Peggy Streep, 1925

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Peggy Streep was an American chess player, and an activist. Chess was her favourite game. In the corner of her apartment there sat a little folding wooden table, atop which lived her wooden chess set. Today, she would not be able to play while listening to classical music, as was her preference. Peggy Streep adored the strategy of chess, and above all the power wielded by the queen. The queen was one of the most important pieces on a chess board. She could move in any direction over an unlimited number of squares. She protected the king. Yet there were not many women who played chess. Here in New York, Peggy Streep had heard it all a thousand times: “Women make terrible chess players. I’m not sure why, I guess they’re just not that smart,” or, “She’s got talent, but she’s still a girl.” Some of her male opponents refused to shake her hand, which made it feel all the sweeter to wipe the floor with them and savour the shame on their faces. Women can’t play chess, girls don’t do strategy. Often, Peggy Streep left her home with a chess set under her arm and a folding table in her hand. She set herself up in Central Park, laid out her board before her, and spent hours observing the pieces, trying moves and playing alone. Sometimes an old man would offer her a game and sit down opposite her on the grass, only to be floored by her talent.

Peggy Street’s dream was to visit Paris, the City of Light. How she would love to cross the Atlantic and take part in the ladies’ chess championship at the Café de la Régence. Paris and its Arc de Triomphe; Paris and its immense monuments, its museums, its sidewalk cafés overflowing with Frenchmen. She’d heard that in Paris they were more accepting of women chess players. She’d been told that the best players in all of Europe were to be found at the Café de la Régence – even Napoléon Bonaparte had played there. The French seemed a reasonable people, judging by the gift of the statue they had given to New York. If only “Liberty Lighting the World” could enlighten the minds of New Yorkers, perhaps they could hold a mixed chess tournament here in Central Park. Peggy Streep set up her table and opened her chess board. She was alone, facing her invisible opponent and most loyal companion. She pushed a wooden piece over the board. That was what they called mediocre chess players: wood-pushers. Here in the park she could not listen to her favourite composer, Chopin, who had himself been a talented chessman. But her blind game felt like a symphony; the pieces were its subject, and they disappeared from her mind as their movements produced the sounds of instruments, flowing together into a triumphant finale.

As usual – as always – an old man had come to sit opposite her. He had set his cane on the grass, and asked if he could join the match. He pushed the wood with a polite smirk, certain of victory. Peggy was easy on the eyes, and wore many trinkets that jingled and jangled as she moved the pieces. The young woman’s perfume stirred something in him. “Ah, these youth, these women and their rights,” he thought to himself. The old man was impatient. Peggy Streep began to toy with him, musing: “Chess is a game of chance, really. You just have to know how much chance will get you to a winning move, and how much will tip you into a fatal mistake.” The old man did not answer. He was two moves away from losing. “Checkmate,” cried Peggy Streep with a beguiling smile. “You are…very talented. Bravo, Miss,” he mumbled.

Alan Alfredo Geday