor’s long navy-blue hair billowed into the corridor. She stepped barefoot onto the polished white floor, her pale foot emerging from the elevator first. The burgundy velvet dress she wore, trimmed with white lace at the hem, brushed softly against her legs.

She paused for a moment after stepping out, glancing left and right to decide which way to go. With slender fingers, she checked the strap of the backpack slung diagonally across her chest before turning left.

As she walked toward the open door at the end of the narrow, dimly lit hallway, the aura surrounding her painted slow-moving navy shadows across the walls with every measured step.

A woman in her mid-forties greeted her at the doorway.

“Welcome, Tailor.”

Inside the apartment’s spacious living room, where empty horse stalls had been arranged and scattered with bales of hay, the Illyrian rose from where he sat carving a piece of wood with his knife. He wrapped the Tailor in a warm embrace.

“I still don’t understand why you drew a stable into the sky, woman,” he said as the much smaller Tailor nearly disappeared in his arms.

“This is where everything begins,” she replied.

The owner of the apartment entered the room.

“Welcome… again. May I ask why you’re here?” she asked with gentle curiosity.

“You will,” said the Tailor. “In time, Biensen.”

“All right…” Biensen answered hesitantly. “What would you like to drink?”

She couldn’t bring herself to ask how they knew her name. Her mind was still struggling to make sense of how her perfectly ordinary apartment had transformed into a stable the moment the Illyrian had arrived.

The Tailor sensed her thoughts.

“You are in a stable, Biensen. At the place where time began.”

“How is that possible? We’re in the middle of the city… and there are horses in my living room.”

“As always, you’re naïve, Biensen,” the Tailor said. “And you don’t listen. We have no intention of raising horses here. Now, if you would be so kind, bring the Illyrian and me a glass of vodka each.”

Biensen turned and left the room, her curiosity only deepening.

The Illyrian wore the same questioning expression. He waited silently to see what the Tailor intended.

The Tailor unclipped the metal fasteners on her backpack. The strap across her chest slackened, and the bag slid from her shoulders. Yet, held only by the strap clenched in her hand, it stopped in midair, hovering inches above the floor.

From inside, she removed an hourglass, a chess clock, and a chess set.

Finally, she took out an embroidery hoop and tightened the linen stretched within it.

Biensen returned carrying glasses and a bottle of Russian vodka.

The Tailor was already waiting beside the black pieces.

“Oh, I don’t know how to play chess,” Biensen laughed, slightly drunk.

“I do,” said the Tailor. Then she looked at Biensen before glancing toward the man still carving wood in the corner.

“He doesn’t know how to play either. You’ll play against him.”

She paused.

“You need to beat him.”

“Why?” Biensen asked, her eyes widening.

“Because if you win,” the Tailor said, pointing toward the Illyrian, “I’ll kill him.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then you’ll rob me of the chance to.”

“That’s all?”

Biensen kept her eyes fixed on the Illyrian.

He continued carving the piece of wood as though none of this concerned him. After a while, he looked up at the woman, who was thoughtfully chewing her lower lip, weighing her decision while waiting for the Tailor to speak.

“That’s all,” the Tailor replied.

Biensen sat before the white pieces.

The Illyrian took the chair opposite her.

“White moves first,” said the Tailor.

“The one who moves first arrives first,” the Illyrian answered.

“Every place reached is an ending,” said the Tailor.

“The end,” the Illyrian replied, “is simply the place that has been reached.”

“Enough already,” Biensen sighed. “Can we begin?”

The Tailor picked up her vodka, settled onto a distant bale of hay, and began stitching her embroidery.

Beside her, the hourglass quietly measured the passing time.

The deep silence filling the room was broken only by the soft clink of vodka being poured and the occasional sound of someone swallowing.

When the last grain of sand fell, the Illyrian whispered,

“Checkmate.”

The white king stood trapped, hemmed in by black pawns and the queen. Biensen had walked straight into the snare, nearly every one of her pieces already lost.

She accepted defeat with quiet dignity and extended her hand.

The Illyrian took it.

Then, in a single effortless motion, he slipped her neck beneath his arm, lifted her feet from the floor, and carried her to the window on the thirty-fourth floor.

Ignoring her desperate struggle, he hurled her through the glass.

Shards exploded outward as Biensen disappeared into the empty air.

Without even watching her fall, the Illyrian turned and walked back to the Tailor.

The Tailor removed the finished embroidery from its hoop and laid it gently on the bale beside her.

Stitched into the linen was the final position of the chessboard.

She emptied the last of her vodka in one hard swallow.

“The end,” she said, meeting the Illyrian’s eyes, “is the place that has been reached.”

When they stepped outside the apartment building, they walked straight through the crowd gathering around Biensen’s broken body.

“Where are we going, Tailor?”

“We’re going to play hide-and-seek…”

She smiled faintly.

“With Muazzez.”

Chaotica ft Lacivertiğnedenlik