Bojan Gongalov
Farfalle in gonna

But is there a chess tournament in that villa? No, dear, it's a psychiatric hospital...

In a word, Milan.

And certainly, it does not surprise me that Milan is a Bulgarian boy.

The news comes like this, on a WhatsApp group. Bojan has passed away. Yesterday. In Padua. How, no one knows. No one says. I go to the Milanese website. And find nothing. On the Facebook page. Nothing (indeed, it would be strange if someone dies, enters Facebook, and writes it there). On the federation website. Nothing. New and more accurate searches extinguish the faint hope. It's true. On Amazon, there's "Butterflies in a Skirt." It costs me 5 euros in the (ugly) e-book edition. It's worth it.

570 pages. Written a bit with two hands, with the help of a middle school friend found again. The story of a Bulgarian boy, named Bojan Gongalov. The story, or at least something of his. A story from the seventies. In Milan. About a boy who plays music, attends the conservatory, dates three girls, does martial arts. And then heroin. That demands its due. Fights with fascists, the unasked help of a saxophonist met by chance who is a marine, an R4 named Zarathustra.

The fight against the gorilla, as he calls it, new Miles, who gets out in ten days.

Milan, Via dei Piatti. A small side street off Via Torino, next to Enzo Tortora's house. There's Milan of chess. It's evening, my friend Big Nose and I played, and we're reviewing the game (as one does in chess, or used to). We say yes, this could have been better, here I wasn't bad, those things. Then, all of a sudden, Gongalov arrives. He lets us offer him two cigarettes. In return, he explains that the move we liked so much is nonsense. But when we understand this, he tells us that even the refutation we came up with is nonsense. And so on. For a couple of hours, and almost a packet of cigarettes, he shows us what could have come out of that position. And only one thing is clear. That with every move, the color he has just moved wins. After a couple of hours, he leaves. And two kids stay there. Immobile, watching the pieces. It's Milan. It's like that.

Milan, always Via dei Piatti. A thousand times again. And always Bojan, always there. Arguing with someone. With that high-pitched voice, and those words always said through clenched teeth, in that so strange way. And if you play a tournament and Bojan is there, there's no hope in anything. Only maybe not to meet him. Or yes, it depends on how you feel. But Milan is like that. You always find someone stronger than you. Enormously stronger. So you go home, and daydream on the chessboard. You try the moves. But every time you move, you know the move you're looking at isn't Bojan's. That – at the modest cost of a couple of cigarettes – would tell you it's a foolish move, that you didn't see a damn thing, those things.

And then a strange thing. Because, of course, you can't help but know who he is if you have ever been to the Scacchistica. And of course, you can't have not seen him arguing, almost coming to blows. And – even though physically he is certainly not a giant – you immediately understand you shouldn't mess with him.

But there's one thing, strange. That you breathe and don't understand. And it's that there's something else. Like a sweetness, a strange thing, like so much that is there and that you don't understand.

Milan is like that.

One night, with Big Nose and Stefano, he allows us to accompany him home. It's night. He lives more or less around our side. At night, in Milan, traffic lights blink. A long discussion ensues, with Stefano driving, on why. Big Nose and I watch. Only of one thing are we sure. That Bojan is right!

The Gorilla, the heroin, you can defeat it. But it collects its debt, anyway. It will go like this for the Bojan of the book. And perhaps for the real one too.
But this is a story from the seventies. The years pass.

Early eighties, Cinisello. My friend Mauro is in one of those moments where he believes he is anointed by the Lord. Which greatly annoys me. He tells me he played, the night before, in the chess club. Against Bojan, of course. And lost. However, however, he found the right move. The one that would win. He shows it to me. I look at him and say are you crazy? You were playing against Gongalov! He would have done this, and this, and that! And he would crush you. It goes on for hours. He loses every variation. But I wasn't the one analyzing...

On closer inspection, then, on the Fide website, his highest Elo is 2150 or similar. Not much at all. And in teams? But come on, I think they immediately kicked him out... too argumentative. On further reflection, I don't even remember a tournament he won. No, but don't get strange ideas, he certainly wasn't a Zen player, which if you want I know, one day I'll tell you about…
Then the Milanese moves to Via Uguzzone. And Bojan too. Nearby, and it's a place I like. I introduce myself with a NOT A RELATIVE, which you won't understand. NOT THE MAYOR OF BUCCINASCO. Which Bojan very much enjoys. So he often allows me to offer him two cigarettes.

One day, a small tournament, there's a boy. He's young, Slavic, from somewhere I don't know well. He shows up with a bundle of CDs on his arm. Classical music, Slavic stuff I know absolutely nothing about. Greets Bojan, it’s clear they're friends. Sits in front of me. Before the game begins, I manage to remember what he plays (previous tournament) and think about how to refute it. I succeed, he exits the opening badly, and froths with anger. He tries to complicate, to take advantage of the little time available. Yeah, right. I win. I stand up; he struggles to shake my hand. And goes to get up. I tell him: put the pieces back together, maybe you're capable of that.

The last time was still there, in Uguzzone. We play. The Grünfeld. I play my refutation. He looks at it as if to say do I have to play with an idiot? In the end, I come out of the opening well, but I lose track, and he wins. Only, the tournament is strange. It ends up that I get a prize, and he doesn't. I see him feeling down. So I tell him if he wants, I'll show him that my refutation makes sense. For money. We play five. I win them all. So I decide to offer him a Laphroaig. And the cash prize money. And go home. Happy.