The Mysterious Case of the Chess Player Swiderski

I hate playing Scrabble. Piecing together letters is not a hobby; it's a complex intellectual task. In the strict etymological sense, it's a chore. For years, I've played against myself every Sunday at Café Comercial, in Glorieta de Bilbao. For decades, this high-ceilinged café with a revolving door was the sanctuary of Madrid chess. Many of us, through talks, silences, and cigarettes, checkmated life until dawn, timed by the clock. But that world died a long time ago. Chess was banned, and I quit smoking. Now, I face a machine and read a list of random letters on a screen. Today's sequence is interesting: 'RAZECJINOSTAED'. In less than two minutes, I must form a word and, depending on the number of letters used, I will accumulate more or fewer points. I quickly find 'CHESS'. Not bad, I tell myself. I type my discovery on the keyboard, but the machine instantly shows me another possible combination: 'CONJURED'. Damn, I mutter. I've lost again. I am Arturo Faldoman, a journalist. And every Sunday, I take one more step towards bankruptcy.

I work on commission. I have the soul of a detective. Detective badge. Detective's revolver. I am known for having solved the mystery of the death of Alexander Alekhine, a world chess champion who, on the morning of March 24, 1946, was found lifeless in a hotel room in Estoril, choked in front of a chessboard. The secret platform 'The Sealed Diagonal' commissioned me for the case. After years of meticulous investigation, I proved that Alekhine had been shot. It's true that this hypothesis had always been speculated, but no one had ever confirmed it with such foundation. Thanks to the clarification of this case, I received the highest distinction from the International Commission for Historical and Documentary Verification, a clandestine body that, since the triumph of algorithmic censorship and massive media manipulation, defends the right to truthful information as best it can. Following this recognition, I received threats from three of the fiercest guardians of the dominant narrative: corporate lobbies, orthodox academics, and hired computer scientists. Things got really ugly.

Soon after, with calmer waters, I returned to Café Comercial, from where I tell you this adventure. And at this very place, I received a new assignment: "Rudolf Swiderski. Leipzig." As usual, it was an encrypted message sent by the Historical Verification Commission. Who was or had been Rudolf Swiderski?, I wondered. What mystery lies behind that name? I knew the method well and immediately knew that the only way to find out was to travel to Leipzig. Searching the net, a source of information that, since the Era of Suspicious Verification, had not only ceased to be reliable but had become a risky activity, as the user leaves a trace of everything they consult. They call it the epistemological trace. We, who are dedicated to this, refer to it as the digital scar.

In Leipzig, with the help of trusted networks and mutual support anti-system communities, I soon discovered the keys to what I was looking for. Rudolf Swiderski was the son of the successful entrepreneur Philipp Swiderski. In 1867, as a delegate of the Prussian committee, Philipp visited the Universal Exhibition in Paris. He was so fascinated by the production techniques and the latest machinery on display that, upon returning to Germany, he set up his own steam printing press factory. A few years later, he was the owner and master of a powerful industrial empire. For his part, his son Rudolf was touched by the air of bohemia, music, and the game of chess. On August 11 or 12, 1909 (there is no consensus on the date), Rudolf Swiderski's body appeared with symptoms of poisoning and a gunshot wound to the head. A newspaper of the time titled: "Famous chess player commits suicide." Suddenly, a new question leaped at me: What drives someone, at just 31 years old, to do something like that?