The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  She gives me a quick glance and looks away. Because I too am one of those who was tamed long ago. I’m lucky that I didn’t end up helplessly and hopelessly in love, needing constant care. That the responsibility for me has been partially shifted to Mermaid, who in a certain sense has managed to outgrow Ginger. But still I’m one of us, of those who are forever under her tattered seagull’s wing.

  She leans toward me and we embrace, touching foreheads over Tubby’s head. Just for a moment, then she shifts away.

  “You’re mad because of Noble,” she says. “But I can’t . . .”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “And Smoker . . .”

  “Oh, forget it.” I laugh.

  She doesn’t care how many people witness her fights with Noble, doesn’t care who Blind is with if he’s not with her. It’s all the same to her whether she’s clothed or naked, a girl or a boy, she’s a social animal, the kind that is best adapted to life in the House. Smoker is right at least in that—Ginger is a monster, like many of us. Like the best of us. I’ll be damned if I’m ever going to hold it against her.

  She nods and gets up. It’s almost dark, and the embers are barely smoldering. Tubby must be cold. He fidgets in his romper, grunting quizzically.

  “We’re going,” I say. “We’re almost gone.”

  Ginger puts him on my shoulders. We don’t have to tie him down, he’s used to riding on someone’s back and usually holds on very tight. She picks up the coat and the backpack and stamps out the last remaining embers.

  Tubby coughs significantly.

  “Yes,” Ginger says. “I remember what I promised you about tomorrow. But this place needs to rest now. To cool down.”

  We walk in the dusk, keeping to the strip of pavement that looks lighter than the surrounding trash. Keys and coins jangle in Ginger’s pockets. Now that the fire is gone I can see that it’s not completely dark yet.

  Tubby gently paws my face, mumbles something, and then, uncertainly, launches into a song. Must be the song of this evening. But unlike Tabaqui’s songs on similar occasions, no one will ever understand this one.

  On this Saturday the physicals are mandatory for all, so the line to the Spiders’ office stretches all the way back to the Sepulchral landing, and even spills out onto the stairs. We spend so much time in it that Logs manage to haul in blankets and hotplates from the first floor, pitch a camp on the landing, and make at least two rounds of tea before the tail end of the throng slithers inside the Sepulcher.

  Once inside, life immediately becomes boring. Can’t smoke, can’t boil water, can’t even talk loudly. Many doze off. Birds lose themselves in a poker tournament, Elephant parades his toys on the linoleum, Noble and Ginger fight and make up, Jackal picks apart a bread roll and stuffs the pieces under the cabinets—for the Sepulchral sprites.

  “It’s a mystery how, with an attitude like that, people here are afraid of graduation,” Smoker says. Feeling my stare, he turns and adds, “You are conditioned to make do with so little, wherever you may end up.”

  It’s a confrontational statement, but no one thinks to argue.

  We’ve been depressingly nice to Smoker ever since this morning.

  The line keeps shortening. The white plastic chairs, on which no one ever sits on general principle, mark the stations of our journey. When we’re one chair away from the office it is suddenly announced that Smoker is staying in the Sepulcher.

  No explanations, which is the way it is customary with Spiders. They just send for his things and we’re left wondering what could have happened to him in the time since the last physical, that all of us have overlooked. If it were anyone else but Smoker we would have left a scouting party in the Sepulcher to wait for information, but Smoker was going to be taken away by parents in any case, so we don’t protest or make a scene, and return to the dorm.

  At lunch we have this stupid argument about wheelers and their abilities. Tabaqui considers those abilities limitless and attempts to persuade us that legs are, if you think about it, a completely extraneous part of the body. That allegedly the only people who need them are soccer players and runway models, and everyone else only makes use of them out of habit. And that once humanity finally comes around to augmenting itself through complete motorization of the lower extremities, this bad habit is going to die off by itself.

  Humpback and I mount a halfhearted defense. We like legs, we’re fond of them, we don’t wish to have them motorized. Lary mutters something that mentions sour grapes.

