The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  “Ginger included?” I say, sure of the answer.

  “No, not her. She cringes and changes the subject. Like you.”

  “All right. Come up here. Listen, and maybe you’ll understand why it is that I don’t like to recall that night when everyone else does.”

  Mermaid quickly clambers up on the bench and makes herself comfortable against my side. Her long, loose vest is crocheted so that the rows of fluffy knots running across the whole width of it can move freely, with the openings then exposing any writings on the shirt underneath that Mermaid feels like sharing with the world. She has more than a dozen different shirts with scribbles on them, fit for any occasion. When she sits the way she does now the only message that’s visible is on her left shoulder: I remember everything! What this everything includes is not clear. It could be that other messages help clarify the situation, but I can’t see them.

  She wraps the stained sleeve of my sweater around her neck and hangs her tiny backpack on the back of the bench.

  “Now you may begin.”

  I sigh and dive into the vortex of blood that is the Longest, into its impenetrable darkness, the stuff of House legends. I dive in and swim through its muck and gore, invariably the favorite subject of those legends.

  I begin where the Longest began for me. Anticipating the gasps from the audience along the lines of “Are you saying that you were simply asleep before that?” I even pause dutifully to give Mermaid the necessary space for expressing her indignation, but she does not avail herself of it, and so I stumble forward—after Humpback, who is lighting my way as we search for Tubby.

  Truly “The Hunting of the Snark” has nothing on “The Hunting of Tubbs,” especially the way Jackal performs it. “Tenderly passionate lover, lover who conquers darkness, scratching through walls of stone, gnawing through doors of iron . . .” And so on, in the same breathless key. With slight variations, where, on the narrator’s whim, Tubby morphs from a tender lover into a libidinous maniac and back, while the finding of him by Sphinx, “he who at length discovered,” changes by degrees from one stanza to the next so that I perform progressively impressive feats, ranging from digging Tubby out from an avalanche of bricks, the remains of the wall he destroyed (listening to this version I picture myself as a huge shaggy Saint Bernard, complete with the Red Cross bag across my chest), to extracting him (using my teeth) from the boudoir of the innocently sleeping stark-naked tutoress. My teeth generally play a decisive part in the proceedings while Humpback’s participation is mostly glossed over, so it is I, with Tubby hanging down from my jaws, who crosses the interminable hallways, somehow capable at the same time of holding an extended conversation with him, chiding him gently while he whines contritely. The reality is so colorless and dull, so paltry compared to that elaborate nightmare, that I race through it in double time, through my entire stumbling night journey, up the stairs with Humpback, down the same stairs with him and Tubby . . . Noble, Vulture, Blind . . . And here we are, back in the dorm, where Tabaqui is already rehearsing the early drafts of the tales and songs he is going to dedicate to this L. N.

  “Now you see, this stripling was hell-bent on going for a stroll in the dark. You realize, don’t you, what would have inevitably transpired were I not by his side? We moved in pitch-darkness, but nevertheless we moved, and I turned to him and said, ‘Be it as it may, my friend, but you’re definitely crazy!’ ‘If only I could have known!’ he replied.”

  Electric light assaulting the senses, faces in sleepy torpor. Lary clucks excitedly, kindling into the fire of Jackal’s imagination. The House is tightly wrapped in the blackest blanket up to its roof, making me wonder how much air we still have left here, inside it, and what is going to happen when it runs out.

  The pajama-clad, crazy-eyed pack, the dying embers of the feast in honor of Ginger, who is sitting between Noble and me, I count the minutes, the hours, and even allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe there is enough air for all, enough night straight on till morning, but here comes the gaunt, doleful silhouette, Vulture holding a coconut, nothing but mourning in his clothes, his eyes, and his voice, he looks like a somber Hamlet with Yorick’s skull all withered from a long stint in the grave. With his arrival, all hopes of time finally getting unstuck are on hold, at least until we get to hear the dismal news he’s about to impart.

  Vulture rolls the woolly orb around in his hand.

  “I am loath to have to tell this to you, I really am, but there is no one else I can turn to at this juncture, so . . . Long story short, there’s a stiff in our bathroom. I have just discovered him there.”

