The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  Humpback goes pale and cranes his neck. I become uneasy too, especially when she proceeds to shake the records out of the sleeves and turn them around, leaving dozens of paw prints on both sides.

  “Look at all that dust,” Long says. “Do you wipe them, like, ever? Shame.”

  She extracts a handkerchief and spits on it.

  “Halt!” Sphinx screams, shooting up. “Freeze, bitch!”

  Humpback, who jumped at the same time, falls back on the bed and wipes the sweat off his face.

  “Would you like some nuts?” I inquire.

  Long dutifully stands frozen exactly where Sphinx’s yelp caught her, and probably cogitates whether she should take offense or not.

  “Bad for the teeth,” she grumbles, taking a step away from the table. “You guys are, like, jumpy. Yelling and stuff. What if I’m gonna stutter now?”

  “It’s the day of the physical, you see,” I explain. “Everyone’s on edge. You might even say it’s traditional.”

  Long leans against the headboard and tilts toward me. “Yeah, they tried poking me too. So? I don’t give a shit. Like I never been poked before, right? Now this one time when I got raped . . .”

  I choke on the nut and cough it out on the blanket. Gaby kindly whacks me on the back with a fist. In search of a more convenient angle, she basically drapes herself over the headboard, and my perspective into the neck of her blouse becomes infinitely more fascinating. This has a terrible effect on my coughing. I almost suffocate.

  “You poor thing,” Long sighs. “It’s no fun being sick, right? It’s OK. It happens. Now this one time when I got sick . . .”

  “Enough,” Black says and gets up. “I’m just going for a walk. There’s got to be a limit!”

  He walks out, slamming the door so hard everyone startles.

  “What was that about?” Gaby says.

  “Nothing, never mind,” Sphinx says hoarsely. “Busy, I guess.”

  “Yeah, right. Went to sit in the john with a book, I’ll bet,” Long snorts. “Those four-eyes are all the same. What’s with the voice? Are you, like, sick too?”

  “Something with the vocal cords.”

  “No way,” Long marvels. “That was some shout, you know what I mean?”

  “Exactly,” Sphinx agrees. “Not bad at all.”

  Gaby peels herself off the headboard. The bed groans gratefully.

  I blink my eyes back into focus. She shuffles to the door.

  “I’m off, then. The world awaits. My regards to Blind. And to your bookworm too. You get well.”

  “I’ll make sure we tell them,” I say. “You’re welcome anytime, don’t be a stranger.”

  “Stranger, that’s not me,” she says. “But I guess you figured that already, am I right?”

  A farewell grin framed by purple lip gloss, and she disappears. The heavily perfumed air is stifling. I thoughtfully swallow the last nut and sweep the shells together.

  “What was that you just said? Welcome anytime?” Humpback says. “I’m going to remember that, Tabaqui.”

  “That’s called being polite,” I explain. “It’s what you say when guests are leaving. Especially when it’s a lady.”

  “I see,” Humpback says.

  He goes to check on the records. On their overall condition and especially on the absence of traces of saliva polishing. I drink my coffee and flip the cards of my solitaire. This new Law looks like fun. Whatever else, it certainly brings variety.

  When Black returns, Smoker starts pestering us with questions. Who was Mother Ann? It’s all Sphinx’s fault. He let it slip to Black that he, Sphinx that is, is not Mother Ann to be chasing Blind’s girlfriends out of the dorm. Honestly, that was a fib. He was never going to do the chasing himself. But Long is unlikely to come back here anytime soon if I know anything about Sphinx, and I do, believe me. Black does as well, but he’s too thick to see things that are right under his nose. Which is why we all waste so much nervous energy.

  “So who was she?” Smoker asks.

  Asks me, imagine that. It’s not an easy question. I can see Sphinx grinning. Easy for him. He’s not the one being questioned, so he’s not the one who has to answer.

  “Well, you see,” I begin reluctantly, “she was this woman who lived here ages ago . . .”

