The policeman, who hadn’t yet finished his glass of beer, lit another pipe to round off the evening, and was just about to pull his heavy boots on when he noticed Mirko’s eyes fixed unwaveringly on the chessboard and the game they had begun.

‘Well, would you like to finish it?’ he joked, sure that the sleepy boy had no idea how to move a single chessman on the board correctly. The lad looked up timidly, then nodded and sat down in the priest’s chair. After fourteen moves the policeman was beaten, and what was more, he had to admit that his defeat couldn’t be blamed on any inadvertently careless move of his own. The second game produced the same result.

‘Balaam’s ass!’ cried the priest in astonishment on his return, and explained to the policeman, whose knowledge of the Bible was less extensive than his own, that a similar miracle had occurred two thousand years ago, when a dumb creature suddenly spoke with the voice of wisdom. Despite the late hour, the priest could not refrain from challenging his semi-illiterate pupil to a duel. Mirko easily defeated him too. He played slowly, imperturbably, doggedly, never once raising his lowered head with its broad brow to look up from the board. But he played with undeniable confidence; over the next few days neither the policeman nor the priest managed to win a game against him. The priest, who was in a better position than anyone else to assess his pupil’s backwardness in other respects, was genuinely curious to see how far this strange, one-sided talent would stand up to a harder test. Having taken Mirko to the village barber to get his shaggy, straw-blond hair cut and make him reasonably presentable, he drove him in his sleigh to the small town nearby, where he knew that the café in the main square was frequented by a club of chess enthusiasts with whom, experience told him, he couldn’t compete. These regulars were not a little surprised when the priest propelled the red-cheeked, fair-haired fifteen-year-old, in his sheepskin coat turned inside out and his high, heavy boots, into the coffee-house, where the boy stood awkwardly in a corner, eyes timidly downcast, until he was called over to one of the chess tables. Mirko lost the first game because he had never seen the good priest play the Sicilian Opening. The second game, against the best player in the club, was a draw. From the third and fourth games on, he defeated them all one by one.

As exciting events very seldom happen in a small South Slavonian provincial town, the first appearance of this rustic champion was an instant sensation among the assembled notables. They unanimously agreed that the prodigy absolutely must stay in town until the next day, so that they could summon the other members of the chess club, and more particularly get in touch with that fanatical chess enthusiast, old Count Simczic, at his castle. The priest, who now regarded his pupil with an entirely new pride, but although delighted by his discovery didn’t want to miss the Sunday service which it was his duty to conduct, declared himself ready to leave Mirko there to be tested further. Young Czentovic was put up in the hotel at the chess club’s expense, and that evening set eyes on a water closet for the first time in his life. On Sunday afternoon the chess room was full to overflowing. Mirko, sitting perfectly still at the board for four hours on end, defeated opponent after opponent without uttering a word or even looking up. Finally a simultaneous match was suggested. It took them some time to get the untaught boy to understand that a simultaneous match meant he would be playing on his own against all comers, but as soon as Mirko grasped the idea he quickly settled to the task, went slowly from table to table in his heavy, creaking boots, and in the end won seven out of the eight games.

Now earnest consultations were held. Although this new champion did not, strictly speaking, belong to the town, local pride was all afire. Perhaps the little place, its presence on the map hardly even noticed by anyone before, could have the honour of launching a famous man into the world for the first time ever. An agent called Koller, whose usual job was simply to lay on chanteuses and female singers for the garrison’s cabaret, said that if there were funds available to cover a year he was ready and willing to have the young man expertly trained in the art of chess by an excellent minor master whom he knew in Vienna. Count Simczic, who in sixty years of playing chess daily had never encountered such a remarkable opponent, immediately signed an agreement. That was the day when the astonishing career of the boatman’s son took off.

Within six months Mirko had mastered all the technical mysteries of chess, although with one curious reservation, which was frequently observed and mocked in chess-playing circles later. For Czentovic never managed to play a single game of chess from memory – or blindfold, as they say in the profession. He entirely lacked the ability to draw up his battlefield in the boundless space of the imagination, and always needed to have the black and white board with its sixty-four squares and thirty-two chessmen tangibly present. Even at the height of his international fame he always travelled with a folding pocket chess set, so that if he wanted to reconstruct a championship game or solve some problem, he had the position visible before him. This defect, trifling in itself, showed a lack of imaginative power, and was discussed in the inner circles of chess as heatedly as if, in a musical context, an outstanding virtuoso or conductor had proved unable to play or conduct without a score open in front of him.