  Jackal’s harmonica squeaks forlornly.

  “My sincere apologies,” Vulture sighs. “I am truly sorry about this.”

  Crab, whom we are carrying to the first floor an hour later, in life was a greedy but discreet creature, with but two fingers on each hand. Then he, who knows why, quietly found himself within the realm of the Nesting and quietly met his death there from who knows what. And became the mystery of the Longest, one that was never unraveled.

  We would carry him, wrapped in the Crossroads window curtain (the off-white train ostentatiously dragging on the floor behind the procession), to the lecture hall and leave him there, surrounded by lighted candles in tin cans, very festive and very alone, and on the way back Black would feign insanity. Or maybe really go nuts. Yes, I know how it feels to play a patient observer and wait, wait until that singular moment when you can finally act. Anyway, he’d loudly and unequivocally proclaim his opinion of the situation. The impossible night would be ripped in two, and into that gash in the blackness would pour the swarm of fireflies, the flashlights in the trembling hands, and the raging creature in the middle of the hallway would crouch and scream, his squeals penetrating through walls and ceilings, up and down and in all directions, piercing the immovable Time itself. I thought then, and remain sure now, that it was this clamor that started the seconds flowing, as if someone, jostled by it, woke up in a world that has domain over this one, stretched sleepily, banged on the clock that was stuck and got it going again.

  It is possible that Black should be thanked, for that if for nothing else, but I somehow don’t have the slightest inclination to do so. It would become a matter of habit for many, when remembering the Longest, to mention the frayed nerves of poor little Black. What exactly happened to his nerves to make them so much more frayed than anyone else’s, including my own, I do not quite understand. As for his lost marbles . . . I’ve never before chanced to see the marbles that, having been lost, were then found so quickly and restored to their proper place without any visible detriment to the owner. It might even be argued that by pitching that suspiciously convenient fit he made the first step in the direction of the throne vacated by Pompey, though at the time it looked more like a quick saunter toward the tender embrace of a straitjacket. I understand, it’s comforting to shake one’s head sadly and point out the tough guys, like, say, Black, snapping under pressure—implying, of course, your own mental toughness that’s quietly superior to his. “We’ve seen things worse than that. Yeah, rough night, that one was. Poor Black . . .” Luckily, I don’t have an elevated opinion of my own toughness, so I’m naturally doubtful when I see Black’s nerves snap, especially when it happens so unexpectedly and so dramatically, but all that would come later. Back then, when I heard his squeals, I felt only numbness and an overwhelming desire to extinguish that sound. Many would share it at that moment. The human mass, clinging to Black like ants to a caterpillar—“Murderers! Enablers of murderers!”—would roll down the hallway, muffling the screams. By our doors he’d manage to shake us off and even stomp on some, increasing the amount of loud cursing in the dark even more.

  As I make my way toward Black (to disrupt, to seal, to stamp out forever and ever that screeching orifice!) I would stumble, knock out someone’s tooth with my shoulder, and bite my own lip clean through. By the time I reach the door to our dorm there would be no Black, or his victims. They’d a
ll have filtered inside, and there, on the territory that’s been out of bounds for strangers since the beginning of time, the Night would unspool another loop of its interminable tail while Black and Blind entertain the assembled public by staging a “delectable rumble,” kicking dust and blood out of each other. The spectacle that would inspire certain Logs, Jackals, and other sundry historians to reach unsurpassed levels of excellence. Tabaqui, to pick a name at random, would in all seriousness claim that the most damaging blow Black delivered was with the words “Love me, love my dog!” To which Blind, though busy parting the floorboards with the back of his head, still managed to yell “Dream on!”—prompting Black to thump his chest, roar, bend the iron bars of the headboard, and bark, “In that case, prepare to die!” Fascinating, isn’t it. The bending of the bars especially. No one bothers to inquire to what possible end Black might have wanted to do that, they just open their mouths and take it all in rapturously. And so do I. I don’t recall Black specifically banging Blind’s head against the walls, but it is possible that when Blind fell a couple of times he might have bumped his head. I emphatically do not recall Blind tearing Black’s jaws (that scene is obviously borrowed from Greek myths). And I am pretty sure Black did not tumble down with a cry of “I’m finished,” and Blind did not then place his foot on the fallen body before wearily lighting a cigarette.