  Tabaqui, scandalized, challenges all present leg chauvinists to a contest of speed, tightness of turns, and forward thrust.

  Noble says that after a contest like that we’re all going to end up in the Cage. Those of us, that is, who aren’t going to end up in the Sepulcher.

  “Et tu, Brute?” Tabaqui whispers, defeated.

  After lunch we witness what Jackal terms “The Great Exodus.” There’s nothing great about it. All that happens is that some successful test takers, most of them Pheasants, are released to their parents. The House, however, is good with imbuing any event, however insignificant, with pomp and grandeur.

  The first floor is cordoned off beyond the reception area. The role of the sentry falls to R One. Logs immediately crowd in front of the barrier with the intent of storming it and getting to the other side. Black Ralph holds the gate. The other counselors are busy shuttling their charges, along with the luggage.

  A skinny girl named Lenses arouses an almost universal admiration. Her worldly possessions take up three huge suitcases, two duffels, and a plastic bag. Jackal declares that he finally found a true soul mate within these walls, but ah! too late, too late, and his heart is now broken forever.

  After her burdensome luggage has been delivered, Lenses starts squeaking that she forgot to pack her favorite jacket. Three Reptiles, girl counselors, are sent to retrieve it, and each of the three bears an expression that unequivocally promises Lenses bad news. There’s no trace of the jacket. Lenses screams that she’s not going anywhere without it. Logs burst into applause. Finally the “sweet girl” is hauled bodily, by Shark personally, to reception, and after that nothing more interesting happens, apart from young Pheasant Sniffle crying hysterically and Hound Laurus delivering a farewell speech where he calls all of us shitholes.

  We don’t get to see any of the parents of those being taken away. Stands to reason: if we saw them, that would mean that they, in turn, would see us, and Shark still has enough sense not to allow that under any circumstances.

  At length the favorably tested are packed and sent out of the House. The barriers are coming down, Reptiles drift off for a soothing cup of herbal tea, and we return to our room.

  “It’s a good thing we didn’t have to say good-bye to Smoker in these idiotic circumstances,” Humpback offers.

  “Do you think he would have called all of us shitholes too?” Jackal says.

  “It’s a possibility,” Humpback says.

  SPHINX

  I’m climbing up to the attic the only way I know how. From the backside of the fire-escape ladder with my back pressed against the wall. The higher I go, the more unpleasant this way becomes. In theory there shouldn’t be anything particularly hard about it. In practice it quickly turns out that I’ve failed to account for some things. Like nails sticking out of the wall. The first one gets me in the back about fifteen feet up, the second immediately follows the first, and by halfway I’m already bleeding like Saint Sebastian, so I forget about the speed of ascent and concentrate on not meeting with another nail.

  Noble—with whom I made a bet about who’d be able to get to the attic faster—evaporates at about the same time without so much as a “See you later.” Tabaqui, our referee, whose cheerful shouts are only marginally less annoying than the nails, remains at his post.

  “Hold on, old man! You’re almost there! Just forget you’ve ever had a back, and you’ll see how easy it becomes!”

  “Thanks for that!” I shout, dragging my le
g over the next rung, pushing myself farther up the wall, scraping a bit more skin off the shoulder blades. “Your advice is, as always, filled with wisdom. And where did Noble get to?”

  I look down at Jackal, who’s now casting about forlornly, and can’t stop myself from laughing. Giggles are the last thing a man in my position should be attempting, so I clench my jaw, avert my gaze, and for the umpteenth time count the remaining rungs on the ladder.

  “Exactly. Where is he?” Jackal says indignantly. “Could it be his nerves snapped? I despair of this generation. Weaklings all, may I be forgiven. Can’t stand the heat.”

  Seven rungs left. Here, two walls of the House come together. This corner used to be an outer wall, but then it was covered and glazed and now it’s just a rectangular space, housing the fire escape and the emergency exit. The wall I’m leaning against is painted baby blue, the opposite wall is exposed bricks, and the one facing the yard is glass, but you can’t see anything through it because of all the grime, so the view is not distracting me.

