The Gray House

by Mariam Petrosyan

  “Lousy.”

  Sightless One sits across from us. He looks exactly the way he always does, no image changes for him. Maybe a little more transparent, that’s all.

  “That’s not good,” he says. “Pull yourself together. You’ve got responsibilities.”

  “Keep your leadership lectures for another time, will you,” I say. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Blind agrees with surprising amiability.

  “As you wish. Except there might not be another time.”

  The lights blink and switch back on. Twice. The beards in the corner whistle disapprovingly.

  “Wow,” Noble says, aghast. “Will you look at that . . .”

  I turn around. There’s a strange creature making its way toward us between the tables. It’s naked and skeletally thin, with stubs of wings over its shoulders, covered in sores and welts from head to toe. A rusty iron collar encircles its neck, trailing an equally rusty chain all the way to the floor.

  “What kind of sick thing is that?” Noble whispers. “Night of the living dead?”

  “Of course it’s not dead,” the Sikh says reproachfully, taking a break from the hookah. “This is our dear Alexander.”

  The mangled angel stops in front of us, holding his chains gingerly, and waits. The white feathers that he has on his head instead of hair are hanging down over his face, the remains of the wings expose the bones. It would be better not to look too closely. Every wound is crawling with something that would be better not to notice. The face bears an expression that would be better not to remember. Noble turns away and fumbles for his crutches, taking sharp indrawn breaths.

  “Alexander,” I say. “Enough with the crazy.”

  He raises his eyes at me. Wine-red eyes on the white face. I see that it’s in fact Ancient. Or that he looks like Ancient.

  “Stop this, please,” I beg him. “I’ve already forgiven you. There is no blame on you.”

  “Really?” he says in a cracked voice. “You’re not just lying to me out of pity?”

  “I never lie out of pity.”

  The lights go out again. Screams in the darkness.

  I close my eyes, and when I open them I’m back in the canteen. A boombox is blaring under the Rat table, a continuation of the screams that ended my visit to the Not-Here. Lary nods in sync with the music, wiping a plate with a piece of bread. Tubby is dozing next to him, face down in a stained bib. Alexander is busy with his soup, bent low over it so that no one can see he’s crying.

  Tabaqui shoots me a withering look.

  “Sphinx, what’s going on here? I demand to know what’s going on!”

  “Nothing,” I say. “What possibly could have happened here?”

  “You hurt Alexander, didn’t you?” Jackal presses on. “Because I’m going to kick the crap out of you if you did!”

  “Everything’s fine,” I hiss through clenched teeth, getting slowly steamed by his nosiness. “Calm down and leave me alone.”

  “If everything’s fine, why is he crying?”

  “And why are you asking Sphinx?” Blind inquires, throwing a crumpled napkin on the plate. “Can’t a member of this pack have a cry in peace without you butting in?”

  “Sphinx has promised something to him,” Tabaqui persists. “And now Alexander’s crying.”

  I get up and leave the canteen before he has a chance to really get to me.

  Right outside the door, I walk into Noble sitting on the floor with a look of someone just condemned to death, hugging his crutch. I sit down next to him.

  Noble blows his nose loudly into a handkerchief and says, “You need nerves of steel with this crowd.”

  He goes back to cuddling the crutch. I look up at the ceiling, at a snaking line of letters barely distinguishable from down here, and think: There we go, the need for expression has driven them to the ceiling, it’s only a matter of time before ceilings start looking like walls with all the writings and drawings, and whoever would want to read them would need a stepladder, so we’re going to have an infestation of stepladders in the House.

  I sit in silence and think about all of this.

  RED

  They throw a bucket of soapy water on the floor. Clanking, splashing, sudsy rivers flowing. Colored green, for me. For everyone else they’re probably gray. Those who didn’t scamper out in time now besiege the windowsills and peer down, terrified.

  The second bucket. The rivers receive reinforcement, and there’s a veritable lake on the floor. I wouldn’t want to swim in it. Just the accumulated spit alone would be enough, though it can’t be seen, actually, having merged with the suds. But the cigarette butts and assorted floating half-eaten dreck melts and congeals unpleasantly.