  I too feature in those stories, quite prominently. I’m always somewhere close, beside myself with rage (that’s actually a realistic touch) and “waiting for the most opportune moment.” I wonder which moment that was. I guess I expected Blind to quickly lay him out (or the other way around, though far less likely), and then I’d jump in and throw them all out of the room, all those scowling, drooling gawkers, most of whom at any other time would not even dare dream about entering our place, but once there immediately felt themselves at home, covered the floor in spit, and even started rummaging in the back cabinets under the radar. This made me break out in horrible nervous hives right then and there. We never could find some of the tapes, cups, and ashtrays after, to say nothing about cigarettes—those were swept clean. I anticipated that, and wasn’t much surprised. I also anticipated the outcome of the fight. No one has ever managed to lay out Blind one-on-one, so I wasn’t too worried until it became obvious that he was ending up on the floor more often than Black was, and was taking more time to get up, too. That’s when I remembered he’d already taken damage from Ralph that night, and became really nervous. Time after time Black pounded his leaden fists into Blind, and Blind doubled over, and Black waited until he straightened up to pound again. The third time around, Blind crashed to the floor. There wasn’t much more noise from him falling than there would be if a bar stool fell, but the spectators gave out an almighty yell that continued all through Pale One’s attempts to restore the supply of oxygen to his system. I tried to picture in my head the nightmare that living under the Leadership of Black would be, failing utterly, which convinced me that if I couldn’t even imagine it, then it couldn’t exist in this universe. I flogged my imagination, scratching myself with my chin in all places I could reach, while all around me handkerchiefs and beer-bottle caps went flying, tossed by the ecstatic audience. I’ve never seen anything more disgusting. Blind got his breath back and stumbled a bit while getting up, grabbing the headboard of the bed near where I was sitting.

  “Horror and shame, isn’t it?” he whispered in my ear.

  “Wake up,” I pleaded. “Fight, or he’ll break you.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I seem to be a bit out of practice lately.”

  While we were thus conversing Black decided to finish the job. He took a step toward Blind and aimed a swing at him so hard that, had it landed, we’d have had to haul Blind down to the first and put him next to Crab. Blind ducked and appeared to lightly touch Black in return. Black gasped and fought for breath for at least a minute, and after that it was all over. I didn’t even have to look to know how it would end.

  I see . . .

  Blind tiptoeing away from Black, hunched, eyes half-closed, lips fixed in a grin. He’s not circling, he’s not stepping. It’s more of a dance. A soft, silent dance of Death. There is an exceedingly beautiful and fascinating quality about it, which I’ve observed dozens of times and never could figure out where it came from. It’s that leap into a different world, a world without pain, without blindness, where he stretches time, making each second last an eternity, where everything is just a game, even though it’s the kind of game where he could flay someone alive or turn him inside out with a flick of a finger. I know that for a fact even though I’ve never seen him actually do it. I feel the scent of madness on him in those moments, too pronounced not to scare me half to death. In that strange world of his he turns into something that is not human, something that creeps closer, slinks away, flies on rustling wings, spits poison, seeps through the floor. And it laughs. It’s the only game Blind knows how to play with someone else. Black has no hope of catching him. Black has been left on this side. His time is too slow.

  I see . . .

  Black crumpling. Falling down on his back, like a big doll on a string. Pale One materializes next to him and yanks the string, jerking him upright, then dropping him, again and again. He’s playing. Having fun. Except it’s too creepy to be funny. He doesn’t even seem to touch Black, and at the same time smears him across the floor, from the door to the window. Everything is covered in Black. In his teeth, in his skin. Laughter glints from under Blind’s hair. Humpback and I jump into action simultaneously, he off the bed, I off my perch above it. The rest of our guys were seemingly waiting for the signal and now join us. While we’re busy scraping Black and Blind off each other, Tabaqui notices the opened cabinets and the beer puddles on the floor.