  A lousy way to start. But what else do I have? Should I have started with us inventing distractions for ourselves? With songs? Maybe Wolf’s jokes, like that snowman that we put Lary’s T-shirt on, even though we had to disassemble and rebuild it to do that? Fairy Tale Nights? It’s impossible to recall everything that has been tried at one time or another just to prevent ourselves from dying of boredom.

  “About a million years back she ruled this place,” I said.

  She did. As a principal.

  Sepia photographs, fraying at the edges: a plump woman in a nun’s habit, hands folded over her stomach. Cheeks most likely red, palms calloused. When it got cold she’d wear fingerless mittens. Those hands had to do a lot. Tin buckets full of icy water. Shovelfuls of coal. Each dorm—or dortoir, as they were called—had either a fireplace or a stove, smoky and sooty, and every day fuel for them had to be brought up from the sheds in the yard to provide heat for everyone.

  Kids in heavy hobnailed boots. Meager coats with large round buttons. Winters meant constantly chapped cheeks. “Almshouse for Deprived Children.” The House bore this unctuous Dickensian sobriquet with pride. That’s what it said on the plaque attached to the squat cast-iron gates. Every Saturday they polished it with sand, as they did everything that was supposed to shine. It was a huge plaque, for in addition to that name it also had to fit the names of the twenty-eight trustees. Each one of them had a postcard prepared and sent out every holiday, in clumsy kids’ handwriting, plus a letter from M. A. herself. With the renewed expression of true gratitude . . . Praying daily that you remain in God’s good graces. Maybe they really did give those daily prayers, who knows? Each trustee meant a small measure of joy for the inhabitants of the House, and joy was in short supply back then.

  We were down in the basement, Sphinx and I, diving into the strata of crusted papers held together with wire. Some had almost disintegrated, others survived intact, but all of them, every little scrap, reeked of damp—as if they had absorbed miles and miles of swamps. It was a pleasure to dig. There was only one other person who shared this passion for clawing the House’s past out of its most secret nooks, and that was Sphinx. For the rest of them even the most precious finds from the basement were disgusting junk. But Sphinx . . .

  “Oh, wow,” he whispered, holding a bundle of yellowed invoices. “Jackpot.”

  We pored over them, trembling with anticipation, just to add another tiny detail to the picture that was invisible to everyone except us two.

  Cloth, gray.

  And the children of the House of old dressed up in gray uniforms.

  Wool, skeins.

  And Sisters Mary and Ursula, each on her own stool, started clicking the knitting needles, one sister per dortoir, one stool per sister, and woolen socks, hanging lower and lower, snaked out of the hands roughened by incessant washing and cooking.

  Step by step, scrap by scrap, we reconstructed the House. That House. We knew how the rooms looked, knew what its occupants did, and not even M. A.’s passion for stretching the stores of apples long into the winter could hide from us. Why would she insist on that? We didn’t know. But we burrowed into the contents of that basement like two insane moles. From 1870 to the last graduating class. Throughout our research we lugged to the dorm reams of what Wolf termed “hopeless garbage,” with Lary serving as the muscle. The previous graduating class was the only part of it all that interested the pack. I compiled two scrapbooks out of the most fascinating documents, and then we cooled a bit on the whole excavation enterprise.

  So now it falls on me to tell Smoker about Mother Ann. I almost have to laugh, because it’s impossible to explain without explaining what the House was back then. I continue to d
eliberate whether I should try, while my mouth keeps running on autopilot. At some point even I myself become curious: What’s that I’ve been babbling about all this time?

  “To get on her good side you had to be very God-fearing, and know a lot of ancient texts by heart, mostly the ones that are impossible to remember, and when she was dying in her bed she made the sisters bring all the linens in the House to her room and counted and recounted them. But then she was already not right in the head. And when she died and her assistant became the principal, they said they saw the ghost of Mother Ann going from dorm to dorm, checking, counting, and rechecking, in other words, not resting in peace at all.”

  Smoker blinks and frowns. It takes him some time, because he’s busy, but I notice it anyway.

  “What? You don’t believe me? Sphinx, tell him!”

  “It’s true,” Sphinx says. “It was exactly the way Tabaqui’s telling it.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “We know everything. Anything and everything that is the House!”