  “I wish I had a boat,” Whitebelly squeaks from the windowsill, leaning precariously. “Sail away, sail away! A rowboat!”

  Someone pushes him off, and we have one more Ratling-worth of general wetness.

  Microbe and Monkey, both sour-faced, push ahead brooms wrapped in rags. Water splatters everywhere. They look at their shiny boots in horror, as if they haven’t been walking over this same crap for the last month, only sans water. The brooms reach the wall and turn the other way. Honestly, it’s all just spreading around the dirt. Not much effect at all. Still, if this isn’t done once a month, I shudder to think what would happen to all of us here.

  Gaby, Echidna, and Treponema mill at the doors, pretending like they’re all dressed up to pitch in. Echidna is even clutching a brush, with two painted talons, as if she’s holding a delicate flower arrangement.

  I look around the dorm. It’s almost empty, apart from the spectators. Everything that could be hauled out has been. I grab a sleeping bag that’s drifting nearby and drag it to the bathroom. It spews forth torrents of water. The maidens scatter. Figures. This is the communal screwing bag, better not to imagine what’s inside. Personally, I wouldn’t venture to climb in on the pain of death.

  I lower the leaky monster in the bathtub, open both taps wide, and pull on the zipper. It’s stuck, naturally. I yank on it harder. Then I leave the bag to bleed out and beat a retreat.

  There’s a mini-assembly in the dorm, in the middle of the remains of the lake. They mourn the disappearance of the hallowed bag. “O brethren, where shall we copulate?” The looks directed at me are not exactly friendly.

  “You’ve thrown it away! How’s we supposed to do it now?”

  Whitebelly rinses his sneakers in the bucket. He couldn’t care less about the bag.

  “We’ll take yours, then,” Hybrid says, businesslike. “Yours is even roomier. Because you went and got the old one wet. And it’ll take a while to dry out.”

  I demonstrate to him how, where, and under what circumstances he’s going to so much as lay a finger on my sleeping bag.

  “I’m gonna cut you,” Hybrid screeches. “Tonight! Cut you up like a sausage! It’s coming, you hear?”

  I hear. I hear all kinds of stuff from him. All he ever cuts is furniture. Sometimes the walls. No one has been paying any attention to his screams for ages.

  “The room isn’t going to clean itself,” I say.

  Hybrid rummages in his pockets, looking miserable. Dropped his razor somewhere, I’ll bet. Again. Always the same story.

  Surly Rat-Logs wring out the washing rags. Viking, shirtless, is hard at work on the table, spitting on its surface from time to time in lieu of other cleaning liquids.

  I close my eyes and . . .

  A vision. This very dorm, except squeaky clean, like on the first day we entered it. Snow-white walls, sparkling windows. No sleeping bags. No Rats. Not even a single Walkman. In short, Sepulcher. The dear old home. Only without Spiders.

  I shake myself out of it, grab the nearest mop, and run to the farthest corner. I scrub and scrub until my head spins. A tiny little light spot appears on the floor. That’s all I get for my trouble. And my back is already howling in protest. Got to sit down.

  Whitebelly splashes closer, in cutie-baby mode.
/>
  “You need help? May I?”

  “Sure,” I rasp. “Knock yourself out. I don’t seem to be producing much of an effect.”

  “There’s this clean spot over here,” he assures me and grabs the mop.

  Its handle is not much thinner than he is. I look at him laboring, then at the Logs, who quickly assume a busy look, then at the condom floating by. Someone added more water, even though I told them two buckets is the limit, otherwise it would trickle down to the first. It would be one thing if they dried it out quickly, but they just slosh the water from one wall to the other.

  Also someone gnawed on the aloe plant again. A minuscule nub is all that’s left. I take the pot and look at it, and immediately Hybrid starts cleaning his nails, whistling tunelessly. It’s not often you meet a person who can gobble absolutely anything, and only get healthier for it. Hybrid is one. I have this suspicion that he even takes an occasional bite out of us when we’re asleep. Carefully, so that we won’t notice. The disappearing stocks of toothpaste are definitely him. There aren’t any others who’d eat it.

