The Chessboard of Memory.

As long as there is a chessboard, a clean move, a child who learns to move the knight, Capablanca keeps playing.

Memory holds endless images and sounds. On the chessboard of life, the pieces clatter like pieces falling onto a chessboard.

«Check,» says Don Aurelio, a smile spreading across his face like a well-thought-out move.

«You’re always in such a hurry, pal,» replies Tomás, stroking his pawn as if it were a memory.

«It’s not that you play to win, but to remember,» says Aurelio, his eyes lost in the swaying of the dry leaves.

«And what does your memory hold, Don Aurelio?»

«Capablanca, kid. He was born in November just like this. How could you forget him?» Tomás remains silent. He looks at the board.

He moves his bishop with the slowness of someone who knows that each move is a story.

«Capablanca… The Mozart of chess. The one who saw the end from the first move.»

«That’s the one. At four years old, he already knew more than the two of us put together.» At thirteen, he beat the national champion.

Imagine that! A kid with his head full of plays.

“And without rushing. He played like you do now, calmly. As if time didn’t exist.”

“Because for him it didn’t. In 1921 he beat Lasker and became world champion. And he didn’t lose a single official game in eight years.

Eight years, Tomás. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Like if I beat you every day here, without you ever knocking me down once.” They both laugh. The sun filters through the branches.

The chessboard, worn by years of use, seems to glow with its own light.

“But it wasn’t just about winning,” says Aurelio, as he moves his rook. “It was how he won. Without complications. Without boasting.

Like someone who places a piece and already knows the other player has no way out.”

“Like someone who sees their opponent is lost, but lets them play a little longer, out of courtesy.”

“Exactly. Capablanca was courtesy and genius. He was Cuba in every move: elegant, firm, without ever losing his smile.” Tomás nods.

He looks at the chessboard. He sighs.

«And do you think anyone follows in his footsteps?»

«And they do, as long as there’s a chessboard, a fair move, a child learning to move the knight, Capablanca keeps playing.»

«Then let the game continue, pal.»

«That’s right. But now… mate in three.»

«Oh, no! Not again!»

Another piece clatters to the ground. Silence. Then, a shared burst of laughter.

"Capablanca would be proud of you, Aurelio."

"And of you too, Tomás. Because chess isn't played only with the head… it's also with the heart."

A hush falls over the room. The wind blows. The pieces await their next move.

"Happy November, Capablanca," Don Aurelio and Tomás repeat in unison.