  On the fourth rung from the top my calves start cramping up. I slide up as far as I can, trying to straighten against the ladder so that I barely touch the previous rung with the toes of my sneakers, but instead of putting my heel on the next one I catch my instep on it and hurl myself forward. There’s no way anyone could make me repeat this trick. I stand now without leaning against anything, the way a person with real arms would be standing on a stepladder, doing my best to believe that I have them too. From here on it’s easy. Straighten up again and imagine that there’s a soft pillow a couple of feet down from where I’m standing, which would cushion my fall nicely. I picture it in my head, make a step, and here I am, up in the attic. Or rather my head is. Not forgetting about the pillow, that’s the important thing. I don’t. One more step, and my upper half is in there; another one, and the rest of me follows.

  I climb out of the hatch, stretching on the floor, but don’t have time to congratulate myself on the successful arrival before the leg cramp twists me around, making me roll on the floor hissing, risking a fall back through the hatch. I can neither rub nor squeeze my poor appendage, there’s only one remedy available to me, and that’s biting my own calf, and I’m just about to resort to it when it becomes clear that there are two of us up here in the attic.

  In the far corner, on a blanket spread under the pitched roof, there’s a ghostlike girl in a long dress. The dress is fiery red, the girl’s hair is green. I recognize that hair, but can’t quite remember the nick, and when I do I’m not sure I have it right until she twists the thin-lipped mouth in a disgusted grimace. Then I say to her, “Hello, Chimera.”

  I’m sure I resemble an Ouroboros, but I’d like to see someone get a good grip on their calf with his teeth while looking dignified. True, I don’t think I’ve ever looked more idiotic, but the ridiculousness of my pose is not enough to explain the loathing with which Chimera is looking at me. Her look conveys to me that I’m the most revolting sight she’s ever encountered in her life. Under Chimera’s stare even the cramp begins to subside. I slowly uncoil and make another attempt at establishing contact.

  “I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone here.”

  “And I wasn’t expecting anyone to drag himself all the way up here to have an epileptic fit.”

  There’s enough poison in her words to make each and every one of them deadly.

  “I also didn’t know we were such good enemies” is all I can say.

  To put at least some distance between us, I walk back to the hatch and assess the situation below. I’m not surprised to find Noble there, confidently heaving himself up the fire escape. Noble is a very persistent guy, far from the touchy and unstable image he likes to project sometimes.

  Tabaqui wheels back and forth at the bottom of the ladder, looking up intently. The blue wall bears the bloody trail of my attempt. As I look at it I can feel my back burning and itching again, and I also get another feeling, telling me to step away from the edge. When in dangerous places, one shouldn’t be standing with one’s back to people who look at one in a certain way. I make a half turn. Chimera’s smirk tells me that she’s well aware what made me do that.

  “Hey!” Tabaqui shouts. “There you are! I thought you’d fainted up there! Where’ve you been?”

  I nod at him.

  Noble’s patterned shirt makes him look like a butterfly when seen from up here. A very purposeful and stubborn butterfly, shorn of its wings by some nasty person. He’s successfully navigated the spot where I stumbled because of the first nail and is making nice progress, but even looking at his admirable turn of speed I am still uneasy. I step away from the hatch, as if my not looking is going to make his endeavor less dangerous.

  “What’s your deal?” Chimera asks. “What are you doing here?”

  “What about you?”

  No answer.

  High cheekbones, narrow eyes, hair dyed emerald green. A living doll. She’s got a plaster collar around her neck, green eye shadow extends all the way to her temples, lips are the same bright red as the dress, and there’s so much powder that it completely conceals her eyebrows. I recall that as she walks something is always clanking under her clothes and her gait is somewhat stilted, making the image of a broken toy even more apt.

  “We had a bet. Who could climb up faster.”