  I make it look like I am preparing to toss the pot at him. He shrinks and screeches.

  Microbe and Monkey whine, “But Red, but Red! We’re cleaning!”

  So sincerely that one might even believe it’s actually the case. Unless the one is me.

  “Right,” I say. “Carry on.”

  And go out to grab some fresh air, a quick smoke, and something to eat. Maybe also have a rest somewhere. I know I shouldn’t. Even before the door closes behind me they’re going to drop everything and dash to the bathroom to check on their priceless bag, if it’s still holding together.

  Four homeless Ratlings sitting right outside. Poor orphans on a winter night.

  “When is it going to be over?”

  “Can we go back now?”

  “Why is it taking so long?”

  “Patience, Red. Patience,” I say under my breath, but loud enough.

  That should shut them up for a while. I take advantage of the pause in the action and leg it to the Coffeepot. No guarantees, though. If they have a mind to they can barge in there too. Good thing I’m not their father, or I’d have throttled the whole gang long ago. Nothing but whining and zits. Enough to drive anyone nuts.

  It’s girls’ night in the Coffeepot. Six walkers, crowding the counter, deep in conversation. Three of the maidens are fresh off the cleaning shift. Still bearing the traces of honest working sweat. Judging by the hushed exclamations, the subject is serious business. The shorts-clad bottoms sway like the tails on fretful cats. Apart from them it’s a thin crowd. Corpse with his book and Sleepy dozing in his wheelchair.

  “Over here!” Corpse screams. “Move your flippers! I’m holding a place for you.”

  Places are abundant, so his screaming is more in the nature of a habit. I go over and sit down, and all the girlies immediately turn around and stop talking. I don’t like the glint in their eyes. It’s as if they’ve been waiting for my arrival.

  Corpse turns his head from side to side, trying to figure out what the deal is. There’s a chilly pause, and then the gunshot of a glass slammed against the counter.

  “So that’s it,” Gaby says loudly. “I’m now damaged forever. Because of that lowlife.”

  I was planning to go get a drink, but their stares make me reconsider. There’s a real danger of choking on the first sip.

  “What’s wrong?” I say, because it’s somehow clear that the lowlife is in fact me.

  “And he’s the one asking,” the supporting cast drones helpfully as Long drops down from her stool and hobbles in my direction, miraculously not toppling off her heels.

  “You bastard,” she spits through the strata of lipstick. “I’m pregnant, that’s what!”

  Three-ring circus, that’s what it is. Even Sleepy wakes up. And I’ve got enough of empty hysterics without cause back in the Rat-hole.

  “All right, I get it. What’s that to do with me?”

  “With you?” Gaby repeats sharply. “You maybe mean it wasn’t you and your damn Rats that’s done it?”

  “That’s enough. Get lost,” I say, at the same time realizing that it should be me getting lost, and fast. So I start getting up. It’s either that, or fighting with her.

  “Oh, nooo! You’re not getting off that easy!” Gaby screams, jumps closer, and slaps me one across the face.

  Heavy as hell, my head almost flies off. I just manage to grab the camouflage glasses. The girls at the counter cheer. I return the smack an instant before it dawns on me that it’s that very reaction she wanted.

  Gaby throws her head back and squeals, more gratingly than an electric drill biting into a cement wall. The maidens pick up the infernal squealing and unstick themselves from the counter, one after the other, falling off like overripe toadstools. Except the toadstools wouldn’t then turn on me.

  I jump up and shield myself with the table. A couple of pointy heels crash into it. The girls, huffing and puffing excitedly, try to conquer the obstacle, constantly getting in each other’s way.

  Sleepy, in the background, quickly steers toward the exit, trying his best to appear invisible. Tongue hanging out from the effort. Echidna climbs up on the table. The rest are pulling her down. And all of this is accompanied by the unceasing squeal bordering on ultrasound. Crazy. Enough to make me feel like an honest-to-goodness rat. One that’s about to have its spine crushed by the sharp heels. And then smeared across the floor. Why? No reason. And the worst part is that before it ends, it’s going to hurt. A lot.

