The-Infinite-Sea-Pdf

8
THE OLD HOTEL swarmed with vermin. The cold had killed off the cockroaches, but other pests survived,
especially bedbugs and carpet beetles. And they were hungry. Within a day, all of us were covered with
bites. The basement belonged to the flies, where corpses had been brought during the plague. By the
time we checked in, most of the flies had died off. So many dead flies that their black husks crunched
beneath our feet when we went down there the first day. That was also the last day we went into the
basement.
The entire building reeked of rot, and I told Zombie that opening the windows would help dissipate
the smell and kill off some of the bugs. He said he’d rather get bit and gag than freeze to death. As he
smiled to drench you in his irresistible charm. Relax, Ringer. It’s just another day in the alien wild.
The bugs and the smell didn’t bother Teacup. It was the rats that drove her crazy. They had chewed
their way into the walls, and at night their gnawing and scratching kept her (and therefore me) awake.
She tossed and turned, whined and bitched and generally obsessed, because practically any other
thoughts about our situation ended up in a bad place. In a vain attempt to distract her, I began teaching
her chess, using a towel for a board and coins for the pieces.
“Chess is a stupid game for stupid people,” she informed me.
“No, it’s very democratic,” I said. “Smart people play, too.”
Teacup rolled her eyes. “You want to play just so you can beat me.”
“No, I want to because I miss playing it.”
Her mouth dropped open. “That’s what you miss?”
I spread the towel on the bed and positioned the coins. “Don’t decide how you feel about something
before you try it.” I was around her age when I began. The beautiful wooden board on a stand in my
father’s study. The gleaming ivory pieces. The stern king. The haughty queen. The noble knight. The
pious bishop. And the game itself, the way each piece contributed its individual power to the whole. It
was simple. It was complex. It was savage; it was elegant. It was a dance; it was a war. It was finite and
eternal. It was life.
“Pennies are pawns,” I told her. “Nickels are rooks, dimes are knights and bishops, quarters are kings
and queens.”
She shook her head. Ringer is an idiot. “How can dimes and quarters be both?”
“Heads: knights and kings. Tails: bishops and queens.”
The coolness of the ivory. The way the felt-covered bases slid over the polished wood, like whispered
thunder crashing. My father’s face bent over the board, lean and unshaven, red-eyed and purse-lipped,
encrusted with shadows. The sickly sweet smell of alcohol and fingers that thrummed like
hummingbirds’ wings.
It’s called the game of kings, Marika. Would you like to learn how to play?
“It’s the game of kings,” I said to Teacup.
“Well, I’m not a king.” She crossed her arms. So over me. “I like checkers.”
“Then you’ll love chess. Chess is checkers on steroids.”
My father tapping his chipped nails on the tabletop. The rats scratching inside the walls.