  There’s only disdain in her fixed gaze.

  “You’re both idiots.”

  I happen to agree. That’s exactly the case. I go back to the hatch despite my firm resolution, only a minute ago, not to do that.

  Noble is closer than I thought he’d be, but his tempo has slowed markedly and he pauses on each step, recuperating. I feel slightly sick and go to stand as far away from the hatch as I can to prevent myself from peeking in accidentally, counting the seconds in my head. About half a dozen rungs left. I slow down the count. Chimera in the meantime sullenly goes through colorful epithets that are equally applicable to both Noble and me, and can’t seem to choose one and go with that. Apparently none of them fully reflects her opinion.

  A short while later, Noble drags himself through the hatch and stretches out near the edge, breathing heavily. Chimera’s voice strengthens. Without paying her any attention and even before he gets his breath back, Noble starts turning out his backpack.

  “Self-absorbed morons! Infantile halfwits! Brain-dead steeplejacks!”

  Noble lines up a bottle of medical alcohol, cotton wool, a pack of surgical tape, and a flask of water on the floor. Now I understand where he’s disappeared to. He went to fetch the first-aid kit, and then lugged it up here on his back.

  “Macho offspring of a middle finger! Snobs with heads up your asses!”

  Noble treats the holes on my back. Chimera slowly winds down, and finally the attic is bathed in blessed silence. Goldenhead looks around, puzzled, as if he’s just realized that it was much more noisy up here until now.

  “Hello, Chimera,” he says. “Why did you stop all of a sudden?”

  Chimera freezes, mouth agape. Not for long.

  “God, I’m excited,” she hisses. “I have been benevolently noticed! And by whom! Why, it’s Noble, the most beautiful of the House males!”

  “Now that’s an exaggeration, sister,” Noble says, bestowing a smile upon her. “It’s not entirely correct. I mean, of course I’m far from being ugly, but the most beautiful, that’s a bit much. Makes me uneasy listening to that, however close to the truth it might be.”

  Chimera gasps for air.

  Only someone closely acquainted with Noble can discern, appreciate, and enjoy all the nuances of this game, him playing a vainglorious dreamboat. The alcohol stings like seven hells, Chimera’s fury is flooding the cramped space, splashing through the hatch down to Jackal, and I’m still giggling—because Noble is deadly in this role of Prince Charming, deadly and also completely insufferable.

  He casts a condescending look about and says, “It would appear that you’re hiding here to be alone with yourself. Such
a familiar feeling.”

  “Oh, really,” Chimera snarls. “Who would have thought that you of all people would be familiar with it? And now that we have all admired your perspicacity, get the hell out of here. Leave me alone with myself!”

  “Can’t,” Goldenhead says. “The descent for a man in my condition is significantly harder than the ascent. And by the way”—he turns to me—“my time was better, so the bet is decided in my favor. Arms beat legs, it has now been established beyond any doubt.”

  There’s horror in Chimera’s glance directed at me.

  “How is it possible you haven’t killed him yet?” she asks.

  I look around the attic: gray lumber walls, dilapidated cabinets in the corners, broken furniture. Everything is covered with a thick layer of dust—that is, except the blanket on which Chimera is sitting. That looks almost new, as does the coffeemaker on it, even if it has seen some heavy use. Noble notices the coffeemaker too.

  “Oh! Would you treat us to some coffee?” he says.

  “Get lost.”

  I go back to the hatch. All the way down there, Jackal wheels back and forth fretfully on his Mustang. When he sees me he slams into the wall and almost overturns.

  “Go bring someone who can help us get down!”

  “Who is that there with you?” Jackal asks suspiciously. “Who are you talking to? I am not deaf, I’ll have you know. I hear everything. Sphinx, what’s going on? You’re having a date with someone, aren’t you? By the way, if you’re still interested, you lost.”

  “Go get help,” I say and walk away from the hatch, to stanch the stream of questions. I can hear him swearing generously and bumping the wheels against the base of the ladder.