  The table slams into my stomach and drives me backward in the direction of the wall. I’m boxed into the corner. By pushing my back against the wall I manage to stop the advance, but at the same moment my hair is grabbed so viciously that it has a hard time staying attached. Now it’s my turn to squeal.

  “Are you mental?”

  That was Corpse. What an inopportune moment to be joining the discussion. I’m shielded by the table, and he’s not. He’s immediately shown the error of his ways. I save my scalp at the expense of a handful of hair, while Corpse ineffectually fights back against the kicking feet and the piercing talons until he ends up on the floor.

  I jump out of my pen and run to him. In any other circumstances I wouldn’t have, because Corpse is not someone who requires outside assistance. His other nick is Scorpio, as his see-through complexion is matched by his overall fuzzy harmlessness, but I’m not sure about anything anymore. And it appears that the girls will more likely kill him than not. There’s already a sizable crowd in the Coffeepot, and someone gets to them before me. Which is good, because Echidna sinking her nails into my face hampers my progress.

  After that it’s no longer clear who’s slugging who and for what. A writhing knot of bodies, wheelchairs and tables being overturned, the squeals climbing higher yet, and at the most dramatic moment, Sheriff and Black Ralph come bursting in.

  That is to be expected. What’s unexpected is that their arrival fails to stop the melee. Probably because the maidens don’t give a hoot, to put it mildly, about our counselors. They are afraid somewhat of their own hags, but they’ve learned that our geezers, one, never would lay a finger on them and, two, have no way of raising a stink later. So the ballet exercises continue. Not for too long, though, because the girl-tamers are not far behind.

  I haven’t been taking an active part in the proceedings for a couple of minutes now. I’m busy sitting under the counter trying to ascertain the source of that unpleasant crunching sound I heard when someone stomped on my hand. Also of the ringing in my ears and the double vision.

  “Hey, Red. You all right?”

  I’m being jostled gently. It’s Ginger. I look at her until the two very pink faces float closer and combine into one, and then tell her that yes, I am all right, but not really.

  The Coffeepot is strewn with bodies and debris. The bodies seem to be alive, or at least stirring, and the world around me is unusually bright and pretty. Takes me some
time to figure out that it’s because I’m not looking at it through green lenses. It’s useless to even think about finding them now.

  Microbe whines pitifully in the middle of the room, clutching his jaw. Horse is attempting to get him to stand up. He succeeds after two more tries, and the two black-jacketed figures lead out the third ceremoniously. The brotherhood of Logs. Such a moving spectacle.

  “They are all bastards! Animals!”

  Reptile Godmother is wheeling out the chair with Bedouinne, who is drowning in tears and tightly clutching something flail-like in her puny hands. Where does Bedouinne figure in this at all, I wonder. What could possibly be her problem?

  “What happened?” Ginger persists. “Are you going to tell me or what?”

  “I wish someone would tell me. If such a sage could be found, I’d personally present him with my favorite table fan.”

  I get up, checking my brace for cracks with the hand that’s still functional. But it’s not there. At all. I only now remember that I stopped wearing it two weeks ago. Which means that all this time I was hopping around with my spine left completely unprotected. The thought makes me deeply sick.

  “Hey, you!” Ginger says, alarmed. “You’re not going to faint on me, are you?”

  “No. It’s just my heart sinking. Visibly.”

  Tabaqui the Jackal is busy arranging the variegated hair samples around himself, like a wizened old shaman who’s just received a fresh consignment of scalps. Humming softly. Spooky stuff.

  My hand is swollen and hurts like nobody’s business. I try to wiggle the fingers and immediately regret it. Also, someone was sick at some point in all that ruckus. On me, it seems.

  “Come on. I’ll help you wash up.”

  Ginger takes me by the clean sleeve and makes for the door.

  We negotiate the piles of overturned tables and chairs, sprinkled with the shards of the broken lampshades. Noble, sitting on the bar, nods at me sullenly. The whole gang’s here. And they’re not green! That freaks me out, it really does.

  In the shower stall (I seem to have acquired a strong aversion to them lately) I try to explain to Ginger what has transpired. Not having much success, because I actually have no idea. She lathers my hair as she listens, so I can see neither her nor her reaction to my ramblings.