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I’ve tried. But there’s no alternative. I can barely lift my head. You belong to them now. Vosch the sculptor, my body the clay, but not my spirit, never my soul. Unconquered. Uncrushed. Uncontained.
I am not bound; they are. Languish, die, or recover, the game’s over, the grand master Vosch mated.
“My father had a favorite saying,” I tell Razor. “We call chess the game of kings because, through chess, we learn how to rule kings.”
“Again with the chess.”
He drops the dirty rag into the sink and slams out the door. When he returns with the next meal, there’s a familiar wooden box beside the tray. Without a word, Razor picks up the food and dumps it into the trash, tosses the metal tray into the sink, where it lands with a loud clang. The bed hums, maneuvering my body into a sitting position, and he slides the box in front of me.
“You said you didn’t play,” I whisper.
“So teach me.”
I shake my head and say to the camera behind him, “Nice try. But stuff it up your ass.”
Razor laughs. “Not their idea. But speaking of asses, you can bet yours I got permission first.”
He opens the box, pulls out the board, fumbles with the pieces. “You got your queens and kings and the prawns and these guard-tower-looking things. How come every piece is like a person except those?”
“Pawns, not prawns. A prawn is a big shrimp.”
He nods. “That’s the name of a guy in my unit.”
“Shrimp?”
“Prawn. Never knew what the hell it meant.”
“You’re setting it up wrong.”
“That could be because I don’t know how to freaking play. You do it.”
“I don’t want to do it.”
“Then you’re conceding defeat?”
“Resigning. It’s called resigning.”
“That’s good to know. I have a feeling that’ll come in handy.” Smiling. Not the Zombie high-voltage type. Smaller, subtler, more ironic. He sits beside the bed and I catch a whiff of bubble gum. “White or black?”
“Razor, I’m too weak to even lift—”
“Then you point where you want to go and I’ll move you.”
He’s not giving up. I didn’t really expect him to. By this point, wafflers and wusses have been winnowed out. There are no pussies left. I tell him where to place the pieces and how each one moves. Describe the basic rules. Lots of nodding and uh-huhs, but I get the feeling there’s a lot of agreeing and not much grasping. Then we play and I slaughter him in four moves. The next game, he falls into arguing and denying: You can’t do that! Tell me that isn’t the stupidest damn rule ever. Game three and I’m sure he’s regretting the whole idea. My spirits aren’t being lifted and his are being totally crushed.
“This is the dumbest-assed game ever invented,” he pouts.
“Chess wasn’t invented. It was discovered.”
“Like America?”
“Like mathematics.”
“I knew girls just like you in school.” He leaves the point there and starts to set up the board again.
“That’s all right, Razor. I’m tired.”
“Tomorrow I’m bringing some checkers.” Spoken like a threat.