  I deliberately don’t mention the basement, but my bragging suddenly rings true. I sense this truth and marvel at it. There. That’s what we were looking for. For everything that is the House. There comes a time in the life of everyone to start asking who their great-grandfather was and to listen to the family lore, so Sphinx and I descended into the basement and told the musty tales to ourselves. I shiver. We became too much a part of this place—and it, of us. It’s almost as though we had created it. There was nothing in the basement where it mentioned the ghost restlessly roaming the rooms looking for linens to count.

  That night I finally manage to escape into the hallway. Under the pretext of going to dinner, but most likely because Sphinx got bored guarding me. No girls in sight, and my dragon looks really tiny from below, barely visible. The eye glistens, but to distinguish the details you’d have to be a giant. On the other hand, the stains from the overturned paint can are quite readily visible. One might even say eminently visible. I drive over them on purpose, to declare my involvement.

  Dinner is disgusting mashed potatoes, all lumpy. A person such as I, who gorged himself on nuts and raisins all day, can only look at it with contempt. The girls are right there when I wheel back. Two of them at once. They sit on the Crossroads sofa, picking at the exposed foam rubber and flinging the pieces out the window. There’s a gaggle of Hounds assembled around them. Nothing really interesting. Besides, they’re blocking the way so I can’t move closer and hear what they’re discussing, or otherwise take part in the proceedings. I only can note that they are Succubus and Bedouinne, and that the evisceration of the sofa is being performed rather gracefully. That’s the extent of my research for tonight. Long doesn’t make another appearance either, even though I spend the rest of the evening waiting, desperately hoping that she does.

  THE SOOT OF THE STREETS

  SHARDS

  The Wheeler’s Entertainment Manual

  Racing club. Heartily recommended for any wheeler seeking excitement. Wheelchair races over hard terrain. Scheduled competition dates. Seasonally awarded cup, “The Silver Whee.”

  Cooking club. Weekends, Biology room. If you can cook something, anything, you’re welcome to join. If you can’t but would like to learn, you’re especially welcome. Note: ingredients usually not provided.

  Poetry society. If you can string together a couple of lines, you’re in. If you can’t manage even that, do not despair. Your ability to listen will be enough. Preferably with appreciation. Note: if you can’t do appreciation, find yourself another place. Poets are touchy!

  Enthusiastic bodybuilders. Advantage—the only prerequisite to join is athletic trunks. Disadvantage—you guessed it: they’re enthusiastic!

  Card players. This one is members-only, with very strict entry requirements. If you’re not in yet, forget it.

  Also:

  —Astrologers, Cof., every Wednesday;

  —Swap, Tuesdays, first floor;

  —Billiards, game room, anytime;

  —Guitarists, laundry, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday;

  —Novelists, Cof., every Saturday and Sunday;

  —Contacters, every month on Friday the 13th, Crossroads at night.

  WHILE JUMPERS AND STRIDERS DO NOT REALLY EXIST!

  Have a nice time.

  —JACKAL’S ADVICE COLUMN, Blume, vol. 22

  “Stop it,” Smoker says. “No one can know those things.”

  “We know everything,” Tabaqui enthuses. “Anything and everything that is the House!”

  Sphinx smiles at Jackal and nods. Jackal smiles at Sphinx and nods. They’re both grinning, making Smoker want to throw up. He again feels that everyone here has conspired to torture him.

  “Don’t ask, then,” Sphinx offers. “Keep quiet and be happy.”

  “Would you like it better if I were a mute?”

  Sphinx jumps up.

  “Let’s go. We’ll have a stroll. Smell the soot of the streets. You look a bit pale.”

  Smoker reluctantly climbs off the bed.

  “What do you mean, soot of the streets? Is that another joke?”

  “Why is it that you never listen when people tell you things?” Sphinx asks on the way. “Even when they’re answering your questions?”

  Smoker is trying to keep up.

  “Listen? To who? Tabaqui?”

  The hallway allows them to squeeze through the gauntlet of compassionate chuckles. The walls shout at them: KILL YOUR INNER CUCKOO! ENTER THE NEXT LOOP!