  “What the? I count to three, then I start shooting!” he screams, frantically searching for something in the pillow mound. The guests bolt for the door, tripping over each other, and I almost expect Tabaqui to snatch a machine gun from under the covers and make mincemeat out of a couple of straggler Logs, but by the time he emerges from there, with only a harmonica in his hands, there is no one left in the room but us. He grumbles and stuffs the harmonica back, postponing the dark revenge until a more convenient time.

  I sit down on the floor. Someone pushes Blind in my direction. He crawls over, shaking and coughing, buries his face in my shoulder, and freezes. His sweater stinks of a garbage dump, with whiffs of a sewer. I am immovable, like a statue. Alexander and Ginger artfully decorate Black’s body with surgical tape. Lary shuffles around the room, scraping a broom across the floor. It’s quiet. Dead quiet, if you don’t count Jackal’s fevered muttering. Mona decides for some reason that Sphinx is the only safe place left in the room and jumps on my knees. Saunters back and forth, twice, brushing my shirt with her tail, kneads me gently with her paws, and lies down. I still haven’t moved. Smoker, his hands shaking, puffs on a cigarette over my ear. My shoulder is propping up Blind, my knees are a cat’s bedroom. Now I only need Nanette to land on my head, and it’s a perfect shot for Blume: “Sphinx at rest.”

  Alexander and Ginger finish tending to Black and look at Blind uncertainly. Tabaqui crawls closer and also gawks.

  “Horrible,” he whispers. “Look at him. Vampire, pure and simple.”

  I look out of the corner of my eye. Blind is asleep, his face calm and peaceful. He never has a face like that when he’s awake.

  Lary drops the broom and stares at Blind in shock.

  “He’s right, you know. Why would he be so blissful all of a sudden? He shouldn’t be blissful. And he shouldn’t be sleeping. I don’t like this.”

  Tabaqui revels in it.

  “That’s exactly how they are, Lary my friend. Lying in their caskets, happy and rose cheeked, grinning from ear to ear. That’s how you tell their ilk. A stake through the heart!”

  From the corner of the room where Black is located suddenly comes a sound, half moan and half roar. Noble is fussing over th
e swollen, eyeless head with alcohol pads, while Nanette peeks at his hands from behind the pillow.

  “A stake,” Tabaqui keeps muttering. “This, you know, sharpened thing . . .”

  Black groans again and pushes away Noble’s hand.

  “We should drive one through your tongue,” Noble snaps. “Can’t you give it a rest, Tabaqui? Aren’t you tired at all?”

  “Right. Where was I? I seem to have lost the thrust of the narrative . . .”

  “Look,” Ginger cries all of a sudden, pointing at the window. “There, look!”

  Humpback and Alexander run to the window. We turn around and look there too. Into the blue-black sky where a feeble sliver of the morning is trying to part the darkness.

  “Morning!” Lary exclaims majestically, waving the broom. “The sun!”

  There is, of course, no sign of the sun. Lary straightens up and salutes with the broom in the direction of the window. Smoker and I receive a shower of slowly falling gray clumps of dust mixed with cigarette butts.

  And that was how that disgusting night ended. Not at the exact moment when we noticed the first glimpse of the coming morning, of course. And not even when the morning finally came. I mean, we realized that what surrounded us wasn’t the night anymore, but it was hardly possible to call that gray substance “morning.” A transition between one night and the next, that would be more accurate. Especially considering that none of us managed to either go to sleep or wake up properly. I don’t even remember if we had any breakfast that day. I don’t remember much at all, really.

  Myself, at certain moments. Blind with the guitar next to me, and it’s dusk in the room again, must have been evening. Rows of empty bottles on the nightstand, even though I can’t recall anyone drinking. Lary’s angry yelp, as he lifts a bottle: “So that’s what they’ve been doing here, while we worry about them and stock up on provisions there.” By “there” he most likely meant the canteen, but was that lunch or breakfast? And “they” must have included me as well, because I don’t remember leaving the room or eating anything, which means I was among the drinkers.