  “Tabaqui would be a good start. He answers questions better than any of us. Tries to, at least.”

  Smoker slows down.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Smoker reddens if his eyes accidentally fall on girls. Sphinx strides widely and purposefully toward some unseen goal, and Smoker recalls the mysterious soot of the streets, about which he never got an explanation.

  “Are we really going outside?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Damn! Stop brushing me off with those what-do-you-thinks! I don’t! I don’t think! Would it kill you to actually say something when you open your mouth, for a change?”

  Smoker cringes, scared by his sudden outburst and also by Sphinx’s face, which is suddenly level with his own.

  “Smoker,” Sphinx says. “Do you like crawling on the floor?”

  Smoker shakes his head in desperation.

  “Somehow that’s what I thought too,” Sphinx says, straightening up and bumping the wheelchair away with his knee. “In which case, please behave yourself and don’t raise your voice at me. I can understand that it’s fascinating stuff: probing the limits of Sphinx’s patience. I am often fascinated with this myself. But not today. I’m not in the mood. So let’s get one thing straight . . .”

  He resumes the stride without finishing the sentence, and what the thing is that should get straight remains a mystery.

  Smoker wheels after him, even though he’s not sure he should. It seems that Sphinx is already regretting the company. On the other hand, he hasn’t told Smoker to stay back either. Upon reflection, Smoker decides that he should go forward, as if nothing has happened. He loses sight of Sphinx near the stairway, but when he drives down the ramp to the first-floor landing he discovers him standing there, waiting.

  “No offense, Smoker. When I ask you what you think, it always has only one purpose: I would really like to make you think. Let’s go back to the beginning. Was I serious when I told you that it’s better to listen to Tabaqui than not to listen to him?”

  “Come on. That was not really a question.”

  Sphinx peers into the trash can full of cigarette butts.

  “Do you like this smell, Smoker? The one emanating from this vessel? I doubt it. Even taking your nick into consideration that would be a . . . perversion.”

  “Why do you ask, then?”

  Sphinx kicks the can and sniffs at the air.

  “How about
the soot of the streets? Answer me this one, and I’ll answer yours. Did you think I was taking you into the Outsides? That I regularly take strolls there at night, when I’m in a bad mood, and that this time I decided to take you with me? Dressed like this?”

  Smoker takes out a pack of cigarettes.

  “I was just wondering what it was that you called the soot of the streets. Was that so wrong?”

  “But you didn’t ask it that way. You asked if we were going outside.”

  “Why are you picking at my words? You understood perfectly well what I meant.”

  Sphinx kicks the can again.

  “Smoker. This is really bad. When your questions are more stupid than you are. And when they are much more stupid, it’s even worse. Like the contents of this trash can. You don’t like its smell. And I don’t like the smell of dead words. You wouldn’t try to turn this over and shake out the butts and the spit on my head? But you’re willing to bury me in rotted empty words without a second thought. Without a first thought, in fact.”

  Smoker, pale and frightened, teases a cigarette in his fingers. “All right, I’m getting on your nerves. You could just say so. I won’t be asking any more questions, then.”

  “Ask about things you don’t know.”

  “Right. Mother Ann, for example. And get answers that I can’t understand. Very enlightening.”

  “Tabaqui tried to tell you. It’s not his fault that you were determined not to believe a single word.”

  “Because it was perfect nonsense. Why is it that his trash is fine with you, Sphinx? How come his words don’t feel dead to you? He’s constantly running his mouth. If every word he said were a cigarette butt, the House would be buried under them. It would be one huge mountain of butts.”

  Sphinx sighs.

  “Only for someone who doesn’t know how to listen. Learn to listen, Smoker, and you’ll see how much easier your life becomes. Jackal can teach you a thing or two about that. Pay attention to what he says. To the way he frames his questions. He takes only what he needs. And as for running his mouth . . . Yes, he does that. And yes, he likes to embellish the truth. But in that avalanche of words there is always the answer, somewhere in the middle. Which means it’s not empty words anymore. Yes, listening to Tabaqui takes a knack. But it’s definitely not impossible. Others seem to manage.”